Bloodlines

By Amanda Pillar

16 Journeys on the Dark Streets of Urban Fantasy. The Fay. Bloodlines. Criminalities. The City. Original stories by Seanan McGuire, Joanne Anderton, Alan Baxter, Nathan Burrage, Dirk Flinthart, Rebecca Fung, Stephanie Gunn, Kelly Hoolihan, Kathleen Jennings, Pete Kempshall, Martin Livings, Anthony Panegyres, Jane Percival, Paul Starkey, Lyn Thorne-Alder and S. Zanne. Edited by the award-winning Amanda Pillar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ticonderoga Publications
• Release date: Nov 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781925212389

Amanda Pillar

Amanda Pillar is an awarding winning editor and speculative fiction author who lives in Victoria, Australia, with her partner and two children, Saxon and Lilith (Burmese cats). Amanda has had numerous short stories published and is the Editor-in-Chief for Morrigan Books. She has co-edited the fiction anthologies Voices (2008), Grants Pass (2009), The Phantom Queen Awakes (2010) and Scenes from the Second Storey (2010). Amanda is currently working with K.V. Taylor on the novella collection Ishtar, for Gilgamesh Press (Nov 2011) and Liz Grzyb for Damnation and Dames, due out with Ticonderoga Publications (2012). In her free time, she plans on becoming the next Indiana Jones.

Book preview

BLOODLINES

16 journeys on the dark streets of urban fantasy

edited by AMANDA PILLAR

Published by Ticonderoga Publications

Copyright (c) Amanda Pillar 2015

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise) without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder concerned. The story acknowledgements constitutes an extension of this page.

A Cataloging-in-Publications entry for this title is available from The National Library of Australia.

ISBN 978–1–921857–55–3 (hardcover)

978–1–921857–56–0 (trade paperback)

978–1–925212–38–9 (ebook)

Ticonderoga Publications

PO Box 29 Greenwood

Western Australia 6924

Australia

www.ticonderogapublications.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Tom,

for all the times I’ve ignored you with claims of I’m busy

Acknowledgments

Firstly, I want to thank Russell B. Farr and Liz Grzyb. This is my second solo project, and without their support, I’d never have made it this far. Secondly, I want to thank all the authors who contributed to this collection, chatted with me about the concept, and of course, those that made it through to final selection. Without your work, this book wouldn’t be the vibrant, engaging collection it is.

I would also like to thank the talented Pete Kempshall for his help with proofreading, you have the eyes of a hawk. And of course, I would like to thank my usual support cast of heroes: my husband, family, and of course, my cats, whose snuggles kept me warm over the long nights editing.

Contents

Introduction, Amanda Pillar

THE FAY

Into the Green, Seanan McGuire

The Ties of Blood, Hair and Bone, Nathan Burrage

In The Blood, Dirk Flinthart

The Flowers That Bloom Where Blood Touches Earth, Stephanie Gunn

BLOODLINES

Old Promise, New Blood, Alan Baxter

The Mysterious Mr Montague, Jane Percival

The Stone and the Sheath, Kelly Hoolihan

Lady Killer, Anthony Panegyres

CRIMINALITIES

A Red Mist, Martin Livings

Seeing Red, S. Zanne

The Tenderness of Monsters, Paul Starkey

Azimuth, Pete Kempshall

THE CITY

The Tangled Streets, Kathleen Jennings

In the Heart of the City, Rebecca Fung

Lifeblood of the City, Lyn Thorne-Alder

Unnamed Children, Joanne Anderton

About The Contributors

About The Editor

Story Acknowledgements

Thank You

Introduction

Amanda Pillar

Blood.

It’s such a core part of our physical beings. It’s essential to who we are: it defines us. Our DNA is hidden within its red depths, we are categorised by our blood types: A, AB, O, B, negative, positive…even the colour can indicate how healthy we are, or the medications we take. It’s sometimes the only clue left at a crime scene to let the world know who was there.

But it’s not just the physical nature of blood, it’s also the metaphysical elements that tie us together. Our bloodline—ancestors and descendants, and our current relatives. Sayings, Blood is thicker than water and Blood will tell are still relevant today. It speaks of who we can and can’t love, who we owe our loyalty to, and even raises the question of nature versus nurture. Then there’s the idea of familial traits, those gifts—or curses, if you believe some of the stories within Bloodlines—that are passed down throughout our family trees.

