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The sky above Bob Anderson’s small farm was filled with gleaming stars as the sheriff and her deputy moved through the stand of trees. Jenna’s grip on her service weapon was firm. Although the available light was dim, Jenna didn’t want to make herself visible by using her cell phone light unless it became absolutely necessary. She and Jake were hunting for a mysterious figure that Bob had seen lurking by the creek.

“Split up?” Jake’s voice was a hushed undertone, barely rising above the rustle of the leaves.

“Cover more ground,” she confirmed quietly. “I’ll take the left side of the creek,” her voice barely a whisper against the nocturnal chorus. She kept her posture low. “You go right. Stay in radio contact, and if you see anything suspicious, don’t engage alone. Call for backup immediately.”

Jake’s faint silhouette nodded. “Be careful, Jenna. Something doesn’t feel right about this,” he replied, his voice carrying an edge that mirrored her unease.

She watched Jake disappear around a bend, his form blending into the foliage until it seemed as though he had become one with the night itself.

Turning away, Jenna waded across the shallow creek, its cool waters lapping at her boots, grounding her in the present. She emerged on the other side, her breath steady as she set off along the bank, the blackness of the woods swallowing her whole.

***

Frank’s perspective sharpened as Bob Anderson stood before him, the deadly brand in one hand, the pistol in the other. He set the brand down against the grate in his living-room fireplace .

“Didn’t expect you to show up tonight,” Bob spat. “And I sure didn’t expect you to bring the Sheriff and Deputy with you. I had... other plans for you.”

The man Frank had thought he knew, the small-time cattle farmer with dirt under his nails and sweat on his brow, harbored an unimagined darkness.

“Plans?” Frank’s voice came out gruff, trying to mask his unease. His eyes flickered to the exit, calculating the distance, the time it would take to make a break for it. But with Bob’s finger twitching on the trigger, any sudden move could be his last.

Bob chuckled dryly, a sound devoid of any real humor. “Oh yes, plans. But you’ll get your lesson anyway.”

“Lesson?” Frank croaked. He thought of Jenna and Jake, his best shot at survival. They were out there somewhere, and he needed to stall to give them time.

“History, Frank. Yours, mine—our town’s.” Bob’s gaze didn’t waver, and he seemed to be reciting a script written long ago in his mind.

Frank knew he needed to keep Bob talking. “Why is history such a big deal for you?” he quipped, trying to buy time.

Deftly and without wavering the aim of his gun, Bob reached out and opened a cabinet and took out a propane torch.

“Because,” Bob said, lifting the torch, “I want you to know why.”

Bob’s aim faltered for a second as he lit the torch. Trying to take advantage of the moment, Frank lunged for him. But Bob swung the hissing frame so close that it singed Frank’s clothing, forcing him back again.

“Sit,” Bob commanded.

Now that Bob held two weapons on him—a torch and a gun—Jake had no choice but to comply. Bob set the propane torch down on the fireplace hearth so that it was heating the brand.

“But we do have to hurry,” he continued, a manic edge creeping into his voice. “Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins will be back soon, and I can’t have them interrupting our lesson.”

Trying to keep his eyes off the brand, Frank stared down the barrel of Bob’s gun. “So, what’s this all about, Bob? Family feud?”

Bob’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Not just any family feud,” he spat out. “This is about blood and betrayal. About justice for my several-times-great grandfather, Mitch Bishop.”

“Your grandfather?” Frank said, the truth hitting him a like a blow to the chest.

“Exactly,” Bob said, the word slicing through the tension. “The founder of the Big Sky Ranch. A man with vision whose land stretched farther than the eye could see. But it was stolen from him, bit by bit, until all that was left was this tiny farm.” He gestured broadly at the humble surroundings, a bitter edge to his voice. “And now, I’m its keeper.”

“Okay, your ancestor got a raw deal. But what’s that got to do with me?” Frank asked.

“Wilkes Doyle,” Bob hissed, the name dripping with venom. “Your ancestor, the one who started the first feed store in Trentville. He was no simple businessman. He was a conspirator, an opportunist who poisoned cattle—Mitch’s cattle—with his feed. Helped to weaken my family’s hold on the ranch, allowed it to be picked apart by vultures.”

