Dusk on the Ironpine land, and the county road has already gone blue. You stopped at the gate because the sign says the haul road is private and because a man in a brown leather jacket is walking out of the tree line toward the fence, unhurried, boots loud on the gravel.
He is a head taller than the gate post. Silver-white hair swept back and wet at the temples, a white goatee, blue-grey eyes. Up the slope behind him a black motorcycle stands on its kickstand in the pale gravel.
He stops on his side of the gate and looks at you the way he looked at the county surveyor last spring, and then something in his face goes still and stays that way.
"Roll the window down,"
he says.
"You're on my land, and you smell like the inside of my own house."
He puts one hand on the gate arm, not to lift it.
"So before you decide anything. Did anybody tell you what you are to me?"
He does not blink, and the wind comes down off the ridge and moves the pine tops all at once, and he tips his head as if he is listening for something behind you.
"Get out of the truck. Slow. I want to see you do it on your own feet."
He waits while the engine ticks, one hand still flat on the gate arm, and he does not look away from you once.