Then, of course, there’s the magical element. Humans have believed in magic and religion for as long as we’ve been around. Blood magic is still alive in some cultures, and you’ll find it living deep within the pages of this collection.

Bloodlines is my eighth anthology and the sequel to Bloodstones, which was published by Ticonderoga Publications in 2012. Seanan McGuire wrote the introduction to Bloodstones, and now has a story within Bloodlines. Joanne Anderton, Alan Baxter, Dirk Flinthart, Stephanie Gunn and Pete Kempshall have stories in both collections, and it’s this passion for the series that connects these two books in important and palpable ways.

Bloodstones was an amazing collection that took old myths and legends, placed them in an urban fantasy setting and created something remarkable and new. That’s the beauty of fantasy of all kinds: urban, high, epic… They take conventional ideas and flip them on their metaphorical ears. Bloodlines does this, but the focus is different. I wanted stories about blood, bloodlines and the intangible but very real effects of our blood, and how it defines us.

I love every collection I work on, but Bloodlines has a special place in my heart. This anthology had a long gestation period, from discussions at various conventions and award ceremonies with numerous authors—some who are now contributors within these pages—to a final anthology call. In between all of this, my brother was diagnosed with a blood cancer (the irony wasn’t lost on me). He kicked cancer’s arse and I hope this anthology packs just as powerful a punch.

Despite the delays this caused the overall project, the authors were extraordinarily patient and kept faith in the quality of this book. And their patience has been rewarded. This collection of 16 stories is full of love, hate, betrayal, hope and new beginnings. I invite you to journey through the four parts of this collection: to where the fay walk the streets; where our bloodlines define us; where crimes and criminals need to be solved and caught; and finally, to where even the city is as much a character as the people that populate it.

I invite you to meet new authors, and re-familiarise yourselves with others. I hope you love these stories as much as I do.

September 2015

THE FAY

‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve:

Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time.’

~William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Nights Dream

Into the Green

Seanan McGuire

Andrea picked up a deep purple heirloom tomato with emerald lines running through its marbled skin and sniffed the place where it had been broken off the vine. The sharp sweetness of sap and the rich green smell of tomato leaves caressed her nose. She smiled and added the tomato to her basket. Today’s purchases would be the stars of tonight’s meal, and like any director, she believed in the importance of good casting.

At the stall next to her, two people were peeling back the husks on ears of corn and arguing loudly enough that she couldn’t help overhearing. Politeness only got you so far in such cramped quarters. The Farmers’ Market didn’t have much space, and the organisers believed in filling every inch.

I’m telling you, this corn isn’t worth buying. Telltale Farms have opened their produce stand for the season. Why are we even looking at this? The man sounded irritated, like the existence of substandard corn was somehow a personal slight.

Because it’s here, said his companion. She sounded less frustrated and more amused: this was a joke to her, one whose punchline was yet to be revealed. An ear in the hand is worth two on the stalk.

That is where we’ll have to disagree. There was a thump, as of someone throwing an ear of corn down in disgust. Andrea turned in time to see two well-dressed people walk away from the corn vendor, who was glaring after them in mute frustration.

She paid for her tomatoes and went home thoughtful.

* * *

Her business partner was doing the dishes when she unlocked the door. Tom, I’m home, she called, and was rewarded with a vague noise of greeting from the direction of the kitchen. Andrea walked across the living room and stopped in the doorway, her basket slung jauntily over her arm. She was aware of the picture she presented: pioneer princess, home from a hard day of gathering food to feed her family.

She had everything but the corn.

Hey, Tom, you ever hear of a place called ‘Telltale Farms’? she asked.

Tom dropped the plate he had been drying. It shattered into sharp white shards when it hit the floor. Andrea yelped, hurrying to put her basket down on the counter, and for a few minutes, both of them were preoccupied with cleaning up the mess.

Only when the offending plate had been deposited in the trash did Andrea look at Tom and frown. You’re not usually such a butterfingers.

Sorry, he said, cheeks reddening. You just—I was distracted. What were we talking about?

Telltale Farms, Andrea prompted.

No such place, said Tom.

Andrea’s frown deepened. So the name startled you into dropping a plate because you’re surprised when I talk nonsense? Come on, Tom. I know when you’re keeping secrets. This is one of those ‘you’re not really a local until you’ve lived here for twenty years’ things, isn’t it?

