The Winslow Incident

WARN THE INNOCENT

HOLLOWAY RANCH

Tanner Holloway sat alone at the bench table recently vacated by the ranch hands, spooning in clumps of lukewarm oatmeal and considering his options (which, he had to admit, were few) when his Uncle Pard stormed into the mess building with fire in his eyes.

Oh shit, Tanner thought, shooting up and looking for the quickest route of escape.

Pard charged up. “Where have you been and what the hell were you thinking last night?”

Tanner pretended not to see or hear him, glancing casually around at the litter of breakfast dishes on the long table, his pounding heart undermining his efforts to stay cool. Busted. Again.

“You were sitting right here at mess yesterday,” Pard said, jabbing one finger against the table, “when I told everyone to keep quiet until we can get a handle on things.”

He stared at his uncle now, refusing to respond, uncertain if his voice would quiver.

Pard glared back, exasperated. “Then I find you and your cousin and her crew out in the pasture laughing it up at a damn near tragic situation.”

Working up his nerve, Tanner strode to the head of the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’d offer you some,” he said, amazed that his hands were steady, “but it seems like you’ve had enough.”

His uncle went redder in the face. “No wonder my brother wanted to get rid of you. You’re nothing but a punk.”

“Then I’m not disappointing anyone.”

“You disappoint everyone.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask to be here—”

“And I didn’t ask to have you here, but I’ve been trying to make the best of it.”

“Make the best of it?” Bullshit! Tanner thought. You’ve made it crystal clear you wanted nothing to do with me since the day they dumped me here. His parents had barely stayed long enough to drink a glass of iced tea on the porch of the sprawling ranch house—Tanner and Pard eyeing each other warily the whole time—out of fear Pard would change his mind about taking his nephew for the summer. And Tanner had been surprised by the way his dad had avoided looking at him when he unloaded the duffel bag from the back of the Forester and said, “Be good, son.” That was the first time in a long time he’d been called “son,” and to Tanner, it had sounded odd and somehow final.

Now his uncle tried a different tact. “Listen, you’re a smart kid. Make yourself useful.”

“What should I do? Go warn the innocent townsfolk?”

Pard slammed his fist down on the table so hard coffee jumped out of Tanner’s cup and his heart leapt in his chest. “Dammit! I’ve got problems here and don’t need any extra aggravation.”

“Okay, okay . . .” Tanner backed away, thinking, You do got problems. Then, to Tanner’s relief, Kenny Clark swaggered in.

“We’re ready for you, boss,” Kenny said.

For reasons beyond Tanner’s fathoming, the only thing Kenny seemed to love more than his job was his boss.

“Find any more dead?” Pard asked Kenny without taking his eyes off of Tanner.

“Nope.” Kenny appeared proud to report that, maybe thinking that the boss would figure Kenny Clark had played a hand in this good turn. “More sick, but no more dead.”

Relief softened Pard’s features and he swiveled to tell Kenny, “Good. Be right there.”

Pard turned back to Tanner. “Look. I’m willing to pull in my horns this time. But don’t cause me any trouble at the rodeo. It won’t get you down the mountain any quicker, I promise you that. It’ll only increase your sentence.”

Kenny chortled at that while Pard leaned closer to Tanner. “You will do what the men tell you to do, and when you are not doing that you will keep out of the way. Above all, you will keep your mouth shut. Understood?”

“Yes,” Tanner hissed in reply. Of course he understood. That didn’t mean he’d do it.





THE DELIVERY

DOWNTOWN WINSLOW

From the passenger’s seat, Hazel watched Sean fight to keep the steering wheel of the bakery van straight. Sunlight pouring through the windshield lit up his eyes and kissed his hair. How’s a boyfriend in prison sound? A shudder snaked down her spine. It sounded horrifying—that’s how it sounded. At the ranch, her uncle had known precisely which lever to pull. Now, as she studied Sean’s profile, she couldn’t help but think for the hundredth time that he was too good-natured for prison, too young and too good-looking; she felt sick imagining what might happen to him.

Sean crammed the gearshift into second with a grinding sound. “How’s your hand?” he asked.

“Sore.” She examined her right palm. “Not so splintery.”

He grimaced, then said, “I had to kick Aaron out of my bedroom last night.” He took his eyes off the road to look at her. “Out of left field, he’s convinced that Hawkin Rhone lives in his closet.”

“That’s strange . . .” She felt uneasy, as if merely saying the man’s name might conjure him up. “I didn’t think Aaron believed in all that.” Sean’s kid brother had always been more sensibly obsessed with bikes and bugs than with scary stories.

Sean’s face darkened. “He believes now.”

“It’s just a coincidence.” She managed to keep her tone light, despite the dread tunneling through her that her uncle had, indeed, resurrected Hawkin Rhone. “You know how it is,” she continued. “It’s fun for the kids to picture him out across the creek—old and toothless and scary.”

“You’re right,” Sean agreed, though he looked no less troubled.

