"Don't you want to know why this place neither of you know anything about has balers down there?" I step one leg over the downed portion of fence and turn back to look at my dad and Wes. "I sure as hell do. Tie up my horse, please." Then I step a second leg into the so-called private property.
"Goddammit," I hear Wes grumbling. "We should have made her stay home."
It stings, but I don't show it. Instead I keep walking, but then I remember my dad's not as spry as me, so I stop and wait for them. They tie up all the horses and step over the fence.
We walk in a row, right down through the middle of the fields, so that whoever is in that house will know we don't have any malicious intent. We're purely information seeking.
The closer we get, the more the scene around us shifts in my mind. If what I'm seeing is correct, this isn't good. "Wait." I grab Wes's forearm and he slows. Dad does too.
"What's wrong?" Dad asks as I hurry forward to the first acre of real growth. I yank out a small fistful of what's pushing up through the soil.
"Feel that," I instruct, extending my open palm.
"What is that?" Wes asks.
"Alfalfa," I answer, trying to keep the pride from my voice. "Alfalfa hay. Meet the reason for your loss of groundwater."
My dad eyes me. "How do you know that?"
"I took agriculture classes at school."
"I thought you were in marketing?"
"I was. But I was supplementing with classes I liked better."
Wes takes what I'm holding, rubbing it between his fingers. "It doesn't feel like hay."
"That's because it has too much moisture in it right now. Also known aswater. Give it a few hours in the sun and it'll dry out. That"—I point at the balers—"is the reason for those."
"So they're growing hay and baling it?" Wes sighs. "That's not a crime. There's nothing we can do about it."
I can't disagree, as much as I'd like to.
The snapping sound of a screen door pulls all of our gazes to the little house. A man stands, legs wider than his hips, arms crossed and rocking back on his heels. He's young, maybe forty, and for some reason I find that surprising.
"This is private property,” he hollers, his tone angry and edged with a challenge.
Wes walks closer, and my dad and I follow. "Hello, sir, my name is Wes Hayden. This is my dad and my sister. We're your neighbors." He gestures in the direction of our ranch. His voice is cordial as can be.
The man squints at us. If friendly had a face, his is the opposite. "Not sure how neighborly it is to trespass."
Wes lifts a flat palm. "No harm meant."
"What do you want?"
Wes continues doing the talking for us. ”We were on a ride and thought we'd introduce ourselves. Wanted to make sure you knew we keep lots of sugar around, in case you're in need of a cup sometime."
The man cracks a small smile. "Gee, thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
"You've got quite the operation going here. I didn't know there was a hay farmer right behind me. Makes me wonder why I've been going all the way into town to buy my hay."
The man shakes his head. "You can't buy this hay."
"Why is that?"
"It's not sold here."
"Where is it sold?" Wes’s voice continues to sound affable, but I can tell he’s doing his damnedest to keep his temper in check.