No, really, there’s no such thing, said Tom. "Taitale Farms is out near the old highway. They grow corn, mostly. Corn, wheat, pumpkins, and sometimes sunflowers, when the weather’s right. They’re strictly small potatoes. Heck, they don’t even grow potatoes." He laughed at his own joke until he realised that Andrea wasn’t laughing: Andrea was looking at him coldly, her eyebrows lifted almost to her hairline.

Tom sighed. Aw, c’mon, Andy. They’re weird. They’re a weird little family farm. They grow good produce, but they’re not worth dealing with.

That’s not what I heard, Andrea said. The people at the Farmers’ Market said that anybody else’s corn wasn’t worth buying.

Who are you going to listen to? Tom asked. A couple of local snobs, or your dedicated business partner?

Andrea’s cold look turned withering. Our Table to Yours is dedicated to using locally sourced ingredients, and showcasing the best in local business, she said. She had fallen automatically into using the slightly sing-song voice she used for media inquiries and local news outlets. Somehow, Tom didn’t think that pointing that out was going to help his case. If there’s a local farm growing corn that’s better than anything at the Market, we owe it to our customers and to ourselves to get our hands on it. As the local member of this partnership, you should have brought it to my attention. I shouldn’t have to rely on Farmers’ Market gossip.

Tom swallowed a sigh. There was no point in arguing: once Andy got herself worked up about the restaurant, the only thing to do was wait for her to come back down of her own accord. Fine, he said. I’ll take you there.

Andrea smiled. There, see? That wasn’t so hard.

Tom didn’t say anything.

* * *

Taitale Farms was located nearly fifteen miles outside of town, tucked off beside the road like an afterthought. A hop, skip, and a jump from nowhere, as the locals would have put it, if they had been willing to talk about the place at all. Remote, on a stretch of road that led from nowhere good to no place better, and surrounded by nothing but fruitless fields and empty, crumbling barns, it was easy to let Taitale slip from everyday thought. It didn’t matter in the day to day course of things.

Andrea thought differently. "Tom, look at the corn! she squealed, pointing at the towering green stalks with a shaking hand. It’s like something out of a picture book! Have you ever seen corn this high? Or this green?"

Yes, said Tom, who had been to Taitale Farms before. Look, their sign isn’t out. They’re probably not selling right now. We should come back later.

Andrea sniffed. We’re not just here for a few ears of corn, Tom. We’re here to offer them a major opportunity to move their produce through an ethical local restaurant, and make a lot of money in the process. Most people don’t turn you away when you’re offering to back the money truck up to their front doors.

Tom had gone to school with some members of the Taitale family, and thought that she might well be surprised. Still, there was no point in arguing with her: this had been his last attempt. Clenching his hands on the wheel, he turned off the road and onto the narrow gravel driveway leading up to the farm.

The Taitales hadn’t made any effort to make it easy to reach them. Unlike most of the independent fruit and produce stands, they didn’t set up on the road itself: people who wanted to buy their corn had to be willing to turn down the driveway blind, knowing that another car could easily be coming toward them. The driveway was curved, meaning that people at one end couldn’t see the other, no matter how hard they tried. Worse yet, it ended at a gravel parking lot roughly the size of a small front yard, with no defined parking spaces. When the ‘Fresh Corn’ sign was out, it turned into something out of Thunderdome every time.

Driving along the gravel road was like diving into a world gone green. Corn towered on every side, straining toward the sun in an unbroken wall. Andrea gasped and cooed at the sight of heavy ears clinging to the stalks, topped with wisps of golden silk like a promise of deliciousness within. Tom kept his eyes on the road. He had been here before, and he knew that the price of carelessness could be a fender bender or worse.

Then they came around the curve, and the house appeared in front of them: two-story, painted white, with a little porch swing in front and a big red barn behind, it was a perfect snapshot of a Norman Rockwell America that had never really existed outside of the magazines. Andrea whistled.

This should be on our menus, she said. "Just this farm. It’s perfect. How could you think I wouldn’t be interested?"

Tom didn’t answer.

