The Winslow Incident: A Novel

The Winslow Incident

A Novel

Elizabeth Voss

For Peter Tackaberry

co-creator of this story

best part of my story

I find myself considerably discomposed and disordered—full of notions. Poor N. Burt cut his own throat. We hear great talk about witchcraft.

—From the Diary of Stephen Williams,

Longmeadow, Massachusetts, 1716–1735

(Poisons of the Past, Mary Kilbourne Matossian)

Don’t touch me! Stand back! I am dead, do you hear? I am dead. I have snakes in my stomach! They are burning burning burning.

—Charles Veladaire,

Pont-Saint-Esprit, France, 1951

(The Day of St. Anthony’s Fire, John G. Fuller)

Blood is pouring from the sky: We are going to drown. I see a river of bodies. I see a town of ghosts.

—Aaron Adair,

Winslow, Washington, 2010

(A Plague of Madness, G.F. Olson)

Part One

In a town so small, how can so many people be lost?

—Hazel Winslow

Friday July 9, 2010

Day One of the Heat Wave

Holloway Ranch

Winslow, Washington

They’re dead.

Who? Hazel asked, feeling out of breath.

They’re dead, Patience repeated.

Hazel Winslow quickened her pace up the hill, each anxious step churning up dirt. A shadow’s length ahead of her, Patience Mathers braced her back against the No Trespassing sign and raised a hand to cover her mouth, revulsion spoiling her flawless features.

Who’s dead? Hazel asked, her heart batting away at her chest like a bird caught in the house.

Hazel crested the rise and saw for herself—and her mouth flooded with thin saliva. Dusk washed the hundred-acre pasture an agreeable orange. Tall weeds spun sparks of sunlight. The sky hung heavy with the sinking sun. It’d be pretty, Hazel thought, if it weren’t for all those dead cows. Half a dozen corpses littered the pasture: bloated bellies crushing grass, legs jutting out at odd angles, black masses of flies feasting.

What the hell? Sean Adair said.

Hazel jumped at her boyfriend’s voice behind her. She spun to face him, and they gaped at each other in astonishment. The dying light created a halo around Sean’s long brown hair, and he looked sun-kissed and sturdy, as if the mountain air agreed with him.

Paler and lankier, as though he lacked some vital nutrient, Hazel’s cousin Tanner Holloway skidded to a stop next to Sean and made a grave face at her. "Uncle Pard is screwed."

Hazel gestured at the carnage with a sweep of her arm. You said they were sick, Tanner. Not—

Sicker than we thought. Tanner smirked. Apparently.

This is bad. Patience sank to her haunches on the dirt road and clasped her hands together as if praying that she, too, would not suddenly be struck swollen and dead.

There was no breeze, yet Hazel could sense the stench of death. Scanning the pasture, she whispered, What happened to them?

Tanner flipped straight blond surfer hair out of his face. Mad cow disease.

No way. Hazel flashed on the steak and eggs she’d eaten during the mid-morning lull in her shift at Rose’s Country Crock.

No way, Sean said. Hazel had served him a cheeseburger for lunch.

Patience rose to her feet and swung toward Hazel, her beautiful dark eyes seeking reassurance from her best friend. Mad cow? she said.

Okay, they don’t know yet, Tanner admitted. Doc Simmons was out poking and prodding the poor dumb beasts all morning. Now Uncle Pard’s waiting for the vet to come back with test results. But I do know one thing. His pale blue eyes brightened. "They are damn worried—and that was before any beef went belly up."

Feeling hot and grimy, Hazel gathered up her long hair and knotted it into a sloppy, strawberry blond bun. Fanning the back of her neck with one hand, she scrutinized her cousin, uncertain if she trusted him. They were all seventeen, but unlike Patience and Sean, Tanner Holloway was something new. Two weeks ago he’d been shipped up to their uncle’s ranch for the summer to straighten out and fly right. And experience had taught Hazel that the Holloway side of her family kept secrets like thieves hoard plunder. Certainly her mother had, and took nothing but secrets with her when she left. Hazel turned from Tanner, unhappy to be reminded that her mother hadn’t chosen to take her along either.

