Plastering on a fake smile, I answered, “Oh, I’m not worried. That’s the thing about strong roots. They’re hard to pull up, and we’ve been here a long time.”
Longer than you, asshole.
Beside me, Anna cleared her throat, sending me a warning glance. I knew she didn’t want me to rise to the bait, but I no longer cared about the tree. I cared about Anna’s comfort. And the sooner I got this asshole off my property, the better.
“Chase will show you around,” she told the group. “Once you return, lunch will be ready for you.”
There were more murmurs of appreciation as they stepped down from the porch.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
She took a breath, steadier now but still on edge. “Yes. He just caught me off guard.” Her eyes flicked toward the gravel drive, where the others were waiting. “But let’s be honest—it’s not exactly subtle. The Secretary of Agriculture showing up to a tree farm committee tour? Overkill. He’s not here by accident.” Her pretty blue eyes were troubled. “I think he’s going to make trouble. Look for faults. Twist something to discredit you.”
“Let him. I’m not worried. Like I told him, we’ve been here for generations. We’re not going anywhere.”
Her smile was a little tremulous. “I love you.”
“Love you more.” I touched her hand briefly, then caught up with thegroup.
The tour moved at a steady pace. We walked the lower rows, where the younger trees were just coming into their shape. I pointed out the tag system we used, our irrigation layout, and the natural pest control measures we implemented last season. They nodded, jotted notes, snapped photos. Sonya especially seemed impressed, pausing every few minutes to ask about root spacing or how we handled volunteer groups during the holidays.
Paul, the more reserved guy with the clipboard, muttered, “Clean lines, good height distribution. Looks like textbook stuff to me.”
I thanked him, keeping my tone even, but their feedback made it clear—we were hitting all the right notes.
Except with Washington.
He said little. Walked slowly. Glanced around like he was cataloging weaknesses instead of strengths. He stayed near the back, quiet and calculating, scanning the property like he was waiting for something to confirm whatever opinion he’d walked in with.
When we passed the nursery’s propagation shed—where we rooted our own cuttings to make starter plants—he finally spoke.
“Most growers these days outsource to commercial specialists,” he said, flicking a glance toward the modest structure. “More efficient.”
I kept walking. “Maybe. But it gives us better control over genetics and disease resistance since we know what works perfectly in our exact conditions.”
He hummed, noncommittal. “Or it just keeps you from scaling. But then, not everyone has what it takes to do that.”
“We’re already one of the largest, family-owned nurseries in the state.”
No one said anything, but their perplexed expressions suggested they were picking up on an underlying tension.
I kept walking, jaw tight. If Washington came here thinking he’d find reasons to discredit us, I hoped he brought a longer list because I had answers for every single thing he could throw at me.
When it was time to head to the ridge to see what they’d really come for, Bodie and I hauled them in our pickups, which were the cleanest they’d been since we bought them.
We reached the clearing, tires crunching over the gravel we had just spread two days ago, until we reached the family plot, where the reason we were all here stood majestically. Like she was a movie star on a red-carpet movie premiere, the Fraser fir stood tall and proud, her branches layered in near-perfect symmetry.
“We call herBlossom,” I said, stepping forward. “Twelve years old. Grown from seed right here at Silver Creek Farm by my uncle.” I shot a pointed look at the Secretary.
Sonya moved closer, her expression openly admiring. She strolled the perimeter, fingertips brushing a branch like she was stroking something priceless. Which, to me, of course, she was.
Paul muttered, “She’s textbook. But better.”
Another committee member took out his phone for a close-up. “That top’s damn near perfect.”
No one asked questions for a moment. They just looked.
Then Washington, who’d remained near the tree line, finally stepped forward. He slid his sunglassesinto his pocket and studiedBlossomwith a tilt of his head, like he was trying to see past her.
