He almost smiled.
"The deed knew it the whole time."
She ignored that.
"Do you know what people say about me?"
"No."
"You don't care?"
"Not particularly."
She stared.
That seemed to frustrate her more than anger would have.
"They think I wasted their money."
The Ranch Homeowner said nothing.
She asked:
"Do you?"
"Yes."
Her face hardened.
He continued:
"But not because you lost."
She looked confused.
"You could've lost after making a reasonable argument."
He pointed toward the gate.
"You wasted money because the document told you the problem before the first lawsuit."
She folded her arms.
"Our lawyer told us it was arguable."
"Everything's arguable if somebody gets paid to argue."
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Then looked toward the muddy low section where her SUV had been stuck months earlier.
"That day was humiliating."
The Ranch Homeowner nodded.
"Probably."
"You enjoyed it."
"A little."
She stared.
He smiled.
She actually laughed.
Briefly.
Then stopped.
"I hated you."
"Figured."
"I thought you were stubborn."
"I am."
"I thought you were selfish."
"Maybe."
She looked toward the ranch.
The cattle.
The fields.
The narrow private road.
"I never really understood what this place was."
The Ranch Homeowner waited.
She continued.
"To us, it was a line on a map."
"Exactly."
She nodded.
"That's probably where we went wrong."
"One of the places."
She gave him a look.
He shrugged.
The former President turned to leave.
Then stopped.
"For what it's worth, the new board is better."
"I know."
"They hate me."
"They don't talk about you."
That hurt more.
The Ranch Homeowner immediately realized it.
But she nodded.
"Probably healthier."
She walked away.
The Ranch Homeowner went back to the fence.
Life returned to normal.