Jake reached behind the saddle and pulled his rifle free.
As soon as the weapon was out, Timber froze and growled low in his throat, ears up, body taut.
“What happened here, buddy?” Jake whispered. He wished he had a lead—anything to hold the dog back. Something was wrong.
Baldwin’s remodeled two-story house had a wide porch and tallwindows. Fresh white paint, black trim, stained porch. Every detail seen to. A gentleman’s ranch.
As they approached the porch, Timber began to whimper, a low, keening sound that made Jake’s skin crawl. His fur rose, tail stiff.
Jake raised his rifle.
“Stay,” he told Timber, his voice barely audible over the building wind.
Bloody paw prints trailed from the house through the open doorway. Something bad had happened here.
Jake stepped over the threshold, walking softly, his boots barely making a sound on the hardwood floor. The house smelled of pipe tobacco, the woodsy, almost sweet scent baked into the walls. He followed Timber’s prints down the hall, past Baldwin’s family portraits, to the library at the far end.
Greg Baldwin lay crumpled on the floor, a ragged red stain spread across his shirt, pooled beneath him.
Jake dropped to his knees beside him. He pressed fingers to Baldwin’s neck. Nothing.
Then a flutter. A faint rise and fall in the chest.
“Shit,” Jake breathed. He fumbled for his phone and dialed 911, voice shaking as he gave the address and told the dispatcher that Greg Baldwin was unconscious and bleeding.
“Gunshot wound. He’s alive. Barely.”
He looked back at Timber, who now stood at the door, watching with wide, mournful eyes.
“Who is this?” the dispatcher said.
“Jake McKenna, from Whisper Creek Ranch.”
“Jake? It’s Sally North. I’ve dispatched the ambulance, but I don’t know the ETA, the main road leading out to your neck of the woods is still broken up from the hailstorm.”
Jake remembered going to and from school this past week and how he’d nearly broken an axle going over the ruts.
“Send the sheriff,” he said as he looked around the library. Thefile cabinet was open, papers strewn about. A painting missing. The computer gone. “Greg Baldwin was robbed and shot.”
Timber walked in and now lay next to his master, his head on his chest, his brown eyes pleading for Jake to fix everything.
“Help is coming, Timber. Help is coming.” Jake said to Sally North, “Sally, help me. What do I do?”
Jake listened to Sally and followed her instructions to the letter.
He didn’t know if he had arrived in time to save his neighbor. He didn’t like Greg Baldwin, but he didn’t want him to die. He wanted to be angry with him, not grieving his death. Jake knew his daughters… and knew the pain of losing a father.
He didn’t want Baldwin’s girls to suffer as he had.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ellen arrived home less than an hour after she’d left to find Bobby sitting on the porch. His jeans were wet and his shoes were muddy. Whiskey lay at his feet, just as wet and muddy as her son.
She put aside her worries about George and Millie and sat on the swing next to Bobby. “You didn’t find Cleo?”
He shook his head. “What if a coyote got her?”
“She’s a smart cat. She’s been on her own for a while. Maybe she wanted to have her kittens someplace else.”
