The wealthy hunter in Colorado thought he had found a local family willing to do free yard work just to keep some old flowers alive.

He was perfectly polite because he was perfectly detached.

I took out the typed letter and read his sweeping signature one more time.

He only used the place in November.

He had no real attachment to the soil.

We had seventy thousand dollars sitting in a bank account, quietly growing every single weekend.

I didn’t need Walt to approve of me, and I didn’t need the Denver owner to understand why we watered those roots.

I just needed enough money to force a sale.