Free Fatal Harvest by Catherine Palmer Page A

hardheaded.”
    “Me, hardheaded? You’re the one who forced me to go with you in spite of all my other commitments.”
    “It wasn’t me who forced you into this truck. It was your guilty conscience.”
    “I don’t feel the least bit guilty for anything I’ve ever said in my classroom.” She crossed her arms, feeling hot and wishing she had a clip to pull her hair up off her neck. No doubt this old truck had never had an air conditioner. “I’m glad I told the students about my famine-relief work, and I plan to keep on telling them until they get the message.”
    “My son got your message, and now he’s missing.”
    “That’s not my fault. Matt has a tendency to take things to extremes.”
    “And you don’t?”
    “I suppose your idea of famine relief is mailing a check to some organization you don’t even know is legitimate. Or do you even do that much, Mr. Strong?”
    “As a matter of fact, I do do that much. My church has a strong missions arm. Part of what we do is feed the hungry. So my monthly tithe check goes toward that, and I’m glad to help in that way. But I don’t have time to head off to some godforsaken desert somewhere and ladle out porridge. If you do, that’s fine with me. Just don’t go foisting your ideas on susceptible young kids who don’t have the maturity or wisdom to know what to do with them. And by the way, you can call me Cole.”
    By now, the tips of Jill’s ears were on fire. She rolled down the window and stuck her head out in hopes of cooling off. Never in her entire life had she met anyone as obnoxious and self-centered as this man! How dare he blame her for Matt’s disappearance?
    “Do you need me to stop the truck?” Cole asked.
    “What?” She put her head back inside.
    “You look sick. I’ll stop if you need me to.”
    “I am not carsick—I’m angry! Do you have any idea how ignorant you sound? There is so much you could do. But you just sit there, so smug with your little tithe check.”
    “Where I sit is on a tractor or a plow or a combine. And what I do is grow hay to feed cattle and horses. And what those cattle do is get slaughtered to feed hungry people. So don’t tell me I’m not doing my part.”
    “Who buys your cattle?” Jill asked.
    “Agrimax. My chile is processed by Selena Foods, which is owned by Agrimax. And my hay goes to Homestead, a division of Agrimax. Yeah, I owe my soul to the company store. But that’s how it goes, Miss Pruitt. If you want to make a living as a farmer or rancher, you sell your product to the company that will keep you in business. For me, that’s Agrimax.”
    This news piqued Jill’s interest. She had no idea the man was in league with the devil himself. So Matt’s father—like so many others—had been forced to toe the line by one of the three huge corporations that controlled the world’s food supply. Softening a little, she drank down a calming breath.
    “You’re not angry with me,” she said. “You’re mad at yourself. You know you work for the company that is harassing your son. It’s Agrimax that frightened Matt into taking off. Not me.”
    “A company like Agrimax is not going to pay much attention to some e-mails from a starry-eyed kid who wants to feed the world. He’d be like a gnat buzzing around the head of a bull.”
    “Then why do you think Matt is on the run?”
    He paused. “You really want to know?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “I think Matt went to interview Jim Banyon for that term paper. I think he got to spending time with the old man, and they became buddies. I don’t know whether Matt realized it or not, but Banyon must have seen that his operation was in trouble. I’m sure he had invested all his retirement money into that farm, and even though he hadn’t been there long, it wasn’t panning out the way he’d hoped. I’ve seen it happentoo many times to count. Men come out here thinking they can make a go of running a small ranch or farm, and then they bottom out. I figure