My son was splashing in the creek our town has always shared when my new neighbor stormed over, yelling it was hers and swearing no one would touch it again. I walked away determined to fight her, so imagine my shock when she knocked on my door a week later, begging for help. I was watching Noah splash around in the creek like he owned the place, but I had an ulterior motive for being there that day.
My eyes kept drifting to the old Peterson place across the field. Fresh paint gleamed on the farmhouse, and someone had planted neat rows of something I couldn’t identify from this distance. The Petersons had sold out after old Jim passed, and we’d all been curious about who’d take over.
Miranda had told me rich city folks bought the place when I stopped by the diner for coffee last week, but you hear a lot of things in a small town (and half of them turn out to be nothing but gossip). I straightened when I saw movement near the creek bank. A woman in sleek black leggings and bright yellow sneakers was power-walking down toward the water, her ponytail bouncing with each determined step.
Behind her, a girl around Noah’s age followed more slowly, dragging her feet like she was being led to execution. Finally, I thought. A chance to meet the new neighbors.
I smoothed down my old jeans, ready to wave and offer a welcome. Truth be told, I should’ve gone over there already with a pie or something, but their main gate stayed shut, padlock and all, like they weren’t interested in visitors. As the woman drew nearer, I realized she did not look friendly.
In fact, she looked ready to kill. “Get your kid off my land!” the woman yelled. I blinked, taking a minute to process what she’d just said.
“This creek’s always been a shared spot,” I told her. “We all learned to swim here. The whole town comes down here to fish, and it’s where we relax—”
“Not anymore!” She crossed her arms like armor and set her jaw.
“I’m not getting sued because someone’s kid drowned on my property.”
My cheeks burned. Noah had stopped splashing and was looking up at us with confusion written all over his freckled face. “Lady, nobody’s gonna sue you if a kid—”
“I’m not debating this,” she snapped, cutting me off again.
“I’m sorry, but this is my land, and I won’t be held liable for other people’s poor judgment.”
There was clearly no reasoning with this woman. I beckoned to Noah. “Come on, buddy.
Time to head home.”
He glanced between me and our bad-tempered new neighbor as he waded out of the water. I wrapped his towel around him and pointed toward home. He trudged up the bank with a sigh.
I looked back at the woman and the wide-eyed girl standing behind her. Countless generations of kids had learned to swim in that gentle bend where the water pooled deep enough for diving but shallow enough that parents didn’t panic. And now this newcomer wanted to take it away from us.
I decided right then and there to do everything in my power to stop her. ***
That evening, after Noah fell asleep, I called up Cal. He’d been the town’s attorney for 30 years, and if anyone would know the truth about property lines, it would be him.
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