So, this was the root of Bob’s vendetta. Wilkes Doyle, a name that echoed through Frank’s own lineage, now linked to treachery. He struggled to reconcile this version of history with the one passed down through his family, stories of a hardworking man who helped build Trentville from the ground up.

“Poisoned feed?” Frank repeated, incredulity lacing his tone. “That’s a hefty claim, Bob.”

“It’s the hard truth, Frank,” Bob snarled. “It’s been a long time coming, but justice has a way of catching up. The land remembers, and so does the blood that’s tied to it.”

As it rapidly grew hotter in the torch’s flame, the orange glow of the brand reflected in Bob’s eyes.

“Generations,” Bob said with a fervor that transcended mere anger. “Generations of watching and waiting, knowing the truth but being powerless to right the wrongs. The land was ours, Frank. It should’ve stayed ours. But your ancestor helped steal it from us, and for that, the debt is still unpaid.”

“Revenge is a poison, Bob,” Frank ventured. “It seeps through the generations, doesn’t end the cycle. It only creates more victims.”

Bob sneered, his eyes never leaving the heating metal. “Poetic words, Frank. But they’re just words. They can’t change what’s been done, nor what I’m about to do. Your family lived comfortably, prospered even, while mine scraped by.”

***

Jenna emerged into a small clearing. Here, the canopy broke and revealed an expanse of midnight blue, speckled with uncountable stars. But the tranquility was short-lived. As Jenna tilted her head back, taking in the celestial display, she was thrust into the grip of a vivid memory. She saw it again—the fiery tree-shaped mark, the same haunting image from last night’s dream, burning into the sky itself.

Then it was gone.

But in that moment, a warning surged through her veins. Frank—her mentor, her confidant, her surrogate father figure—was in danger. Jenna knew it with certainty. The dream, no longer just a figment of her subconscious, anchored itself in reality. It had been a premonition, an omen that she couldn’t ignore. She had to move, had to warn Frank before the nightmare that had visited her in sleep claimed them both in waking horror.

Jenna fumbled for the radio clipped to her belt. “Jake,” she said, “We need to double back to the house right now. Frank’s in trouble.”

The radio crackled to life, and Jake’s voice filtered through. “On my way.”

***

“Bob,” Frank said, “you kill me, and it won’t be ten minutes before Jenna and Jake are storming through that door.” He gestured towards the entrance, where the distant sound of approaching sirens pierced the night air. “Jenna’s sharper than you think, and Jake... well, he’s got a protective streak wider than the Sablewood River. They’ll catch you, and there’ll be no more sweet revenge then—just cold bars and a trial.”

A flicker of doubt passed over Bob Anderson’s face, like a cloud momentarily dimming a star. His grip on the revolver wavered, but his resolve did not crumble.

“Maybe so, Frank,” Bob conceded, the barrel of the gun still unwaveringly pointed at Frank’s chest. “But if this is to be my last stand, then let it be known I did everything in my power to right the wrongs done to my family.”

“Your ancestors,” Frank pressed on cautiously. “Do you think they’d want more blood spilled after all these years?” He watched Bob’s eyes, looking for any sign that he was reaching the troubled soul before him.

“Oh, yes,” Bob said. “The hope for revenge is the only birthright they were able to pass down to me.”

***

As Jenna and Jake approached the dilapidated farmhouse, an odd flickering light through a grimy window got her attention

“Jake,” she whispered, nodding toward the window. Together, they moved closer to see through it. Behind the dusty glass, Bob’s figure loomed ominously over Frank, who sat in a chair, his head bowed in resignation or strategy—Jenna couldn’t tell. Bob was holding a gun on Frank. The orange glow of a propane torch caught Jenna’s eye as it licked at a branding iron lying in the fireplace. The design being heated was the tree symbol that haunted their investigation.

“Bob’s gone over the edge,” Jake murmured. “We need backup.”