Silently she counted cattle carcasses: three nut-brown cows huddled in the shade of the aspens; a steer felled before the bridge spanning the creek, his enormous head dunked halfway underwater. But fifty feet away near the split-rail fence surrounding the pasture, a red cow stood chewing her cud—alive and kicking and flicking her switch. And close by, a calf romped around in a patch of clover. Hazel started toward the animals, curious why they seemed okay when the others were clearly not.

Sean grabbed her by the hand. Don’t go near them. You don’t know what’s wrong.

You’re the one who wanted to come here, remember? she snapped and writhed free. But as soon as she recognized the hurt in his amber-colored eyes, a familiar remorse struck. She smiled in a way intended to say, Sorry. I won’t get too close. Promise.

She pulled away from him and headed for the pasture. As she approached the fence in a cloud of dust bothered up by her black Converse, she flapped the front of her baby blue t-shirt to get some air circulating against her skin. By late afternoon the sun had swallowed the entire Pacific Northwest mountainside; now it was digesting it. Blowing out her breath, she waved a hand in front of her face to fend off the swarm of gnats that were losing their tiny minds to the heat.

You’re an idiot, Winslow, Tanner yelled.

Hazel, come back! Patience sounded alarmed.

Yet when Hazel glanced over her shoulder, she found all three crossing the road toward her, Patience wide eyed and Sean grimacing as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

At the fence, Hazel noticed that the red cow’s hind legs were trembling. Suddenly both legs buckled.

Whoa! Hazel cried and leapt onto the lower fence rail. Out of instinct, she reached for the cow, arm outstretched, and her fingertips skimmed stiff hide as the animal dropped to the grass. The long-lashed creature emitted a pitiful moo, struggling to rise on legs that refused to cooperate.

Coming up behind Hazel, Sean wrapped his arm around her waist. That’s not too close? He pulled her off the fence and plopped her indelicately on the ground. Let’s go.

Wait, Sean, she said. But by the time she turned around, he was already headed back toward their motorcycles, his head bowed in a way that tugged at her heart.

You shouldn’t have touched it. Tanner sounded like he was enjoying himself. It’s probably contagious.

Hazel frowned. Cow sicknesses don’t spread to people that way. But as she watched the animal struggle, she began to feel less certain. She glanced sidelong at Tanner. Do they?

He scoffed. Guess you’ll find out.

The calf that had been playing in the clover tottered up, nudged the cow’s neck with his nose, and gave a sad bleat. Then he scampered deeper into the pasture, not slowing until he put fifteen feet between them as if he, too, were suddenly worried about contagion.

This is bad, Patience repeated. Between strands of long black hair hanging in her white face, she eyed the animals with obvious gloom. And that ring around the moon last night meant it’s sure to rain soon. She flung back her head to search the sky. I hope our rodeo isn’t ruined.

Hazel couldn’t care less about the rodeo, but she did feel sorry for the animals—and realized this meant serious trouble for their uncle. She squinted at Tanner. What did Doc Simmons say?

Tanner shrugged. Only that they might’ve gotten into something they shouldn’t have. He knocked Hazel’s forearm with his elbow. Think it’ll be half-priced rib eyes at the Crock tonight?

Ignoring him, Hazel crouched and held her hand between the fence rails toward the calf. Hey, buddy, she said softly.

The reddish-brown calf stared at her for a moment before opening his mouth to say, Blat.

She realized then that the calf wasn’t right either. His muzzle was coated in something sticky-looking and the tips of his ears looked flaky and sore. At the sound of horses clomping across the wood bridge, the animal gave a frightened toss of his furry head.

Later. Tanner was already walking away.

Wait for me. Patience scrambled after him.

The calf studied Hazel with huge wet eyes. A tuft of red hair stuck up on top of his head as if he’d just woken from a long nap.

It’s all right, little guy, she said. Come here.

On his rickety legs, the calf started toward her, just as Sean yelled, Get out of there! from what sounded like far away. But the horses seemed closer now: heavy hooves pounding soft grass. The white, crescent moon markings on the calf’s face made her think of rings and rain and the rodeo in ruin.

You’re a good boy, aren’t you? she murmured. Gonna grow up to be a prize Holloway bull.

