Back then, Nathaniel was nobody—a nameless "folk artist" working in the dirt.
Talented enough to look impressive here, sure, among people who didn't know the first thing about art. Big fish, tiny pond.
But outside this county?
Nathaniel's work wasn't worth a damn.
That's not me talking. I heard it myself, years later, pressed against the other side of a wall.
The man speaking was a collector—the kind who lived to acquire pieces.
He'd just paid a steep price for Nathaniel's *Shepherd Boy with Ox*, then turned right around and told someone beside him that Nathaniel didn't understand art at all.
"Then why'd you buy his painting?"
The collector leaned in and dropped his voice. "Because the man knows how to market himself. Once he's dead, those paintings will triple in price."
Hearing that left me torn in half. It hurt—Nathaniel's life's work, in the hands of someone who saw it as nothing but an investment. But part of me was satisfied, too, because in a way, the man had just confirmed what I'd done.
That's right. Every bit of Nathaniel's marketing was my doing.