The Snobbish Members Blocked My Mill Workers From The Fairway—Until My Title Deed Evicted Their Entire Board At 9 AM!

The radio speaker crackled to life with the crisp baritone of Sheriff Thomas Bradley.

"Cole," the sheriff said, his voice cutting through the idling engine. "Sterling's father just walked into the district courthouse with a forged administrative stay."

I tapped the screen, switching to the hands-free mic. "Did Judge Miller sign it?"

"Miller refused to touch it," Bradley replied. "So Sterling went to an auxiliary magistrate two counties over. They're trying to enforce an emergency property freeze right at your bumper."

Julian tapped his platinum signet ring against my side mirror, flashing a wide, predatory smirk.

"Having cell reception trouble, Vance?" Julian taunted. "Take the hint. Your dirty logging trucks aren't touching a blade of our bentgrass."

One of the legacy members, an elderly real estate developer named Richard Sterling, stepped forward and shook his cane at my windshield.

"We founded this valley eighty years ago!" Richard barked, saliva flecking his lip. "We won't let our championship greens be turned into a blue-collar parking lot!"

Down the service road, my crew foreman, Hank, stepped down from the lead logging truck, wiping grease from his calloused palms onto his work pants.

Ten timber workers in steel-toed boots followed him, standing quietly on the shoulder, their arms crossed.

"Hank, stay by the rigs," I called out through the window.

"We're on your clock, Cole," Hank answered with a steady nod. "Take your time."

Julian sneered, waving dismissively at my men. "Look at them. They look like they crawled out of a trench. Security, cite every single commercial rig for municipal right-of-way obstruction."

The private security guard stepped forward with a digital citation scanner.

"Don't scan those plates," I said, my voice dropping into an icy register.

"Or what?" Julian challenged, stepping closer to my door. "You think you're untouchable because you wired thirty million dollars? Money doesn't erase bloodlines, Cole."

"No," I replied, pulling my black legal folio from the passenger seat. "It doesn't. But water rights do."

Julian’s smirk twitched for a split second.

Before he could speak, a high-pitched siren echoed down the winding driveway from the north ridge.