Author: Grace Hamilton
Date: 2021-01-13 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Post Apocalyptic
Description: They’ll face an impossible choice in this new post-apocalyptic reality. Winter has arrived on the Healys’ Montana ranch. After discovering evidence of the cold-hearted execution of his father, Greg Healy has become consumed with a burning desire for revenge. While he hides his true purpose of scoping out the murderous enemy behind fruitless hunting trips, further responsibility is thrust upon Greg’s teenage son, Darryl. The ranch has become a hollow shell without the calm assurance and steady hand his father once provided, stability Darryl needs more than ever with the shocking secret he keeps

EMP: Return of the Wild West

Survive the Fall

Survive the Attack

Survive the Journey

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, JANUARY 2021

Copyright © 2020 Relay Publishing Ltd.

All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Grace Hamilton is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Post-Apocalyptic projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.

www.relaypub.com

Blurb

They’ll face an impossible choice in this new post-apocalyptic reality.

Winter has arrived on the Healys’ Montana ranch. After discovering evidence of the cold-hearted execution of his father, Greg Healy has become consumed with a burning desire for revenge. While he hides his true purpose of scoping out the murderous enemy behind fruitless hunting trips, further responsibility is thrust upon Greg’s teenage son, Darryl. The ranch has become a hollow shell without the calm assurance and steady hand his father once provided, stability Darryl needs more than ever with the shocking secret he keeps.

The fractures in the family only grow as each side becomes entrenched behind resentments that threaten to shatter an increasingly uncertain future. But as the Healy family drifts farther apart, the enemy has been anything but idle. Eustace has amassed a new and lethal force with a single goal: Take the Healys’ ranch by any means necessary and make them pay for permanently disabling him.

And when Eustace kidnaps one of their own, the Healys will face the most difficult choice of all: Sacrifice the ranch or risk the destruction of their family.

Prepper survivalist author Grace Hamilton invites you to step into a post-apocalyptic, EMP-ravaged world filled with strong, resourceful characters, survivalist knowledge, and edge-of-your seat action.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

End of Survive the Attack

Thank you!

About Grace Hamilton

Sneak Peek: Survive the Attack

Also By Grace Hamilton

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Prologue

Sometimes, Eustace felt like he was losing his mind. Of the people working for him in the warehouse, only one showed any real competence, and sadly, she was currently in town on assignment. That left only local goons like Donald and Benny, who did what they were told but lacked any real skill. At the moment, Donald was attempting to hoist a large metal drum onto a concrete plinth beside the metal cage that housed the backup generator.

“Lift with your legs,” Eustace said. “If you throw your back out, you’ll be useless. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“I’m trying to,” Donald replied. “Can’t you see that?”

Donald had been a local police officer before everything went bust, and he still wore the same black coat and a shiny silver belt buckle. Apparently, he’d worked for the former mayor before that gentleman had gotten himself killed by crossing wires with Tabitha Healy. That didn’t speak well of the man’s competence.

Hopefully, I’ll be compensating for his lack of skill soon, Eustace thought.

He had big plans, but he couldn’t get out of this foul mood. Of course, it didn’t help that his left arm was largely useless now. He felt the wound burning beneath the bandages, a constant source of frustration and fear that set his nerves on edge. Though he could move the arm, he couldn’t bear any weight, his grip was close to nothing, and antibiotics hadn’t helped. The wound hadn’t started off all that bad. Indeed, he’d expected it to heal after a few days, but lately it had taken a turn for the worse. Without access to proper medical care, nothing could be done about it at the moment. He would just have to endure it.

Eustace was standing in the broad, open doorway that connected the loading bays with the rest of the warehouse. Before him, tall shelves ran in long rows all the way to the front wall. Currently, most of the shelves were bare. However, as he gazed across the length of the vast gray space, he could envision the warehouse bursting at the seams with food and supplies. He would make that vision a reality, no matter what it took. Of course, Eustace Simpson wasn’t interested in simply hoarding stuff for his own enjoyment. What was the use of that?

As he made his way across the warehouse, he spotted Benny, another of his recently acquired workers, repairing one of the shelves near a side door. Apparently, it had been damaged by the former mayor’s cronies during a looting. Benny was a dull-eyed former pig farmer, with rough skin like the surface of Mars and fat hands. He didn’t talk much unless directly addressed, which was just fine.

“Can you see it, Benny?” Eustace said as he passed him.

Benny was screwing a bracket to the underside of the shelf, and he only spared Eustace the briefest of glances.

“What’s that, boss?” he said.

“This warehouse as a central hub for the whole community,” Eustace replied. “People coming and going, making deals, trading, signing contracts. Heck, we might even have to expand.”

“Before we expand, we have to fill the space we’ve already got,” Benny replied.

“Oh, we will. We will.” Eustace wagged a finger at him. In truth, he spoke as much to convince himself as anyone. Inwardly, he suffered from a sour stomach and a constant fidgeting anxiety. He desperately needed competent people—dangerous people.

“People in town don’t like us,” Benny replied. “They preferred Mayor Filmore.”

“I don’t need you to remind me of how the locals feel, okay?” Eustace said. “There are going to be dramatic changes. Mark my words.”

“If you say so,” Benny replied.

The backup generator only produced enough power to get the lights and automatic doors working. It couldn’t handle the refrigerated storage or the HVAC, but at least the walls were insulated. That kept out the worst of the cold. Indeed, Benny had worked up a sweat.

Eustace turned. Donald was still struggling to get the oil drum onto the plinth, and he was bent at the back again. It would go a lot quicker if he had help, of course, but Eustace was determined to make the man do it himself.

“You’re still lifting with your back, Donald,” he shouted across the room. His voice echoed against the high ceiling. “How many times do I have to tell you not to do that? I’ll thump your skull for you.”

“It’s heavy as hell,” Donald shouted back, dabbing his cheeks and forehead with his sleeve. “It’s a full drum of diesel oil. I need help.”

“No, you don’t. Toughen up. I’m sick of it, Donald.”

He heard a strange cry then. It came from the front office, where he’d stationed two of his men beside the building’s main entrance. The old grocery distribution warehouse was like a little fortress. It had insulated walls, solid metal doors, and no exterior windows. To keep an eye on the exterior, he had to either appoint someone to walk the perimeter or periodically peer out the doors.

“Sounds like we’ve got company,” he said, beckoning Benny to follow him.

With a scowl, Benny set down his screwdriver and followed Eustace to the front of the building. A small door led into a carpeted hallway that bent at a right angle before joining up with a sparse reception area. Eustace had plans for this part of the building, big plans, but that was not a priority. Supplies, weapons, and local control came first. It was all precarious, though. This was the most fragile time. The next few days would lay the foundation.

He strode down the hall and entered the reception area. The room had a table in the middle and a large, unadorned desk in the corner. At the moment, one of his men was standing near the table, rifle in hand, while another man stood with his back to the front door.

“What are you yelling about?” Eustace asked the man at the door.

“A whole bunch of people approaching the parking lot,” he replied. “They’re armed.”

“Is Pam with them?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. I didn’t get a good look. As soon as I saw the weapons, I shut the door, but the man in front seems dangerous.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. What kind of a guard are you? Worthless.” Eustace waved the man aside. When he didn’t move out of the way fast enough, Eustace planted a hand on his shoulder and shoved him. This sent the man stumbling toward the table, where he knocked over a couple of chairs before catching himself.

“Be ready,” Eustace said, laying his good hand on the door handle, “just in case it’s a bunch of hostile locals or roaming bandits. But don’t open fire unless I say so.”

“You got it, boss,” Benny said.

Eustace would have drawn his weapon—he always had a handgun holstered at his hip—but he couldn’t open the door and hold a pistol at the same time. His injured arm was no good for either task. He looked down at it, cursing under his breath, as he felt fresh blood seeping into the bandage.

I’ll get revenge, he thought, for the thousandth time. Whatever else happens, that’s a priority.

“Back me up, Benny,” Eustace said. “Come on.”

With his good hand, he turned the door handle and flung the door open, catching it with his foot. Then he reached for his pistol. He saw the group, six people bundled up against the cold, approaching from the driveway beyond the parking lot. Well-armed, each bore a rifle. The one in the lead had a pair of mirrored ski goggles hiding half his face, a high fur-lined hood hiding the rest.

“What do you want? Who are you?” Eustace called out, raising the handgun.

The man reached up and pushed the hood down, revealing a short and thick black beard, lips bisected by a shiny scar. Then he raised his goggles, revealing a set of small, fierce eyes.

“Is that any way to greet your only hope, Eustace Simpson?” he said.

A person behind him strode forward then, tipping back the broad-brimmed hat on her head to reveal a sharply angled face. “I found him at his sister’s house,” Pam Grasier said. “He seemed reluctant to come. That’s why it took so long.”

The man brushed past her and approached the front door.

“James,” Eustace said. “James Teagan.”

“I don’t like being summoned like a criminal,” James replied, waving Eustace aside.

Eustace wouldn’t have responded to such a gesture if it had been anyone else. For James Teagan, he willingly—if grumpily—stepped to one side, holding the door for him. The man strode inside the building as if he owned the place, giving a brief, unfriendly look at the two guards beside the table.

“There’s nothing hostile about sending a welcoming committee,” Eustace said.

“I told you I’m in town on personal business,” James replied. “I intended to come here as soon as I was good and ready. By the way, this town is in sorry shape. Is that your doing?”

“Of course not,” Eustace replied. “The mayor of the town was a bit of a loose cannon, which got him murdered. He left things in an unfortunate condition.”

Pam stepped through the door, following by four other men that Eustace didn’t know.

“I picked up a few more locals,” James said, gesturing at the men. “You need more muscle if you’re going to whip the community into shape.”

“Very good,” Eustace said, letting the door swing shut as the last of the men stepped through. Being both relieved and anxious at the same time produced a curious discomfort, and Eustace didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Well, if you’re looking for help with your little operation here, you’ve got it,” James said. “As long as you make it worth my while.”

“Don’t I always?”

James took a seat on the edge of the table, cradling his rifle like it was his very own child. “Well, I suppose if I’m going to help you whip things into the shape, I’ll need a grand tour. How do you feel about taking a nice long walk with me? I’d like to scout the area.”

Eustace nodded. “I was planning on taking a walk anyway.”

“Good,” James said. “Things are about to change, Eustace. You know what I’m capable of. This town doesn’t, but they’re going to learn.”

“That’s what I hope.”

1

It wasn’t the most beautiful, or technically precise, birthday cake he’d ever seen. Unlike the sheet cakes he was used to getting from Loblaw’s, this one was a bit crooked, sort of wilted on a couple of corners, and the icing was a bit lumpy. Still, it was a real, live birthday cake, made without any prepackaged grocery store ingredients, and that made it glorious.

“Wow, Grandma, that looks amazing,” Darryl Healy said. “It’s a real cake! How did you get all the ingredients?”

His grandmother, Tabitha Healy, was grinning. She was a leathery old woman, gnarled brown hands with prominent knuckles, rough skin, and short gray hair. And she had a voice to match. “Had to trade with a neighbor for the eggs. We’ll need some chickens on this ranch, I suppose, so we can get our own eggs, but there it is. We had all the rest of the ingredients, even a bit of cocoa powder. Chocolate is your favorite, as I recall?”

It wasn’t, but he wasn’t going to say it. “It’s the best, Grandma. Thank you.”

His entire family—his new family, as he thought of them—were all standing around the dining room table, where the cake was displayed on a glass cake stand for all to see and admire. Despite the fire crackling in the fireplace, it was cold in the house, and everyone was wearing multiple layers and thick sweaters. His mother, Marion Healy, was pouring iced tea into cups—well, iced tea wasn’t accurate, since they didn’t have ice, at least not clean ice. There had been a brief discussion of using snow in place of ice, but no one had been particularly excited about that.

