the gravel driveway outside the open shed door.
Travis walked into the shed carrying a grease gun, his flannel shirt sleeve pulled up to his elbow. He stopped dead when he saw the blue folder lying open beneath his desk lamp.
“You had no business going into my truck,” Travis said.
“You spent fourteen thousand five hundred dollars three weeks ago,” I said. “And you let Kaylee think you did not care enough to walk her out on center court.”
Travis set the grease gun down on a bag of potash fertilizer. His lower jaw shifted to the left side, then back to the right.
“His lawyer said if I stood up as her father in front of seven hundred people before her eighteenth birthday, he could claim fraud,” Travis said. “He could drag us right back to court and cancel the surrender.”
“He scared you with lawyer talk,” I
