The driver’s door opened, and Weston Carmichael stepped out. Weston was thirty-two, built like a fitness-magazine cover, and possessed the kind of restless, aggressive energy that came from never being told no. He had made his money in tech, cashed out early, and decided he wanted to play cowboy. He bought the two thousand acres bordering Arthur’s land, erected a mansion of glass and steel on the highest ridge, and converted an old barn into a state-of-the-art mixed martial arts facility. Weston was a black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. He made sure everyone in Bitter Creek knew it within forty-eight hours of moving to town. “Hayes!” Weston called out, slamming the heavy door of the SUV. He marched over, his custom-made, spotless ostrich-skin boots crunching against the gravel. He was wearing compression shorts, a tight black rash guard, and designer sunglasses.
Arthur rested his forearms on the top wire of the fence. “Carmichael.” “You ignored my lawyer’s letter,” Weston said. He didn’t say hello. He didn’t offer a nod. He just closed the distance, standing a little too close, leaning into Arthur’s space. It was a fighter’s habit—dominate the center of the ring. “I didn’t ignore it,” Arthur said, his voice a low, even gravel. “I threw it away.” Weston smiled, but the edges of his mouth were tight. “Look, old man, that access road cuts right through the southeast corner of my property. I’m paving it. I’m putting up a gate. You need to use the county highway from now on.” “Deed says I have an easement,” Arthur said softly. “Has for sixty years.” “I don’t care what a piece of paper from 1960 says,” Weston snapped, pulling his sunglasses down slightly to glare over the rims. “I’m developing that quadrant. I’ve got sparring partners flying in from Vegas next week. I can’t have your noisy, leaky piece-of-garbage truck rattling past my facility every morning at five a.m.” “Truck doesn’t leak,” Arthur said.
Weston scoffed, shaking his head. He looked Arthur up and down, taking in the faded Wrangler shirt, the sweat-stained Stetson, the worn hands. Weston saw a relic. He saw weakness. “I offered you ten grand for the easement rights. That’s generous—more than generous. Take the check, Hayes, because the gate is going up Friday. If you try to drive through, I’ll have you trespassed.” Arthur stared at Weston. He didn’t look at the younger man’s eyes. He looked at his chest, his shoulders, the placement of his feet. It wasn’t a conscious calculation. It was a diagnostic scan running in the background of a hard drive that had never fully been wiped. Weston’s weight was shifted forward, heavy on the lead leg. His chin was up, arrogant, exposed. “Fence makes a good neighbor,” Arthur said finally, turning back to his tool pouch. “Gate just makes a prisoner. I’ll be using the road Friday, Weston, same as always.”
Weston’s face flushed. The vein in his neck pulsed. He was used to lawyers. He was used to boardrooms where he could shout people down or mats where he could choke them into submission. He wasn’t used to a man turning his back on him. “You’re making a mistake, Hayes,” Weston said, his voice dropping an octave, trying to mimic a menace he hadn’t earned. “I’m not one of these local hicks you can just stubborn your way around. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.” Arthur picked up his posthole digger. He didn’t look back. “Have a good afternoon, Weston.” Weston stood there for a long five seconds, the silence stretching out, making him look foolish. He cursed under his breath, spun around, and marched back to his G-Wagon. He tore out of the dirt shoulder, throwing a spray of gravel that dinged against the side of Arthur’s truck. Arthur didn’t flinch. He just watched the dust settle, then went back to work.