There was a small produce stand off to one side of the lot, situated in a perfect cut-out from the corn. It was open, and a pair of teenagers had settled behind the counter. They didn’t pay any attention as Tom parked the car, probably because all their attention was reserved for each other. The boy had his hands in the pockets of the girl’s cut-off shorts, and she was sitting on his lap so that her legs were almost wrapped around his waist. Tom snorted faintly.

Well, there you go, he said. Your future farmers of America.

Andrea shook her head. It’s unprofessional. Someone should have a word with their parents.

Now, Andy. They didn’t have the sign out. We should leave them in peace.

Like hell. I came here for corn, and I’m not leaving without it. Before Tom realised what she was going to do, she had leaned across him and slammed her hand down on the horn. The sound echoed through the cornfield, sending crows flying for the sun.

The horn’s effect on the teenagers was even more dramatic. The girl yanked backward, and only the boy’s hands on her behind kept her from toppling clear off the stool. He grimaced with the effort of keeping her in place. Both of them turned, looking utterly stunned, to stare at the car.

Andy— Tom began.

Too late. She was already in motion, unbuckling her belt and opening the door, her big, salesperson smile in place. Hello! she called, waving to the startled teens. I’m Andrea Paulson, and the man in the car is my partner, Tom Ryan. You have a beautiful farm here. Are your parents around?

The girl blinked slowly, revealing sparkly green eye shadow the colour of the corn stalks. Are you implying that Evan’s my brother? Because that’s just sick. Where are you people from?

The aforementioned Evan pulled his hands out of the girl’s back pockets, allowing her to slide off his lap. I’m not a Taitale, ma’am. Is this police business?

What? Oh, no. Andrea laughed, sounding so patently artificial that Tom winced. We’re restaurateurs. We own Our Table to Yours downtown. Isn’t that right, Tom?

That’s right, said Tom, closing the driver’s side door. Afternoon, Jill.

Mr Ryan, said the girl with the green eye shadow. Not like you to come by without calling first.

Sorry, he said.

Andrea turned to him, looking stunned. I thought you said you’d never been here.

I never said that, he said. I just said that it wasn’t worth making the trip. There’s a difference.

I beg to differ. Smell that corn! She inhaled exaggeratedly. It’s like breathing summer. Where are your parents, Jill? I want to discuss a business opportunity with them.

We don’t need more business, said Jill. We have enough. Can sell you a sixer if you wanted one, though. There’s some left over from this week’s orders.

A sixer? asked Andrea.

Six ears of corn. It’ll cost you a dollar. Jill fished around behind the counter before coming up with a paper bag. The sides bulged. Just picked today. Didn’t mean to come up with extras, but sometimes things happen, you know?

Jill? A rustling in the corn accompanied the voice, followed by the appearance of a second teenage boy, this one a year or so older than Jill’s boyfriend. He stopped at the edge of the field, looking suspiciously at the visitors. We’ve got company?

Tom’s new friend owns a restaurant, said Jill, hand still resting on the paper bag.

You must be Jill’s brother, said Andrea. I’m Andrea.

Jack, said the boy.

The two teens looked similar enough that there was no question as to their relationship. Both had the same corn silk yellow hair, tanned skin, and freckles; their eyes slanted very slightly upward at the tips, giving them a questioning air, like they were on the verge of announcing some great and bewildering discovery. Jill was thin and wiry, but her arms were corded with muscle, while Jack was all classic American farm boy, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, built to carry bales of hay and hoe rows of potatoes.

No, wait, they don’t grow potatoes, thought Andrea, almost nonsensically. Aloud, she said, It’s a pleasure to meet you. Are your parents around? I learned about your corn today, and I just had to come out and see if it was as good as everyone said.

The first flicker of real interest lit in Jill’s eyes. Really? People were talking about our corn? What people? Do you remember their names?

Well, Tom wasn’t among them, said Andrea, forcing a laugh. Something about the way the girl was looking at her made her profoundly uncomfortable. Teenage girls weren’t supposed to stare at you that way. He left me to find out about you from strangers. The best-kept local secrets, hmm? So, your parents?

They’re in the fields, said Jack. They’re always in the fields.

Oh, harvest time, huh? I would have expected them to make you play free labour, while they lounged around selling corn to strangers. Andrea produced a card from her pocket, holding it out for Jack to take. Frowning, he did. Let them know that we came by, and that we’re really interested in exploring a partnership with your farm. If you have the best corn in the area, then we want it for our menu.