“How did we have enough sugar for all of this?” Darryl asked, gesturing at the tea and the cake. “It must’ve taken a lot.”

Tabitha glanced at Marion, hesitated a moment, then said, “Well, actually, we had to use the last of the sugar, but don’t you worry about that. It’s your birthday, and we’re going to celebrate. We need to celebrate, if you ask me, after all we’ve been through.” She shook her head, and for a second Darryl thought she was going to cry. But she didn’t. Instead, she pressed her lips together tightly, took a deep breath through her nostrils, and seemed to regain control of herself.

Still missing Grandpa, Darryl thought. Of course, she was. The funeral had been a little over a month ago. Sometimes, Darryl felt as if all of the death and bloodshed hadn’t sunk in yet—the awful gunfight, dragging the bodies, all of it. That’s my life now.

“Emma did most of the work,” Tabitha added. “She found a recipe in an old recipe book of mine in the den, and she mixed the batter and made the frosting. Your sister is pretty good at whatever she puts her mind to.”

Darryl’s younger sister, Emma, was standing in the kitchen doorway in a puffy pink sweater, beaming. Darryl wasn’t surprised to learn that she’d baked the cake. She was always finding something to do around the ranch. Though she was the youngest person in the family, she had the most initiative, and she liked to find new tasks to occupy her mind. Darryl couldn’t keep up with her. The poor girl had been shot in the leg not a month earlier, and even that hadn’t slowed her down. Though she was mostly healed now, she walked with just a slight limp, hardly noticeable. But she never complained about the wound. In fact, she rarely mentioned it.

They’d managed to scrounge up a couple of candles for the birthday cake, and Darryl’s father brought a long match from the fireplace to light them. As the candles crackled and flickered, Darryl thought it felt like a little bit of normalcy in a world that had otherwise turned to absolute chaos.

“Blow out your candles,” Justine said, “but make a wish first. A good one. Don’t waste it.”

Justine Carmichael, his closest friend—and a lot more than just a friend—was standing beside him in her purple hooded sweatshirt. Her long black hair spilled out of the front of her hood on either side of her face and hung down like strange tassels. The only survivor of her family, she’d moved in with the Healys after her parents and sister were killed by the corrupt former mayor, Gene Marshall Filmore. She’d taken over the upstairs guest room, and as far as Darryl was concerned, she fit right in. It felt like she’d always been there.

Darryl leaned over, but he couldn’t think of a good birthday wish. He wanted to ask for something specific, something meaningful, but long seconds were passing and everyone was staring at him. For a better future, he thought finally, then he blew out the candles. Everyone applauded, as if he’d accomplished something, and he smiled, embarrassed.

“Seventeen years old,” Horace Bouchard said. The old man was the only one sitting down. He’d taken one of the padded chairs and pushed it back into a corner of the dining room. “Almost old enough to vote.” Horace had been the nearest neighbor to the Healy ranch for years—a crusty but kindhearted old Canadian Armed Forces veteran—but once violence broke out in town, he’d moved in with them as well. As a double amputee, he depended on a pair of prosthetic legs to get around. Though the legs were old and uncomfortable, he never complained.

“If there even are elections by the time he’s eighteen,” Darryl’s mother said.

She cut the first slice of cake and tipped it sideways onto a plate.

She handed the plate to Darryl, but he passed it to Justine, who accepted it with a nod and dug in.

“There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask,” Justine said, through a mouthful of cake. “So, you’re just now turning seventeen, but you’ve got college textbooks on your desk upstairs. What’s that all about?”

“He skipped a grade,” Marion explained, cutting a second slice of cake. “Just like me. Got started on college early.”

Darryl’s dad spoke up. “Skipping grades runs in the family, on Marion’s side, not my side.”

“Well, now, Greg, let’s not forget, your father skipped three grades,” Tabitha said.

“That’s because he dropped out of school to take care of the family farm,” Greg said.

“It still counts as skipping,” Tabitha said.

“If you say so.”

Darryl finally accepted a slice of cake. His mother made sure he got an enormous slice. He dug in with the fork and found that the texture wasn’t quite right. It was dense as a pound cake, and when he tasted it, he realized it wasn’t sweet enough. Still, it was cake, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten cake.

And this might be the last time ever, he realized. A world without birthday cake! How awful.

As if to confirm this thought, his mother said, “I guess for the next birthday, we’ll make waffles or something. I don’t know.”

“Wow, what if this is the last bite of cake I ever eat in my life?” Justine said, holding up the last small chunk of her cake on the end of her fork. “I guess I’d better burn it into my memory, like I did the last time I ate a slice of fresh pineapple. Gone forever. I’ll only eat cake in my dreams.” And with that, she plunged the cake into her mouth and appeared to roll it around on her tongue.

Watching her eat, with his whole family standing around the table, Darryl had a sudden realization. Even though the world had changed, even though they struggled every single day, and even though he might be eating the last piece of cake he would ever eat, he was still happier than he’d ever been. Before the EMP, he’d been struggling to find enough motivation to make it through college, just sort of drifting from day to day, but now he had purpose. He had work to do, people to care about.

By the somber look on Justine’s face, he assumed she didn’t feel quite the same way. She was mostly staring at her empty plate now, as if she were already reminiscing about the lost cake. He nudged her with his elbow, and she blinked rapidly, as if pulling herself out of her thoughts. Then she set the empty plate on the table.

“It was decent,” she said, softly.

“It won’t be the last cake ever,” Darryl’s sister said suddenly. There was a sharp edge to Emma’s voice, as if she found the idea offensive. “We’ll make another one somehow. Just you wait and see. Heck, we’ll grow our own sugar cane if we have to.”

“Not sure we can grow sugar cane in this environment,” Tabitha said, “but there are other kinds of natural sweeteners. Plenty of maple sugar, for example.”

“Maple cake,” Emma said, making a disgusted face. “No thanks. Maple belongs in cookies, not cake.”

From his seat in the corner, Horace Bouchard accepted the tiniest sliver of cake. “Can’t eat much more than this,” he said. “Never was much one for sweets. I’m more of a steak and potatoes guy.” And then he proceeded to pick up the entire slice and cram it all in his mouth. Horace was a tough-looking old guy. Though he was in his late sixties, Darryl could still see the hard edges of the old soldier. Firelight from the living room flickered faintly on the metal poles of his prosthetic legs.

“Now, steak we have,” Tabitha said. “We’ve got more salted beef down in the root cellar than we know what to do with. You’ll get your wish come dinner time, Horace.”

“That suits me just fine,” Horace said. “You put me to work, and I’ll earn that meal.”

“Oh, Horace, you’ve earned your keep around here and then some,” Tabitha said.

Darryl thought his grandmother looked tired, and he considered saying something. She also served herself a rather large piece of cake, which surely wasn’t good for her diabetic diet. Darryl worried about her health, and he kept an eye on her constantly, looking for signs or symptoms of a deteriorating condition. She pushed herself too much, and she’d been standing around all morning. Fortunately, she soon pulled a chair back and sat down, fanning herself with her hand.

After cake, Darryl grabbed his coat and made his way onto the porch, brushing off one of the rocking chairs before sitting down. Deep snow covered the front yard, hiding the driveway and piling up on the fence posts. After a minute, Justine joined him, having changed into ski pants. When she settled into her seat, she didn’t bother brushing off the snow.

“I like that feeling,” she said, “when you sink down into the snow. It’s sort of comforting.”

“Isn’t it cold on your butt?” he said.

“Sure, but I don’t mind the cold,” she replied with a shrug. She jammed her hands into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and gazed off toward the fence. Darryl heard a soft crunch as she slowly sank deeper into the snow of her seat.

Darryl rocked quietly for a minute. There was a profound silence, the piles of snow making the whole world feel insulated and still. Fortunately, the rest of the family took a hint and didn’t join them on the porch right away. He heard them moving around inside. Someone was stoking the fire in the fireplace. Someone else was headed upstairs.

Justine had pushed her hood back just enough to reveal her face. Dark eyes, round cheeks, jet-black hair—he’d grown very fond of that face. However, there was something downcast in her eyes, something distant in her gaze. She seemed upset, though he couldn’t imagine why. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. What if she didn’t want to talk about it? Still, he hated to see her like this, especially on his birthday.

She wasn’t the only one. Darryl’s father hadn’t said more than ten words during the birthday celebration. Heck, he hadn’t said more than about twenty words in the last two days. Why now, after they’d done so much to recover from the attack, from the tragedy, from all of the awfulness after the EMP, why now were some sliding into despair?

Talk about it later, he told himself. For now, just try to enjoy the day. You’re seventeen. It’s your birthday, and things aren’t so bad anymore.

2

Eventually, everyone else made their way onto the porch. At first, Darryl thought they were just being nosy, but then he saw that his grandmother was carrying a big ceramic bowl of what appeared to be pink ice cream. His mother brought smaller bowls and spoons, and Horace Bouchard had a roll of paper towels.

“Whoa, where did you get ice cream?” Darryl asked.

“Made it with snow, of course,” Tabitha said. “Emma set a big bowl out early this morning to catch the snowfall, then we added some fresh cream, used the last of some sweet cherry flavoring I had in the kitchen, and here you go. Don’t worry, the snow is clean out here. This isn’t big city snow.”

She set the big bowl on the table between the chairs. As Marion began scooping ice cream into smaller bowls, Darryl rose from his rocking chair and offered it to Horace. The old veteran was standing at the railing, looking uncomfortable and leaning heavily on his crutch. When Darryl waved him toward the chair, he first shook his head, but then he seemed to think better of it. With a grunt, he lowered himself into the chair. The old man couldn’t bear his weight for long, and when he was tired, he could hardly stand at all.

Darryl joined his father at the handrail, gazing off across the snowy yard toward the fence. When initially constructed, they’d worked so quickly that the fence was an ugly, ill-designed mess. In the past few weeks, they’d done quite a bit of work reinforcing it, but it still looked much better when it was partially hidden by snow. As Darryl was considering this, his mother handed him a bowl of ice cream and handed another bowl to Justine.

“I know it sounds weird with all the snow we get around here, but I’ve never had this before,” Justine said, staring at the pink ice cream. “My parents never bothered to make it. They didn’t like it when I used to pluck the icicles off the house and eat them.” For a second, Darryl thought she might cry, but she merely sighed, shook her head, and scooped up some snow ice cream.

Darryl took a bite and found that it was decent. Not quite the texture of ice cream, but close enough. At least as good as the cake, and he didn’t have to fear that it would be the last time he would ever eat it. Still, he savored every bite.

“What do you think, Dad?” Darryl asked his father.

His father was mostly just holding his ice cream and staring off into the distance. When his dad didn’t answer right away, Darryl almost dropped the attempt, but too many people were around them. It was awkward, so he cleared his throat. Finally, his dad took another bite of ice cream and turned toward him, moving suddenly like a machine that had just been switched on.

“It’s pretty good,” he said. “I mean, personally, I always preferred Chapman’s Cherry Chocolate, but this is the next best thing. Good job, Mom.”

“The next best thing. What high praise,” Tabitha replied sarcastically.

Once again, Darryl’s sister, Emma, was standing in the front door and beaming. She’d probably taken the initiative to make the ice cream. She wasn’t even eating any herself. Apparently, watching others enjoy it was enough. Darryl was just about to say something—both complimenting her and picking on her the way only an older brother can—when he heard a sudden loud crack and snap.