She suddenly became aware that she was kneading her left wrist; it still hurt sometimes. Forcing herself to stop, she sat back in the tattered bucket seat and took in the familiar sights of downtown Winslow and Prospect Park. A rectangle around which the town was neatly arranged, the park occupied a broad plateau beyond which Stepstone Range resumed its eastward rise. The park was absurdly big compared to the rest of the town. Led by her own family (so it was told), the town founders had been certain Winslow would thrive and expand. But after the price fell out of silver in 1893 and the mines were boarded up, anyone with any sense packed up and left to seek their livelihood elsewhere. Those who didn’t had their own stubborn reasons for remaining on the remote mountainside, inaccessible save for the bridge that spanned the narrow Lamprey River canyon. It didn’t seem to bother anyone but her that the nearest real grocery store was two hours away in good weather, the closest movie theater three.

The van clattered to a stop in front of Clemshaw Mercantile, a two-story wood frame store that stocked everything from bullets to baby food. A tarnished plaque above batwing doors proclaimed, ESTABLISHED 1888.

Sean climbed out and opened the van’s back door with a grating squeak.

Hazel turned in her seat to watch him head toward the store carrying two trays of bread.

Out front, Tiny Clemshaw looked up from where he was sweeping to shout, “You’re late!”

“I’m only—” Sean started.

“You’re late and they’re all waiting for you.” Tiny gestured with his broom at the nonexistent crowd, and would have bonked Sean on the head with the handle had Sean not ducked out of the way. “My customers do not appreciate being kept waiting.”

Hazel saw sweat streaming down Tiny’s face, pooling inside his collar, dripping from his nose. Sure, it was hot out, but it wasn’t that hot yet.

Sean was glancing around. “What customers?”

“My customers—” Tiny looked around then, too, and his face registered sudden dismay. “They were right here,” he muttered, his bluster giving way to uncertainty. “They were all right here.”

Sean looked over his shoulder at Hazel in the van and silently mouthed to her, “What the hell?”

Tiny bumbled over to the store’s entrance and held open the doors for Sean, saying, “They grew tired of waiting for you. But they’ll be back.” The man looked increasingly flustered. “Don’t you think?”

“Uh, yeah . . . ,” Sean said. Backing into the store, he rolled his eyes at Hazel like, Cuckoo, cuckoo.

She sighed, her stomach knotting even tighter. They had enough crap to deal with today; they didn’t need Tiny Clemshaw freaking out on them too.

When Sean jumped back inside the van, Hazel turned to him and frowned in bewilderment. “Everyone is acting incredibly weird today,” she said.

“No shit!” He shook his head. “First Aaron, then Zachary, now Tiny.”

“My dad’s not right, either,” she said.

Sean made a monster noise, wro-hoo-hoo, while holding out one arm zombie-style. “Maybe aliens are invading their bodies.”

Hazel laughed, but then the thought of mad cow disease eating holes in people’s brains made the idea seem less farfetched and far less funny. “Let’s hope not,” she said softly.

Sean got the van moving, turning right at the corner and then rattling down Park Street past the row of Victorians. Hazel always thought the houses were over the top, making spectacles of themselves like old ladies wearing crazy hats and too much makeup. Just past her own house, Sean turned right onto Ruby Road and then hung a quick left up the steep drive to The Winslow, the hotel described by one travel writer as, “An Old West treasure trove well worth braving the hazards of Yellow Jacket Pass.”

“Sticky and gray,” Sean was muttering.

“What?” Hazel said, realizing she’d been distracted.

Sean glanced at her. “You know what? Screw Zachary.”

“Are you gonna quit?” she asked.

“Get fired, most likely.” He blew out his breath. “He’s such a dick.”

She nodded. “What’s his problem?”

“Beats me. When I went to ask him a simple question he bit my head off.”

“I’ll talk to Owen Peabody. Maybe he can use some help at the Crock.”

“Cool. Or maybe your dad needs a deputy,” he joked.

That didn’t strike Hazel as funny. Hell, Sean would probably be sheriff once her dad retired. For as much as she always lamented it, she predicted Sean was never leaving Winslow, never leaving his little brother Aaron or their mother alone with their drunken father.

Sean parked at the base of the stone staircase cut into The Winslow’s massive retaining wall and climbed the steps with a tray of bread. Then he headed around the side of the hotel to go in through the kitchen door, where Hazel imagined he’d find his mother preparing breakfast for the guests. Hazel was glad that Honey and Samuel Adair ran her family’s hotel and that she didn’t have to work there. There was way too much history in the place, and Hazel hated dragging the past around—it was too heavy.

“Hazel!” Aaron Adair shouted, barreling down the steps so recklessly that Hazel was certain the seven-year-old boy would stumble and plant his face in stone.

She flung open the van door and jumped down onto the driveway. “Aaron, slow down!”

