Travis sat up. Was this another one of Verdacorp’s schemes? They were unscrupulous, but he never thought that Mitchell Robinson would try to kill anyone.
And Baldwin had sold out to them, so what was the point?
The Robinsons and the McKennas weren’t exactly the Hatfields and the McCoys, but they had been neighbors with multiple disagreements over generations. John would never have sold to Mitchell, but they hadn’t been enemies. They’d even played football together in high school.
Travis forced himself up, ignoring the constant pain in his leg, and walked to the phone in the kitchen. He dialed Mitchell’s number from memory.
Four rings later, he answered. “Robinson.”
“It’s Travis McKenna.”
“Travis. How are you?”
“Fine,” he said. “Someone shot Greg Baldwin last night. And his dog.”
“I heard.”
“Word gets around fast.”
Travis tipped a little whiskey into a glass and sipped.
“The sheriff called to inform me, worried we might be targeted. I reminded him I have an excellent security system. What can I do for you?”
“He wasn’t supposed to be home,” Travis said. “And you play dirty, Mitchell.”
“Watch your words,” Robinson said coldly.
“He signed over damn near all his land to you.”
“I have no grudge with Baldwin. You know that. And I don’t resort to violence to get what I want. I’ve never had to.”
“Good,” Travis said. He didn’t know why he was getting a bad feeling, but something just didn’t sit right with him.
“How’s Ellen?”
“She’s still not selling.”
“She’s made that clear,” Robinson said. “But things can change.”
He ended the call without a goodbye.
Travis stared at the phone, his blood running cold.
What was Mitchell Robinson up to?
Was his family in danger?
He stared down at his useless leg and swore. Even if they were, he wouldn’t be able to do one damn thing to help them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bobby searched every inch of the old equipment shed. His mom was right—it was a good place for Cleo to hide. Thick trees and bushes practically hid the large wood structure, protecting the space from the worst of the weather. And it was about halfway between his house and where the Mendozas lived. Not too far for the stray to wander. And there were probably mice for her to catch.
Still, he was super careful, because it was old and there were lots of sharp tools and even a broken tractor.
He knew, because he’d played on it before. He remembered when he was eight, when his dad bought the property, and he’d come with him to inventory the space. Little was usable, but his dad salvaged some of the tools and one small tractor that he brought home and fiddled with until he got it working again. They now used it for small jobs.
The storage shed was the size of a small barn and smelled like damp, moldy wood and ancient oil. Rusted tools hung on crooked nails, and piles of forgotten chicken wire made little metal nests in the corners. In the center, the tractor tilted to one side, the wheels on the right gone. Bobby crouched low, peeking under a warped workbench where an old tarp was bunched up like a nest.
