Felt awfully familiar.
I passed the pigpen, checking the feed trough that supplemented the slop. But I stopped dead when I got close enough to get a good look at them. Because they weren’t pink—they were yellowing.
Jaundiced.
A bullet of thought fired through my brain. I moved back to the goats, climbing in to check one of the doe’s eyes, gums, between her legs. Yellowing, all. But the horses were fine. The other animals also showed signs, but the chickens were unaffected. Very few illnesses could jump animals. But these animals all had one thing in common with the sick herds.
Their water came from our old water mill. All but the chickens.
I turned on my heel and took off for my truck.
As Bowie and I rushed to Miguel, I was a rumble of thoughts. Worries. Accusations. Because while it was possible that particular water source had been naturally contaminated, it was highly unlikely. Two years ago, we’d replaced the underground equipment with state-of-the-art components, though we didn’t have the cash for another filtration system. Infiltration would have had to be manual.
I sped up.
When I reached the building, I skidded to a stop, flying out of the truck and into Miguel’s office.
“The water,” I started, my thoughts moving too fast for my mouth. “The animals in the red barn are sick, all but the chickens.”
His eyes widened. Once he parsed what I’d said, he sank into his chair and opened his laptop.
“The pigs are jaundiced, the goats too. Horses are all right, though.”
“But not the chickens. Because they get their water from the house,” he muttered as his fingers flew. “The water,” he breathed. “They’re all served from—”
“The water mill. I’m going to go out there now, but call who you need to call.”
“Copper,” he shouted, still staring at his screen as he shot out of his chair. It rolled back and hit a filing cabinet with a thump. “It was part of the most recent panel I sent in. I should have checked sooner—I just didn’t think it was possible, not with the equipment we have. But I didn’t consider what someone could have put in it.”
In a whirl, he moved to a cabinet behind him, digging through until he found what he was looking for in the back of one, banging his head when he discovered it. He exited and pressed a hand to his skull.
“Here. This is a copper test for the water, just a pH strip. Go test with it and come back. Because if this is what I think, there’s a chance we’ll be able to save some of the cattle.”
I nodded, glancing at the little plastic packet that might hold all the answers. “Give me ten.”
And I was off like a shot.
I’d left Bowie in the car, chewing on a bone, and when I slid in next to him, he raised his head with what might be an offended look on his face for the disruption. I fired the engine and took off for the pump with my stomach in my throat.
The water mill was the farm’s original source of water, the pump built in 1896 when the farm was established. The windmill pump had been updated over the years, but it was in the same spot, the same configuration it’d been in for over a hundred twenty years.
I pulled to a stop next to the storage tank and climbed out again, trotting to the ladder and ascending to the platform. A tin bucket sat next to the faucet used for such things as testing—something we did in depth every five years—and I filled it a quarter of the way, tore open the test, and dipped it into the water, waiting the designated seconds before pulling it out and holding it up to the instructions.
“Fuck,” I said to the test, reading it again to make sure I saw it right before glancing up at the tank.
It was big enough to swim in, with a large square cut over the ladders—one that led up its side and another that descended into its depths. Easy enough to climb up, throw in the same concentrated copper supplement we all had in our barns, and taint the water supply. It wouldn’t take more than a few of the big jugs to put the water at the toxic level this strip said it was at.
Heart thundering, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and snapped a picture, texting it to Miguel. I told him I’d be by later.
I had a man to see about my farm.
27
Don't Forget to Sell It
JAKE
The Patton estate was straight out of either a Better Homes & Gardens magazine or hell.
The five-thousand-square-foot farmhouse was the cheerful color of a robin’s egg, with white trim and wooden shutters. The wraparound porch was touched with hanging chairs, rocking chairs, topiary plants, flower boxes, and the yard was a manicured marvel of understated class.
Bunch of rich-people bullshit, if you asked me. As fake and curated as the Pattons.
The elder Patton’s dually was missing from the drive, conveniently absent through our farm’s trouble. He was holed up in Washington at their new headquarters, since it seemed the Pattons had outgrown the town that made them. But Chase’s spanking new Ram sat tall and hefty in the driveway, which was good.
He was exactly the son of a bitch I was looking for.
Rage vibrated through me like a struck tuning fork as I exited my truck and stormed to the front door, furious that I had to ring the doorbell and wait like a civilized man rather than rip the door off its hinges and hunt him down like I wanted to. Movement from inside, and the door opened.
I hated his fucking smile. I wanted to see it half toothless and bloody from a split lip and freshly bare gums.
“And what can I do for you, Milovic?”
What thin control I had on myself failed. I reached in, grabbed him by his pressed shirtfront, and pulled him out only to slam him against the siding.
“I know what you fucking did, you sack of shit.”
A flicker of confusion behind his eyes. “Is this about Olivia?”
I snarled. “Why? Did you do something to her? Because I don’t need another excuse to break your neck, Patton.”
He didn’t answer right away. “What do you think I did?”
“Sabotaged my farm. The fire. The missing cattle. The goddamn copper in our water mill tank. I know it was you.”
“It wasn’t me.”
Again, I slammed him against the wall. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I’m not,” he said with a flat earnestness. “I swear to God, I’m not lying.”
My jaw ached from strain, my eyes wildly searching his for the truth.
“I don’t want your farm put under,” he said. “I want to help.”
A bitter laugh left me, my throat burning. “Help. You think you’re so fucking smart.” I leaned into him, pressing my fists into his chest. “But if you think you can get in that easy, you’re dumber than I thought.”
He shoved me, and I let him go by choice, happy to see the creases from my grip marring the pristine cotton of his button-down.
His blue eyes were somehow both ice-cold and aflame. “If you think I’m not already halfway in, then you’re dumber than I thought. And I already thought you were pretty fucking dumb.”
I paused. “In how?”
“Ask your girlfriend. Better yet, take a look in the folder she had at the bank. That’s where she put the check I wrote her.”