Neither man offered a hand.
Vance looked across the field.
“Hell of a summer.”
“Yeah.”
“Heard the cannery signed you.”
“They did.”
“Three hundred fifty thousand?”
Cole did not answer.
Vance smiled.
“That means yes.”
“What do you need, Arthur?”
The older farmer took his time.
“My north fields tested at 8.1.”
Cole said nothing.
“The soil.”
“I know what 8.1 means.”
Vance’s smile disappeared.
“We’ve been pushing nitrogen hard for years.”
“I figured.”
“We’re getting compaction.”
Cole looked at him.
“Still running the same tillage depth?”
Vance nodded.
“Mostly.”
“That’s part of your problem.”
“I didn’t come here for a lecture.”
“Then why did you come?”
Vance looked toward the dark soil where Cole’s tomato jungle had stood.
“How much for the compost?”
Cole almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because five months earlier, Arthur Vance had stood on that same road and called it sewage.
Now he wanted to buy it.
Cole could have humiliated him.
The opportunity was perfect.
Workers were close enough to hear.
Two county inspectors were parked near the workshop.
Cole could have repeated every insult Arthur had thrown at him.
Instead, he asked, “How many acres?”
“Four hundred to start.”
“That’s more material than I have available.”
“How much can you spare?”
Cole thought.
“Enough for 60 acres.”
“What do you want for it?”
“Cost of loading, hauling, and labor.”
Vance stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You could charge me triple.”
“I could.”
“Why aren’t you?”
Cole looked past him at the fields.
“Because dead soil doesn’t care who owns it.”
Vance said nothing.
“You want to fix your land, fix it.”
“You want to keep fighting me, do that too.”
“But I’m not going to poison my own business just to make you feel small.”
For the first time since Cole had known him, Arthur Vance looked embarrassed.
He glanced toward his truck.
Then back at Cole.
“I was hard on you.”
“You were.”
“I said things.”
“You did.”
Vance’s jaw worked.