“Professional time-out,” I concede and shake her hand once before striding toward the camera crew.

The barn sale is pretty incredible, but it’s nothing compared to Shelby at a barn sale. She’s meticulous and knowledgeable and I probably look like a complete himbo next to her, but I can’t even be mad about it. I’m too busy admiring her and following behind, carrying a box of iron hardware like a lovesick puppy.

It’s a distinction I wear with pride, believe me.

Every farmer knows her by name and not because they listened to her pop singles. She knows the complete history of the county, including the family farms. She understands the equipment and implements, even if that’s not what she’s in the market for. They all keep aside items for her—piles of barn wood and signs and hardware and ancient woodworking tools.

“Hey there, young lady,” one old guy says. He’s dressed in a flannel and Dickies, even though it’s gotta be close to eighty degrees in here.

“Mr. Jenson!” Shelby reaches out to hug the man and he pats her back with a laugh.

“I was hoping I’d see you today. I brought you something.”

Shelby’s eyes glitter with excitement. “I can’t wait. Do you mind if my partner Cameron Riggs comes along? He’s my muscle today.”

Mr. Jenson looks me up and down behind smudged glasses. He raises a hand, showing off his gnarled joints and scratches at his nose. “Sure, sure. Come on.” He waves us out toward the trucks. The camera crew follows at a slower pace, giving Mr. Jenson space. If he’s bothered by them, he doesn’t show it.

He rounds an older model Chevy pickup to the tailgate. Shelby pops the handle and lets it drop with a low whistle. Waiting for her is a solid-oak church pew, scuffed and magnificent. Shelby hops up on the truck bed to examine it closer.

“The scrollwork is fantastic,” she says with a reverence that has Mr. Jenson standing taller.

“My dad did it. The church burned down a few years back, but this was in our barn at the time. I was trying to restore them, one by one. Then the fire happened, and I couldn’t bear it. Ever since, it’s been collecting dust.”

Shelby slides her hand along the curled top. “It’s masterful, Mr. Jenson. Your father was a true craftsman.”

“Do you think you can find a good home for it?”

Shelby’s eyes are glittering, but this time, it’s with emotion. “Are you sure? What if I restore it for you?”

Mr. Jenson shakes his head. “I don’t have a place for it. Hospice has moved in for Maggie, and after…” He swallows. “I won’t have a need for it. But you could take care of it…”