The rain ended and the roads dried into pale ribbons of dust. Wagons moved again, heavier and faster. Benton’s Market had grown beyond rumor; it had become a pattern of motion. Clara stood by the doorway counting barrels and listening to the clop of hooves. Trade no longer waited for fair weather. It moved in all seasons now.

She had hired six new workers that spring. Two kept books, two loaded wagons, one baked bread for sale, and one rode between towns carrying messages. Clara trained them herself. She spoke slowly and used plain words. Keep your word, she said. Count twice. Smile once before you speak. It was not just instruction; it was culture.

Mary managed the Oakfield shop with steady grace. Her letters arrived every Friday on thick paper smelling faintly of herbs. Each one listed sales, repairs, and problems with drivers. Clara read them by lamplight and wrote answers in the margins. She realized she was running a system—something that lived even when she slept.

One evening Thomas brought her a sketch. It showed a wooden cart with a flat frame and small wheels that could swivel. “For loading faster,” he said. “Less strain, fewer breaks.” Clara traced the lines with her finger. “You drew this?” “Yes. We can build it with iron rings on the wheels.” She nodded. “Then build one.”

When the first cart rolled out, workers laughed in surprise. It turned easily, carried twice the weight, and cut loading time in half. Clara called it the turning wagon. People from other towns came to see it. Some copied it, but she didn’t mind. Progress should travel.

That summer, Benton’s Market began shipping beyond the valley. River boats carried barrels marked with her sprout seal. Farmers who once walked miles now sent goods by cart and waited for her payment slips. The network spread like roots beneath the soil.

Still, growth pulled hard on her time. She ate little and slept less. Mary wrote that she looked pale during visits. Thomas insisted she rest. Clara only smiled. “The market rests when trust is common. Until then, we move.”

Trouble returned in smaller shapes. Coins came back light, shaved at the edges. Some clerks miscounted and pockets stayed heavy. Clara gathered her workers one night and laid a single coin on the table. “This tiny circle feeds families,” she said. “If it passes through false hands, the circle breaks.” She replaced the coin with a clay token carved with the sprout mark. “From now on, use these for trade inside the chain. Metal for customers, clay for us. We trace every piece.”

It worked. Loss fell and record books grew clean again. The token became a sign of pride. Children played with broken ones, pretending to run markets of their own.

At harvest end Clara rode to the river branch. She watched boats drift away under a red sky and thought of her first stall made of rope and cloth. The same hands that once scraped for coins now held contracts, wagons, and workers. She whispered, “The wheel keeps turning because everyone pushes a little.”

She turned her horse toward home. The night smelled of rain and wood smoke. For the first time she felt that her idea no longer belonged only to her. It belonged to anyone who believed that honesty could move faster than greed.