He did not slow down, not until he smacked right into her. “I just saw another one,” he said, out of breath. The boy was a miniature Sean: same light brown eyes, same soft brown curls. And he was looking at her with fierce intensity. “I just saw one who looks like Patience Mathers.”

Not easily spooked, Hazel’s sudden shiver caught her by surprise. Before she could ask Aaron what he meant, she noticed Sean descending the steps. She frowned at him to signal her concern.

Still breathing hard, Aaron continued, “And all night long another lady with blood gurgling out of her throat scared the bejeebers out of me.”

Hazel’s breath caught in her own throat. “How do you know about—” Then she stopped herself, realizing it best not to say any more. Fearing Aaron might hyperventilate, she cupped his small shoulders. “Calm down,” she said. “Take a long, deep breath.” Beneath her hands, she could feel him trembling. She shot another worried look at Sean as he joined them.

Sean squatted down until he was face to face with his brother. “Aaron, what’s gotten into you?”

“They’re everywhere,” Aaron whispered, looking about to cry.

“Who’s everywhere?” Sean asked.

Aaron glanced over his shoulder at The Winslow, then looked back at Sean with fear in his eyes. “The ghosts,” he said. The tears did start then.

“No.” Sean hugged his brother. “Those are only stories—you know that. There aren’t any ghosts.”

“But I seen them, Sean,” Aaron said, voice muffled against Sean’s shoulder. “All over the hotel.” He pulled back from Sean, his expression grave. “I seen the lady who looks like Patience only she’s dripping wet. And the other lady with the bloody neck.”

Hazel angrily wondered who in their right mind would tell Aaron about what happened to Patience’s grandmother Lottie Mathers that violent night at The Winslow—a night Hazel had spent five years trying hard to forget.

Sean looked up at Hazel, clearly struggling with how best to handle the situation. After she gave him a helpless shrug, he stood and mussed Aaron’s hair. “It’s okay. I won’t let ’em get you. I promise.”

“Can you do that?” Aaron asked, wide-eyed and hopeful.

“Can I do that?” Sean mocked disbelief that he would even ask. Then he reached into the back of the van and came out holding a bear claw. “Let’s start with this. Ghosts hate pastries.”

“I hate those too.” Aaron pouted. “Nuts are gross and my stomach already feels yucky today.”

“Now you’re choosey?” Sean brought out another. “Apple fritter?”

“Yeah! I like apple.” Aaron snatched the pastry from Sean’s hand and darted away.

“You’re welcome,” Sean called after him. Then he shot an anxious glance at Hazel. “Now I’m really late.” He rushed toward the driver’s door.

After Hazel jumped back in too, Sean started up the van and they headed down the drive. She watched the imposing mansion recede in the side view mirror. Everyone perpetuated the notion that The Winslow was haunted. Good for business because tourists love a good ghost story. But having grown up in the hotel, Aaron had heard tales of ghosts in the tower his entire life and had never seemed afraid of them before.

“More weirdness,” Hazel muttered. “Maybe the heat wave is making the whole town go strange.”





RODEO CARNIVAL

PROSPECT PARK

Her back to the fence, screams erupted behind Hazel from inside the House of Horrors each time a car rounded the third bend and the skeleton popped out of his grave. It had startled her the first time she rode through, but not the second . . . or the seventh.

From the ticket booth fifty feet away, a carny barked, “Every ride’s an adventure!”

Where are they? Hazel wondered, the sun scalding her scalp the longer she waited. Her boss at the Crock had let her off early for the rodeo. It wasn’t looking as though her friends were so lucky.

Looking past the ticket booth to the far side of Prospect Park, she watched two ranch hands complete construction of the rodeo stage by draping red-white-and-blue bunting across the front. Every summer the park was transformed into the rodeo grounds by installing tents, fences, corral pipes, and aluminum bleachers. We’re going to burn our asses on those seats, she thought.

Calliope music started up from the kiddie Go-Gator ride, apt accompaniment to Patience sashaying up. She wore short shorts and a pink tank top, black hair waving halfway down her back, and she pretended not to notice every male over the age of twelve ogling her.

Hazel glanced down at herself, at the cutoff jeans and loose t-shirt she’d thrown on without any consideration, and yanked off the ponytail holder strangling her own long hair.

“Let’s go in,” Patience greeted her.

“We have to wait for them,” Hazel replied.

“No we don’t.” She tugged at the hem of Hazel’s t-shirt. “It’s more fun just us.”

“We’re waiting.” Hazel searched Patience’s porcelain doll face for any sign that she might have cracked. But no shame marred her clear skin, no doubt clouded her thick-lashed eyes. Hazel had to ask anyway: “Did you say anything to anybody?”

“No!” Patience appeared taken aback. “You told me not to so I won’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Hazel murmured. Patience was right: questioning her loyalty was an insult.

Something behind Hazel caught Patience’s eye. “They’re here,” she said, sounding disappointed.

