Free Red Clover by Florence Osmund Page B

gotten in addition to the money but figured maybe that too was better left unexplained.
    He thought about the most puzzling aspects of the letter on his drive home.
    “For reasons you may never appreciate, I have asked your mother not to tell you about my health issues until after I’m gone.”
    What reasons would I not appreciate? What does that even mean?
    “I regret not having been closer to you, and someday you’ll understand why.”
    Did he say the same thing to Nelson and Bennett in their letters?
    “I predict that after an appropriate length of time, you will know just what to do with it to make it worthy.”
    An advanced degree in horticulture aside, what can I possibly do with 684 acres of land? Apparently, Uncle Nelson was able to predict I would know what to do with it to make it worthy. How does one make land worthy? And where is Harvey anyway? Or was it Harvard?
    “I have put $500,000 in a trustee-managed account.”
    If that means what I think it means, a trustee will have control over how I use the money. Is the money somehow tied to making the land worthy?
    “I know you won’t let down your mother, yourself, or me.”
    How about letting Father down? Maybe Uncle Nelson knew I already had that one covered.
    The more he thought about it, the more he surmised the man was rather brazen to be putting such pressure on someone he hardly knew.
    * * *
    The next morning, Lee received a call from his late uncle’s attorney. The man advised him of the exact location of the property he had inherited and gave him contact information for Basil Stonebugger, the trustee assigned to his account.
    As soon as Lee got off the phone, he got in his car and drove twenty miles to Harvard. On the outskirts of town, there was a sign that read:
     
    Welcome to Harvard, Illinois
    Milk Center of the World
    Population 5,279
     
    It soon became apparent where the town had gotten its moniker—there were dairy cows everywhere.
    His uncle’s attorney had told him it was a large piece of fenced land on the east side of town, easy to find because of the license-plate-sized signs displaying his uncle’s initials, NOS, that were clipped all along the fence line.
    He drove down Diggens Street toward the outskirts of town. When he saw his uncle’s monogram, he slowed down, taking in the vastness of it. After continuing another mile until reaching Attenberg Road, he turned left and went another mile. He tried to imagine why his uncle had put so many signs around the property: there had to be at least a hundred of them. When he reached the end of the fence line, he pulled over and got out of his car. Unable to see the whole property from this vantage point, he hopped the fence and walked into the scruffy vegetation for a better look.
    Twenty minutes later, when he had reached the highest point of the acreage, he realized the property was a mixture of wildflowers, prairie shrubs, grasses, and several small groves of trees. He stood there for several minutes, enjoying the cool breeze against his face, the sound of distant songbirds, and the satisfying feeling of standing on earth he actually owned. When he saw movement in the grass ten feet from him, he froze. And when he saw a black cat peeking from behind a low shrub, he laughed.
    “Hey there, fella. What are you doing on my property?”
    The cat ran off.
    He scanned the property from one end to the other. “Now what the hell am I supposed to do with all this?” he said aloud.
    Sighing deeply, he turned around to head back toward his car. About twenty-five feet in front of him stood a uniformed sheriff, his gun drawn, muscles bulging beneath his shirt.
    “You’re trespassing, son,” the officer declared without removing his dark wraparound sunglasses.
    Not exactly the Harvard, Illinois, greeting Lee had expected.
    He put his hands in the air. “Actually, I’m not, Officer. You see, I—”
    “Shut up. Kneel down, and put your hands behind your back.”
    He did as he was told. The