Then she sent a woman with a sorry expression to repeat that this was a private event. Finally, she sent a broad-shouldered man who warned me that I would be accused of trespassing.
I remained seated in the bed of my truck with my sons beside me, watching the entire spectacle unfold. “She really thinks she owns it, doesn’t she?” Parker asked.
“It seems so,” I answered. “And do you know that she doesn’t?” he asked me.
“Not yet,” I said. Forty-five minutes later, Courtney arrived in person and stood in front of me with her chin raised.
“I am not going to repeat myself, so leave my property or I will have you forcibly removed,” she said in a cold voice. I did not answer her at all.
Then she looked at my dusty boots, took a deep breath, and spat at my feet. Parker opened his mouth in shock. “Dad, she just spat on you.”
I watched as she walked away, retrieved her glass, and smiled at her guests as if she had handled a minor nuisance. I took out my phone, dialed a number, and said just one sentence: “Come to the ranch quickly because you need to see this.”
In the distance, they began to gather everyone around the cake for the singing. Courtney adjusted her tiara and closed her eyes to listen as they sang to her at my table, on my land.
“Come with me,” I told the boys as we got out of the truck. The three of us walked toward the party as the singing voices faded away one by one.
