The burned shard I’d held on to the last two years fueled the embers of hate burning inside me. Hate for all the changes made without giving me a say. Hate for how everyone seemed so damn excited about building a hotel and restaurant on my land. Hate for the constant barrage of visitors traipsing over the grass, walking where they shouldn’t, and making noise at all hours of the night. Hate for the lights that dimmed the stars. The ranch was my birthplace and would be my grave. It was my solace. This land was my universe. Nothing mattered outside the fence. Not a damn thing.
