Wes looked away from her as tires on gravel sounded from the direction of the gate.
A county vehicle rolled to a stop near the entrance. A moment later the gate opened, and the vehicle pulled through and parked. The driver’s door opened, and a middle-aged man stepped out wearing a jacket with a county seal on the chest.
Caleb appeared from around the side of the house—moving at a pace that said he’d seen the vehicle before it reached the gate. He crossed the yard and reached the man near the drive, and they shook hands. The greeting looked cordial enough from a distance.
Caleb’s posture said otherwise.
Wes stayed where he was and watched. He’d learned early in his work that you could read a property owner’s relationship with a visitor before a word was exchanged—in the set of the shoulders, the angle of the body, whether the handshake pulled them closer or held them at arm’s length.
Caleb’s did the latter.
His weight had shifted back. He held his chin level, but his jaw was tight. When he gestured toward the east side of the property, the motion was controlled in a way that indicated this wasn’t a casual conversation.
The county man made a note on his clipboard without looking up.
Wes had worked enough threat assessments to know the difference between an enemy who wanted to hurt you and an enemy who wanted to exhaust you.
One came at you directly. The other filed paperwork.
In his experience, the second kind was harder to stop.
Rowan had been heading toward the kennel when the county vehicle pulled up.
She’d been meaning to see the puppies since she arrived—Caleb had mentioned them at breakfast, and she’d been looking for an excuse to step away from her own thoughts forfive minutes. A litter of puppies seemed like exactly the right prescription.
But the vehicle stopped her before she made it around the side of the building.
She stilled at the corner of the house and watched as Caleb crossed the yard to meet the man at the drive. From here she couldn’t hear the words.
She didn’t need to.
She could read her brother the same way she’d always been able to, and she knew this wasn’t a welcome visitor.
She walked closer, keeping to the edge of the house, her footsteps quiet on the grass.
“. . . property assessment has been flagged for review.” The man’s tone was pleasant in a bureaucratic way. “Given the commercial activity on the premises, the county needs to verify the current tax classification is still appropriate.”
“We’ve been through this.” Caleb’s voice was level but had an edge beneath it.
“I understand. But the inquiry was filed again, so we’re required to follow up.” The man made a small note on his clipboard. “Someone will be in touch soon about scheduling a formal assessment.”
Caleb said something she didn’t catch.
The man nodded once, made another note, and headed back to his vehicle.
Rowan waited until the tires had crunched back down the gravel drive before she stepped around the corner. Caleb still stood where he’d been, watching the road.
“What was that about?” she asked.
He turned. If he was surprised she’d been close enough to hear, he didn’t show it. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Caleb.” She gave him a look. “I know I haven’t been around, but I do care.”
He let out a breath and looked back toward the road. “It’s a tax classification challenge. Someone filed an inquiry claiming Refuge Cove should be assessed as a commercial operation rather than agricultural and residential. It would change our tax burden significantly.”
Rowan let that simmer a moment. “Someone filed it. You mean, it didn’t come from the county on its own.”
“No.” His jaw tightened. “It didn’t.”