Hazel turned to see Sean and Tanner approaching. Sean toted a brown paper sack just the right shape for a twelve-pack he must’ve swiped from the Mercantile. When they reached her and Patience, Hazel glanced at the line of tourists baking in the sun at the entrance gate. She started in the opposite direction, saying, “Let’s sneak in by the goat pen.”

As they casually climbed over the fence and passed eager kids manning 4-H livestock displays, Hazel hoped a new attraction might’ve shown up this year, like a lobster boy sideshow or pickled punk display. But glancing around, she saw only more of the same: squealing piglets and mean goats, caramel apples sure to give the little kids massive bellyaches, crafty goods and antique farm gear, and rides trucked in and operated by carnies much scarier than an actual turn on the Tilt-A-Whirl or Octopus.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Patience called over her bare shoulder, making a beeline for the fortuneteller’s tent. Decorated with moons and stars, the hand-painted sign out front challenged: DISCOVER WHAT LIES IN WAIT—IF YOU DARE. Daring, Patience disappeared through the clatter of beads that curtained the entrance to the dark tent.

Hazel wondered how many visits Patience would pay to Madame Marcelle this year, and how much mumbo jumbo it would take this time around to quiet the grim expectations that were Patience’s constant, chatty companions.

Sean slung an arm across Hazel’s shoulders and steered her toward his mother’s dessert stand, with Tanner pulling up the rear. And after talking Honey Adair out of three bulging slices of blackberry pie, they made their way to the nearest shade beneath an ancient oak that overhung the duck pond.

Sean plopped onto the low wall surrounding the pond and barked, “Scram!” at the two Rhone girls playing beneath the tree. Ducks scattered as if he’d meant them.

“You’re big fat fatheads,” said seven-year-old Violet Rhone. “So there.” She concluded by sticking out her tongue, bright pink from the cotton candy she was chewing.

“So there,” echoed five-year-old Daisy Rhone, accentuated by a swing of her hips.

“That the best you’ve got?” Hazel laughed. She babysat the round-faced, redheaded sisters on the rare occasion Zachary Rhone took his wife Melanie down to Stepstone Valley for a special night out.

Daisy tugged on the front pockets of Hazel’s shorts with her little hands. “We’re gonna be in the rodeo parade. Will you watch us? You have to!”

“I will, I will!” Hazel promised, prying off Daisy’s sticky fingers and then scooting her away with a few pats to her behind. “But you’d better be good,” she warned the lingering girls in the most menacing tone she could muster, “or else the bogeyman will getcha.”

The sisters took off running, flapping their arms and screaming, “Hawkin Rhone! Hawkin Rhone!” until Daisy ran smack dab into Old Man Mathers’ midsection.

Ben Mathers fumbled and his hot dog hit the dirt. Then he glared at Hazel as though it were her fault. Hazel was used to it. Anytime anything bad happened, Mathers blamed a Winslow—even before the death of his wife Lottie. But after that, it had only gotten worse.

He threw up his hands as if to say, Why do I even bother, before he marched back to the hot dog stand, his spindly legs poking out of the Bermudas belted just below his chest.

Tanner’s laugh was high-pitched. It annoyed Hazel and when she glanced at Sean, his pinched expression told her it bugged him too.

“Is that Hawkin Rhone?” Tanner asked after he’d caught his breath.

“No.” Hazel watched the old man wrangle a free replacement out of the hot dog vendor. “That’s Patience’s grandfather.”

Tanner sat down next to Sean on the low wall. “Then who’s Hawkin Rhone?”

Hazel looked at Sean but his face was unreadable—all pie chewing and no emoting. She sank down to the cool grass and sat cross-legged, facing the pond. “He used to be town baker until there was this incident,” she told Tanner. “Then he was banished to live out his days across Three Fools Creek. But that was all a long time ago,” she added. “He’s been dead for a long time.”

“Then why’s every kid in Winslow so scared of him?” Tanner asked.

She glanced at Sean again, who pretended to pay no attention. “He’s a restless spirit.” She fluttered her fingers like ooowheeooo. “He’ll getcha for filching apples out of his orchard.” Hazel always found it odd that Violet and Daisy, especially, seemed to savor living in a constant state of dread of their grandfather’s ghost. She prayed they would never know what haunted really felt like.

Several ducks moved back in, lingering not too close but on the lookout for leftovers, while an irritating tune looped from the Gravitron across the pond.

Tanner spit a mouthful of pie to the ground and then sniffed at his slice. “Does this taste weird?”

Sean inspected his. “It’s all right, I guess.” He forked in another mouthful.

“Here ya go, Jinx,” Hazel said, holding out her untouched slice to the approaching Irish setter. Despite competition from one brave duck, the dog snatched it off the paper plate. After the two seconds it took him to devour it, he stood panting berry breath in her face. “No more.” She held up empty hands.

Jinx decided to perform his doggy duty by chasing away the ducks in a chaos of barking and quacking. Then he loped over to Sean, tried his best to look deserving, and licked his chops.

“Not this one, buddy.” Sean tore into his pie with exaggerated relish.

