The screen door banged behind me as I stepped out onto my porch that June humid morning. Holding a cup of lemon grass tea, I inhaled the rising daybreak scents of honeysuckle and humus in rural Oklahoma. Orion, my big old yellow cat, wound his chubby body around my legs demanding his daily greeting. He flipped over on his back, exposing his fluffy striped belly to be scratched. Named for a hunting god, Orion lived up to his name, often laying slain rodents or birds at my feet.

"Good morning, Mr. O," I said, burrowing my fingers into his silky fur. "Much as I'd love to spend the day playing with you, I've got to get down to the garden before the sun withers all the herbs to brown twigs."

After a quick stretch, I finished off the tea, slipped into ratty tennis shoes, and plunked a tattered gardening hat on my head. Now that I was approaching the big three-o birthday, I fought the first signs of crows feet. A very stylish OU (University of Oklahoma) T-shirt and matching shorts completed my ensemble.

Feeling an urgency to get to my plants, I grabbed a basket, hopped down the steps of my old Victorian home, and headed across the front yard. Huge elms offered welcome shade as I strode toward my neighbor's adjacent property where I maintained my medicinal herb garden. Coming over the rise, I heard an engine roar that completely drowned out the morning calls of the blue jays and mockingbirds. A pair of cardinals lit out as scampering squirrels shook the top of the cottonwood trees.

I looked down the hill, past the creek. Where yesterday there had been a lush, green meadow, the land was now stripped clear, exposing the bright red clay below. A monster machine pushed the life away and laid waste to my precious herb garden.

I took off full tilt toward the metal contraption. It had already destroyed about half the plot. Noise and dust choked my senses as I ran into the path of the machine.

"Stop! Stop! What are you doing? Stop!" The guy working the controls could neither see nor hear me as I was almost swept into his debris. Suddenly, I flew head over heels, tumbling through the dirt, weeds, and mangled herbs, the air knocked out of me as I hit the hard ground. Rolling out of harm's way, my body tangled with another person-a very large male person.

As we came to a stop, I was lying in the man's arms, coughing as I cleared my befuddled brain.

"Are you all right?" he asked. His face was a bit blurry, what with my eyes watering from the red dust.

"I think so," I sputtered and sat up.

He looked at me with concern and irritation. "Are you out of your mind? You could have been killed getting in the way like that. What were you doing? Who are you?"

The evil machine jerked to a stop. The man sitting in the dirt beside me was covered in dust and I deduced he must have tackled me to escape the Jaws of Death or whatever the machine was called.

"Played a little football in high school, did you?" I asked.

Concern left his face altogether with my cheeky reply. He stood up, dusted himself off, and offered me a hand.

"You didn't answer my question. Who are you?" he repeated.

I steadied my wobbly legs and studied him. I'd seen a few pictures of him in the newspaper, but they hadn't done him justice. He possessed a certain innate power that made me back away. In the photo headlines he'd always worn a suit, usually with the Oklahoma wind flapping his tie as he exited a county courthouse. Blurry photos hadn't revealed the firm granite chin or the flinty steel blue eyes. The mighty Jason Brooks, defender of high profile criminals, loomed before me in the flesh. Actually, he wore jeans and a western shirt, but his hair was too well cut to be anything but a weekend cowboy.

"I'm your neighbor, Mr. Brooks, Perse, uh, Persephone Jones. I live on the other side of the creek."

I walked toward what was left of my garden.

The operator of the mechanical beast hopped out of his seat and asked, "Mr. Brooks, do you want me to finish?"

I turned quickly. "No! Please, I had no idea you'd be developing out here. I've been watching the house go up closer to the highway. I was going to talk to you about the garden."

Bending down, I began harvesting, stuffing leaves and seeds in the makeshift cradle of my shirt. My eyes swept the scarred landscape for my basket.

I glanced at the two perplexed men. "I know this isn't my land, but no one has ever minded my garden. There are some things here that take years to mature. I've got herbs growing that you can't find anywhere else on this continent. People have sent me the seeds and...."

Brooks had heard enough of my rambling. "So, you know that you are trespassing? Is that right?"

"Well, I guess, technically, yes. But I've been cultivating this garden for years. It's very important that--"

"Look, Ms. Jones," Brooks abruptly cut in, "this is now my land and will soon be a landing strip for my plane. I'll give you exactly ten minutes to finish pulling up your weeds and then Andrews here is going to get his job done. I've got an appointment. You'll have to plant your garden on your own property." He thrust his cowboy hat on and walked with a slight limp toward the Expedition parked in the field.

His attitude ticked me off. "Gee, it was swell meeting you, Mr. Brooks. I'll be sure to bring you over a plate of chocolate chip cookies when you move in."

He stopped and slowly pivoted, pinning me with his best hard-ass lawyer stare. I turned my nose up in the air and marched back to my mauled garden.