Vance Fiske sat next to him, shifting back and forth in his chair until the leather squeaked beneath his expensive cowboy boots.

Kurt Ostrowski was on my left.

He hadn’t taken off his heavy work coat, and his hands lay flat on his knees.

“We’re here to clear up a simple civil misunderstanding over seasonal land permissions,” Vance said, clearing his throat loudly before Patricia had even taken her pen out of her blazer pocket.

“My client maintains he had an informal arrangement with Mrs.

Halvorsen concerning upkeep of the property.”