And she had no idea how much trouble that question was going to cause her.
I hadn’t bought the farm to fight anybody.
That was the maddening part.
For 14 months, I’d looked for a property large enough to build the life I wanted.
Not a weekend retreat.
Not a decorative ranch with a few acres and a driveway.
I wanted working land.
Fields I could restore.
Trees I could manage.
Room for equipment, fencing, livestock, and whatever agricultural projects made sense as I learned the property.
I had spent years around operations where somebody always seemed to be telling somebody else what they couldn’t do. When I finally had the chance to buy a substantial parcel, I wanted the freedom to work without asking a committee whether a gate matched an approved color palette.
The estate I eventually found had belonged to the same farming family for three generations.
Their land sat at the edge of a county that was changing rapidly.
Subdivisions had spread across what had once been open pasture. Shopping centers stood where agricultural supply stores used to be. The highway had been widened, and each year the gap between rural and suburban life narrowed.
But the old farm remained.
Twelve hundred acres of fields, scattered woodland, weathered fencing, and service tracks.
The owners had died without direct heirs, and the estate went to auction.
I wasn’t the only bidder.
I was simply the one who had done the most homework.
By the time I raised my paddle, I had inspected the property, studied the soil maps, reviewed the improvements, and discussed the title with David.
He was the kind of land attorney who could spend 40 minutes explaining the significance of a line on a survey without losing interest.
A week before closing, he called.
“There’s something unusual about the southwest corner.”
I was sitting in my truck outside a supply store.
“What kind of unusual?”
“The road.”
“What about it?”
“It’s entirely on the estate parcel.”
I frowned.
“The paved road into Cedarwood Ridge?”
“That’s the one.”
“I assumed the subdivision had an access easement.”
“So did I.”
“Did you find it?”
“No.”
I waited.
David continued.
“I’ve checked the plat, the recorded easement index, the title chain, and the available road dedication documents. There’s no recorded grant to Cedarwood Ridge.”
