Arthur Vance was retired, but a public record search showed he still lived in a cottage near Philomont.

That was only fifteen miles away, deep in the horse country.

I put the car in gear and drove onto the main road.

The rain started again, a steady drizzle that blurred the windshield.

I drove past miles of white wooden fences and grand brick estates.

This was the land my family wanted to carve up for profit.

Graham wanted to turn the forty-eight acres of Blackthorn Ridge into a dense subdivision of luxury homes.

Celeste wanted the money to maintain her social standing in Middleburg.

But Eleanor had spent her life protecting this land from that exact fate.

I turned onto a narrow gravel lane lined with ancient oak trees.

At the end of the lane sat a small blue cottage with faded white trim.

An old white pickup truck sat under a wooden carport.

I parked my SUV and got out, pulling my jacket tight against the cold wind.

I walked up to the small porch and knocked on the screen door.