Chapter 18 - The Sheriff at the Gate
The following morning at dawn, the sound of multiple engines shattered the river valley.
I ran to the east porch window. Three vehicles were parked at our locked perimeter gate: my father’s black Buick, Pendelton’s sedan, and a white Dodge Ram belonging to Barry County Deputy Sheriff Miller—a distant cousin on my mother's side who had always taken orders from the town council.
Behind them stood the red timber flatbed with four men in hard hats, chainsaws already idling in the cold air, their blue exhaust drifting up into the pines.
"They're going to cut the chain," Ellis said calmly, slipping on his leather work gloves and picking up his heavy timber-marking mallet from the corner.
"Stay with Clara and Ivy," I told him, grabbing my coat and the metal breadbox. "Let me speak first."
We walked down the gravel road together. By the time we reached the gate, Deputy Sheriff Miller had pulled out a pair of bolt cutters from the back of his patrol truck.
"Hold on, Clint!" I called out, my voice cutting through the engine rumble.
The deputy stopped, looking embarrassed as he lowered the heavy steel jaws of the cutters. "Abby... look, I've got a signed writ here from Judge Miller's clerk. Arthur presented an emergency harvest order to prevent estate waste."
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My father leaned out the window of his Buick, a dark, vindictive smile curling his lips. "Cut the chain, Clint. The girl doesn't make the law in this county. She learned that at her wedding, and she’s going to learn it again today."
"You want to cut that chain, Clint?" I asked, looking straight at the deputy. "Before you do, you might want to look at what Arthur Pendelton conveniently left out of his filing."