Jenna reached for her radio and whispered into it. “We need backup at Robert Anderson’s farmhouse. Suspect is armed and dangerous.”

The static crackle of confirmation barely registered as Jenna steeled herself for what came next. With a quick exchange of nods, Jake slipped away, moving towards the rear of the house.

Jenna stepped to the front door and tried the handle, but found the door locked. To create a distraction, she knocked sharply. “Sheriff’s Department!” she called out, her voice authoritative.

***

Frank felt a flash of hope at the sound of the knock and Jenna’s voice. Her distraction took immediate effect. Bob’s head snapped toward the door, the gun wavering in his grip. It was all the opening Frank needed. With an explosive burst of movement, he lunged for Bob Anderson’s gun.

As the two men grappled for the weapon, it discharged with a deafening roar. Plaster dust rained from the ceiling as the bullet found its home in the aged wood above. The propane torch got knocked over in the struggle, igniting the frayed edges of an old woven rug. Orange flames licked at the fabric, spreading with alarming speed across the floor.

***

After three ferocious kicks, Jenna kicked the front door open and burst into the room, her weapon drawn. At exactly the same moment, the back door crashed open, and she saw Jake storming into the room with his own gun drawn, his figure silhouetted against the flames already consuming the rug.

Faced with two armed opponents, Bob managed to move behind Frank, one strong arm around his neck to serve as a human shield while he held his gun to his head. But with a deep-seated survival instinct sharpened by years on the force, Frank ducked under Bob’s arm, writhing out of the desperate man’s reach.

Bob, his face contorted in wild dismay, stumbled forward awkwardly, seeking to maintain control over Frank. But Jenna knew that the seasoned lawman was no easy prey. Sure enough, he maneuvered deftly, using Bob’s momentum against him.

Still, with no clear shot at her opponent, Jenna physically launched herself at Bob, her athletic form a blur of motion. She and Bob both lost their grips on their weapons in the seismic impact of their collision. As their guns clattered across the floor, both of them crashed into a bookshelf with a thunderous roar. Wood splintered, and a cascade of old volumes and trinkets that carried the scent of dust and memories spilled around them.

Jenna felt the searing heat of encroaching flames. A scorch mark, black and angry, began to eat into the wallpaper. The floor beneath them was littered with the wreckage of generations—the Anderson family’s history in tattered pages and shattered frames. Jenna searched for an advantage, grappling with Bob’s wiry frame as he thrashed beneath her.

With an unexpected outcry, Bob bucked, throwing Jenna off balance. She felt the air rush out of her lungs as she hit the floor beside him, the fight sprawling into new chaos.

***

As he watched Jenna struggle with Bob, Jake couldn’t take a shot at Bob for fear of hitting Jenna instead. But Frank, not a split-second too soon, intercepted. His boot connected with Bob’s gun, sending it out of his hand and skittering across the wooden planks, far from reach. A metallic clatter echoed through the room, a small victory amid the bedlam.

“Freeze!” Jake commanded, but Bob’s response was a raw, primal defiance. He rose to his feet, his face marked with madness, the fury of a legacy he believed wronged spilling forth in every action, and lunged at Jake.

Jake and Bob struggled for control Jake’s weapon. The old farmer fought with a ferocity that belied his years, his arms flailing, seeking any leverage against his younger opponent.

Flames crept along the edge of the rug, greedily consuming the worn fibers, the orange tendrils casting wild shadows across the walls.

***

As Jake and Bob struggled, Jenna sprang into action, seizing a heavy brass lamp from a side table. She swung it in a wide arc, and it connected with the side of Bob’s head, the sound of impact sharp and final. His body wavered, shock overtaking the mad glint in his eyes. He crumpled slightly, dazed, and in that precious second, Jake capitalized on the advantage.

“Got him!” Jake grunted as he snapped the cuffs around Bob’s wrists.

Pulling her sleeve over her hand to protect it against the heat, Jenna switched off the torch. Then she grabbed a throw rug and began to beat down the encroaching flames, while Frank ran to the kitchen and began to fill every available receptacle full of water. Soon, the flames had been reduced to smoke and embers. The crisis was over.