“Can I look at your contract with Verdacorp?”
“I suppose so, but why?”
“I want to see the maps. Greg Baldwin showed me his, he’s sending me a copy.” Though she hadn’t received it yet.
She didn’t want to explain why. The bulk of her land was between Baldwin and the Coulters. She wanted to figure out what Verdacorp’s plan was so she could combat it. It would also help her figure out who she needed to talk to next.
George got up. “I’ll make you a copy right now,” he said and left the kitchen.
“How’s Penny?” Millie asked. “Still getting around all right?”
“She is. Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a paper bag of oatmeal raisin cookies. “She’s been baking all week. She won’t admit that the storm stressed her out, but looking at the number of pies and cookies we have in the pantry, she was clearly a bit anxious,” Ellen added with a smile.
Millie looked inside and grinned widely. “Oh, George will be thrilled.” She took three cookies from the bag, put one at George’s spot, and one each for her and Ellen. “Um,” Millie said after taking a bite. “Penny is the best stress baker.” She laughed lightly.
George came back and handed Ellen a folder. “Here you go. If you have questions, call me. But I think this is a good thing, Ellen. It might be good for your farm, too—provide an influx of cash when you most need it.” He picked up the cookie and smiled. “Thank Penny for me.”
Millie got up and opened the refrigerator.
“Here, I made two trays of shepherd’s pie, and I was going to freeze this one, but then dang forgot. Just warm it up tonight, it’ll hit the spot.”
“I won’t say no to any of your casseroles,” Ellen said, not wanting to hurt Millie’s feelings by declining the food. She could hear Penny criticizing it in the back of her mind; Penny was getting catty in her old age, especially about other people’s cooking.
I’ll bet she used canned gravy, Ellen heard Penny say.
She said her goodbyes and left, securing the covered casserole in front of her. With the contract in her satchel, she trotted home as fast as she dared.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jake sat high in the saddle, silhouetted against a bruised sky that pressed low on the horizon. He did a quick head count, eyes narrowing as a gust of wind rustled the wheat in the distance, bringing in the distant scent of rain. The herd moved sluggishly, anxious. He didn’t like that they’d be stuck way out here during a storm, exposed and vulnerable, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. This was the highest parcel on their property except for the main house, and they were safest here.
The southern boundary of the property had a rise—barely a hill, but high enough. If the low fields flooded, the cattle would drift uphill. They always did. That hill hadn’t flooded since his grandfather was born. Still, that was history. Every storm was different, and the ground was already wet.
There was a run-in at the top of the knoll. They’d expanded and reinforced the structure several years ago, but a large section of the roof had been damaged by hail. Mateo was working to repair the roof while Jake focused on inspecting the cattle. The three-sided shelter wouldn’t keep the herd completely dry once the wind kicked up, but it would offer some protection—especially from hail. That was the real threat. Last weekend, a dozen cows hadbeen bruised from the pounding ice. No lasting damage, but Jake was glad they weren’t going to market anytime soon so they would have a chance to fully heal.
Two troughs ran along the back of the run-in, one for water and one for feed. While the cattle primarily fed through grazing, they supplemented their diet with grains.
He scanned the edges of the field and spotted four cows clustered under a wind-raked tree, and a fifth one lying oddly apart from the others. Jake nudged his horse forward. He was about to raise his hand to wave them on when something about the fifth “cow” felt wrong. Too lean, too small, too still.
As he got closer, his gut twisted. It wasn’t a cow at all. It was a dog, Timber. Greg Baldwin’s massive German shepherd.
Jake quickly swung down from the saddle, boots hitting the muddy ground with a muffled thud. Timber raised his head weakly, eyes glassy but locked on Jake with recognition. His tail thumped once. He stood, but favored one leg and staggered.
“What happened, boy?” Jake asked, crouching low. Timber’s thick coat was matted with mud and blood, dark smears streaking his muzzle and hindquarters.
Jake’s stomach dropped.
“Easy now.” His voice softened. “I need to check you out. Stay still.”
Timber let him inspect the wound. “Good dog,” Jake murmured as he carefully looked at Timber’s leg. Embedded in the dog’s leg were small, dark pellets—buckshot. Just a few, not too deep but wedged into his muscle. Painful, but not deadly if he got treatment.
Jake’s mind flashed back five years, to Timber as a puppy chasing his brother Titan around Uncle Travis’s yard. Back when Jake’s dad was still alive, when Baldwin was still a fixture in their lives, before he sold out to Verdacorp. When Travis and Baldwin had adopted the two dogs from another farmer and agreed to get the German shepherds together for “playdates.”
Jake reached for his radio. “Mateo, I’ve got Timber by the oak tree. He’s injured—buckshot. I’m going to take him back to Baldwin’s place.”
“Hold up a sec, I’ll be right there.”
He was about to object, but then saw Mateo in the distance riding toward him at near full gallop.
