Page 44 of In Her Shadow

“His farm must have also been part of the old ranch,” Jenna gasped.“That means he could be the killer’s next target.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Frank Doyle was truly taken back by the latest turn in their conversation.

“Now, hold on a minute,” Frank said.“We’re talking about Bob Anderson here.The man’s been here longer than most, but he’s not any part of the land-baron families we’ve been talking about.”

He watched Jenna consider his words.

“I know it’s just a hunch,” she admitted.“But we can’t afford to overlook any possibilities at this point.”

“Better safe than sorry, right?”Jake added.

A sigh escaped Frank, and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, feeling the familiar scratch of stubble against his palm.“Alright,” he conceded, the words coming out slowly.“But come to think of it, Bob doesn’t have a phone.The only way to reach him is in person.Since it’s getting late and we’re about ready to call it a day, anyhow, we could swing by his place to check in on him.”

“Let’s do that,” Jenna agreed.

With Agnes and Jasper following, they made their way back to the living room, the mustiness of old books and documents lingering in the air.Frank placed a weathered hand on Jasper’s shoulder, feeling the frailty of the man under his touch.

“You’ve been a big help, old friend,” he murmured.Jasper’s face shifted, lined with confusion, before settling into a smile tinged with pride.

“Thank you, both of you,” Jenna added to Jasper and Agnes.

The trio stepped out into the night.Mid-July in Genesius County usually meant sweltering days followed by slightly less sweltering nights, but tonight there was a reprieve.The air was actually a little cooler than usual.

Frank climbed into the passenger seat of Jenna’s vehicle.Jenna slipped behind the wheel with Jake taking up the rear.As the patrol car’s headlights carved a tunnel through the encroaching darkness, Frank heard Jake put through calls on his cell phone to warn the mayor’s security team to double their guard until further notice.Jake then called for a police squad car to watch her house.

“Take a right at that next road,” Frank murmured, pointing with a weathered finger to a small dirt track veering off from the main highway.“Bob’s place is just up that way.”

Jenna turned the wheel, guiding them onto the narrow path, and the car lurched through the sudden change from smooth asphalt to rugged dirt.The air was thick with the scent of earth and growing things, a smell Frank had known all his life.

Ahead, as they continued their rattle along the track, Bob Anderson’s farm emerged like a sketch from the past—a modest little house surrounded by the bones of the earth and the sinew of meager fields.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Jake commented from the backseat.

“Never did,” Frank replied.“But Bob always made do.”His voice held a trace of respect for the man who’d carved a life from the stubborn soil with little complaint.

As the vehicle approached, a porch light flickered on.

“Looks like Bob’s home,” Frank announced.

When Jenna parked the cruiser, Frank got out and led them toward that light, an assurance in his stride bred from decades of walking these lands and knowing their people.“Stay close,” he instructed without looking back.“I’ll do the talking.”Bob knew him best, after all.

At the door, Frank raised his hand, knuckles knocking firmly but respectfully against the old wood of Bob Anderson’s door.The raps sounded out, a staccato that sliced through the silence hanging over the farmstead.

Within moments, there was life behind the barrier—a shuffling, a muted thud of boots on floorboards, the weary sigh of hinges long due for oiling.The door swung inward slightly, then opened wide, revealing Bob Anderson in the flesh.His face bore the map of hard years, lines like dry creek beds crossed his weathered skin.The silver bristles of his stubble caught stray glints of light, and his posture spoke of a man who stood alone against time and elements.Eyes, sharp as flint and framed by crow’s feet, narrowed as they checked out the people who stood on his porch.

“Evening, Bob,” Frank greeted him, warmth in his voice.“Hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“Frank Doyle,” Bob replied.“And you two must be Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins.”He leaned against the door frame.“What brings you all out here?”

Frank cleared his throat.“Bob, there’ve been a couple of murders,” he said, each word measured and deliberate.“Roger Bates was killed last night, Clyde Simmons the night before.”

Bob’s eyes flickered wide for an instant, a crack in his rugged composure.“Roger and Clyde?First I’ve heard of it,” he muttered, a deep frown on his brow.“Terrible business.”

“Thing is,” Frank continued, “we’re worried you might be on that killer’s list too.We don’t know for sure, don’t want to cause you undo alarm, but we thought we’d better check in with you.”

Bob’s face registered gratitude, but an underlying nervousness didn’t escape Frank’s seasoned eye.

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