The animal was less than ten feet away. He picked up his pace, small rump swaying, tail swishing to-and-fro. Then he raised his pink nose and gave her a friendly bleat.

Hazel wondered why it sounded like someone was running in the dirt. That’s a good—

Get back! a man’s voice boomed. Keep away from it!

Thunder cracked and the calf’s face exploded, showering her in bits of blood and hide. For a stark moment Hazel thought she’d been shot too and toppled backward. Grabbing hold of the rough fence rail to keep from falling, she felt her palm fill with slivers.

Hold your fire, Clark! the man shouted. "That was the most asinine, half-cocked move! You’re damn lucky you didn’t shoot her."

Hazel’s eyes were locked on the calf, crumpled on his side before her, silent and still. Blood erupted from the hole where moments ago there had been one large brown eye. Through a second hole in his skull, brain protruded.

She felt panic and vomit and tears all rising at the same time and heard that sound again of shoes slapping dirt right before Sean grabbed her up and away from the fence. Then she was running back down the road so fast her body got ahead of her feet for one long scary moment and she nearly tumbled to the ground.

Tanner and Patience were already tearing off on the red Kawasaki, with Patience tucked behind Tanner, screeching like a mouse clutched in the talons of an owl.

Heart hammering, Hazel clambered over the cattle gate after Sean, swinging her legs over the metal bar and landing next to their Yamahas in an explosion of dirt.

Three ranch hands on horseback were bearing down on them fast.

Fear fought with relief when Hazel realized it was her Uncle Pard leading the charge. Then she saw the fury steaming off him and fear won that battle.

After reining his horse to face Kenny Clark and Old Pete Hammond who followed, Pard held up his hand and yelled, I’ll handle this. As soon as they turned their horses to head back, he rode up to Hazel and Sean where they stood panting and sweating on the other side of the cattle gate.

Pard Holloway was a big man rendered even larger astride his horse, pointing down at them with a finger that seemed huge. You will not breathe a word of this. Not. A. Word. Understood?

What’s wrong with your herd? Hazel asked. Despite her ragged breath, she sounded calmer than she felt. Why did Kenny shoot that calf?

That’s not your concern, Hazel. Her uncle started pointing again. "And I will not allow you or anybody else to trespass on my property and interfere with my business. Matter of fact, trespassing is a punishable offense. Go ask your father. He reached into his back pocket, retrieved a blue bandanna, and flung it to her. And clean yourself up before you catch something."

She let the bandanna flutter to the dirt. Her father always warned her to steer clear of his brother-in-law’s ranch; now here she was: spattered in bits of baby bull, her hand full of splinters, sick to her stomach after witnessing animal murder. When she realized calf blood was trickling down her bare arms, a whimper escaped her.

She forced herself to swallow hard and stand up straight. "Something? she echoed her uncle. If you don’t know what’s wrong, why are you killing them?"

All right, listen up! Pard shouted with such force that Hazel, Sean, and the horse all started. That calf was sick and we couldn’t chance it spreading to the rest of the herd. He pushed up his hat to reveal eyes the same greenish-brown as hers, hair the same shade of reddish-blond—as if neither of them were willing to commit to any one particular hue. Then he narrowed his familiar eyes. "And I will not allow news of this to spread, either."

Hazel glanced at her blood-spattered arms before grimacing at him. People will find out.

I’ll be damned if I’ll let that happen. You know why? He gestured at the sky; the answer so obvious, surely it was written there. "If we lose our reputation, we lose everything. Not just my ranch, but this whole damn town. Right now I’ve got this under control, but you two have to promise me you’ll all keep your mouths shut."

Whatever. Sean shrugged before he kick-started his motorcycle to life. We’re outta here.

Hazel nibbled at her bottom lip, distraught over the animal remains stuck to the front of her shirt. Looking back at her uncle, she raised her voice to be heard over the bike’s engine: It’s not safe to eat the beef, is it?

Dammit, Hazel! Pard threw up one massive arm. "Repeat that and I promise you I’ll dig up that mess between Sean Adair here and Hawkin Rhone.

Hazel and Sean swapped haunted glances.

