“Eight hundred each.”
She thought she had misheard.
“Sixteen hundred dollars?”
“That seems fair.”
“It’s three hours.”
“Three hours after they trespassed.”
Wren’s face remained still.
Inside, anger hit hard enough to make her fingertips cold.
She understood immediately what he was doing.
The amount was too large to ignore.
Too small to justify hiring a lawyer.
And the goats technically had entered his property.
She had no proof anyone cut the fence.
No witness.
No camera.
Nothing.
Wren walked to the pen.
Her does stood chewing hay.
Water beside them.
Perfectly cared for.
Cyrus had made sure of that.
He was not sloppy.
She wrote the check on the tailgate of his truck.
Sixteen hundred dollars.
He folded it once.
“Fences are difficult on that much land.”
Wren capped her pen.
“Thank you for the reminder.”
She drove home.
Returned the goats to the repaired paddock.
Then sat on an overturned bucket.
She cried.
Exactly three minutes.
She timed it.
At the end, Wren stood.
Washed her face.
Bought heavier fencing.
Then ordered three game cameras.
Eleven days produced photographs of a raccoon, two deer, a possum, and the same fox twice.
No person.
Cyrus was not stupid.
Two weeks later, Wren stopped at the diner.
She sat in a rear booth.
Two old men sat behind her.
They had been there every other time she entered.
The waitress served them coffee without asking.
Wren ate eggs.
Then heard one name.
“Volmer’s been waiting for that parcel since the seventies.”
Her fork stopped.
She did not turn.
The other man answered.
“His daddy tried buying it from Ellis Marlin.”
“Marlin wouldn’t sell?”
“Wouldn’t sell to him.”
“Cyrus wants that creek crossing.”
“Always has.”
Wren lifted her coffee.
The first man continued.
“He watches people buy that property.”
“Then waits.”
“They run out of money.”
“He makes an offer.”
“What about the Atlanta woman?”
A pause.
Wren chewed.
The second man said:
“She’s in the way.”
The first answered:
“He’ll wear her out.”
“He wears everybody out.”
The conversation changed subjects.
Wren finished breakfast.
Paid.
Left a fair tip.
Then drove home.
She finally understood the situation correctly.
Cyrus did not hate her.
That would have been easier.
He was executing a strategy.
She represented a temporary obstacle.
He believed time favored him because it always had.
That evening Wren stood on her eastern ridge.
Across the valley, one porch light glowed on Cyrus’s property.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
The road through this county is narrow. Be careful which neighbors you choose.
Wren read it.
Deleted nothing.
Saved a screenshot.
Then turned off the phone.
She looked at the vines.