All I Have

“Like, if there’s a problem or a conflict, do I stand up for things?”

Dad continued to frown at her. “This one of those things where you and your sisters ask me a question and there’s no right answer except you all getting mad at me?”

“No, I’m serious. Do you think I have the backbone needed to be a businesswoman? To run my business successfully?”

“You’re an excellent farmer, daughter.”

Which was ignoring the question and made her feel sulky. But she didn’t back down because she wanted to know. She needed to know what to do. “I’m talking about the business side of things.”

Dad scratched a hand over his beard, then looked longingly at his cows outside the barn, but she wanted his opinion. She needed to know if even her father thought she was being the fool here.

“You keep an eye on your finances, and you make smart choices, and...”

“I’m a softie wimp.”

“Aw, now, Mia.” Dad clasped her shoulder, and if Dad was offering physical affection she was a sad case. Which meant she had to work harder to be...ruthless. Even if it felt kind of crappy.

The end justified the means and all that. That was what business—even farming business—was all about, maybe.

“You’ll be fine. You’re a good girl. It’ll all work out.”

But she didn’t want to be fine or good; she wanted to be successful. She wanted a business that could sustain her for the rest of her life. She wanted profits and the confidence she’d built over the past five years.

So with a goodbye to Dad, she headed for the house and Kenzie’s book of pictures.

* * *

“WHAT’SALLTHATABOUT?”

Dell frowned at the group of giggling women in front of Mia’s stand. This was definitely not the norm. Especially for a forty-degree drizzly Saturday morning. But there were at least ten women with umbrellas and rain boots surrounding Pruitt Farms’ stand, and the laughter kept building.

“Sneak over and check it out.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure there’s a lot of cutthroat sabotage at the farmers’ market. She stole the secret patent to grow broccoli. Oh. Wait.”

“Bite me.” Dell pushed Charlie away from the truck. “Stop being useless for once and find out what that’s all about.”

“I’m not useless. I only waste my Saturday mornings here to keep Mom off my back about karmic payment and family support and blah, blah, blah.”

“Yeah, well, do some supporting.” Dell shoved Charlie again. With a long, belabored sigh, Charlie walked over to the Pruitt side of the aisle.

A couple stopped by Dell’s booth, obviously new to the market. Dell chatted them up, trying to keep his head in the game instead of across the aisle.

The couple left with some radishes and Charlie meandered back to their stand. He looked as if he fit more in with the customers in his dark jeans, sweater and some kind of loafer shoes. His brother, the yuppie.

Didn’t make an ounce of sense to Dell, and probably never would. When Charlie didn’t offer anything, Dell nudged him. “So?”

Charlie shrugged. “She said check the market’s Facebook page.”

“Facebook page? That’s her grand plan? Give me your phone.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “You even know how to use my phone?”

No, but did it take a rocket scientist to figure out? When he held out his hand, Charlie slapped the phone into his palm. Dell swiped his thumb across the bottom of the screen then stared. Shit. He didn’t know how to use a damn smartphone. All he saw was a bunch of squares with stock or finance in the title. “How do I get to Facebook?”

“Give it back, moron.”

“Just because I don’t know how to use a smartphone doesn’t mean I’m a moron.” Dell handed the phone back to his brother and shoved his hands into his pockets. He wasn’t some dumb farmer. He had his ag degree from Mizzou.

But it was no MBA from Wash U in big brother’s eyes. Or Dad’s. No one seemed to want to let him live down the fact he’d been wait-listed, either, all because of his crap-ass standardized test scores. Who cared about those stupid tests anyway?

His family, that was who. Oh, and his girlfriend at the time, who’d dumped him for someone who could “intellectually stimulate” her.

He hadn’t had a clue what that meant at eighteen. He had even less of a clue what it meant now.

More giggling echoed across the aisle and Dell hunched his shoulders, glaring at Charlie. “Hurry up.”

Charlie waved him off. “Nothing on Mia’s page.”

“Well, what the hell are they laughing at, man?”

Charlie started laughing. Pretty soon he was laughing so hard he was slapping his knee.

“What the hell?”

Charlie passed the phone to him, and Dell squinted over the Millertown Farmers’ Market page. The last comment was from Mia Pruitt.

“Pruitt Farms has an extraspecial treat this week, ladies. If you want to see pictures of our intrepid Naked Farmer, Dell Wainwright, in his underwear, do I have the goods for you. Stop by from eight to nine Saturday morning for a peek!”

Dell shoved the phone at his brother so fast Charlie nearly dropped it, but Dell barely registered Charlie’s cursing because he’d already hopped the table and stalked over to the crowd of women. “Pruitt, you’re dead.”

The giggling didn’t stop, but it did become more hushed as the sea parted, so he was standing face-to-face with Mia, only her table of goods—many of those goods in the bags of the women who normally bought from him—between them.

“Well, howdy, Dell,” she drawled, flipping closed a family album. Wait a second. His mother’s family album.

“Where the hell’d you get that?”

“You look awfully cute in diapers, honey,” Deirdre, one of his regular customers, said, giving his arm a pat.

It took every ounce of salesman in him not to shrug her off or growl at Mia. “Hand it over.” She held it out and he snatched it from her hands.

“Careful. Your mother will kill you if you tear one of her pictures,” Mia said sweetly. “And Deirdre’s right, you do look awfully cute in nothing but your underwear.”

He forced himself to grin. “Aw, sugar, don’t be upset just because you’ve never seen me in my underwear.”

She tried to grab the album back. But Dell was too quick. He flipped through the thick pages. There were indeed pictures of him in his underwear. Of course, he was under the age of eight in every single one of them.

“I particularly like the bare-butt one in cowboy boots. Adorable.” Val pointed to the picture on the upper-left corner. He resisted the urge to slam it shut on her fingers.