That was different. That crossed a line.
“What if one of those bullets had hit someone?” Naomi’s voice came out sharper than she intended.
Micah’s expression softened. “I know. Believe me, I know.”
“This isn’t acceptable,” Naomi said.
“They won’t get away with it. I’ve got the casings. I’ve got the boot prints. If I can match those to a rifle on Henderson property, I’ll have enough for charges.”
Naomi wanted to believe that would be enough. Wanted to trust that the law would protect them, that evidence and warrants and proper procedure would keep her family safe.
But the bad feeling in her gut—the one that had settled there the moment she’d heard those gunshots—didn’t ease.
It sat heavy and cold, like a stone she couldn’t swallow.
Because the Hendersons didn’t care about evidence or consequences. They cared about this land. About what they’d lost. About making the Kings pay for taking it.
And people like that didn’t stop until they got what they wanted.
Or until someone made them stop.
