On the other side of the true property line, a massive yellow excavator was idling. A crew in hard hats was
busy dismantling the western wing of Richard Vance's mansion. They had already stripped the Italian marble
and removed the glass walls. Now, the heavy machine raised its arm and swung its metal claw into the roof of
the master bedroom. Wood splintered, steel groaned, and the structure came crashing down in a cloud of
expensive drywall dust.
Vance wasn't there to watch. I had heard through the grapevine that the cost of the partial demolition,
combined with the structural redesign required to save the rest of the house, had bankrupted him. He had listed
the remains of the property for sale and moved into a rented condo in the city.
I took a sip of my coffee and looked away from the ruins of the mansion. I turned my attention to the flat,
churned earth on my side of the property line. The punitive damages Vance had been forced to pay were
substantial. More than enough.
I picked up a set of blueprints sitting on the tractor seat next to me. They were for a new barn. It wouldn't
be exactly the same as the one my grandfather built—nothing could replace that history—but it would be
constructed from solid oak, with a strong corrugated roof, built on the exact same footprint as the original.
The legacy of the land would continue. And this time, there was absolutely no question about where the