The Winslow Incident (4 page)

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.”

S
ean 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.”

S
weat 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.