Cattle pastures west of the house.
A machine barn built by my father.
A white farmhouse my grandfather had enlarged one room at a time whenever the family could afford lumber.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing decorative.
Nothing that looked like the kind of place where women wearing designer boots should be directing strangers to valet parking.
But that Thursday afternoon, my farm looked like someone had rented it for a corporate festival.
I had been gone nine days.
My mother had undergone knee replacement surgery in Kansas City, and I had stayed with her through the first week of recovery.
My hired hand, Tyler Grant, had been working the soybean fields on the western side of the property.
The north cornfield was ready for harvest, but moisture levels had been slightly high before I left.
I had planned to check it when I returned.
Apparently, while I was gone, somebody else had made plans for it too.
