Then I see him.
Webb.
He's stationed across the square, near the fountain, shaking hands with the easy confidence of someone who's done this a thousand times before. That smooth, practiced smile never wavers, warm enough to disarm, professional enough to signal authority. He's dressed in business casual that's just polished enough to telegraph money and competence without being obnoxiously obvious about it. Khakis. A button-down with the sleeves rolled precisely to mid-forearm. Leather loafers that definitely didn't come from the general store.
And he's not alone.
There's a woman beside him holding a tablet, her posture sharp and efficient. A man in a crisp polo shirt stands to his left, a thick stack of papers tucked under one arm and a pen clicking rhythmically in his other hand.
Clipboards.
Multiple clipboards.
Ivy sees them at exactly the same moment I do. I feel her body go rigid beside me, that sudden stillness that precedes action.
"What's he doing?" Her voice has an edge I recognize, the one that appears when someone threatens something she's trying to protect.
"Nothing good."
We push through the chaos, weaving past families and food stalls.
Webb's set up a small table near the entrance. A banner hangs behind him:Pine Hollow Progress Initiative.
The man with the polo shirt is talking to an older couple. I catch fragments.
"...property values..." "...guaranteed income..." "...simple signature..."
My stomach drops.
"They're collecting petition signatures," Ivy says quietly. "For the zoning change."
Webb spots us. His smile widens.
"Rogan. Ivy. What a wonderful event." He gestures at the festival. "Pine Hollow really knows how to celebrate its history."
"What are you doing?" Ivy's voice is flat.
"Offering an opportunity." Webb's tone is patient. Reasonable. "The rezoning petition needs five hundred signatures to trigger a county review. I thought the festival was the perfect place to reach people who care about Pine Hollow's future."
"By ambushing them?" I step closer. "By pushing legal documents at a community celebration?"
"No ambush. Just information." Webb taps the table. "Many residents are interested in exploring their options. I'm simply facilitating conversation."
A small crowd forms. Watching.
Farmer Hank approaches, pie in hand. "What's this about?"
Webb pivots smoothly. "Hank. Good to see you. I was just explaining the rezoning proposal. If the petition succeeds, the county would fast-track commercial development permits. Buyers would have access to guaranteed minimum offers for agricultural parcels within the designated zone."
"How much are we talking about?" someone from the crowd calls out—I think it's Mrs. Chen from the feed store, though I can't quite see past the cluster of bodies pressing forward.
Webb doesn't hesitate. He names a figure, his voice carrying across the pavilion with practiced clarity.
The number hangs in the air for a moment before the reaction hits.
I hear it ripple through the assembled townspeople, a sharp collective intake of breath, followed by whispers that spread like wildfire. Someone mutters "Jesus Christ" under their breath. Another person repeats the number to a neighbor who didn't catch it, and the whisper becomes an audible murmur.
It's a lot of money. A staggering amount, really. More than most of these struggling family farms probably see in an entire year of backbreaking work, maybe two years for some of the smaller operations. The kind of number that could wipe out debt, fund a kid's entire college education, or finally fix that tractor that's been held together with spit and prayer for the last three seasons.