He turned around, seeking the source of the sound. It sounded like a tree falling over. Everyone on the porch reacted as if they were under attack. Justine lunged to her feet. Marion and Tabitha stepped in front of Emma. Horace began struggling to his feet.

“What was that?” Darryl asked.

He turned toward the barn and saw movement beyond the tree at the far corner of the fence. As the initial crack turned into a cascade, a section of the fence crumbled onto the ground beside the tree. It looked like someone had given it an almighty shove from the other side, splintering the fence right down the middle and knocking over eight or nine boards.

“Quality construction,” Darryl noted, watching the boards collapse in a pile. He hoped the embarrassment didn’t show on his face. After all, he’d built that particular section of the fence all by himself. “Call the contractor and complain. We got ripped off.”

“It’s been a stormy winter,” Horace said. “Lots of high winds. Even a sturdy fence can get knocked over.”

Darryl’s dad gave a big harrumph and set his bowl of ice cream down on the handrail. He’d only taken a couple of bites. “Yeah, but we just finished reinforcing the fence. I don’t see why a big section of it would just topple over all of a sudden, even with the wind. The weight of the snow isn’t nearly enough to account for it.” He tossed his spoon into the bowl and headed for the porch stairs. “I’d better investigate. It’ll need to be fixed right away. The rest of you stay here and enjoy the party.”

He started down the steps, tromping through the deep snow with his boots.

“Dad, you can fix the fence later,” Emma called out. “We’re having Darryl’s party now. I have other activities planned. We’re going to play some games.”

“You go ahead and have fun without me,” Dad said. “I’ll be along in a little bit.”

“The ranch can wait,” Emma said, pushing past her mother. “It’s more important to celebrate Darryl’s birthday and spend time together.”

Marion stepped up beside her daughter. “I agree with Emma, Greg. Family needs to be celebrated, especially after all we’ve been through. Don’t worry about the fence. There will be plenty of time to fix it later.”

Greg paused a moment, stomping his boots deep into the snow. “Look, that’s a nice sentiment, but we’re nothing without this ranch. Safety must come first, always. Always. We know what’s out there in the world.”

Nobody spoke for a few seconds, and Darryl felt the tension in the air. Personally, Darryl thought his dad was right. They had plenty of time to sit around and eat snacks, birthday or not, but any chink in their armor put them at risk. Some passing bandit might see the broken fence as an opportunity, and they’d heard plenty of stories of banditry from neighbors. Still, Darryl wasn’t going to be the first to agree, not when he could see Emma scowling out of the corner of his eye.

Fortunately, Grandma ended the awkward silence. “I helped plan the party and all, but I’m afraid Greg is right. Let’s get that fence repaired. We have to stay on top of things. I mean, family can only thrive if we focus on survival. I’ll go get the tools and bring them to you at the fence.”

And with that, Grandma slipped past Marion and Emma and went inside.

“Yeah, I guess I’m with Grandma,” Darryl said. “We can still play games later, Emma, and the snow ice cream will stay cold out here on the porch, but we’d better fix the fence. Thanks for everything.”

Still, he couldn’t make eye contact with her as he headed down the steps toward his dad. Greg resumed trudging across the yard, dragging his feet as he went so that he left a long, deep trail behind him. As Darryl followed, he heard Emma give a low, grumbling sigh under her breath.

3

The snow was so deep against the fence, Greg would have to shovel the area before he could work. The boards had fallen beside the tree, and he stooped down to pick them up, leaning them against the trunk. Mostly, it just looked like shoddy construction. The old wood, scrap from a dismantled shed, had lacked enough support, and the little bit of extra weight and pressure from snow had finally pushed it over. As he was picking up the boards, he glanced in the direction of the porch. Emma and Marion had retreated back inside, leaving the big bowl of snow ice cream sitting on the table.

I wasn’t cranky or rude about it, he thought. I explained my reasoning in a calm manner. Why did Emma get so bent out of shape? She’s old enough to understand what’s most important, especially after all we went through in the wilderness.

His son, Darryl, was approaching, looking a bit sheepish, as if he were afraid to get too close to Greg. On the porch, Justine and Horace remained.

“I figured you could use some help,” Darryl said, kicking through the snow. “After all, I built the stupid fence. It’s my fault if it’s falling down all of a sudden.”

“You did the best you could with the resources at hand and limited time,” Greg said. “Do me a favor, son, and go get the snow shovels from the barn. We’ll have to clear this area.” He gestured at the deep snow drift against the fence.

“Sure,” Darryl replied. As he set off toward the front of the barn, Justine hopped up from her chair and came down the porch steps to intercept him. Even Horace looked like he was struggling to get up and join them, reaching for his crutch.

With a sigh, Greg resumed picking up the fallen boards, pulling out some of the loose nails with his bare hands. It felt like he’d ruined everyone’s day. Of course, his family didn’t know everything that he knew. They didn’t know about the animal tracks on the other side of the fence, evidence of at least one big cat that had tried to find an easy way over.

After a minute, Darryl and Justine reappeared, coming from the direction of the barn with large snow shovels in their hands. Greg approached and reached out to take the shovel from Darryl, but his son shook his head.

“I’ve got it, Dad,” he said.

“You sure?” Greg replied. “On your birthday?”

“Yeah, I don’t mind.”

Greg relented and stepped back while Darryl and Justine went to work clearing snow along the fence. They worked well together, quickly falling into a rhythm where one dug in while the other turned and dumped. They made an interesting pair. Greg was happy that his son had found someone to spend time with, but Justine Carmichael was such an odd girl. She would spend long periods of time just quietly staring at things from under the shadow of her hood, and then she would be taken with fits of talkativeness. It was almost like she was two people. He’d noticed she wore the same style of hooded sweatshirts practically every day, and she liked to keep the hood up.

She’s helpful, and she rarely complains about anything, he reminded himself. Plus, she pretty much saved my family from that awful Mayor Filmore and his cronies, and she’s a decent shot at medium range.

While they were working, Tabitha walked out to them, carrying Tuck’s old rusty toolbox. She set it at Greg’s feet and motioned at it. “Will these do?” she asked.

“Those will do just fine,” he replied. “You go back on inside and let us handle this, Mom.”

“Don’t step on any rusty nails,” she said, as she headed back toward the house.

Darryl and Justine soon cleared a spot beside the fence, but they kept working, widening the clearing to provide plenty of room to work. Greg was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice anyone else coming up behind him until he heard a familiar clank and thump from just over his shoulder. He turned to see Horace Bouchard hobbling toward the fence. He had a crutch under his left armpit, but he was dragging the smaller porch chair with his right hand.

“I’m pretty handy at home repairs, you know,” Horace said. “I figured you might need me on the fence.”

“Don’t strain yourself there, Horace,” Greg said. “I’d hate for you to take a tumble.”

“That’s what this nice comfy chair is for,” Horace said, with a gap-toothed grin, setting the chair in front of the tree. “You know I’m not completely crippled, right? I can get around just fine, as long as I sit to rest now and again.”

“I know,” Greg said. “I would never underestimate you, sir. You’ve been a big help around here.”

Horace gave him another gummy grin. When he smiled, his wrinkled face bunched up around the cheeks in a way that made him seem about two hundred years old. His white hair had gotten long and wild, strands sticking out in all directions like uncontrollable weeds.

“I’ll tell you what you really need,” Horace said. “Replace this wooden fence with a stone wall. Turn the ranch into a fortress, then nobody’ll get in here. Of course, you’ll have to dig out your own rock quarry first, but that shouldn’t take too long.” If not for the smile on his face, Greg would have thought he was being serious. Horace had an especially dry sense of humor. It wasn’t always easy to tell when he was joking. “How deep down can the bedrock be in Northern BC, after all? Twenty meters, thirty?”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Greg replied. “Maybe a brick wall. That would be something to consider, if we could get our hands on the bricks. Maybe we could salvage the ruins of an abandoned house.”

Darryl took a deep breath and tossed his snow shovel aside. “I think that’ll work, Dad. What do you say?”

Justine followed suit, deftly tossing her snow shovel in a low arc so that it landed right beside Darryl’s shovel. They’d cleared a space about five meters wide in front of the fence, opening an area roughly as long as the broken portion of the fence. The exposed grass was brown and mostly dead.

“That’ll work, guys,” Greg said. “Good job. Now, we just have to get these boards back up and strengthen them. Why don’t you go to the shed and get some more scrap wood? See what you can find.”

Justine gave him a weird little salute as the two headed off toward the big shed beside the house. The girl was frowning, but he couldn’t tell if she was in a bad mood, worried about something, or if it was just her normal expression.

Once they were gone, Greg approached the fence. It had broken roughly two meters from the bottom, toppling over at a spot just above the middle brace. As Greg stepped up to the fence, he heard Horace approaching. Greg grabbed the broken edge of the fence and leaned over, looking at the ground on the other side.

“Damn,” he muttered. There in the snow, he spotted several footprints. They were clear as day and very recent—fresh footprints tracing a path from the trees on the south side of the property right up to the broken portion of the fence and then back to the east, where the fence ran close to the barn. “A person did this,” he said, seething. “Damaged the fence while we were in the middle of our party. What kind of a lowlife would even think of doing something like that?”

“Well, whoever it was, they’re pretty bold walking right up to the property like that,” Horace said.

“Someone who would knock a section of the fence down like that is either desperate or crazy,” Greg said. “Either way, they’re dangerous. Looks like they headed toward the barn. I’d better make sure they didn’t get through. Stay here and wait for the kids, would you? Put them to work on repairs when they get back.”

“Will do, boss,” Horace said, returning to his chair. “Just be careful. Grab a weapon first.”

“Good idea.”

Greg diverted back to the house, where the bowls of ice cream sat forgotten and melting. He ducked inside, grabbing the Remington Model 700 rifle that he kept on a shelf near the front door. For the few seconds he was inside, he heard Emma and Tabitha chatting in the kitchen.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be a such a stick in the mud all the time,” Emma was saying. “It’s okay sometimes to just relax and spend time with your family. Who cares about a little bit of the fence breaking?”

“Your dad’s got a lot on his mind,” Tabitha replied.

Boy, you said it, Greg replied. He made a mental note to have a conversation with his daughter later. He couldn’t afford to let his kids start resenting him, especially when he was just trying to keep them safe.

He checked to make sure the rifle was loaded, then headed toward the barn. As he was crossing the yard, he saw Darryl pushing a wheelbarrow full of scrap lumber, while Justine lugged a bucket of nails

“What’s going on, Dad?” Darryl asked. “Are we in trouble?”

“Just checking something out,” Greg replied. “Get to work on that fence.”

As he walked past them toward the front of the barn, he heard Justine mutter, “That means we’re in trouble. Otherwise, he would’ve said no.”

You catch on fast, Greg thought.

He headed around to the backside of the barn, rifle at the ready in case some weirdo came leaping out of the shadows. The world was crazy enough now that such a thing wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. The snow was deep here, past mid-calf, so he found himself dragging his boots to make progress. The gap between the back of the barn and the fence was just wide enough to get the animals out and lead them into the pasture.

When he rounded the corner, he saw immediately that another section of fence had been removed. Unlike the big section that had toppled over, this was a more meticulous job. It looked like a few boards had been carefully pried away and set aside. Furthermore, the sliding back door of the barn was wide open.

“Sneaky little scumbag,” he muttered. Had they knocked down a section of fence just to draw attention away from the barn? Just to get the family busy working on repairs so they would be distracted?

Greg went to the back door of the barn and kicked it shut. He could see the tracks of a cow headed from the door through the gap in the fence and out across the yard, moving parallel with the human footprints at an angle toward the trees.