Jinx chuffed in indignation before giving up, resigned to sprawl on the grass next to Hazel.

Tanner began tearing off chunks of piecrust and chucking them at the ducks. “So what’s the deal with Patience? Is she unclaimed goods or what?”

Sean was rinsing his hands in the pond. “All yours, man.”

“I just might get me a slice of that country pie,” Tanner said. He had a growing fan club in the ducks, vying for the last of his food.

Hazel grimaced. “Country pie?”

Sean affected a western drawl: “Round these parts we refer to little gals like Patience Mathers as low-hanging fruit.”

“Not low enough to go out with Kenny Clark twice,” Hazel reminded him.

“Yeah, but remember what happened the last time we were in Stepstone? We weren’t at Gino’s long enough to get our pizza before she took off with some skate punk to the backseat of his Nova.”

“I suppose she does allow herself to be easy pickins,” Hazel admitted. “Sometimes.”

“Sounds like my kind of girl.” Tanner grinned wider than Hazel cared for, making her instantly regret that she’d told him anything at all about Patience. Tanner reached for the paper bag, saying, “Let’s drink this beer before it gets any warmer.”

Digging into the bag after Tanner, Sean retrieved two cans and handed one to Hazel just as she noticed Patience returning from the fortuneteller’s tent looking rattled.

“Hey, juicy fruit,” Tanner called to Patience.

Hazel sat up and slapped him hard on his bare arm while Sean made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh.

Patience ignored them; her eyes were fixed on Hazel and she came in close to her face. “Madame Marcelle says something’s itching to be set in motion.”

“Patience!” Hazel rolled her eyes and pushed her away. “Stop looking for more trouble.”

“Yeah, enough with the prophecy shit already,” Sean said.

“In threes,” Patience blurted as if she simply had to get it out. “They’ll come in threes.”

“Enough,” Hazel said. Already on edge, she didn’t need Patience’s superstitious hooey added to the queasy mix. They had plenty of real problems on their hands; why invent more?

“Okay, okay,” Patience surrendered. Settling primly on the grass, she accepted a beer from Tanner only after first glancing around to make sure no one was looking.

“Maybe it’s Hawkin Rhone itchin’ for you.” Tanner made clawing motions toward her neck. “Scritch scritch.”

“Get away!” Patience cringed.

Tanner shrugged. “You’re the one who brought it up.”

She made a sour face at him. “I’m talking about what the future holds. Not the past.”

“I know exactly what the future holds,” Hazel said. “I’m leaving this rotting leftover of a town.”

Tanner burped and crumpled up his beer can. “I’m with you—this place totally sucks.”

“You’ve only been here two weeks,” Sean said. “What the hell do you know?”

“That here is nowhere and that nobody gives a shit what goes on up here.” He tossed his can toward the garbage bin and missed just as Kohl and Tilly Thacker walked by. They cast him twin shaming glares. “Not that anything does go on that I’ve seen.”

“How can you say that?” Hazel asked. “Sometimes we get deliveries from Darryl the mail lady and Fritz Earley the grain guy in the very same week.” She pitched her can and made it into the bin.

Tanner smirked, popping open another. “You could all eat each other over the winter and nobody would even know until the pass thawed.”

“You’re right.” Patience’s eyes went wide and she took a noisy sip. “That’s scary.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Sean said. “He’s completely full of shit.”

“A Donner Party waiting to happen,” Hazel muttered. Jinx twitched in his sleep beside her. She rubbed his soft belly and whispered, “It’s only a bad dream, boy.”

“You just don’t know yet,” Patience told Tanner, one hand on her hip. “We’ve got a lot to offer here.” She gestured wide.

“Are you offering me something?”

Flustered, she looked to Hazel for help. “I just meant . . .”

“All right already,” Sean said. “Give it a rest. Let’s finish these beers and go on a ride.”

“Can’t.” Patience rose and repositioned her shorts. “I have to go change for the rodeo.”

“Knock ’em dead,” Hazel told her as she was leaving.

Tanner stood and announced, “I gotta get ready too.”

“What for?” Sean asked.

Tanner hitched his thumbs through his belt loops and cocked his head. “I’m ridin’ in this here rodeo.”

“You’re joking,” Hazel said.

“Nope. Calf-roping contest. Uncle Pard’s letting me use his horse. Says Blackjack’ll know what to do. I just gotta hold on and swing the rope around the little cheeseburger’s neck.”

Hazel blew out her breath like oh, boy, while Sean scoffed.

Tanner turned and started to walk away. “I’ve been practicing,” he said.

“Break a leg!” Sean called, and Hazel noticed Tanner’s stride stiffen.

Sean handed her another can, which she took and held against her hot forehead.

“Think the Tilt-A-Whirl will make us puke after all this beer?” Sean asked.

Placing her can against his cheek because he looked overheated too, Hazel said, “Every ride’s an adventure.”


It was difficult for Hazel to decide who was the bigger blowhard: her father or her uncle.

