The drive out to Ace Watkins’s farm took a few minutes, and as we rode, I tried to let the beauty of the fields along the drive capture me. The mountains out this way were wizened and curving, like an old woman’s body, and I found myself wondering how much they knew, how much they could tell if they could talk.
The Watkins farm lay alongside a shallow, wide river that got its start in the mountains above, and with the water and the mountains along two sides of the property, it was about as beautiful a spot as I could imagine.
Today, though, I wasn’t able to let myself get swept up in the beauty. I was too nervous about why we were out there in the first place. I knew there was more to this invitation than some old farm equipment, but what the more was, I couldn’t say. And that had my pul
