At the crest of a ridge about fifteen miles from the Marshall ranch, they pulled up to a small ranch house. Because of the drifting snow, the trip had taken the better part of an hour. The small ranch may have seen better days, but it appeared adequately maintained. The barns and outbuildings could use some paint, but the roofs were new and there was plenty of hay stacked both inside and outside the barn. All in all, it was a tidy operation and not one Adam would have believed to be the Koehlers’ after all the disparaging comments about their work ethic. Adam parked the ranch’s quad cab truck and stepped out, making a beeline towards the house and the sheriff who had pulled in first. Five minutes. That’s all he wanted. Five minutes alone with that son-of-a-bitch, Clint. He’d give the fucktard someone to hit, alright. Adam threw a glance over his shoulder and stopped in mid-stride. Jason had not moved from the far side of the truck and stood staring at the side of the barn.