Going on five years now, I believe, Pard continued, leaning down toward them with his forearm against Blackjack’s mane. The horse looked smug, Hazel thought, showing them his yellow teeth and breathing hot foul air in their faces.

Pard added, That whole sorry business was never actually settled up. Was it?

When Hazel looked at Sean again, his mouth moved but nothing came out.

A burning sensation crept across her scalp, and she caught herself chewing her lip—a habit she had fought hard to break ever since that day at Three Fools Creek when she witnessed Hawkin Rhone bite clear through his own tongue.

She stomped up to the gate and yanked the horse by the bit. Blackjack’s head snapped back into her uncle’s chest, the animal’s frightened eyes rolling her direction. You do that, she yelled, and I’ll tell everyone in Winslow—everyone down in the whole valley—that your beef is poison!

Pard pushed her back a couple of feet with the bottom of his boot against her shoulder. Don’t force me to tell Zachary Rhone what really happened. Or about how your father lied. Because you know, sheriffs can lose their badges over a helluva lot less. Pard glanced at Sean before he drew closer to Hazel and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, Not to mention what might happen to your friend, here. How’s a boyfriend in prison sound?

Feeling herself begin to shake, Hazel shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts and turned her back on her uncle, stupefied that he was threatening them. Who cares about your cows and your shit-filled ranch anyway, she said, instantly aware of how weak that had sounded. She climbed on her own motorcycle and kicked and kicked the starter until the engine finally sparked.

Good, Pard shouted while Blackjack reared from the buzz of both engines. We’ve got a deal. You stay out of my business and I’ll stay out of yours.

Instead of heading back the way they had come earlier from Ruby Creek, Hazel and Sean blasted the opposite direction up Loop-Loop Road toward town. After a minute of riding flat out, they were forced down into the ditch in order to get around a white truck parked across the road.

It wasn’t until they had skidded around the west gate that Hazel stole a glance over her shoulder.

Her stomach sank.

From that higher vantage point, she could see that there were more than a mere half dozen. Strewn across the pasture like passengers from a plane crash, at least fifty head of Holloway cattle lay dead.

Friday Night

The Winslow Hotel

Ruby Road

Be gentle! Hazel cried.

Be brave, her grandmother said, even as her mouth turned down in sympathy.

They sat side by side in high-back chairs at the walnut table in the formal dining room, Sarah Winslow digging splinters out of her granddaughter’s hand with a sewing needle and pair of tweezers.

To distract her mind from the operation and slaughtered animals and threats of blackmail, Hazel studied the fresco painted on the ceiling. She stared at swans and fountains and ladies with parasols, at all the things Winslow never was except on the plaster ceiling of her great-great grandfather’s home. One man’s fruitless stab at bringing civilization to an uncivil mining camp, she supposed. The Winslow stood four stories high, counting the round room at the top of the tower where the ghosts resided. Built in 1889, the fifteen room, Italianate-style mansion was too fancy for its own good, and as caretaker, Sean’s father had to do constant battle with the elaborate roof and ancient plumbing.

Ouch! Hazel jerked her hand away after her grandmother probed her pinkie with the needle. That’s gentle?

Sarah took firm hold of her hand again. Only a few more.

Hazel clenched her teeth as her grandmother pulled a splinter from the tip of her finger.

Eyes concentrated on her task, Sarah said, Are you planning to tell me what happened?

Hazel studied her grandmother’s smooth cheeks and thick silver hair, hoping she would look that good at sixty-two. Well, let’s see. I saw your boyfriend Cal at the Fish ’n Bait. He told me to tell you he’ll pick you up at one sharp tomorrow to escort you to the rodeo. He promised not to smell like trout.

Thanks for the warning. Sarah laughed—a warm cackle that always reminded Hazel of fall leaves underfoot and made her feel in safe territory. And the idea of her grandmother hooking up with worm-loving Cal made Hazel laugh, too.

But Sarah turned serious again, asking, And?

And I tripped and fell in the woods, Hazel replied.

Sarah glanced up, raising the dark eyebrows that packed extra punch in contrast to her light hair. I’ll wait until you’re ready then.

