“I’m changing the gate code tonight,” I said.

The line went dead before I’d finished the sentence.

I lowered the phone and looked out over the front pasture toward the south ridgeline, where the tops of the red oaks were just beginning to go rusty brown.

At four I pulled on my leather work gloves and walked down the fence line to the south boundary entrance.

The south gate was half a mile from the house, tucked behind a thicket of wild plum where the gravel town road dead-ended at the timber.

When I got to the gate, I stopped cold.