She read the document.
"Unauthorized use?"
"Correct."
"I've driven this road since I was old enough to reach a clutch."
"That doesn't make you the legal owner."
"My father graded this road in 1957."
"Your father isn't here to explain his arrangement."
The woman's blue eyes hardened.
"Choose your next words carefully."
The banker gave a dismissive little laugh.
"I'm not interested in sentimental family stories. The bank acquired the neighboring tract and reviewed the available property records. This access route crosses land now controlled by our institution."
She pointed toward the wooden fence.
"That fence has stood on the same line for seventy years."
"According to whom?"
"According to every man who ever repaired it."
The banker tapped the notice.
"Pay the six hundred and forty dollars, acknowledge the bank's authority over the road, and we can discuss a temporary access license."
She stopped breathing for a moment.
"A temporary what?"
"An access license."
"This is the only usable road into my main ranch."
"Then I suggest you take the matter seriously."
She stared at him.
The wind carried dust between them.
A black cow raised its head from behind the fence and watched.
The woman looked at the paper again.
"You're asking me to pay you for driving to my own house?"
"I'm informing you of a financial obligation."
"I don't owe you a penny."
His smile disappeared.
"Then we have a problem."
"We certainly do."
He stepped closer.
"Your family's past use of this route does not give you unlimited rights. The bank is entitled to control access across its property."
"My family has maintained this road for nearly seventy years."
"And you've apparently been using part of our property without proper documentation."
She shook her head.
"You're wrong."
"I have a professional survey team standing right behind me."
She looked toward the two technicians.
The younger one avoided her eyes.
The older technician seemed uncomfortable.
The banker noticed her glance.
"Don't bother them. They answer to me."
The woman folded her arms.
"Then they ought to be worried."
His face reddened.
He shoved the penalty notice toward her.
"Pay the six hundred and forty dollars immediately."
"No."
"Then I'll authorize a barricade."
She went very still.
"You'll do what?"
"We can restrict unauthorized traffic until a formal access agreement is executed."
She looked down the long dirt road.
It was almost two miles from the county road to the ranch house.
Her daughter's family used it.
The cattle veterinarian used it.
Feed trucks used it.
Emergency vehicles would need it.
Every load of wheat leaving the ranch traveled over that road.
If somebody blocked it, the ranch would be cut off from ordinary commercial access.
She turned back.
"You put a barricade across this road, and you'll be blocking livestock feed, grain deliveries, and the only practical emergency route to my house."