Chapter 31
Micah turned to Caleb as he got off the phone. “You should stay at the house. With the women. Just to be safe.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened. “You’re going after whoever fired those shots.”
“That’s the plan. I need to look for evidence, at least.”
Caleb glanced toward the house, then back at Micah. His expression shifted. “You’re right. Someone should be there with them.”
Wyatt stepped forward. “I’ll go with Micah. It’s only smart to have two sets of eyes out there.”
Micah nodded. Wyatt was trained, steady under pressure, and Thunder was one of the best tracking dogs he’d ever worked with. “Good. Let’s move.”
Caleb headed toward the house with Hamilton, his shoulders tight. Micah watched him go for a beat before turning back toward the woods.
He and Wyatt headed back into the wilderness.
Micah scanned the woods with every step, his senses sharp. He noticed every rustle of leaves. Every snap of a twig. Every shift in the light.
If someone was still out here, he needed to know.
They moved quietly as they picked their way through the underbrush, headed deeper into the woods.
“You really think the Hendersons are behind this?” Wyatt asked.
“That’s my best guess,” Micah said. “The shots came from the north. That’s where their house is.”
Wyatt’s gaze swept the tree line. “I don’t like how this is going. It’s not just harassment anymore.”
“No, it’s not.”
“The Hendersons will do anything to get that property back.” Frustration edged Wyatt’s voice. “But even if we gave up the land tomorrow, it’s not like they could afford to buy it back. They couldn’t even afford the taxes on it. That’s why they lost it in the first place.”
Micah nodded. He’d thought about that too. The Hendersons’ fixation didn’t make logical sense—not if the endgame was actually reclaiming the land. They didn’t have the money. Didn’t have the means.
But logic didn’t always drive people.
“They’ve got nothing better to do than nurse an old grudge,” Micah said.
That was the truth of it. None of the Henderson brothers worked—not that Micah had ever seen. Travis showed up around town. Kyle mostly kept to himself on the property. Jared liked the party scene and was often involved in bar fights.
Micah didn’t know the full story behind their situation, but if he had to guess, it was a mix of pride, stubbornness, and a general refusal to move forward.
It was easier to blame the Kings than to take responsibility for their own failures.
They walked another quarter mile in silence, the woods thickening around them. Thunder paused occasionally, nose lifting and testing the air before continuing forward.
The property line was still ahead—at least another half mile, maybe more. The terrain sloped gently downward, the ground soft and uneven beneath their boots.
Micah kept his focus sharp, his body ready.
If someone was waiting to strike again, he needed to see them first.
He had to assume this person still had a gun. That he’d shoot again.
Micah needed to be ready for anything.
As Caleb came through the back door, Hamilton at his heels, Naomi was on her feet before he’d even closed it behind him. She put Grace in her bassinet and rushed toward him.
Millie joined her.
“What happened?” Her gaze wandered behind him. “Where are Micah and Wyatt?”
“They went to look for any evidence. They’re keeping their eyes wide open. They’ll be okay.”
Naomi wanted to relax, but she couldn’t. She still had too many questions. “Where did the shots come from?”
“The north side.” Caleb moved to the sink and filled a glass with water, his movements deliberate.
Mom appeared from the hallway, her face pale. “Why would someone fire at you?”
“We don’t know if they were firing at us or just firing,” Caleb said. “Could have been hunters with bad aim.”
“Or it could have been intentional.” Naomi’s voice came out sharper than she intended.
Caleb didn’t argue.
Naomi wrapped her arms around herself, her mind racing.
Two shots. From the general direction of the Henderson property.
It could have been Travis. He’d already hit her SUV. Had already made it clear he wanted them gone. Firing a warning shot—or worse—wasn’t that far of a stretch.
But what if it wasn’t him?
What if it was someone else?
Her stomach twisted.
“Did you see anyone?” she asked. “When the shots were fired?”
“No,” Caleb said. “We were too far from the property line. But Micah and Wyatt are checking it out.”
“What if it wasn’t the Hendersons?” Naomi’s voice came out tighter than she meant it to. “What if it was someone from Richard’s family?”
Caleb set the glass down. “Naomi—”
“Dale was just here. He knows where we are. He knows about Grace.” Her pulse quickened. “What if he’s escalating? What if this wasn’t just a random shot in the woods?”
Her mom moved closer, her hand resting on Naomi’s arm. “Sweetheart, you need to breathe.”
But Naomi couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stop the spiral of thoughts racing through her mind.
Someone had fired a gun near her family. Near her brothers. Near the property where Grace was sleeping.
And she didn’t know who.
Didn’t know why.
Didn’t know if it would happen again.
Caleb’s expression softened. “Micah will find out who did it. And he’ll handle it.”
Naomi wanted to believe that.
But the fear sat heavy in her chest, cold and unshakable.
Micah slowed as he and Wyatt reached the approximate area where the gunman may have been positioned. “We need to find where those shots came from.”
Wyatt nodded as he scanned the area. “You thinking we should look for shell casings?”
“They’re our best bet for finding answers.”
They retraced the angle the shots would have taken. Micah kept his eyes on the ground, scanning for anything that didn’t belong—disturbed leaves, boot prints, brass glinting in the fading light.
Thunder moved ahead, nose working methodically. Wyatt let him go, trusting the dog’s instincts.
Fifty yards away, Thunder stopped and sat.
Micah’s pulse kicked up. “He’s got something.”
They reached Thunder, and Wyatt crouched beside the dog and ran his hand over his head. “Good boy. Good boy.”
Micah knelt and pushed aside a clump of wet leaves.
There.
A shell casing. Brass. Still clean enough to catch the light.
He pulled a glove from his pocket, slipped it on, and carefully picked up the casing by the edges. Held it up to examine it.
Rifle round. If he had to guess, it was a .308. Common caliber. Nothing unusual about it—except that it had been fired at him and the Kings less than an hour ago.
“There’s another one.” Wyatt pointed a few feet away.
Micah secured the first casing before picking up the second.
Same caliber. Same condition.
Two shots. Two casings.
Whoever had fired them hadn’t bothered to police their brass. Either the shooter had been in a hurry to leave or he hadn’t cared.
Micah bagged the second casing and stood, scanning the area. Boot prints pressed into the soft ground—recent, deep enough to be clear. Size eleven or twelve, he estimated. Treaded sole like you’d find on work boots.
He pulled out his phone and took photos. The casings. The boot prints. The sight line back toward where he and the Kings had been standing.
Wyatt placed his hands on his hips as he remained on guard. “At least this gives us something.”
“It gives us probable cause.” Micah pocketed his phone. “Let’s go talk to your neighbors.”
They continued walking until they reached the Hendersons’ property. He stepped over a sagging wire marking their territory and kept going, Wyatt and Thunder close behind.
The garage came into view, and he took in more details.
The squat, metal-sided building was streaked with rust, the corrugated panels dented and peeling. The roll-up door hung halfway open. Empty beer cans and fast-food wrappers littered the ground near the entrance. No one was visible inside.
The house sat another fifty yards beyond, and a truck sat parked in the dirt driveway—red, older model, streaked with mud and primer patches.
Travis’s truck.
Micah’s jaw tightened.
They crossed the yard and climbed the three wooden steps to the porch. Micah knocked.
Footsteps sounded inside. Then the door opened.
Travis Henderson stood there, a gleam in his gaze.
Micah braced himself for whatever this conversation might hold.