First her dad took the stage above the rodeo field. Looking hot as blazes in his uniform, he droned on for a good five minutes, welcoming the out-of-towners and espousing Winslow’s many glories harking back to the boom days of the town’s founding in 1888. Shamelessly he tossed words like “grit” and “mettle” and “pluck” all over the oval ring.

They’re already here, Dad, thought Hazel, enough with the sales pitch.

Then, dressed in parade chaps and his customary scowl, her Uncle Pard wrested the microphone away and lectured on a vanishing way of life and the joys of freshly slaughtered beef, until finally: “It’s great y’all got out here to support us. Now enjoy the show!”

“Get on with the show already!” Sean yelled from beside her.

They’d jostled their way onto an area of the bleachers with a modicum of shade but it was still hot and Tilly Thacker sitting on the other side of Hazel smelled like damp laundry.

Hazel swiveled to take in the sweating crowd of tourists and what looked to be every soul in Winslow, and thought, What am I doing here.

Turning forward, she placed her cheek against Sean’s shoulder and whispered, “I wonder if Doc Simmons figured out what’s wrong with the cattle yet. I don’t see him here, do you?”

Sean shook his head just as Rose Peabody, Hazel’s boss at the Crock, squeezed by, struggling to maintain the integrity of her flimsy cardboard drink tray. She lost the battle and splashed cola on Hazel’s legs.

“Wonderful,” Hazel said, feeling cold, sticky soda dribble down her calves. “That feels great.”

“I’m so sorry, Hazel!” Rose cried, looking even more like Olive Oyl than usual with her skinny arms bared and her dark hair gathered in a low, fat bun. “I’ve been really lightheaded all day.” She shook her head as if to clear it.

“It’s all right,” Hazel said. “Please just sit down before you lose the rest of it.” Though Hazel rolled her eyes, it was impossible for her to ever be truly annoyed with Rose. No matter how many times a day Hazel had ventured into the Crock that first summer after her mother left, Rose had never failed to give her a gentle hug and an extra large scoop of rainbow sherbet.

Now, as Hazel watched Rose maneuver toward an open seat, she grew concerned; Rose didn’t look so good and Hazel worried she might faint and go tumbling down the bleachers, her bony Olive Oyl limbs knocking people in the head all the way to the ground.

Sean was wiping soda from Hazel’s thighs with the hem of his t-shirt. “Think the ants will find us soon?” he asked.

Before Hazel could fully contemplate that possibility, drums started up from behind the stands. From the stage, her father announced, “First, some local talent.”

“If you want to call it that,” Hazel said.

“Whoa,” Sean said, “check her out.”

The crowd cheered as Patience rode her appaloosa mare Trixie onto the field. Patience was outfitted head to toe in American cowgirl regalia: pure white hat, red suede vest festooned with silver stripes, and fringed blue chaps studded with rhinestone stars.

“She’s really outdone herself this time,” Hazel said.

“Freak,” Sean said.

As her horse galloped around the ring, Patience beamed, shiny eyes scanning the crowd.

“Bouncing in all the right places,” the guy in front of Sean felt the need to say out loud.

“Giddy up, cowgirl,” his pal added.

“Can you believe these smooth talkers don’t have dates?” Hazel said loud enough that they both turned around to glare at her. She scowled back; she always bristled when jerks like these two salivated over her friend.

After Trixie performed a high stepping, back-and-forth sort of dance that Hazel knew had taken Patience a month to perfect, the horse cantered up to the stage steps where Patience dismounted gracefully enough.

Next, the rodeo clown shuffled onto the field to the accompaniment of the Stepstone Valley High School band’s jerky rendition of Queen’s “We Will Rock You.”

Hazel stared in disbelief: Zachary Rhone as the clown? She’d always considered the baker to be wound way too tight. So tight, in fact, that he’d always scared her a little, as if at any moment he might snap into sharp angry pieces. Made scarier still, thanks to her Uncle Pard’s threat looming over them that he’d tell Zachary what really happened to his father. Yet here Zachary was, garbed in gigantic patched overalls and a bright red wig. She turned to Sean. “What’s he doing as the rodeo clown?”

“Got me.” Sean’s brown eyes narrowed. “Not a funny bone in that guy.”

Violet and Daisy Rhone were on the field now, too, along with a squadron of other little girls. Several were armed with pom-poms, others had batons; all were dancing offbeat to the music.

“Looks like Patience has some competition,” Sean said.

The band members marched around looking miserable, sweating it out beneath tall hats with yellow plumes. Behind them, Ben Mathers and Cal from the Fish ’n Bait and a few other old fogies wearing fezzes goose-stepped onto the field carrying Washington state and American flags.

“Are we the only locals who aren’t in this show?” Hazel asked, shifting in her seat. Her bottom was already aching from the metal bleacher, and thanks to all that beer, her bladder felt ready to burst.

Sean pushed hair off his forehead and smirked. “Nobody in my family is.”