Hazel tried to frown but it felt more like wincing. She had never lied to her grandmother before, and it made her feel polluted and gore-splashed all over again. She had come to The Winslow to get cleaned up and calmed down. After sneaking a shower in an empty guestroom—rinsing blood from her arms and picking pieces of calf hide out of her hair—she had donned one of Sean’s t-shirts over her shorts and sought out Sarah to perform splinter surgery. Until she was in better shape, she had to avoid home and her father because she couldn’t tell him what had happened. As sheriff he’d be forced to report the sick and dead cattle to the proper authorities. Then her Uncle Pard would make good on his threat. And then her dad and Sean would both go to prison.

My brave girl. Sarah pulled away the tweezers. Shall we take a break?

Hazel hadn’t realized she was crying; now she felt tears running hot and itchy down her cheeks. Only she wasn’t sobbing from the pain, it was due to blossoming panic. Sean had protected her that day at Three Fools Creek, so now it was up to her to protect him.

But a new fear had begun to gnaw at her—the fear that she might prove sadly incapable of protecting anyone at all.

Saturday

Day Two of the Heat Wave

Yellow Jacket Pass

Fritz Earley steered his flatbed truck around the final curve up Yellow Jacket Pass and the simple truss bridge came into view. Along the ridgeline, the early morning sun lit lodgepole pines like candles on a birthday cake. Tinderbox, Fritz thought as he bounced over the cattle guard.

He always felt uneasy crossing the bridge. Not that it was so far across; but it was a gut-dropping distance down. He imagined that one day the weight of his fully loaded delivery truck would collapse the bridge and send him plunging, falling end over end before he slammed into the Lamprey River. There the twisted wreckage of metal and his ample flesh would careen down river until it wedged against the bank to await grisly discovery by some unlucky kid or angler.

So he whistled relief when he popped out the other end of the bridge and passed the familiar sign.

Welcome to Winslow

(Pop. 255)

Jewel of the Stepstone Range

Home of Holloway Ranch

Rather than keep to the main route leading downtown through a tunnel of quaking aspen, Fritz turned south onto Loop-Loop Road and headed for the ranch. He preferred to get Pard Holloway’s delivery over and done with first since the ranch boss was always hollering at him. Then he could finish his deliveries and grab a bite at the Crock before he had to re-cross the chasm and start the long drive back down the mountain.

But halfway down Loop-Loop Road, Fritz had to slam on his brakes to avoid T-boning Maggie Clark’s white Chevy truck parked across the middle of the road. He was surprised to see Maggie—sole Holloway Ranch cowgal—leaning sentry-like against the passenger side. More surprising was that the middle-aged woman’s usually wild hair was reined into a ponytail so tight it looked painful. That and the fact that she was wielding a rifle.

After Fritz eased to a stop, Maggie set her gun inside the Chevy’s cab and then came around to his open window. Need to unload into mine. She cocked a callused thumb toward her four by four truck. I’ll take it overland.

What’s doin’? Fritz asked, worried about what Maggie’s new hairdo and brandishing of weapons could mean. Did this woman—known to round up cattle and sling chow with the same brutal efficiency—feel threatened? Or was she the one doing the threatening?

Squinting in the direction of the ranch did her crow’s feet no favors. Road’s washed out up ahead.

Fritz leaned forward against the steering wheel as far as his belly allowed, and peered through his bug-splashed windshield at the dirt road beyond Maggie’s truck. He had been up this road just last week. And it hadn’t rained in over a month.

Hazel’s House

Park Street

I don’t have time for this, Dad. Hazel threw her spoon and cereal bowl into the kitchen sink with a clatter. I’m late for work.

All night she’d been haunted by images of calf brains leaking into pasture grass and Sean in handcuffs that sliced into his wrists and the badge ripped from her father’s shirt. So this morning she was feeling, as her grandmother would say, burnt around the edges.

You don’t start work till eight. Don’t you think I know that? Her father set his own bowl on the counter. Cereal was as elaborate as breakfast ever got around their house. Hazel noticed that he had barely touched his and the flakes looked soggy and bloated. Now, where were you last night? he asked.

