“No, I mean can they win?”
I looked out the kitchen window toward the back acreage I could not see from there but could feel like a pressure behind my ribs. “This isn’t about winning yet. This is about whether they think I’ll get tired.”
Caleb set the letter down. “Will you?”
I almost smiled. “You know better.”
I drove to the Whitakers’ place that afternoon. Their new gravel drive was white and clean, with fresh landscaping along the entrance and a gate they had not yet wired to close. The house they were building sat high on their side of the property, all glass, dark siding, and sharp angles, like something from a magazine called Modern Rural Living written by people who never had to pull a calf at midnight. I found Brent by the lake—my lake, though I hated even thinking the phrase—talking to two contractors installing fountain aerators.
The dock frame was new.
That stopped me for a moment.
It extended over the water from the south bank, neat and expensive, with treated lumber stacked nearby. Stakes marked a future seating area. Laurel stood farther back with a tablet in her hands, showing something to a landscaper. She looked up when she saw me and did not smile.
Brent waved. “Daniel. You get the letter?”
“I did.”
“Then you understand where we stand.”
I walked past him to the edge of the water. The lake had risen another foot. The spring pipe fed it steadily, clear water disappearing into muddy arrogance. Straw had been spread over the banks. Someone had already planted clumps of ornamental grass.
“You’re still working,” I said.
“Our attorney advised us to complete scheduled improvements unless there is a court order.”
“Your attorney advised you to keep digging on land that isn’t yours?”
“Our survey says otherwise.”
“Your survey ignored the physical monuments.”
He crossed his arms. “Daniel, I understand this land means a lot to you. I do. But we’re not trying to steal anything. We’re trying to build something beautiful. This could benefit both properties.”