Greg felt such a rush of anger—of blind rage—that, for a minute, he had to just stand there at the fence, clutching the rifle, as his whole body shook with it. He wanted to aim the rifle in the direction the thief had gone and just unload, but he knew that was irrational.

Get ahold of yourself, he said. You can’t afford to be on edge. Deal with it calmly and rationally.

When he’d finally suppressed most of the anger, he headed back toward the others. Darryl, Justine, and Horace were already putting up the new boards, nailing them to the framework and reinforcing them with extra boards that went all the way to the ground.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Darryl asked again.

“You just keep working on the fence,” Greg replied. “One of the cows got out. I’m going to track it down. Looks like it headed into the trees.”

“Did someone steal one of our cows?” Darryl asked.

“It’s possible, but I’ll handle it,” Greg said. “If anything, it’s just a desperate loser who saw an opportunity.”

Horace had dragged the chair up beside the fence, and he was currently driving nails into the framework. The man had an amazing hammering technique. He could drive a nail all the way to the head in two or three blows, and he never missed.

“I’d go with you, Greg,” he said. “I just don’t think my legs would get through the snow drifts. Want me to get that sniper rifle and perch myself up in the tree there? My aim isn’t what it used to be, but I might be able to scare off any thieves, at least.”

“No, Horace, but thanks for the offer,” Greg said. “You three keep working. There’s another gap in the fence that needs to be fixed behind the barn. When you’re done here, work on that one too. I’ll head out and take care of our little thief.”

“Dad, be careful,” Darryl said.

“Don’t worry,” Greg said. “I’m just going to get back what he stole, but I’ll be ready for anything. Don’t tell your mom or grandma. No sense in worrying them. I’ll be back soon enough.”

He checked the rifle to make sure the safety was off and headed for the gate. When he got to it, he unlatched it and slid it open just enough to slip through, then pulled it shut behind him.

This thief picked the wrong family to mess with, he thought, heading along the fence toward the long tracks.

4

Justine was still in a funk, and Darryl wasn’t sure how to pull her out of it. She normally liked to talk about random little things when they worked, but at the moment she was mostly brooding. She’d retreated deeper into her hood, as she often did when she was in a bad mood. Horace didn’t seem to notice, but then again, the old man didn’t know Justine all that well. He was just humming away as he worked, his gnarled hands driving in nails with expert aim.

“We should double layer this whole section of fence,” Horace said, gesturing with his hammer. “And a little bit beyond. That’ll keep it from being pushed over again.”

“Pushed over?” Darryl asked. “So, it was definitely a person who did it? It wasn’t just knocked over by the wind or by shoddy construction?”

“It was some little twerp,” Horace said, picking up another board. “Your dad will take care of him, though, so don’t you worry about that.”

“I hope Dad doesn’t do something crazy,” Darryl said. “He doesn’t need to get in a gun battle with bandits over a stupid cow. We’ve got more cows than we need anyway.”

“It’s more than just the cow or the fence,” Horace said. “If you let people know your property is an easy target, thieves will keep coming back. It’s a lot safer to return to a place that’s easy pickings than to break into a new place you’re unsure about. Your dad has to set a precedent. You follow me?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Darryl said.

“Well, he’d better be careful not to shoot the cow,” Justine said, setting a board against the fence. “Because then what’s the point?”

“I don’t know,” Horace said. “Fresh meat instead of salted meat sounds pretty good to me.”

They continued to work for a while, but it soon became clear Horace couldn’t easily repair the upper part of the fence. While he was okay to stand for a while, he had to lean on his crutch to do so, which hindered work. Finally, he shoved a bunch of nails into his vest pocket, tucked a hammer under his belt, and said, “You kids keep working on this part of the fence. I’m going to drag my chair back behind the barn and see if I can’t work on the other part.”

“Do you need any help getting over there, sir?” Darryl asked.

“No, I believe I can make it,” Horace replied. “It’s good exercise. If I fall down and can’t get up, I’ll start shouting up a storm. I know you’ll hear it.”

Darryl had once rescued the old man from the second-floor landing of his house after hearing him shouting loud enough to be heard half a kilometer away. He could blast out noise when he really wanted to.

Horace grabbed the back of the chair, tucked the crutch under his armpit, and began making his way toward the barn one unsteady step at a time. Darryl watched him go before turning back to the fence. Justine had been quietly working through all of this. Indeed, she’d only made a few sporadic comments, mostly sarcastic. Though she hadn’t said anything to make him worry, there was something in the air. He felt the tension radiating off of her. Had something at the party upset her? If so, why wouldn’t she say anything?

She’s not going to bring it up, dummy, he scolded himself, raising a board to the upper part of the fence. And you won’t get her to bring it up by dancing around it, not this time. You’ll have to be direct.

Justine was hammering a nail, missed the head, and clipped the edge of her thumb before hitting the fence. She flung the hammer down and shouted a string of curses so loudly they echoed on the far side of the ranch. Then she flung her hood back, kicked through the snow, and jammed her thumb into her mouth.

“You kids okay over there?” Horace called from the back corner of the barn.

“It’s okay,” Darryl called back. “Justine just hit her thumb.”

“It’s not okay,” she growled, wiping her thumb on the side of her sweatshirt. “Don’t speak for me, please. I smashed my thumb. I know if I’m okay or not, and I’m not okay.” She turned her back to him, clutching the thumb in her other hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Can I take a look at it?”

“No, don’t look at it. There’s nothing to see.”

After that, an awkward silence fell between them. Darryl was frozen in the act of holding a board against the upper part of the framework, a nail pinched between thumb and forefinger. He thought maybe Justine would return to work, but she just kept standing there. Finally, he lowered the board and tossed the nail into the nearby bucket.

Get it over with, he told himself. If it’s something you did or said, you’ll have to face it eventually anyway.

“Hey, Justine, can I ask you a question?” He started to reach out to her, intending to maybe grab her shoulder, but then he thought better of it and lowered his hand.

“What? What is it?” she asked. She was still facing away from him, clutching her thumb. With her hood down, her long black hair hung past her shoulder blades. It almost looked like she’d traded the hood for a veil.

“Well, not to pry or anything…”

“No, you wouldn’t want to pry,” she muttered sourly. “That would be rude.”

“It’s just that…” Why was this so hard? What was he so afraid of? “You’ve kind of been in a bad mood…well, more of a strange mood, I guess, pretty much all day.

“That wasn’t a question,” Justine replied, grabbing her hood and pulling it back into place.

“Is something wrong?” he said, finally just blurting it out. “Did I do something or say something to hurt your feelings? There’s just been a weird vibe all day.”

He kept talking because she wasn’t responding, and he hated the thought of that awful silence falling between them again. However, he realized mid-sentence that she was crying. Soft at first, she soon began to sob, covering her face with her hands. He could see a red mark on the side of her thumb where she’d hit it with the hammer. But this? This wasn’t about the hammer.

“Something is wrong,” he said. “Oh God, what did I do?”

“I don’t want to say it,” she said, almost too quietly to be heard. “I tried to be normal during your party. I really tried, but I can’t keep it up all day.”

“What is it?” Darryl said, moving toward her. “You can tell me.”

She spun around, flinging her hair out of her eyes. Her face was all twisted up, her cheeks and forehead turned dark red. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt with both hands.

“Darryl…Darryl…” she said, barely above a whisper. “I can’t bring myself to say it. I just don’t want to.”

“So it’s something really bad,” he replied. “I knew it. Justine, tell me. Please.”

She bit her lip, squeezed her eyes shut, and finally blurted it out. “I’m pregnant. That’s what it is. I’m pregnant.”

Nothing she could have said would have hit him harder. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. His mind reeling, he couldn’t think clearly.

“Wait. Wait a minute. Are you sure?” he said. “How…how can you be sure?”

“I can’t be without a test, but I’m late,” she said, wiping her cheeks on her sleeve. “Almost two weeks late. And there are other things. Other changes to my body.” She let go of his shirt and wandered over to the tree. “I’m pregnant, Darryl. Can you believe it? God, I’m so scared.” She leaned her forehead against the rough bark of the tree.

“But we only…just that one time…just once…” His lips felt numb, the words just sort of tumbling out.

“It only takes one time, dummy,” she said. And then she began crying again.

Darryl forced his stiff legs to carry him toward her. He reached out and gently laid his hands on her shoulders. He thought about pulling her into a hug, but he was afraid she might resist at that moment.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said. Had words ever sounded so forced? “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of things.” It all felt wrong. He was seventeen. Too young to be having this conversation. “I’m sorry, Justine. We should have used protection. It was my fault for hanging out in your room so late that night.”

“It was a mutual decision,” she said, hiccupping. She wiped her face again with her sleeves and sniffed. “We didn’t have any protection to use anyway. Who were we going to ask? ‘Oh, hey, Tabitha, the next time you head into town do you think you could trade some salted beef for a pack of condoms? I’d like to fool around with your grandson.’ Yeah, that would’ve gone over well.”

She turned then and melted into his embrace. He pulled her close, patting her head, feeling a stomach-churning dread. He wasn’t nearly old enough to be a father, and their life situation couldn’t have been worse for it. How were they going to raise a baby under these conditions? No clinic, no grocery stores, no clothing stores, no disposable diapers or baby formula, almost no help at all.

“We just shouldn’t have done it, that’s all,” Justine said. “We knew it wasn’t safe. We’re not kids. We know better.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“I’m not sure exactly how far along I am,” she said. “I don’t know how to tell the others. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared.”

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he said, speaking to himself as much as her. “Somehow, everything’s going to be okay.”

* * *

Greg could tell that there had been two people, one walking on either side of the cow as they led it away from the barn. He was no tracker, of course, so he couldn’t discern much more than that. One man seemed larger than the other, but that might have simply been a product of the way they walked. For her part, the cow seemed to have gone willingly. Her hoofprints went in a straight line from the hole in the fence across the snowy gap to the forest. Clearly, the men hadn’t made her nervous.

There had been reports of bandits in the area. Greg had heard of neighboring property being looted, but breaking open a fence to steal a cow seemed especially bold, and a big risk. What sort of people would attempt such a thing? As he approached the trees, he raised the rifle, leading with it, ready in case anyone jumped out of hiding. He paused to scan the snowy shadows beneath the boughs, but he didn’t see anything moving in there.

He resumed moving, stepping through a gap between trees to enter the eerie quiet of the forest. Indeed, the only sound at the moment was the soft crunch of his boots in the snow. The thieves had clearly gotten a good head start. Greg paused again, trying to hear something, anything.

After a moment, he thought he caught the faintest noise, some kind of thud, far in the distance, followed by what might have been the echo of voices. Did they sound angry? He couldn’t tell. Maybe he was imagining it, but he resumed moving, trying to pick up the pace. The track curved gradually to the southeast, as if the thieves were headed somewhere specific. Clearly, there had been purpose and planning in this.

Greg felt a moment of unease. It almost broke through the anger. If there was purpose and planning, then someone had specifically targeted his family. Who were they dealing with here? Mayor Filmore was dead, as were the worst of his guards. Whatever the case, the problem would have to be dealt with as soon as possible. Greg would not allow the situation to continue.

He had just stepped past a towering spruce tree when he saw vague movement far in the distance, Through gaps in the scrub brush, some large shape shifted. Greg came to a stop and went down on one knee, raising the rifle and bracing it against the tree. He peered through the scope, shifting the rifle slightly until he centered on the movement. The cow’s right flank. He saw her tail swinging, the bulge of a thigh.

Shifting the scope to the right, he spotted the first thief. A smallish man in a dark coat and hat, he appeared to be talking to someone, gesturing with his hands. The man was too far away to take a shot. Greg didn’t trust his aim, and he soon lost the chance as the man resumed moving.