Can’t you find somebody else to interrogate? she said. You’re the sheriff—shouldn’t you be out protecting the town or something?

He opened the breadbox and pulled out a loaf, all the while giving her his look that said, I don’t know what to do with you. Then he warned, I’d better not find out you bought pot from those carnies.

You’re completely paranoid! She couldn’t handle this right now. Pretending last night never happened was hard enough, she didn’t need extra grief from him today, especially considering that her evasiveness was for his sake. His and Sean’s. She spun out of the kitchen, griping, Quit harassing me.

He followed her into the living room. I wouldn’t be ‘harassing’ you if you’d come home at a reasonable hour.

The knot in Hazel’s stomach just kept growing. After she had crept home from The Winslow and snuck quietly (or so she’d thought) up the staircase to her room, it had been past one in the morning. Now she glanced around at the overstuffed furniture in their Victorian house, and felt like she was suffocating.

Continuing to avoid her father’s dark blue eyes, she said, I was at Patience’s house helping her with her rodeo outfit. A lame lie, but she was too nervous to invent a better one. She’d never lied to her father before either. Not about anything important anyway. More inner pollution—she was beginning to feel downright toxic.

How was I supposed to know where you were? When you were coming home? He ran a hand through his short hair, making it stick up in dark spikes all over his head. "If you were coming home. You could’ve been lying dead in the ravine for all I knew."

That’s a lovely image, she thought. You’re always worrying about things that never happen. Relax, Dad—take a pill.

He stared at her without saying anything else. It was his way of making her think about the things she’d said, to consider her next words. And it always pissed her off. She bit down hard on her lip, battling the urge to tell him everything, resenting him because, really, wasn’t he supposed to protect her and not the other way around?

Finally, she huffed in frustration. I can just leave, you know. She slammed out the front door and stomped extra loud down the porch steps.

Then she glanced back and instantly regretted saying those words, words that for all she knew were the last her mother had ever spoken to him. For there her father stood at the open screen door, still holding the bread, looking at her with a crumbled expression.

Hazel flushed with shame for getting into it with him in the first place. This situation wasn’t his fault; none of it was ever his fault.

She was considering how best to apologize when he shoved the loaf of bread into their big antique mailbox. Dad! She laughed. You weirdo! But then she saw the genuinely startled look on his face and her amusement fizzled out. What are you doing? she asked, concerned.

What? he said. Confusion clouded his features. He glanced back at the mailbox, and then he laughed, too, before retrieving the squished bread. I wanted to make toast. Looking slightly embarrassed, he asked, Do you suppose I’ll have better luck with that in the toaster?

Probably. She noticed that he hadn’t shaved yet, and his beard stubble and messy dark hair stood in stark contrast to his suddenly pale skin. Seriously, Dad, are you all right?

I’m fine, he said, glancing away from her. Go on, now—you’ll be late for work.

Late? she puzzled. He’d already called bullshit on that one, but she wasn’t about to argue against her own fib. Instead, she turned to go, silently vowing to make it all up to him somehow.

Add it to the list, she thought, of her growing litany of missteps and mishaps, secrets and lies.

The moment she placed one foot on the stepping stones to cross the front yard, Jinx fell in step beside her. As usual, he’d been waiting for Hazel. The Irish setter was Winslow’s dog-about-town who belonged to nobody in particular and who always managed to track down Hazel.

She glanced at him. The dog looked concerned.

Not you again, she said.

He wagged his tail.

You’re not my dog, you know.

Wag wag wag.

I’ve got enough problems right now, she explained as they continued together onto Park Street, without having to worry about you, too.

Jinx listened intently, all floppy red ears.

She stopped walking in front of Patience’s house next door, stooped down to his level, and cradled his head in her hands.

He gazed at her adoringly.

Do you understand? I’m blowing this one-horse town soon. And once I’m gone, I’m never coming back.

The dog cocked his head, looked at her quizzically: Surely she didn’t mean that, did she?

That’s right. No birthday cards, no phone calls, no visits just to see if you’re even still alive.

