I was putting the papers back in my bag when a familiar pickup appeared across the street. Greg Nolan sat behind the wheel, both hands resting on the top of the steering wheel. He did not pretend to look at a phone or search for a parking space. He faced the coffee shop window and waited until our eyes met. Then he raised two fingers from the wheel in a gesture that might have been a greeting if we had been friends.
I felt my stomach tighten. Being watched by someone who had already helped block my property was different from an argument over paperwork. I took a photograph through the window, noted the time, and called the sheriff's nonemergency line to report the earlier obstruction and my concern about the apparent following. The dispatcher gave me an incident reference and advised me not to confront anyone. That was not a dramatic answer, but it was the right one.
I left through the shop's side exit and drove to the closing attorney's office. On the way, I passed an advertisement for lakeside property featuring a wooden dock, a smiling couple, and the slogan YOUR SHORE, YOUR FUTURE. I wondered how many people had arrived in this county believing that promise and driven away believing they had made a terrible mistake. I was beginning to understand that a legal right and the ability to exercise it are not always the same thing.
When I called Molly that evening, I did not tell her I had solved anything. I told her I had confirmed the boundary and discovered that Greg was apparently following me. She listened without interruption, then said a sentence that stayed with me through everything that followed. "Dad, please don't mistake doing this alone for doing it right." I looked at the lake on the photograph pinned to my motel mirror and admitted that she was probably correct.
The closing attorney's name was Lena Baird. She was forty-four, wore flat shoes that made no noise on her office floor, and had a habit of reading an entire page before giving an opinion about a single line. I liked her immediately for that last trait. She examined the certified documents, Christine's notice, and the wire instructions, then called the title insurer while I waited. By the time she hung up, I had confirmation of something I could use in court and an explanation of why things might still become unpleasant.
"Your ranch is not in the subdivision," she told me. "That does not prevent these people from interfering with access, sending notices, or making claims that require you to respond. A false claim doesn't become enforceable because someone prints it, but it can cost you time to defeat. We should document the obstruction and ask them in writing to stop." She laid a blank sheet beside my evidence folder and began outlining a demand for access and preservation of records. I had imagined a good lawyer would announce that the problem was over; Lena's value was that she made no such promise.