“Lucky you,” she said. But as she watched her dad clapping along on the stage, in his element, her humiliation gave way to relief at the sight of him so much happier than he’d been that morning.

Then everyone simmered down while Winslow’s favorite bartender Marlene Spainhower gave “The Star-Spangled Banner” her all . . . and erupted in cheers at her short-winded conclusion.

With the opening pomp out of the way, her Uncle Pard again took the microphone. “Today I’m proud to announce that my own nephew will be first up in the calf roping competition. Let’s all give a big hand for Tanner Holloway on Blackjack!”

A few scattered claps sounded across the bleachers while Pard took off his hat and wiped his face with a blue bandanna. Hazel recognized that bandanna from last night, and thought her uncle was doing a bang-up job of pretending all things were precisely as they should be in Winslow.

She looked over at the bucking chutes to see Tanner mounted and ready with a loop of rope in one hand, another in his mouth. His right hand gripped the saddle horn for dear life.

“This I gotta see.” Sean sat forward, a sadistic grin on his face.

The cowhands released the calf and swung open Tanner’s chute gate but Blackjack just sat there until Kenny Clark smacked him hard on the rump. Then the horse bolted—kicking out behind and getting elevation—and Tanner instantly lost hold of the rope and saddle. He slid down and off the side, still hooked to the animal by one foot caught in the stirrup, dragging in the dirt until Blackjack finally shook him free and chased after the calf.

Tanner pushed himself up from the dirt, humiliation washing over his face.

Hazel pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Uncle Pard should’ve known that would happen.”

“No kidding. I almost feel sorry for him,” Sean said. “Almost.”

Clown Zachary tried to escort Tanner off the field but Tanner shoved him away and hobbled off on his own, the crowd laughing at the spectacle of Blackjack still pursuing the calf.

“And my uncle wonders why I show no interest in being a rancher,” Hazel said.

“All right,” Pard shouted overly loud into the mic. “Simmer down, folks. Up next we’ve got Holloway Ranch buckaroo Kenny Clark. Let’s show ’em how it’s done, Ken.”

At only nineteen, Hazel’s least favorite ranch hand already bore the leathered face of the older cowpokes. She had no doubt the filter-less cigarettes Kenny smoked helped that look along. But the weirdest thing to her about the Clarks was that they weren’t even from Winslow—they chose to move here.

Kenny shot out of the chute, lariat swinging high above his head, and lassoed the calf in seconds. To the cheers of the audience, he leapt off his horse, picked up the calf and slammed it down on its side. Then he tied three of the terrified creature’s bony legs together with his rope. Triumphant, Kenny stood to face the crowd, sucking up the applause.

“Not much of a match,” Hazel said, flashing on the furry little calf from last night and the way his blood had turned the white crescent moon markings on his face a deep red.

“Yeah, Kenny’s the kind of guy who gets off on torturing small defenseless animals,” Sean said.

“And shooting calves,” Hazel added. “Psychopath.”

By the time Kenny’s mother Maggie Clark finished the trick-riding routine she performed every year, the rodeo had been underway only half an hour but already dust was everywhere and Hazel could barely make out what was taking place down on the field.

Tilly Thacker leaned close to Hazel, her stench wafting in with her. “Anabel Holloway was the best trick rider we ever had in Winslow.” She gave a pitying sigh. “The best.”

Hazel crinkled her nose and recoiled from Tilly against Sean, her blood beginning to boil. What right did this nosy old bat have telling Hazel anything about Anabel Holloway?

Apparently overhearing, Sean put his arm around Hazel and pulled her closer. Too hot and agitated for comfort, she shrugged him off.

Following the applause for Maggie, it got quiet again, the dust settled, and Pard announced the bull-riding contest. “Some of you already know Indigo,” he said, “and that there’s never been a rider this boss couldn’t toss. Now let’s see if we can’t break that downright disgraceful four-second record and get us a real eight-second ride! Are you ready?”

The audience cheered and whistled.

Indigo chuffed and snorted in his chute as the bull rider lowered himself onto the animal’s broad back. Hazel had heard someone in the Crock say that he was an out-of-town cowboy trying his luck with this bull of some reputation; none of the local ranch hands would ride him twice.

After the cowboy adjusted his rope, he gripped it hard with his gloved right hand. His left arm hung balanced in the air. When he nodded to Old Pete, the chute gate flew open.

In a clang of cowbells the bull shot straight up before he slammed down and out of the chute, whipping the cowboy back and forth. In defiance of his incredible bulk Indigo bucked high again and the cowboy’s feet flew into the air. Somehow the cowboy recovered and held on.

Going on three seconds now, it looked as though the cowboy was about to break the infamous record when all of a sudden Indigo cracked his tremendous body sideways and simply shuddered to a stop, leaning precariously as if gravity might get the better of him and send him crashing to the dirt.

After a moment the bull lurched forward, taking each step gingerly as if he weren’t certain the ground would hold him. Hazel and Sean exchanged stunned looks while the audience dropped dead silent.

