The Winslow Incident

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 a*shole.

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.

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 Saloon, saying, “This was one of three saloons in Matherston.” She led them inside through batwing doors and pointed to a poker table covered in ratty felt with barely discernable markings. “Story has it—”

Without warning, her train of thought left the station without her. She’d given the ghost town tour a hundred times, yet all of a sudden, she had no idea what came next.

The tourists were all staring at her, obviously growing impatient.

What’s wrong with me? She felt a surge of panic. Say something!

“Story has it, dear?” the old gray woman gently prompted.

“Uh . . . uh . . .” Patience swallowed hard, concentrating on the poker table until it finally came back to her. “Story has it that no less than five men killed themselves after losing their fortunes at that table even quicker than they’d made them at their claims.” She chased her rush of words with a long exhale, still reeling from her memory lapse. Yet she managed to finish. “And some say those souls have never left the Mother Lode, unable to rest until they reclaim their treasure.”

A tourist kid made a mock spooked sound and two little girls fell into a fit of giggles.

Patience gave the kid her best evil eye before taking the group back outside, deciding then to cut the tour even shorter for fear that her brain might short circuit again. “Our last stop,” she continued, “is the Chop House Restaurant, which was said to have the thickest steaks and surliest service in the West, both courtesy of Holloway Ranch.”

Suddenly Patience wished the ranch would just go away, wished it would simply slip off the mountainside in a jumble of barns and cows, and then she’d have so much less to worry about.