Thank you, ma’am, said Jack.

It’s really beautiful out here, said Andrea. She reached for her wallet. Now about that sixer . . .

* * *

Jack and Jill stood side by side at the mouth of the driveway, watching as the stranger woman and Tom Ryan drove away. Evan was back at the produce stand. He had been dating Jill Taitale for the better part of a year: more than long enough to know that when the siblings closed ranks like that, he was best served by backing up and letting them do what they felt needed to be done. Dating a Taitale was a little more complicated than dating a cheerleader, but he was willing to put up with the complications in exchange for the benefits. Like Jill herself.

At the moment, all Jill’s attention was focused on the receding taillights of Tom’s Lexus. I don’t like strangers showing up here, she said. It’s not right, and especially not this close to the end of the season. She could confuse things.

Or she could solve them, said Jack. He glanced her way. What if this is the solution to our supply problems? We could let her have some corn for her restaurant. We have plenty.

But she’s not from around here, said Jill. We don’t supply strangers. That’s counter to the corn, and you know it.

If her restaurant is in town, we’re supplying a stranger to feed the locals, said Jack. He shrugged. It’s not perfect, but it’s liveable. The corn will forgive us. The corn forgives a lot of things.

Jill sighed. I’m not going to like it. You know that, right? The corn forgives a lot of things, but it doesn’t forget much of anything. I don’t want to get caught out in a season because the corn remembers that we went and supplied a stranger.

Aren’t you the one who offered her a sixer? asked Jack.

That was different! Jill protested. She was here, and she wasn’t going to go away empty handed. Six ears is placating. Sixty is supplying.

Then we supply, and we see what happens, said Jack. He looked out over the fields, growing green and seeming to glow in the afternoon light. He sighed. I should go out and tell the folks what’s going on. You good to hold down the fort for the rest of the day?

Jill glanced to the produce stand, where Evan was waiting for her. He had pulled a book out of his backpack and was reading, studiously ignoring the conversation happening on the other side of the lot. I suppose I can find something to distract myself, she said.

Just take your tongue out of his mouth if one of our regulars shows up, all right? We have orders to fill.

Jill hit her brother, who laughed, and kept laughing as he vanished back into the corn.

* * *

Tom and Andrea had been quiet for the drive back to the house, both of them lost in thoughts of the Taitale Farm. Andrea was dreaming of menus emblazoned with pictures of that amazing American house, while Tom thought about the siblings, Jack and Jill with their corn silk hair, and about the Taitale kids who had been in his class back in high school. That pair had been named John and Jenny. They had been a year apart but still essentially joined at the hip: where John went, Jenny followed, and vice-versa. Neither of them had gone off to college. So far as Tom remembered, they had graduated and then gone back to work on the family farm.

Neither of them had ever mentioned younger siblings that he could remember, and neither of them was old enough to have been a parent to both those teens. Maybe the younger one, if John had gotten a girl pregnant straight out of high school, but both of them? There was just no way. And even if neither of them was the parent of the teens he’d seen today, where were they? They should have been there.

Maybe they had been out in the fields with their parents. Farm families tended to be large, and it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility that Jack and Jill were just the result of carefully timed pregnancies. After all, what better way was there to make sure that you would always have farmhands than to breed them for yourself?

When they reached the house, Tom parked, still feeling a little uncomfortable about their trip to the farm, and watched Andrea walk inside with the bag of corn in her arms. He’d never been told to keep strangers and newcomers away from Taitale Farms, exactly: it was a whispered admonition, passed back and forth by people who had lived in town much longer than Tom had, who had seen generations of Taitale children come and go.

Did all of them have names that sounded like something out of a nursery rhyme? Did all of them come in pairs, and stand side by side like they were preparing to shut the entire world out? What was he missing?

"This corn is amazing!" Andrea’s voice drifted back through the open garage door. Tom sighed and finally got out of the car. Whatever he was or was not missing, his partner was waiting to deliver her I-told-you-so about the visit to the farm. It was better to get it over with.

Andrea was in the kitchen, a pot of water on the stove and six ears of corn, expertly shucked, gleaming like something out of a painting on the counter in front of her. There were no bad kernels, no marks left by invading cornworms or caterpillars: each ear was as perfect as the next, pale as sweet buttermilk, and scenting the air with the faint, earthy smell of fresh-picked corn.