His tail thumped on the sidewalk and her irritation dissolved. Okay, let’s go, you stupid dog. They resumed walking in the early sunshine toward Fortune Way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Rhone Bakery

Fortune Way

Sean Adair smelled bacon frying. He knocked again on the flimsy metal frame of the screen door and heard small bare feet slapping against the floor.

Sit down and eat your eggs right this minute, he heard Melanie Rhone say, or else the rodeo is cancelled for two little girls I know.

When Melanie pushed open the door it stuck halfway against the warped overhang and she had to hit it with her palm to get it the rest of the way out. Regarding him with curious blue eyes, she said, Morning, Sean.

Morning, he said, feeling self-conscious. In the three weeks he’d been working at the bakery, he’d never had a reason to go up to the house. But he’d caught Melanie staring at him from the yard more than once, and each time wondered why the former rodeo queen had married a man like Zachary Rhone.

Now Sean peered over Melanie’s head into the kitchen. Zachary around?

When she shook her head, red curls danced. He’s on the pot. Can it wait?

I’m already late with deliveries.

Okay. Wait a second. She released the screen door and it stuck midway again.

Sean didn’t have to wait a second; Zachary was already right there, slapping the door back open. His crew-cut head loomed large, skin stretched tight across his cheekbones, and Sean’s heart commenced a fitful beat at his sudden certainty that even though they’d kept their mouths shut, Pard Holloway had sold them out anyway to Zachary Rhone.

But then Zachary said, "You are way behind schedule, mister."

Sean let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. And damn, that bacon smelled good. I need you to come down to the bakery, he said.

The rift of disapproval between Zachary’s eyebrows deepened. Why’s that, Adair?

Some of it looks like it didn’t turn out right.

Zachary rolled his eyes skyward as if to say, Please Lord, grant me patience in the face of this idiot. "Criminy, Adair. Taste whatever the hell it is. If it tastes right, it’s right."

Sean felt heat rise in his face.

Jabbing his finger toward Sean, the delivery van parked next to the bakery below the house, and all points in between, Zachary shouted, I’d better see that van leave that driveway in twenty minutes!

Sean slogged back across the porch and down the hill, wondering if—worst-case scenario and he did get busted—prison could really be much worse than working for this asshole.

When he reached the rear entrance to the bakery, he turned to look back at the Rhone house. Hunkered beneath the old apple orchard, the clapboard cottage had a sloped porch and sagging second story, as if the weight of Zachary’s rotten temper was too much for the poor house to bear.

Sean turned around and kicked open the bakery door. Screw him then, he told the loaves of bread he had abandoned next to the oven. He tore off a chunk of rye and shoved it in his mouth, chewing mechanically while he carried the tower of trays into the storefront and released them onto the prep counter with a bang.

Screw. Him. He exhaled sharply. He still had to package up the hotdog and burger buns for the rodeo barbecue before he could even head out in the van. If the piece of shit even starts.

At least Zachary wasn’t breathing down his neck here, which gave him time to think. As usual, he thought about Hazel. Then he saw her out on the sidewalk, passing the window display.

Catching his eye, Hazel backed up and pushed open the door. The frosted stencil on the glass read:

Rhone Family Bakery

Quality you can trust

Since 1924

The Irish setter sauntered in with her, stopped short of the donut case, and looked up at Sean with expectation. Hazel’s long hair was loose and wavy, and her freckles were out because it was summer. Sean thought she looked pretty. Then again, he always did.

Hey, doughboy, she said.

Not for long, he replied, laying an arm across the top of the case. Want a bear claw?

Wait—why not for long? She looked stricken. Does Zachary know?

No, no—Pard kept our deal, as far as I can tell. But Zachary’s completely drunk on power. Seriously, I can’t take it. He retrieved a cake donut from the case. How about you, Jinx?

The red dog whined, definitely, picking up first one front paw and then the other in a little dance of high hopes.

That’s not a good idea, Hazel said. She looked down at the disappointed dog. Sorry, buddy.

Sean pitched the donut into the trash bin. Jinx rushed over, rooted it out, and chowed down.

I give up, Hazel said. Then, softly: I’m pretty sure my Uncle Pard will keep his end of the bargain if we do the same. He has no reason to cause trouble for us.

Did you tell your dad? Sean asked.