Lowering the rifle, Greg rose and hurried after them.

You’re not getting away, he thought, whoever you are.

* * *

James Teagan hadn’t come into this situation completely naïve. He knew Eustace well enough by now to have some familiarity with his more obnoxious quirks. At the very least, Eustace’s plan to distract the family by knocking down another part of the fence seemed to have worked. Still, this was a problem, and he wasn’t willing to let it lie.

They seemed to be alone for the moment. The forest around them was deathly quiet. James turned and looked at his employer. He was a huge heap of a man in a ubiquitous red flannel jacket that reeked of body odor. Had the man ever bothered to wash it?

“You said we were scouting the area,” James reminded him. “Since when does scouting the area involve making a beeline straight for one specific ranch and stealing a cow?”

“That ranch is on the far side of our local community, practically the last house before you enter wilderness area,” Eustace replied. Though he spoke quietly, he had a deep voice that tended to carry. “I figured we’d start at the farthest point and work our way back.”

“No, you didn’t,” James replied. “You went straight to that ranch and immediately started taking the fence apart. You intended to steal from that family before we even set out.”

Eustace was quiet for a moment, as if formulating his response. That irritated James more than the theft itself. Was this the way it was going to be? No, if they were going to have a healthy working relationship, Eustace would have to stop these little games. James settled himself, pushing the frustration down until he was confident he could speak in a flat, emotionless voice.

“It has something to do with that specific family,” James said. “You have a grudge against them, perhaps. I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s time to level with me. When you first sent for me, I told you I would work for you again if you were willing to trust me.”

“Right, right.” Eustace glanced anxiously over his shoulder, as if he sensed something behind them. James heard nothing. The man was imagining things. “Okay, look, that ranch belongs to a family called the Healys. They’re going to be a problem.”

“How do you know?” James replied.

“We have a history,” Eustace said, and there was enough strain in his voice that James could tell this history was a violent one. “If we’re going to whip this community into shape, we have to put them on notice. I just figured I’d take care of it while we’re out here.”

“On notice for what?” James replied. “We’re supposed to be gathering supplies and equipment so we can create a hub to provide for the local community. At least, that’s what I was told when you sent for me. You never said anything about carrying on with a neighborhood feud.”

Eustace blew his breath. It puffed out of his beard like a toxic cloud. “Does this look like a feud to you?” He struggled to raise his left arm. It hovered there for a second, shaking badly, then flopped at his side again.

“Ah.”

It was clear now. Eustace’s injury.

Damned annoying, James thought. His personal grudge is going to be a problem. He won’t make rational decisions when it comes to the Healys. Still, I need the man. I’ll have to get control of this situation before it hinders our plans.

“Maybe we should move a little faster,” James said.

“Good idea,” Eustace replied. “Those Healys are nuts. They might overreact when they realize a cow is missing.”

5

Neither of them could concentrate on the fence. When Darryl tried to resume work, he couldn’t even hit a nail. He kept denting the wood with the hammer. Justine didn’t even try. She just sat down in the snow at the base of the tree, her hands in the front pocket of her sweatshirt, brooding darkly inside her hood. Finally, Darryl gave up. His mind was racing, his heart was pounding, and he felt clumsy.

He tossed the hammer back into his grandfather’s old toolbox and dumped a handful of nails into the bucket. Looking at his ugly handiwork, he backed away from the fence with a sigh. He could still hear Horace working away behind the barn. The old man had settled into a nice rhythm, driving in nails like he was tapping out a beat on a drum. He was probably humming a tune under his breath, as he often did when he worked.

I wish I was an old man who didn’t have to worry about things like this, Darryl thought. He knew it was a stupid, selfish thought. Horace had plenty of his own problems in life. Still, it was hard not to feel sorry for himself at the moment.

“Let’s forget about the fence for now,” Darryl said. “We did plenty. Do you want to go back inside the house?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to talk to other people,” Justine replied. She’d pulled her hood so far forward her face was entirely hidden in shadow. “I don’t want anyone to notice I’ve been crying or ask me any questions. I just want to sit somewhere quietly and be left alone.”

“Okay, I’ll cover for you. Come on.” He extended his hand to her. “If anyone tries to speak to you or look at you, I’ll deflect them.”

She accepted his hand, and he pulled her to her feet. Then they started back toward the house, using the tracks they’d already left behind. As they walked, Darryl thought she might let go of his hand, but she actually clamped down even tighter. Though he still felt shock, Darryl found that he had begun to access some part of his brain that was disconnected from the emotion.

Compartmentalization. The word came to him as he considered his current state.

When they reached the house, Darryl mounted the steps first and cracked open the front door, leaning in close to listen for the others. He heard voices upstairs. Grandma? Maybe Mom? He wasn’t sure. He poked his head through the door and saw the big wood-paneled living room. The familiar elk’s head glared down at him from its place above the couch, and didn’t its expression seem somewhat accusatory today?

Oh, what are you looking at? Darryl thought, returning the scowl.

The embers of a fire still glowed in the fireplace, but the cake and utensils had all been put away. There was nobody in the living room, and he didn’t think there was anyone in the kitchen or dining room either. He dared to push the door open a little farther.

“I think we’re safe,” he said. “Everyone’s upstairs.”

“My room is upstairs, too,” Justine said. “How do we get past them without being seen?”

“I’ll get you there. Trust me.” Still holding her hand, he stepped inside. As soon as she was through the door, he shut it behind her and headed for the stairs.

“We’ll take it slow,” he said, as he started up the stairs. “Step lightly. The stairs are noisy.”

He made his way up the stairs, moving as softly as possible. The old wood steps loved to creak and crack, and he couldn’t avoid the sound entirely. As he approached the second-floor landing, he realized Tabitha, Marion, and Emma were discussing plans for creating a garden in the field behind the root cellar.

At the top of the landing, Darryl poked his head around the corner. The door to the hobby room was ajar, and he saw Emma sitting in a bean bag, just visible, unraveling a ball of yarn, as if she were about to begin crocheting something. Darryl looked back at Justine and put a finger to his lips. She was wide-eyed and anxious, breathing loudly through her mouth.

As soon as he started down the hall, the floorboards gave him away. A single loud creak made the conversation in the hobby room suddenly cease.

“Darryl? Greg?” It was his mother.

“It’s me, Mom,” Darryl replied with a wince. “Just going to my room to take a little break.”

As he spoke, he made a spinning gesture at Justine and pointed toward her room. She took off running, moving on her tiptoes. A chair in the hobby room made a soft whooshing sound, as if someone were standing up. Darryl moved to intercept. Justine managed to fly past the door just as his mom’s face appeared in the opening.

“Dad and Horace are still out there dealing with stuff,” Darryl said, drawing her attention toward himself. “They’ll be back inside a little later, but I needed a break. Um…Dad said it’s fine since it’s my birthday and all.”

“That’s okay with me,” his mom said.

Justine disappeared into her room, just as Marion decided to glance in that direction.

“Anyway, I’m going to read a book or something until they’re done,” he said, moving past the hobby room. “I guess when they come back, we can play games or whatever you guys planned.”

“Sounds good,” Marion said. Her gaze lingered for a second, as if she saw something strange in his expression. He expected her to ask a question, but she finally backed into the room and returned to her chair.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Darryl rushed to Justine’s room and slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. Justine had collapsed onto her bed, her arms crossed over her face. She seemed so small just then, barely more than a kid, though she was closing in on eighteen. Darryl took a seat on a corner of the bed.

Justine’s bedroom only had a bed, a small dresser, and a single chair. She’d tacked up a few abstract paintings which she’d retrieved from her house, but most of her personal possessions were dumped on shelves in the closet. It was a spare, uncomfortable room.

No place for a new mother, Darryl thought, but that only made his terror of the future rise.

“So…so…are you absolutely sure?” he asked. Maybe she was wrong, after all. Maybe she was confused. Maybe…something, anything.

“No, I can’t be absolutely sure until I feel the baby kicking,” she said, after a moment, her voice muffled by her arms. “I told you, I’m almost two weeks late for my period. Plus, there are other symptoms.”

“What other symptoms?”

She moved her arms and gave him a flat, unhappy look. “My breasts are more sensitive for one thing.”

Darryl laughed uncomfortably and looked away. “Oh, right. I didn’t know that was a sign of pregnancy.”

“You’re about to learn all sorts of things about pregnancy,” she said. “I hope you’re ready.”

“Are you?” he asked.

“Hell, no, but whatever.” She rolled onto her side, facing the wall. “We don’t have access to a pregnancy test. Believe me. I looked. I thought maybe your mom might have kept one stashed around here somewhere. I dug into the backs of all the bathroom drawers and cabinets. Nothing. Just old bandages, tampons, empty lipstick tubes, and weird creams of one kind or another. Someone in this house really suffers from itchy hemorrhoids, judging by all the rolled-up tubes of anus ointment I found.”

Darryl couldn’t bring himself to laugh, not authentically. He reached down and grabbed her boot, needing some kind of contact. Her boots and pants were soaking wet from all the snow, and the wetness was seeping into the quilt on her bed. He didn’t dare say anything about it, not now.

“I’m too young to be a mother,” Justine said softly. “Look at how we’re living, Darryl. We’re like hill people or something, or like Mennonites in the nineteenth century. I’ll have to give birth here in the house. There’s no hospital, no doctors—not unless we want to ride a horse all the way to the big city. Can you imagine? That means they’ll probably bring some untrained midwife or something right here into the bedroom, or worse yet, your grandma will be the midwife. Oh gosh, how mortifying. I can’t even begin to imagine it.”

This hadn’t occurred to Darryl yet, and it just compounded the fear. Yes, this was a bigger problem than he’d realized. He couldn’t begin to wrap his head around it, so he just sat there holding her damp boot and staring at the far wall. The abstract painting in front of him was a kind of purple spiral, and he could imagine that it was a vortex pulling him in, dragging him down into a void from which he would never escape.

* * *

The thieves were moving fast now, and Greg was determined not to let them get away. They were heading roughly south, in the general direction of the old Carmichael house, but he wasn’t yet close enough to see them. Ahead, through a break in the trees, he spotted an opening where a narrow backroad cut through the rural community. The dirt road was entirely blanketed in snow, but he could see that the footsteps of the thieves turned and headed in that direction.

They’re going toward town, Greg realized.

He dared more speed, running full-out toward the road, despite the extra noise. When he stepped through the trees into the opening, he turned and aimed his rifle due south down the road. He saw them then. Bodies in the distance, pulling the poor cow along on a lead line. Two people. The one on the right was wearing a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood. The other thief was a big bear of a man in a huge red flannel jacket. Though he had a toque pulled low to hide his hair, Greg recognized the shape of him.

It was like turning over a rock and finding the devil hiding underneath. Eustace Simpson. It could be no other. He was a lumbering mountain of a man with a thick neck, thick arms, a generous belly, red hair and beard. The shock of seeing him here caused Greg to stumble to a stop and catch himself against the nearest tree.

He survived the shootout with Tuck, Greg realized. Sorry you didn’t get him, Dad.

Then again, Tuck had probably saved Greg and Emma by engaging the man in a gunfight. Still, it was a shame that Eustace had been able to walk away from the fight.

Greg raised the rifle, trying to sight them, though they were quickly disappearing. The shock of seeing a man he’d assumed was dead, or at least long gone, made him clumsy. He braced his shoulder against the tree and tracked Eustace, finger sliding down to the trigger. He heard snatches of a conversation, bits and pieces of words carried to him on the wind. They seemed to be arguing about something. Who was the other guy? Greg didn’t recognize him from the back. The fur-lined coat wasn’t familiar.

