a paper plate with two sliced ham sandwiches down on the wood step beside his elbow.
“Rachel said someone asked for parcel records in town,” I said.
Travis did not stop brushing. He dipped the shoe brush into the gray water and slammed it against the boot heel to knock the thick mud loose. “Rachel ought to mind the county books and leave farm business to the people paying the taxes.”
“There was a check stub under the brass tractor in the shed,” I said.
He stopped his arm in midair. He set the wet brush on the bottom step and wiped his knuckles across his denim thigh.
His lower jaw shifted from side to side three times before he looked up at me. It was the same motion he made whenever a feeder calf broke a leg or a grain auger jammed during harvest.
“That stub was just seed
