Daniel Mercer had barely shut off the engine of his truck when Karen Whitfield started walking toward him.
She did not wave.
She did not ask why he was there.
She crossed the clubhouse parking lot with a leather folder tucked beneath one arm and the rigid posture of someone who had already decided the conversation before reaching him.
Daniel watched her through the windshield for several seconds.
Behind Karen stood the Willow Creek Estates clubhouse, a low stone-and-timber building surrounded by trimmed hedges, two tennis courts, and a swimming pool that had been closed for the season. A bronze sign near the front entrance read:
WILLOW CREEK ESTATES
PRIVATE COMMUNITY FACILITIES
RESIDENTS AND AUTHORIZED GUESTS ONLY
It was October in central Texas, warm enough that the oak trees were still mostly green, although dry leaves had begun collecting along the curbs.
Daniel had parked his fourteen-year-old Ford F-150 beneath one of those trees.
He had not made it more than halfway out of the truck before Karen reached him.
“You need to leave, Mr. Mercer.”
Daniel rested one hand on the open driver’s door.
“Good afternoon to you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Karen stopped several feet away.
She was fifty-five, tall and carefully dressed in white slacks, a navy blouse, and low designer heels that were completely impractical for walking across the gravel strip beside the parking lot. Her blonde hair was cut just above her shoulders, and a pair of expensive sunglasses rested on top of her head.
For nearly six years, she had served as president of the Willow Creek Estates Homeowners Association.
The job paid nothing.
Karen treated it as though she had been elected governor.
“This property belongs to Willow Creek Estates,” she said. “You have already been told you are not authorized to enter association facilities.”
Daniel looked past her toward the clubhouse.
Three people stood near the entrance watching them.
Board members.
He recognized one of them from a photograph on the HOA website.
Harold Simmons, treasurer.
Next to him stood Patricia Lang, secretary.
The third man Daniel did not know.
He returned his attention to Karen.
“I’m not entering your association facilities.”
“You’re standing in our parking lot.”
“Yes.”
“Which is HOA property.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
“No.”
Karen blinked.
“No?”
“No.”
Her mouth tightened.
“We have been through this.”
“Actually, we haven’t.”
“You received our letter.”
“I received a letter.”
“Then you know you are violating Willow Creek rules by entering restricted property without authorization.”
Daniel looked down at the folder she was carrying.
“I’m not in your HOA, Karen.”
She stared at him.
For several seconds, the only sound between them was the tick of his truck engine cooling.
Karen seemed almost offended by the sentence.
“Every property owner inside Willow Creek is subject to the association.”
“My property isn’t inside Willow Creek.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“It’s recorded that way.”
“You own a narrow vacant parcel behind the maintenance road.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
Daniel reached into the truck.
Karen stepped backward immediately.
He came out holding a brown document envelope.
“No need to panic.”
“I am not panicking.”
“You stepped back.”
“I didn’t know what you were reaching for.”
“Property records.”
That did not improve her expression.
Daniel closed the truck door.
He was forty-eight years old, broad-shouldered, with dark brown hair beginning to gray above his ears and the sun-weathered complexion of a man who had spent much of his life outdoors.
He ran a commercial fencing and land-services company in Georgetown.
Not glamorous work.
He liked it.
Survey crews, agricultural boundaries, access roads, drainage easements, ranch fencing, commercial gates.
Thirty years of looking at plats, markers, easements, and property corners had taught Daniel one important lesson.
People were often remarkably certain about land they had never actually researched.
Karen pointed toward the street.
“You need to move your vehicle before I have it removed.”
Daniel glanced at his truck.
“From my property?”
Karen actually laughed.
“That parking lot belongs to the association.”
“No.”
“The clubhouse belongs to the association.”
“No.”
Her face hardened.
“Mr. Mercer, I have tried to be patient.”
“I didn’t know we were having a patience competition.”
“You inherited a strip of undeveloped land after your father died.”