The old Ford still has rust.
My signs are still visible from Willowbrook.
Nobody complains about them anymore.
At least not to me.
The wind still moves across the pasture the same way it did before the development existed.
At night, the tin roof still sings when rain hits it.
And when I sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and hear cattle shifting in the darkness, I think of Sarah.
I think of my father.
I think of fences.
And every once in a while, against my better judgment, I think of Karen Linton standing in one muddy sandal, staring at me like I had personally betrayed civilization.
Then I smile.
Not because she was scared.
Because somewhere between the megaphone and the mud, she finally stopped calling my pasture a community meadow.
After that day, everybody called it what it had always been.
Cole Patton’s farm.
That was all I had wanted from the beginning.
Disclaimer: This story is fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. Any names, characters, places, or events are fictitious or used fictitiously. No real person or organization is intended to be portrayed.