She shook her head hard, eyes steeled with resolve.

He lowered his voice: What should we do about the barbecue?

Nothing, Sean. She gnawed at her lower lip; her eyes conflicted now. They test the beef. My uncle won’t let any diseased meat get out.

An unpleasant buzz started up in his stomach. Are you sure?

Yes. She looked pained. "He’d never risk losing his Prime grade. Now let’s quit talking about it before everybody knows." She glanced worriedly at the dog, as if he’d overheard and might later spill the beans.

You’re right, you’re right, Sean agreed, and then remembered he’d better get his ass in gear. Come on … He grinned at the girl he’d been in love with all of his life. Do deliveries with me.

She thought for a moment, staring straight at him. Sometimes her eyes looked almost brown; today they were emeralds. Finally, she shrugged. Why not.

Ghost Town Tour

Matherston, Silver Hill

Sweat wiggled down Patience Mathers’ back. I hate this dress, she thought. The Victorian-era gown was heavy and scratchy, and cut into her ribcage. Despite her distress, she waited dutifully outside Matherston Miners Supply for her grandfather to finish collecting admission and give her the go ahead.

Turning her back to the antique dolls with their too-long eyelashes that were staring at her from inside the display window, Patience realized just how hard it was going to be at the rodeo later to pretend that everything was okay. That there weren’t dead cows or rings around the moon or her best friend covered in brains and blood. Last night Hazel told her that since Patience had been able to pretend, all this time, that she never saw what happened at Hawkin Rhone’s cabin, she could find a way to pretend she never saw bad things happen at the ranch, either. It had sounded convincing at the time.

This morning, Patience wasn’t so sure. This morning, it felt like tempting fate all over again.

A sudden wave of nausea hit her. Taken by surprise, she wrapped her arm around a pillar for support and bowed her head, wishing she hadn’t put so much butter and syrup on her French toast at breakfast, and breathing deeply until the sensation passed.

An old gray couple exited the store and shuffled past, kicking up dust as they headed over to join the other tourists assembled at the timber-framed entrance to Prospectors Way, anxious for the tour to begin. Unlike the paved rectangle of streets defining downtown Winslow, the one road running through the old silver miners’ section of town was bare dirt that always left Patience with a mouthful of grit.

Her grandfather filled the doorway beside her. Looks like that’s everybody, he said, sounding pleased at the turnout. Benjamin Mathers’ features were clustered tightly on his face, and his round head perched close to his shoulders, giving him an owlish appearance.

Patience had always been grateful that she didn’t take after him. I’m melting, she said, tugging on her high collar. Can I give them the short version?

All right, Patience. Her grandfather looked hot and uncomfortable in his costume, too. But don’t leave out the murder in the Never Tell Brothel. They always love that part. Then he scowled at her right wrist. How many times must I ask you not to wear that? It’s not true to the period. The old man shook his head as if it really did spoil everything. Your grandmother would not approve.

Patience had been fiddling with her chain link bracelet, her fingertips nervously stroking the golden horseshoe, the wishbone, a tiny four-leaf clover, seeking protection in the lucky charms she had begun to collect soon after her Gram Lottie died, to defend herself from further blows of fate. Not wanting to argue with her grandfather, she tucked the bracelet up under her long, tight sleeve—she never dared take it off and didn’t understand why he even bothered to ask.

As she walked over to the group of fifteen or so tourists, she looked them over to see if any were likely to tip. Always the men, and nearly always they told her, You look like Scarlett O’Hara, when they slipped her a five or a ten. She’d say, Really? as if she’d never heard that one before. And all the while their wife or girlfriend would be standing there like poor Miss Melly saying, "Come on."

When Patience reached the expectant group, she forced a smile. Howdy, she said with a cheerfulness she did not feel. Welcome to Matherston Ghost Town. She turned to lead the way. If you’ll follow me, we’ll start with the blacksmith shop up here on the right and the livery stable next door, where you’ll see a collection of mining equipment, including the original Burleigh drills and rolling mounts …

The clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp of thirty feet pounding the wooden boardwalk as they made their way past the false-front buildings further grated on her nerves.

She stopped the group in front of the Mother Lode