Birthright

injunctions to turn the pristine fifty acres of boggy bottomland and woods into a housing development, the age of the bones didn’t matter.
    Their very existence was a major pain in his ass.
    And when two days later Lana Campbell, the transplanted city lawyer, crossed her legs and gave him a smug smile, it was all Dolan could do not to pop her in her pretty face.
    “You’ll find the court order fairly straightforward,” she told him, and kept the smile in place. She’d been one of theloudest voices against the development. At the moment, she had quite a bit to smile about.
    “You don’t need a court order. I stopped work. I’m cooperating with the police and the planning commission.”
    “Let’s just consider this an additional safety measure. The County Planning Commission has given you sixty days to file a report and to convince them that your development should continue.”
    “I know the ropes, sweetheart. Dolan’s been building houses in this county for forty-six years.”
    He called her “sweetheart” to annoy her. Because they both knew it, Lana only grinned. “The Historical and Preservation Societies have retained me. I’m doing my job. Members of the faculty from the University of Maryland archaeology and anthropology departments will be visiting the site. As liaison, I’m asking you to allow them to remove and test samples.”
    “Attorney of record, liaison.” Dolan, a strongly built man with a ruddy, Irish face, leaned back in his desk chair. Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “Busy lady.”
    He hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. He always wore red suspenders over a blue work shirt. Part of the uniform, as he thought of it. Part of what made him one of the common men, the working class that had made his town, and his country, great.
    Whatever his bank balance, and he knew it to the penny, he didn’t need fancy clothes to show himself off.
    He still drove a pickup truck. American-made.
    He’d been born and raised in Woodsboro, unlike the pretty city lawyer. And he didn’t need her, or anybody else, to tell him what his community needed. The fact was, he knew better than a lot of the people in the community about what was best for Woodsboro.
    He was a man who looked to the future, and took care of his own.
    “We’re both busy people, so I’ll come straight to the point.” Lana was dead sure she was about to wipe that patronizing grin off Dolan’s face. “You can’t proceed on your development until the site is examined and cleared by thecounty. Samples need to be taken for that to happen. Any artifacts excavated won’t be of any use to you. Cooperation in this matter would, we both know, go a long way toward shoring up your PR troubles.”
    “I don’t look at them as troubles.” He spread his big workingman’s hands. “People need homes. The community needs jobs. The Antietam Creek development provides both. It’s called progress.”
    “Thirty new homes. More traffic on roads not equipped to handle it, already overcrowded schools, the loss of rural sensibilities and open space.”
    The “sweetheart” hadn’t gotten a rise out of her, but the old argument did. She drew a breath, let it out slowly. “The community fought against it. It’s called quality of life. But that’s another matter,” she said before he could respond. “Until the bones are tested and dated, you’re stuck.” She tapped a finger on the court order. “Dolan Development must want that process expedited. You’ll want to pay for the testing. Radiocarbon dating.”
    “Pay—”
    Yeah, she thought, who’s the winner now? “You own the property. You own the artifacts.” She’d done her homework. “You know we’ll fight against the construction, bury you in court orders and briefs until this is settled. Pay the two dollars, Mr. Dolan,” she added as she got to her feet. “Your attorneys are going to give you the same advice.”
    Lana waited until she had closed the office door behind her before letting the grin spread across her face. She strolled out, took a deep breath of thick summer air as she gazed up and down Woodsboro’s Main Street.
    She refrained from doing a happy dance—too undignified—but she nearly skipped down the sidewalk like a ten-year-old. This was her town now. Her community. Her home. And had been since she’d moved there from Baltimore two years before.
    It was a good town, steeped in tradition and history, fueled by gossip, protected from the urban sprawl by