Something about Eustace’s gait seem off. His left arm hung down and flopped about, as if there were something wrong with it. This, in turn, made the man move in an awkward limp. Unfortunately, Eustace was partially behind the cow, and Greg didn’t want to risk shooting the animal. He pushed away from the tree and resumed following them, trying to step quietly as he moved along the edge of the road. Eustace and the other man were approaching a bend in the road when they stopped. The other man began gesturing with his hands. Greg heard the backwash of angry words and knew they were now arguing with each other. Taking a few more steps, Greg found an old pine tree with a split trunk. He used the angle to brace the rifle and took aim at Eustace.

He murdered your father, Greg reminded himself, and now he intends to victimize your family. Your only safe option is to take him out.

Shooting a man in the back wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, even when that man was Eustace Simpson, but Greg found that when he tapped into the deep well of anger all hesitation fell away. He took careful aim at the big, red target in the distance, aiming high so he would hit him somewhere between the shoulder blades.

As he did, he realized it had begun to snow again. Fat snowflakes were falling, carried on a strong wind. It complicated his aim, but he knew he wouldn’t have a better chance than this. Eustace was standing still, jabbing his finger in the direction of the other man and shouting at him, as the poor cow just stood there patiently.

Now or never, he told himself. Take the shot.

6

They sat there in the silence for what might have been half an hour while Darryl listened to Justine’s soft breathing. He saw the rise and fall of her left shoulder, felt the soft rubber of boot, and he tried to think of the next thing to say. Maybe there was nothing else to say. Nature was going to take its course now, and that was that.

You should be comforting her, he told himself. She’s more scared than you are. Say something. Make it all better.

But he didn’t know what to say. He felt like he’d gotten stuck somehow in a blank space that he couldn’t pull himself out of. Finally, he forced words out of his mouth, even though he had little plan for what he was going to say.

“Do you want me to break the news to the others,” he said, “so you don’t have to? If I get it over with, then it’ll be done and you won’t have to worry about it.”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “Don’t say anything.”

“Okay, then, you can do it, I guess.”

She grunted. “No, I don’t want anyone to break the news to anybody, not until I’m good and ready. And maybe I’ll never be ready, and they’ll just think I’m eating too much until suddenly—surprise, surprise. How the heck did that get in there?” She uttered a soft, fragmented laugh. “The looks on their faces would almost be worth it. Maybe I could tell them I found it in the woods. ‘It’s a magic baby. The fairy people left it on a rock under a tall tree in the heart of the forest. Let’s name it Mortimer the Mysterious.’” This made her laugh harder. “You think they’d believe me?”

Somehow, Justine had found her way to maximum weirdness, but Darryl just couldn’t find humor in the moment. “I’ll keep it a secret as long as you want me to,” he said. “I promise, I won’t breathe a word of it.”

“Okay, good,” she said. Somehow, the laughter had turned to tears, and she was crying again, burying her face in the quilt. “I’m just scared, Darryl. I know I keep saying it, but I can’t help it. I never expected to get pregnant this young.”

He was tempted to slap himself on either cheek to snap out of his mood. This wasn’t really about him now. Justine had to carry the baby and deal with the pregnancy, so he was simply going to have to step up, whether he felt ready or not.

What a birthday present, he thought. Can we trade this in for more cake?

“Everything’s going to be just fine,” he told Justine. “I’m sure of it.”

“How can you keep saying that?” she said. “We don’t know what we’re doing. We’re new at this.”

“It doesn’t matter if we’re new at it,” he replied, giving her leg a gentle squeeze. “I can say it because I’m going to make sure of it. I’m going to take care of you, Justine, you and the baby. I helped create this situation, and now it’s time to accept responsibility for it. That’s all there is to it.”

He was speaking to himself mostly, trying to get the words to stick. They almost did—almost. It still didn’t seem quite real. Justine pushed against the bed and slowly sat up, dabbing her eyes on her palms. She gazed out the bedroom window for a second, where she had an expansive view of the back of the ranch. Darryl looked over her shoulder and saw the snowy lump that was the top of the root cellar. He could still recall all of the hard work he’d done to dig out the cellar. It seemed like it had happened years and years ago.

Suddenly, Justine turned and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him toward her. He fell, and they collapsed onto the bed in an embrace. Her hair tickled his face—it smelled of lavender soap—and she felt so small in his arms. They lay there as long as they dared before the fear of someone walking into the room drove them apart. Finally, Justine pushed him away and sat up, turning her gaze back to the window and the expanse of unbroken snow behind the house.

I’m going to be a father, Darryl thought. I need to stand up and be a man now, just like my own dad.

“What do you need right now?” he said. “What can I do for you at this moment that will make you feel better?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to tell you in the first place. Now that I’m over that hurdle, I just need to let it all sink in.”

“I’ll keep it a secret as long as you want me to,” he said.

“I hate lying,” Justine muttered, running her pinky finger through the condensation she’d left on the window glass. “I’ve always hated lying, but I…I need more time.”

“Well, we’re not exactly lying,” Darryl said. “We’re just delaying the truth until you’re ready.”

“You don’t have to make excuses,” Justine said. “We’re lying. Let’s call it what it is. For now, we’re lying.”

“Okay. In that case, I’ll lie as long as you want me to.”

“Thanks,” she said. He saw that she’d drawn a small heart in the condensation.

Just then, he heard a strange sound coming from somewhere outside of the house. He was so wrapped up in his current circumstances, and he’d bent so much of his mind and emotions toward dealing with the pregnancy, that he almost didn’t notice the sound at first. It only registered after a second. A sharp snap. Was it a tree falling down? More of the fence toppling over?

Justine turned and looked at him, her mouth dropping open.

“Did you hear that?” she said with a gasp.

Not a tree falling down, he realized. No, he knew this sound all too well.

“A gunshot,” he said, rising from the bed. “My dad…”

* * *

Greg pulled the trigger. Because the snow had dampened so much of the typical ambient sound, the crack of the rifle seemed especially loud. Eustace dropped instantly, disappearing behind the cow. Greg assumed he’d been killed, but then he saw the man, red against white snow, scrambling into the trees beside the road. The other man dropped backward, turning and stumbling as he tried to see who had fired at them, but Greg was well hidden behind the big pine tree.

The poor startled cow headed down the road, dragging her lead line behind her. This removed the major obstacle, and Greg tracked the red moving target as he slipped through gaps in the trees. He took a second shot, but the bullet pinged off a tree trunk with a burst of splinters. Eustace seemed to melt into the snow then, and Greg realized he had fallen flat on the ground and was actually rolling through the woods. It was so absurd he would’ve laughed, if not for the gravity of the situation.

Greg lost sight of the second man and shifted position to find him. In the few seconds he’d been tracking Eustace, the other man had caught up to the cow and circled around in front of her. He stooped down and grabbed the lead line, gathering it up. Briefly, Greg had a clear shot at the man, but he didn’t want to take it. He didn’t know this second person. Was he an ally of Eustace? Had he been forced to work for him? The uncertainty lingered just long enough for the man to move, and Greg to lose the shot.

As the cow continued to move south down the road, Greg saw a hint of bright red flash between her legs and realized Eustace had come back out of the forest. Both of the men were using the cow as cover as they continued to flee.

You’re not getting away, Eustace, Greg thought. You owe a debt to my family, and you’re going to pay it.

He pushed away from the tree and moved to follow them.

* * *

Well, Eustace Simpson had warned him. James Teagan had to give him credit for that. He’d said the family might overreact to the theft of the cow, and they most certainly had. Fortunately, this little backwoods nobody seemed to be a poor shot. He’d missed twice, even with a huge, red target like Eustace Simpson lumbering about.

Under his fur-lined winter coat, James Teagan had a Glock 22 in a holster on his tactical vest and an extra magazine. This moron didn’t realize who he was dealing with. Still, he wasn’t about to give him another clear shot. As Eustace crawled around in the snow, James dared to circle around the cow and grab the lead line. This put him out in the open for a couple of seconds, but he assumed the shooter was aiming for Eustace.

James gathered up the lead line and moved back in front of the cow, walking in a crouch so the large, spotted animal provided cover. After a moment, Eustace came lumbering out onto the road in front of the cow and angled back toward James. His face and beard were dusted with snow, his cheeks glowing from the cold. Already, a flurry had kicked up, and James could see it getting bad soon. So much the better. It would make it harder for their pursuer to get a clear shot.

“We should find somewhere to hide,” Eustace said, out of breath and wheezing. The man was a poster boy for congestive heart failure, as far as James could tell.

“He’s not going to shoot his own cow,” James replied. “Use the animal as cover until we get back to town. Then we’ll meet up with the rest of our people. This guy is already outnumbered, but in town, he’ll be swarmed.”

Eustace tried to copy James, hunching over as he walked along, but it looked ridiculous. Fortunately, the big heifer was docile enough that she hadn’t kicked up a fuss about being stolen or dragged around. She was trotting along as happy as she pleased, as if she were being rescued, instead of becoming hamburgers to feed Eustace Simpson’s growing army.

“I told you these people are crazy,” Eustace said, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Is he still back there somewhere? I don’t hear him.”

“This whole stupid thing was your idea,” James replied. “What did you think they were going to do?”

Eustace looked back again, leaning to one side for a second and daring to gaze down the road behind them.

“Quit sticking your head out, or you’re going to get it blown off,” James said.

“He’s way back there,” Eustace replied. “I can barely see him. It’s Greg Healy. I’m sure of it. That guy has got it in for me. He was shooting to kill me. Make no mistake about that. Fortunately, he’s a poor shot.”

“I don’t care,” James said sharply. The fact that Eustace had a troubled personal history with one of the families in the area was already a major point of frustration. He’d been hired to get a handle on things and bring some order to the community, and that’s what he was going to do.

He yanked on the lead line to encourage the cow to pick up the pace a little bit. It didn’t work. The cow just ignored him. James noticed that Eustace was glaring at him. What an ugly face. The guy hadn’t been punched nearly enough in his life, that was clear.

Why do I keep working for this moron? James thought, bitterly. Because he has deep pockets, of course.

“Is there a problem, Eustace?” James said.

Eustace stroked his beard and reseated his toque—weak attempts to hide his frustration, James knew. Then he sniffed and said, “You know, you’re not always the friendliest guy, James. We’re out here getting shot at, and I’m trying to explain the situation to you.”

“Talk less, listen more, and you’ll live longer,” James said. “Come on. We’re heading back to the compound.”

Despite this, Eustace leaned to one side and looked back past the cow again. James half-hoped he would catch a bullet this time. Then again, it wouldn’t do to lose his employer.

“I don’t see him back there,” Eustace said. “I think we lost him. Maybe he gave up and returned home.”

“Don’t assume anything,” James replied. “Stay low. Quit peeking. Next time we go on a raid, let me strategize, okay?”

Eustace grumbled under his breath, hunched down again, and kept walking. “Don’t forget who’s in charge here,” he said, but so softly it was almost inaudible.

The road cut a long, straight course. The snowfall was getting heavy now, but James saw footprints in the distance. Soon, he spotted people stepping out of the trees on the left. They both wore heavy coats with the collars pulled up over their mouths, toques, and winter boots. One of them he’d already spoken to at length—a former police officer named Pam Grasier. She’d become one of Eustace’s cronies, though she’d formerly worked with the local mayor Gene Marshall Filmore.

As she stepped out onto the road, she looked at the cow, shook her head, and fell in beside them. She could be hard to read. Her face rarely betrayed her emotions. Actually, she was scowling almost all the time. James saw that as a positive quality. Being hard to read was always—always—an advantage.

