“Cole.”
“My deed says otherwise.”
“Everyone’s just enjoying the afternoon.”
“On my farm.”
“No one is hurting anything.”
Behind her, a man threw an empty beer can toward a trash bag.
He missed.
It landed in a cattle water trough.
I pointed.
“That your definition?”
Karen looked back.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
I walked over.
Removed the can.
Set it on the ground beside her sandal.
“This water is for livestock.”
She looked embarrassed.
Then angry that I had embarrassed her.
“Everyone, please keep the trash contained.”
A few people laughed nervously.
I looked around.
More than twenty strangers.
Food.
Glass bottles.
Children.
A speaker.
A tent anchored into my soil.
One child climbing on the lower rail of a fence.
“Everybody needs to leave.”
The laughter stopped.
Karen stared.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Cole, this took weeks to organize.”
“Not with me.”
“We advertised.”
“Not my problem.”
“We have families here.”
“Then take them home.”
Her smile finally disappeared.
“You cannot just ruin a community event because you’re in a bad mood.”
“I can remove trespassers from my property.”
A man in a salmon colored polo stepped closer.
“Come on, man.”
I looked at him.
“It’s just a field.”
“It’s a pasture.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
Karen lifted one hand.
“Cole has always been a little territorial.”
I stared at her.
“Territorial?”
“Yes.”
“About my property?”
A woman behind her snorted.
Karen ignored it.
“You have forty acres. We’re using maybe two.”
“I have one truck. How many doors can I take off yours before it bothers you?”
The salmon shirt guy suddenly became interested in his drink.
Karen crossed her arms.
“We were told this land serves as a buffer between Willowbrook and agricultural parcels.”
“It does.”
“That sounds like shared space.”
“It isn’t.”