Taste this, commanded Andrea, thrusting her palm toward him. There were three pale kernels at the centre of it, clearly plucked from the base of the ears, where they would have been less tightly packed together. You have to taste this.

Yes, dear, said Tom mechanically, and plucked one of the kernels from her palm. He rolled it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth. His eyes widened.

Well? said Andrea.

I forgot, he said weakly.

That single kernel tasted more like the ideal of corn than all the ears he had prepared, sampled, or consumed over the previous three months. It was a cascade of sweetness, tinted with that faint, ineffable bite that marked really good sweet corn, but couldn’t be defined using any word he knew. He thought of the concept of umami, and how it described a taste combination that had previously been outside the realm of simple sweet, sour, and savoury. Really good corn was like that. It had a flavour that didn’t have a name, and couldn’t be given one without rewriting the language so that the word ‘corny’ ceased to mean ‘ridiculous’ and began to mean ‘sublime’.

If it’s that good raw, what’s it going to be like once it’s cooked? asked Andrea. "We could make anything with this corn, Tom. Relishes. Ice creams. Cornbread that will bring the Food Network to our doorstep. We could have locked in their entire harvest. We could have been serving this to our customers for months. And you just forgot to mention that they were there."

Sorry, said Tom. He was aware of how weak his voice sounded. He had no excuses. Yes, he was a local, but he was also a small business owner. He should have been thinking of the restaurant first, and of the vague prohibitions he remembered from his youth later. I really am sorry. This is amazing.

It’s more than amazing. It’s perfect. Andrea turned to check her water. We’re going to need more. A lot more. We have to go back.

Yeah, agreed Tom. I think you’re right.

* * *

The second time they came to Taitale Farms, the ‘Fresh Produce’ sign was out, and the parking lot was packed. Tom managed to wedge the car into a narrow space at the very edge of the lot, forcing Andrea to squeeze her way out between the Lexus and the pickup truck in the next space over. Tom stepped out of the car and straight into the corn, which grew right up to the edge of the lot.

The world went green. He breathed deep and tasted the growing world on his tongue before stepping out again.

Andrea was gazing in dismay at the large crowd surrounding the produce stand. Jack, Jill, and Evan were all there, forking over paper bags as fast as their arms could sustain. Six ears for a dollar, a dollar a bag . . . They might as well be giving it away for free, she said, sounding pained. Don’t they understand what a goldmine this is?

I guess they’re more interested in feeding people, said Tom.

We feed people, said Andrea, and waded into the crowd.

Tom stayed where he was, watching her go and wishing that he knew exactly how to feel about all this. She was right about the corn: it was some of the best he’d ever tasted, if not the very best. It seemed to have a depth of flavour that was missing from all the other farms in the area, although it was grown in the same soil and watered from the same aquifers. If they could secure even a portion of the harvest for Our Table to Yours, they would be able to attract a whole new class of customers. The Internet reviews alone would explode with delight. And yet . . .

And yet.

Taitale Farms had always been a local secret. Not in the sense of ‘people discover it for themselves’: in the sense of secret. Everyone who met the Taitales knew that they were strange, and that they grew the best corn in the county, maybe in the state. Maybe in the world. But no one told strangers about them. It wasn’t done. Something about the family discouraged that sort of casual sharing.

Andrea had worked her way up to the front of the crowd and was talking to Jack, gesticulating wildly as she tried to get her point across. She was probably asking if he’d passed her card along to his parents like she’d asked, since no one had called to discuss providing corn to the restaurant. Tom walked across the parking lot to join her, cringing a little at the looks he received from the people who were waiting for their corn. Some of them looked scornful; others were looking at Andrea, and hence at him, with expressions of pity and regret, like he was committing some incredible crime by standing in this place, at this time, with this woman.

Jack shook his head. They haven’t had time, ma’am. This is our busy time.

That’s exactly why we’re here, said Andrea. Your busy time could be a lot simpler if you’d just agree to supply us with a certain number of ears daily. We could buy enough to make it possible for you to hire more help. Less corn to move and extra hands to move it. What could be better?

Not having strangers sniffing around the farm every time we turn around, said Jill, dropping a bag of corn on the produce stand counter. She snatched a dollar bill out of an outstretched hand and shoved the