I didn’t sleep much that night.
The quiet felt heavier now, like the land itself was holding its breath. Every sound carried farther. Wind brushing the siding. A distant coyote calling somewhere beyond the dark. I kept replaying Dolores sliding that forged document across the counter, the sloppy fake of my name, the casual confidence Brinley must have had to even attempt it.
People like that didn’t bluff unless they’d gotten away with it before.
By sunrise, I was done being reactive.
I loaded the truck with fence posts, a post hole digger, and a stack of bright red NO TRESPASSING signs. The metal rang sharp and hollow each time I drove a post into the soil. Sweat ran down my spine. The clang echoed across the prairie, and I didn’t mind if it carried all the way to her breakfast table.
This land was mine. Publicly. Loudly.
I took soil samples along the western slope, labeling bags carefully, kneeling in the dirt, letting the smell of earth steady me. Farming wasn’t theoretical anymore. This was a working property now, whether Brinley liked it or not.
The phone rang just after noon.
Unknown number.
“Mr. Graham, this is Patricia from Meadowbrook Property Management. You have outstanding dues requiring immediate payment.”
Property management. Of course.
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