Eventually she discovered leaving and belonging were not opposites.
When Warren’s health became less predictable and farm finances tighter, she came back “for a few months.”
Six months later, she still had not left.
At 7:12, her old Jeep turned into the lane.
She got out before fully stopping the engine.
Warren stood beside the field.
Casey stared.
“Oh.”
“That about covers it.”
“How much rain?”
“Seven-tenths yesterday.”
She looked at him.
“This isn't seven-tenths.”
“I know.”
Casey walked to the ditch.
Warren followed.
She watched the current.
Then looked toward the creek.
“You checked upstream?”
“New outlet.”
“Development tract?”
“Yes.”
Casey swore quietly.
Before either could say more, a dark pickup turned from the county road.
Warren recognized it immediately.
Cornerstone Agricultural Bank.
Gerald Voss.
Regional vice president.
Gerald had been handling Warren’s agricultural account for nearly six years.
He was fifty-three, careful with words, and always dressed as though he expected to move from a farm visit directly into a boardroom.
That morning he wore a clean blue shirt and new-looking work boots.
Warren watched him park.
The fact that Gerald arrived before eight bothered him almost as much as the water.
Gerald climbed out.
Looked across the flooded acreage.
His expression showed concern.
Not surprise.
“Warren.”
“Gerald.”
“This is rough.”
“You knew?”
Gerald’s eyebrows moved.
“Knew what?”
“That it flooded.”
“I heard there was water down here.”
“From who?”
“People talk.”
Warren looked toward the development tract.
“It started last night.”
Gerald spread his hands.
“I don't know the details.”
“Creek isn't up.”
“I can see that.”
“Water's coming through the new outlet.”
Gerald glanced toward the brush but did not walk over.
“I’m sorry.”
Warren said nothing.
Gerald continued.
“I know this is the last thing you needed.”
That part was true.
The Puit farm’s debt problems had not begun with the flood.
They had begun slowly.
Two weak commodity years.
One bad machinery purchase.
Medical bills after Warren’s wife, Louise, developed cancer.
They had been married fifty-one years.
She died three years before the flooding.
Warren refinanced part of the farm debt during the final year of her illness.
Not because medical bills alone threatened the farm.
Because he stopped managing everything as aggressively while taking her to appointments, and several smaller problems arrived together.
Equipment.
Operating credit.
Input costs.
A crop insurance dispute.
The bank extended the note.
Then extended it again.
By the spring of Casey’s return, Warren still owned all six hundred acres, but Cornerstone held a substantial mortgage and the operating line had almost no room left.
Gerald knew every number.
More importantly, he knew Warren had repeatedly refused to sell land.
The lowest eighty acres had been discussed more than once.
The Caldwell development tract above Warren’s farm was being converted into a mixed residential and light-commercial project.
An investment group associated with the development had asked whether Warren would sell a strip along the county road and part of the bottom ground.
Warren declined.
Then Cornerstone itself made an offer.
Not directly as buyer.
Through a land-holding affiliate that frequently disposed of or assembled agricultural property connected to troubled loans.
Warren declined that too.
Gerald had told him:
“You might improve your position by selling your least productive ground while you still control the timing.”
Warren answered:
“My least productive ground is still my ground.”
Now Gerald stood beside eighty submerged acres.
He looked across them.
“Nobody wants you losing another season.”
Warren stared at him.
“Another?”