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He gave me a distracted smile, but his attention shifted past my shoulder before I could ask what else was bothering him.

Justin was approaching with several folded invoices in one hand.

“Clinton, I still need an answer about the replacement crash barriers.”

Clinton’s smile disappeared.

The tension between them was different from what I’d heard with Troy—less immediate, more worn down.

“I told you they’re scheduled,” Clinton said.

“You told me they were scheduled last week. The vendor says the balance is still outstanding.”

I slowed instead of walking away.

That involved my event.

Clinton lowered his voice, which only made the strain in it more obvious. “The payment is being handled.”

Justin lifted one of the pages. “If the shipment doesn’t arrive tomorrow, we’re short on the south queue before the weekend crowd.”

“We aren’t short tonight.”

“That doesn’t solve tomorrow.”

Clinton looked at me then, as though my presence had turned the conversation into an ambush.

I wasn’t interested in either man winning an argument. I needed the barriers.

“Will I have them before Friday opening?” I asked.

His jaw worked once before he answered. “Yes.”

“Then send me confirmation when the vendor gives it to you. If anything changes, I need enough time to adjust the queue plan.”

“I said I’ll handle it.”

“And I’m trusting you to.”

That took some of the pressure out of the moment. Clinton nodded, tucked the tablet more securely against his ribs, and headed toward the farm office.

Justin watched him leave.

“You think they’re coming?” I asked.

“I think I’d feel better if I’d seen the payment confirmation.”

There were several possible reasons a working farm could be slow paying a vendor in October, none of them mysterious. Hollowfield made a huge percentage of its seasonal revenue in a narrow window, and every department wanted money at the same time.

“If they aren’t coming, I’ll redesign the queue,” I said. “But I’d rather know before people start arriving tomorrow.”

“So would I.”

His attention shifted toward a radio call from farther down the route. Work pulled him away before either of us could say more.

By the time I finally returned to production, the hand pie Aunt Laurie had packed for me had gone from warm to aggressively room temperature.

I ate it anyway.