I raised card 52 and said, “Three thirty.” It was every dollar the banker had allowed, and my arm shook as I held it up. Dale Pruitt looked past me and called, “Three thirty-five?” The man from the Wichita land company smiled and nodded once. My stomach dropped. The sticky note in my pocket had never felt so heavy, and I could feel Caleb’s hand go rigid against my back.

Then boots crunched on gravel behind us. Harlan Voss pushed through the crowd in his good church coat, his face gray, and stopped at the hay rack. “Dale,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I need a bidder card.” Seventy people turned to stare. Dale’s gavel froze in midair, and Harlan looked straight at his son and me.