He waited for me to say I’d leave. I didn’t. After ten awkward seconds, he gave a tiny shrug and walked back.
Owen leaned out his window. “He thinks she owns our ranch.”
“I know.”
“But she doesn’t.”
“Nope.”
He went quiet, processing. “Does she know she doesn’t?”
“Not yet.”
The second messenger came ten minutes later, a woman in a yellow sundress with apologetic eyes.
“I’m really sorry,” she said, “but she asked me to let you know this is a private booking and you need to move along.”
“I’m comfortable right here,” I said.
“Okay. I’ll tell her.”
The third was less gentle. Late thirties, broad shoulders, folded arms, marching stride.
“She’s calling the police,” he said. “Get in your truck and go if you don’t want a trespassing charge today.”
“I appreciate the heads-up.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He stared at me, then looked at my boys in the truck, then back at me like he was trying to figure out why I wasn’t rattled. Finally he muttered, “Don’t say nobody warned you,” and left.
Caleb counted on his fingers. “That’s three.”
“Yep.”
“She keeps sending people.”
“She does.”
“She’s not coming herself.”
“Not yet.”
“What are you going to do when she does?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing yet.”
That satisfied him more than it should have.
While we waited, I watched Karen stroll over to my storage building with a little entourage following behind her. She circled it, pointed at the back wall, pressed one manicured hand against the siding, and shook her head like a developer evaluating a teardown. That building had stored my tools, generators, tackle boxes, and fence supplies for eighteen years. She stood there in her fairy-tale dress telling strangers she would demolish it.
