The next day, after sweeping more footprints off the porch and fixing another broken post, Robert walked to the resort. The front desk gleamed in soft beige tones. The young woman behind the counter gave him a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir. We do tell guests to remain on marked trails,” she said with a practiced tilt of her head. “But we can’t control what they do once they’re out on their own.” “They’re cutting through my vineyard,” Robert said, voice clipped. “They’re damaging the crop.”