“How did you wind up with a cow?” she said. “I thought you were scouting the area.”

“We’re making a point,” Eustace said. “Anyway, this cow will produce milk and, eventually, meat. This is how we consolidate resources: one cow at a time.”

As he spoke, he turned and looked back behind them again.

“Our pursuer?” James asked.

“Don’t see him,” Eustace replied. “I think we’re in the clear.”

“Too bad,” James said. “I was hoping to deal with that guy before he becomes an annoyance. He knows you, and he doesn’t seem to be scared of you. Not surprising. But he hasn’t met me yet.”

7

Greg was furious, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew when he was outnumbered. He’d thought he had a pretty good chance against Eustace and the other guy, but when they’d been joined by two others, he’d had to concede that his opportunity had passed. There was no way he would manage to take out Eustace plus three of his cronies. It would have to wait.

So he trudged home in a foul mood, gripping the rifle so tightly in his right hand that it shook. He heard the rattle of the bolt as he stomped back up the road and through the trees. The snow was coming down so heavily now that it was almost like a veil dropping down over the world. He could hear it—the soft crackle of big snowflakes touching down all around him, faint as a whisper.

When he came back in sight of the house, it looked like most of the repair work on the fence was complete. He heard a single hammer still tapping out a rhythm, and knew by the steady sound that it was Horace. Greg was in such a bad mood that he couldn’t bring himself to examine the quality of the work carefully. Instead, he passed through the gate, latched it, went to retrieve his father’s toolbox, then trudged back to the house.

As he was setting the rifle back on its shelf beside the front door, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Marion, Tabitha, and Emma appeared soon.

“Did you finish with the fence?” Marion asked.

“Close enough,” he replied, carrying the toolbox to a small table in the corner beside the couch. “Just a bit of unfinished business to take care of. It’ll wait for another day.”

He left it at that, and, fortunately, his wife didn’t prod for details.

* * *

It was about more than just repairing and reinforcing the fence. Greg was determined to make a point, and if Eustace and his lackeys dared to return, he wanted them to see how far he’d gone. He wanted them to witness the overreaction and understand the emotion behind it. Therefore, he spent the next couple of days strengthening almost the entire fence on the south side, using practically every bit of scrap wood he could come up with to reinforce it, make it taller, add additional supports, and top the posts with sharp objects.

Horace was ever reliable. Every time Greg went outside to work on the fence, even if he didn’t tell anyone where he was going or what he was doing, the veteran always came out to help him, dragging a chair from the porch. It soon became clear to Greg that Horace was more than willing to overwork himself into complete exhaustion, so he often had to insist the old man take a break. Still, he was incredibly helpful, which almost made up for the fact that Darryl and Justine had begun to make themselves scarce.

He occasionally spotted them roaming about the property, working on various tasks, but always just the two of them. They shoveled the walk, rearranged shelves in the shed and barn, worked in the root cellar, and patrolled the perimeter. They often seemed deep in conversation, so Greg didn’t bother to intrude. Darryl hadn’t even asked if Greg had managed to track down the thief or retrieve the cow.

I hope those kids don’t get so attached at the hip that they become useless, Greg thought, then felt bad for thinking it. Of course, they weren’t useless, and they seemed happy together. Why resent it?

On the morning of the third day, he declared the fence complete. Still, he knew Eustace well enough to know he would come back, so he summoned the family to a meeting in the living room after breakfast. Marion and Tabitha had been cleaning the grill outside, having cooked some meat that morning, and they walked in wiping their hands on dish towels. As they sat on the couch, Horace shuffled in from the dining room and took the recliner in the corner. Emma had been patching one of her old dresses at the end of the couch, and she continued to work as the meeting started.

Only Darryl and Justine lingered. They were in the kitchen, ostensibly cleaning the dishes, but when Greg finally went looking for them, he found them standing in front of the counter, a stack of clean dishes and a bucket of dirty water just sitting there. They seemed to have long since finished and were quietly chatting, their heads close, as if sharing secrets.

“Hey, guys, we’re meeting,” Greg said. “Come on in the living room, please.”

“On our way, Dad,” Darryl replied, without looking at him.

Even so, it still took them a good thirty seconds before they finally broke away from the counter and headed to the living room, where they sat together beneath the shadow of a massive, looming elk head. Greg moved to the fireplace and sat down on the brick hearth, where he had a good view of everyone.

“This seems awfully formal,” Tabitha said. “What are we meeting about? Is there a problem?”

His mother was very perceptive, and Greg had debated quite a bit with himself about how much he should tell them. In the end, he decided to leave Eustace out of the story for the time being. He wasn’t sure how Tabitha or Emma would react. They both had reasons to be furious with the man for what he’d done, and he was nervous about his mother’s reaction, particularly. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for his mother to load up on guns and march into town right then and there.

Horace knew the truth, of course, but Greg had asked him not to say anything. The footprints had been quickly covered by the snowfall. Still, he needed to justify what he was about to recommend, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable lying.

Where to draw the line?

“Well?” Tabitha said. “Are we having a meeting, or did you call us in here so we can admire your impressive silence?”

Greg forced a laugh and cleared his throat. “Not quite, Mother. Thanks for the sarcasm. No, the work on the fence is done. It’s a lot more secure.”

“You’re confident the wind can’t blow portions of it over now?” Marion asked.

“Pretty much,” Greg said. He glanced at Horace, and the old man gave a little nod, as if to say, Your secret is safe with me. “Look, we’re going to start making regular patrols of the property, just in case we’ve got wild animals or bandits in the area. We’ll take turns, preferably going in pairs, always armed, of course.”

Marion and Tabitha glanced at each other, and Emma stopped working on the dress, sticking the needle and thread into the arm of the couch like a pincushion.

“What’s this all about?” Tabitha asked. “Is it about the cow that got out? It didn’t just run away, did it?”

“Okay, here’s something I should have said before, but I didn’t want to worry anyone,” Greg said. “It’s possible something or someone took the cow. The snow was disturbed around the fence. It was probably a mountain lion. Possibly a bandit. We just don’t know, but we have to be safe.”

“I knew there was something going on that morning,” Marion said. “You were in a foul mood. Greg, you have to level with us about these things. If there’s a risk, danger, or threat, the family needs to know. That’s how we’re going to keep each other safe.”

She gave him a fierce look, and Greg finally dropped his gaze to his feet. I’ll tell her the full truth when Tabitha’s not around. She’ll understand.

“I get that, honey,” he said. “Anyway, we’ll create a schedule and make sure someone is patrolling the grounds at all times. Even at night, at least for the time being. Take a lantern, take a gun, go in pairs, and just listen for anything weird.”

“Me, too?” Emma asked. She had a tight-lipped look, as if she expected to be excluded.

“You, too,” Greg said. “You can patrol with Grandma or Mom or me.”

“Good,” Emma said, picking up the needle and thread. “I’m not afraid of a big cat. Darryl shot and skinned one. I bet I could, too.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

* * *

Greg volunteered to take the most difficult hours by himself. The wee hours of the morning were always the quietest and darkest, the most ominous, but he knew he could handle it. And so it was that he arose around three in the morning, eased himself out of bed without rousing Marion, and headed downstairs. Horace had taken the previous watch, insisting on having a turn despite his physical limitations. Greg found him near the gate, dragging the chair and lugging his nice SIG Sauer rifle over his shoulder.

Greg brought a small oil lamp with him, lighting the way as he headed down the steps. Horace saw the light and stopped, turning to meet him. They’d worn a track in the snow along the fence all around the property. It was bitterly cold, a bright half-moon overhead.

“Hey there, sir,” Greg said. “Looks like you’ve got a pretty good system going.”

“I drag the chair ten or twenty meters, sit down for a little while, and listen real good,” he said. “Then I pick myself up, grab the chair, and move it again. It works for me. Nothing out of the ordinary. No mountain lion, no big red thieves.”

“Great,” Greg said, clapping him on the back. “Get some rest. I’ll take over now.”

“You got it. Here, use the SIG.” Horace thrust the rifle at him, but Greg waved it off and pointed at the Remington slung over his shoulder.

“SIG’s got a better scope,” Horace noted. “You can see farther with it, which might come in handy if someone’s moving around in the forest.”

“Good point,” Greg said. He took the SIG and handed Horace the Remington.

Horace slung the strap of the Remington over his shoulder and started dragging the chair back toward the porch. “All this walking around in the clean air is doing wonders for me. I can tell you that.”

Greg hoped it was true. He didn’t want to keep pushing Horace Bouchard or take advantage of the man’s willingness to work. Greg dimmed the lamp, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and proceeded to follow the track that now encircled the property along the perimeter of the fence. It was so quiet he could practically hear his own heartbeat. Fresh snow blanketed everything, glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Show up, Eustace, he thought. I dare you. I’ll hear you coming by your labored breathing. Let me see that ugly face one more time before I blast it with the SIG.

The theft of the cow hadn’t been an isolated event. Greg knew the man well enough. Eustace was up to something. Maybe he’d been testing the family, trying to gauge how they would react. Or maybe he was planning a series of “hit and run” attacks as he gathered supplies. Perhaps he was even trying to take the place of Mayor Filmore.

Good. Move in permanently, Greg thought. That way I know where to find you.

“I’ll finish Tuck’s work,” he whispered. “I will end you, Eustace. Count on it. You came against my family, and I’m coming against you.”

He only realized belatedly that he was talking out loud, and he clamped his mouth shut. Better to pay attention and daydream about revenge later. He tried to put it out of his mind as he made a slow circuit of the property, listening for anything out of the ordinary. But it was an utterly calm night. As he circled back toward the house on the north side of the property, he saw candlelight flickering in a second-story bedroom window. Drawing near, he distinguished the vague shape of Justine through the cracked curtain. She appeared to be leaning on the windowsill and gazing out at the moonlit sky.

Can’t sleep? he thought. I know the feeling.

Finally, he stopped at a corner of the property and climbed the tree into the platform, wanting to see over the fence. The platform was about twenty feet up with no ladder, which meant he had to scramble up the branches like a squirrel. Fortunately, there were a few sturdy branches, so he only almost fell twice.

Once in the platform, he gazed to the south across the narrow expanse of snowy ground toward the tree line. All of Eustace’s footprints were gone by now, and there was no further sign of him. Still, Greg stayed here, turning off the lamp to let his eyes fully adjust to the dark. With the gun perched on a branch beside him, ready to fire, he sat and kept watch. His anger was just enough to keep him wide awake as the silent hours passed, his cold breath occasionally puffing out in front of him like smoke.

The first glimpse of morning sun had finally appeared on the eastern horizon, the merest hint of light glowing in the tops of the trees, when he heard the front door open and close. He turned and looked back toward the house, seeing a small figure descending the porch steps, bundled up in a big puffy coat and gloves. She approached the tree holding a thermos in her hands.

“Greg, why don’t you drink something warm,” Tabitha said to him as she reached the base of the tree. “It’s freezing cold out here.”

Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he began the delicate process of descending the tree. “This tree climbing business is for the young,” he said. “Darryl and Justine scramble in and out of the platform like it’s nothing. I need to install a rope ladder.”

He finally hopped onto the ground and took the thermos from his mother. He unscrewed the lid, and steam gushed out. Pouring a bit of the liquid into the cup lid, he took a sip and realized it was herbal tea. Not bad, but not sweetened. He would’ve preferred a little cream as well. Actually, he would’ve preferred coffee, but they’d run out of it weeks earlier. Still, he wouldn’t complain about an act of kindness.

“Thanks for the tea,” he said, feeling the steam against his cold cheeks.

