Sixty something.
Five foot three.
She had represented farmers, contractors, divorced ranchers, feed companies, and one church choir director who allegedly drove a tractor through his brother’s shed.
Nothing surprised Edna.
I explained the situation.
She was silent for a moment.
“Do not hurt anyone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“Can I close my gate?”
“It’s your property.”
“Can I document trespass?”
“Yes.”
“Can I move livestock where I normally graze livestock?”
Pause.
“Cole.”
“What?”
“I know that voice.”
“What voice?”
“The one men use before doing something they will later describe as technically legal.”
I smiled.
“You know me too well.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“If you know people are entering, your goal is to prevent injury.”
“Understood.”
“Call the sheriff if they show.”
“I can.”
“Not after somebody gets killed.”
“No one is getting killed.”
“Cole.”
“I said understood.”
She sighed.
“Document. Warn. Avoid escalation.”
I hung up.
Then called Sheriff Hank Mercer.
Hank had known my father.
He had eaten dinner in my house more times than I could count.
“Hank.”
“Cole.”
“Karen Linton planning another picnic on my farm.”
“I heard about the first one.”
“How?”
“Small county.”
“I formally told her no.”
“Good.”
“She’s doing it anyway.”
“That’s not good.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Call when they arrive.”
“You coming?”
“If available.”
“I’ll document.”
“Good.”
“Anything else?”
“Cole.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be clever.”
I smiled.
“I’m always clever.”
“That’s what worries me.”
Friday evening, I walked the farm again.
Cameras checked.
Signs visible.
Livestock where they belonged.
Gates in working order.
I reinforced the damaged section of fence.
The bulls remained in the east pasture.
Not because I wanted to “weaponize” them.
Because east was where I had planned to rotate them that weekend anyway.