Clearly unsure as to what to do, the cowboy remained on the bull but looked nervously around the ring while the animal continued its slow, cautious advance.

Weaving around in his clown barrel, Zachary danced in front of Indigo, occasionally darting closer to kick the bull on the rump, trying to provoke the creature into more spirited action. When even that didn’t work, Old Pete rode up on horseback and pulled the cowboy off the bull. Zachary then scrambled the confused man off the field while Old Pete headed toward the stage to consult with Pard, who had shut off the mic but could still be heard shouting, “What the hell is going on?”

Hazel looked to the front of the stage where her dad suddenly seemed smaller . . . and much farther away. In the silence it struck her how bright everything appeared; how exposed the fifteen-hundred-pound bull looked standing stock-still now in the stark sunlight.

And then Indigo’s legs began to shake.

Alarmed murmurs rose from the crowd, like sound sleepers woken in the dead of night.

“Oh, no,” Hazel whispered. The bull was trembling exactly as the red cow had yesterday before she crumpled to the grass. Watching the solid bull shake, Hazel feared the whole mountaintop just might crash down on their heads next.

She looked at Sean, who was shaking his head as if to say, This is not good.

“Sit tight, folks,” Pard commanded from the stage. “We’ve got it handled.”

Old Pete rode up behind Indigo and the bull twisted around, lowered his massive head, and lined up his horns with the oncoming horse. Kenny Clark came at the bull from the side and tossed his rope, but he overshot the horns and the rope looped around the animal’s neck instead. Rather than drop the rope, Kenny pulled it tight. Though his rope was clearly digging into the bull’s neck, he pulled even tighter. Then another ranch hand charged in from the opposite direction and roped the bull by the horns.

After Pete repositioned his horse behind Indigo, Kenny and the other cowboy turned their horses hard, yanking the bull forward while Pete hounded his haunches, and the horses began to pull Indigo off the field in a bawl of protest.

Shouts of outrage erupted from the bleachers. Many stood and craned their necks. And a collective gasp sucked all the air out of the park when Indigo’s front legs buckled and his powerful chest hit the dirt. His back legs gave out next and his body collapsed to the ground in an explosion of dust.

Even then, the cowboys did not release the ropes. Instead, they dug in their spurs, urging the horses on, dragging the bull by the horns and the neck.

“Sheriff oughta do something,” Hazel heard a man say. She looked at her father, who stood uncharacteristically paralyzed. Only his eyes moved, following the bull.

Blood wept from Indigo’s neck where rope chafed flesh and the bull twisted and struggled to get to his feet with those cowbells still clanging like mad.

Clown Zachary danced in front of the bleachers, trying to distract the audience, failing to accomplish anything except look like the complete idiot that he was.

Hazel glanced around at the crowd. It was clear that while they knew the bull wasn’t right, they also felt this treatment was very wrong. Boos and empty beer cups rained down on the field until the audience finally lost sight of the bull behind the corral. But everyone could still hear Indigo bellowing.

A shot cracked, and after the horses whinnied, all was quiet again.

Until Pard Holloway’s voice boomed in the stunned silence. “Everything’s fine, folks. Stay where you are.”

But people were leaving, heading down the bleacher aisles toward the exit, grumbling and tossing trash.

“Hold on,” Pard ordered. “We’ll just take a quick break here. Get things tidied up. So go ahead and grab a cold one but get right back to your seats. Saddle bronc riding is up next.”

It was no use; Hazel could see it on their faces. Everyone felt hot and unsettled, and the animals were beginning to smell rank.

Sean turned to her. “That was f*cking harsh.”

“Yeah . . .” She looked first at him, then at the stage where her dad still stood dumbstruck.

And a strange look crossed Patience’s face right before she shot forward and vomited all over the stage, splashing the outfit she’d fussed over for weeks along with the Sheriff’s shiny shoes.

“Oh, my God,” Hazel gasped. “What’s wrong with Patience?”

Sean made a disgusted sound before running the back of his hand across his mouth. “I hope it’s not catching.”

Beside Hazel, Tilly complained, “I feel sick too.”

“It’s that Holloway beef,” Tilly’s husband Kohl Thacker said loud and clear. “Heard his animals have come down sick at the ranch.”

Tiny Clemshaw stopped next to the Thackers in the aisle, gesturing at them to keep it down. Then discreetly, as if he didn’t want the passing tourists to overhear, he leaned in and said, “It’s worse than that.” He glanced at the tourists again before adding: “I’m no friend of Holloway’s, but we best keep this to ourselves, you know, for all of our sakes.”

Hazel turned to Sean and silently mouthed, “They know.” Relief washed over her. Though it didn’t bode well for her uncle, at least now she no longer had to hide what she knew.

But then a cold fist clenched her heart. Taking Sean by the hand, she whispered, “How do they know?”

His eyes widened.

And Hazel shuddered in sudden panic. “Will Pard blame this on us?”