She waited for him to tell her she’d been right, but instead, he turned into the freaking town historian. “I talked to the painters about Garrison being up for sale and got the whole story.” A few hours earlier, she’d been anxious to hear this, but not when he still hadn’t said she was right.

He shot past a Dodge Neon that had unwisely decided to pull out in front of him. “A carpetbagger named Hiram Garrison bought a couple of thousand acres around here after the Civil War to build a mill. His son enlarged it—that abandoned brick building we passed on the highway—and established the town, all without selling an acre. If people wanted to build houses or businesses, they had to lease the land from him, even the churches. Eventually, he passed everything to his son Marshall. Your Mrs. Garrison’s husband.”

“Poor guy.”

“He met her a couple of decades ago on a trip to New York. He was fifty at the time, and she was apparently hot.”

“Let me tell you those days are gone.” His civics lecture had started to make her wary. She had the feeling he was buying time. But for what?

“Marshall apparently shared his ancestors’ aversions to selling even a quarter acre. And since they had no children, she inherited it all when he died—the land the town’s built on and most of the businesses.”

“That’s way too much power for one mean-spirited woman.” She separated her ponytail to tighten the rubber band. “Did you find out how much she’s asking for it?”

“Twenty million.”

“That rules me out.” She gazed at him sideways. “Does it rule you out?”

“Not if I sell my baseball card collection.”

She hadn’t really expected him to divulge his net worth. Still, he didn’t need to be so sarcastic about it.

A dairy farm flashed past as he took advantage of the straightening road. “East Tennessee is a growing area. Popular with retirees. She had an offer for fifteen million from a group of Memphis businessmen but turned it down. People suspect she doesn’t really want to sell.” The car nearly fishtailed as he took the turn onto Callaway Road. “Without any national franchises, Garrison is pretty much a time capsule—quaint, but frayed at the edges. The local business leaders want to capitalize on that quaintness, spruce everything up so it’s a tourist destination, but Nita refuses to cooperate.”

As he raced past the lane that led to the farm, she straightened. “Hey! Where are you going?”

“Someplace private.” The road turned into a dirt track. His jaw tensed. “Where we can talk.”

Her heartbeat kicked up. “We already talked. I don’t want to talk anymore.”