“Drink it before it gets cold,” she said, turning toward the lightening sky in the east. “I was sort of hoping you’d wait for me up on the platform. I was planning to sit up there a little while.”

“That’s another reason I need to build a ladder for the thing,” he replied. “It’s not safe.”

“Oh, I can make it.” Tabitha waved him off and approached the tree.

“Are you sure, Mom?”

“Watch me.”

She reached up, grabbed a sturdy limb, and proceeded to pull herself up into the tree. Though she was in her sixties and diabetic, he watched as she clambered up the branches and pulled herself into the platform with a grunt.

“You’re making me look bad here, Mom,” he said, screwing the lid on the thermos and following her up. “Maybe we don’t need that ladder, after all.”

He joined her on the platform, and they sat quietly, Greg sipping his tea, as they gazed off at the snowbound trees that encircled the ranch. Slowly, the faint light in the east became bright, early morning sunlight casting long shadows across the property.

“Tuck used to love cold mornings like this,” Tabitha said, “when the sun is bright but the air is so crisp it feels like it might just take a bite out of you. In the dead of winter, I’d find him on the porch with no hat and just a thin coat, soaking it in. He said it was invigorating, that it made him feel like the master of his domain.”

She made a soft sound and bowed her head. When Greg glanced at her, he realized she was trying to discreetly wipe the tears from her eyes.

“I miss him,” she said, after a moment. “I can’t stop wishing he was still here. He would help you shoulder the burden of keeping the family safe. Too much has fallen on you.”

It should, perhaps, have been a touching moment, a chance to connect over their memories of Tuck, to bond through grief, but mention of Tuck instantly sent Greg spiraling into a very dark place. Of course, he had very few touching memories of his father because they’d spent so many years estranged. They’d finally managed to patch things up a little bit in the days, in the moments, before his death, but any long-term relationship with Tuck had been stolen from him.

Greg felt a potent mix of guilt and anger. It burned like poison in his guts.

I never should have let Eustace live, he thought. I should have killed him at the waystation. If I had, Emma would never have been injured, and Tuck would never have been killed.

While he couldn’t bring Tuck back, he could certainly correct the problem. Eustace had practically presented himself on a silver platter, as if to say, “Here I am. Finish the job.”

And I will, he thought. I swear to God, I will.

“You can head inside now,” Tabitha said. “It’s my turn to keep watch.”

“I doubt I’d be able to sleep,” he replied. “I think maybe I’ll head out and do a little hunting this morning. It’d be nice if I came across a deer or elk, but maybe I can track that mountain lion and deal with it as well.”

She gave him a long, hard look, as if she sensed that something was off in his voice. He plastered a little smile on his face and endured it.

“Okay, just be careful out there,” she said finally. “You said yourself it might have been a bandit. Are you sure you shouldn’t wake Darryl or Emma and take one of them with you?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” he replied, turning and lowering himself from the platform. “Let them sleep. I’ll be back by lunchtime—hopefully, dragging a carcass with me.”

And with that, he picked his way back down the tree.

* * *

It was a long walk through deep snow. He’d left the lamp on the porch and had only Horace’s SIG Sauer CROSS rifle with him. Still, even after keeping watch for a few hours, the turmoil he felt gave him a frenetic energy that enabled him to maintain a quick pace. He used the back road for a while, straining to make out any strange noises around him. When he drew close to town, he diverted back into the trees and circled north, wanting to avoid private homes.

A good hour of walking took him past the Carmichael house, past the back fence of Horace Bouchard’s house, and all the way to the north side of the small town of Glenvell. He expected to find Eustace somewhere in town, though he didn’t know where. He figured the best place to start was the big pole barn that served as the heart of Glenvell. It sat at the edge of a small parking lot behind a shopping center and gas station near the center of town. Glenvell Town Hall had served as Mayor Filmore’s headquarters during his brief, tyrannical reign, and he’d turned the building into a kind of storage depot.. Greg figured he could start there in his search for Eustace and work his way outward. He was sure to find some sign of him sooner or later. A man like Eustace Simpson didn’t just fade into the crowd.

However, as he was carefully picking his way through wild, overgrown wilderness to approach the north edge of town, he heard voices in the distance. He found a gap between two pine trees and squatted down, holding his breath to hear what they were saying. He couldn’t quite make it out. Fortunately, Horace’s rifle had a nice scope on it, so he raised the gun and peered through the scope, scanning the edge of town.

It didn’t take long to spot them. Four people in heavy coats marching down the street south of the town hall. They each had large backpacks hanging from their shoulders, and each one carried a rifle. He recognized one of them by her build: Officer Pam Grasier. They seemed to be headed somewhere in particular. Greg didn’t see Eustace among them—none of them were quite large enough—but he figured they could lead him to the man.

Okay, scumbags, lead me to the enemy, he thought, lowering the rifle. Let’s get this over with so we can all move on with our lives. What do you say?

He moved as quietly and cautiously as he could, staying deep within the woods. Fortunately, they were talking loudly enough that he kept hearing their voices. The sound served as a beacon, keeping him moving in the right direction. It soon became clear that they were actually headed out of town to the south. For some reason, they avoided the main road, sticking to what looked like a well-worn path in the trees due south of the town hall.

Greg caught a final glimpse of them as they disappeared through the trees in that direction. He waited until they were far enough that they wouldn’t hear his approach, then he crept after them. The path had been walked so many times that there was a clear and obvious trail through the snow, which made it easy to follow. He could also see the tracks of wheels, horse hooves, and drag marks.

Another hundred yards beyond the south edge of town, he came upon a familiar sight. A large rectangular building surrounded by a parking lot. The grocery distribution business had been the largest employer in the area prior to the loss of power. Greg raised the rifle scope again to peer at the building.

The tracks led across the snowy parking lot to a single metal door in the side of the building. As Greg watched, the four people approached the door and knocked. After a moment, it swung open and for a second, he caught a brief glimpse of a large figure inside the building dressed in red flannel.

There you are, Greg thought. I found you.

It was already midmorning now, and the bright sunlight made him feel increasingly exposed, even though he was crouching behind a large bush.

Now is not the time, he told himself. He’s secure inside that building, but I know where to find him. Now, I just need to wait for the right time to take him out.

Still, he lingered, gazing through the scope at the door, as the four cronies stepped inside.

Just a little longer, Eustace. With any luck, you’ll never see it coming.

8

It was enough. Knowing now where Eustace was holed up gave him just enough new information that he felt like the long hike hadn’t been a waste. Even better, he could now begin planning a proper ambush. A well-planned execution would be much better, safer, and more certain than simply traipsing off across town with a rifle and hoping for the best.

Buddy, your days are numbered, he thought, as he picked his way back toward the ranch. The moment you came against my family, you sealed your fate. It’s a shame Tuck didn’t get the job done, but I’ll gladly finish it for him.

After another hour, he reached the dirt road again, following it but keeping to the trees as he made his way back home. Just before he came in sight of the fence, he inadvertently startled a pheasant, which burst from some bushes and flew off in a low arc across the road. Greg brought the rifle up, aimed, and fired. He missed, but the bird landed not too far away, so he aimed again. The second shot hit the bird right in the neck, and Greg rushed to retrieve it. When he picked up the carcass, he realized he’d blasted its head off. The SIG ammunition was a bit too powerful for such a small target.

At least it would provide some cover for the real purpose of his trip. It wasn’t a large pheasant, and he fully expected to be mocked for it. Still, when he finally passed through the gate and latched it behind him, he found Tabitha and Marion sitting together on the porch, rocking and chatting. Greg had the little pheasant dangling from his left hand, and he held it up to show them.

“You were out there for more than two hours,” Tabitha said, “and that’s all you got to show for it? One little old bird? I was hoping for venison.”

“It wasn’t a good day for deer,” he replied. “Maybe the mountain lion scared them off.”

“Well, let’s hope they come back soon,” Tabitha said, rising from her chair. “That pheasant won’t be more than a snack, but I guess I can use it to liven up some of our staples. I’ll figure something out. Did you at least check the fish traps in the stream?”

“No, it slipped my mind. They probably need more time anyway.”

As he came up the steps, she took the pheasant from him and examined it. It was just a common pheasant, a mottled brown hen, with perhaps three good bites of meat in total. Greg tried to hide his embarrassment as he stepped around Tabitha and embraced his wife.

If they knew I’d spent most of that time tracking down and spying on Eustace, they would both give me hell, he thought. He hoped the guilt he felt didn’t show on his face.

“You took Horace’s fancy sniper rifle to hunt deer?” Marion said with a little laugh. “The Remington wasn’t good enough? What exactly were you hoping to find out there?”

“Horace offered it,” Greg said—not an untruth. “I didn’t want to say no. It’s a nice rifle. Feels sort of fancy lugging it around.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we don’t depend on hunting for our food,” Tabitha said, heading inside with the bird. “We’d starve.”

“We’re fine on supplies,” Greg replied as he followed her through the door. “If we had to depend on hunting, I’d try a lot harder. Maybe I was just distracted. Can’t a guy roam out in the wilderness for a couple of hours with his gun and his thoughts?”

His mother turned and gave him a withering look. “Your gun and your thoughts, huh? Well, next time think about shooting a deer instead of blowing the head off a hen.”

“You got it,” he replied with a sheepish shrug. “You want me to clean and dress it?”

“Nope, I’d like to do it myself,” she replied. “I know I picked on you, but we haven’t had any sort of fowl meat in a while. I’m rather looking forward to it.”

“Too bad you didn’t get a few of them,” Marion said. “It’d make a nice change from all that salted beef.”

Marion followed Tabitha into the kitchen, which left Greg standing alone in the living room. He assumed Horace was in his room—they’d given him the master bedroom on the first floor behind the den, mostly so he didn’t have to worry about the stairs. Greg didn’t want to wake him, so he set the safety on the old man’s rifle and gently laid it on the mantel above the fireplace. He could feel the guilt at lying to his family crawling all over him, yet they seemed to have readily accepted the lie. If he’d said or done anything, or if there was anything weird in his expression, they didn’t seem to have noticed.

His family’s acceptance of the lie made him feel just a little bit better about the whole situation. Yet he was still restless, ready to put it all behind him. He needed to make a move on Eustace, though he knew he had to create a plan and wait for the right time. Lost in thought, he happened to turn around and notice Emma sitting at the dining room table. She had a small notebook open in front of her, and it looked like she was in the middle of sketching some plans—another self-appointed project, perhaps. However, at the moment she was staring at him fixedly with narrowed eyes.

Maybe I spoke too soon.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he said. “What are you working on over there?”

“Oh, just some ideas,” she replied, finally looking back at her notebook. “For stuff around the ranch.”

“Great.”

“Why are you just standing there like that?” she added, as she resumed scribbling in her notebook. “Is something wrong?”

“I guess…I’m just disappointed I didn’t do better this morning,” he added.

“Oh,” Emma said. “You looked weirdly excited about something for a second.”

“Just thinking about future hunts,” he said.

“I was hoping maybe you’d come up with a new idea for a project,” she said. “Oh well. If you do, let me know. I’m kind of bored right now.”

“Will do, kiddo.”

Feeling somewhat deflated, Greg headed upstairs to get some sleep. As he reached the landing, he saw the door at the very end of the hall was open. It was the guest room where Justine had been staying. However, at the moment, his son was sitting on the floor beside the bed all alone. He had his knees drawn up, his arms resting on top of them, and his head hanging down.

Greg moved a little closer and realized he was alone in the room. Justine wasn’t there, and Darryl seemed oblivious to his father’s approach. Greg let his footsteps become a little louder than necessary, but still it didn’t draw attention.

“Hey there, son,” he said finally.

Darryl finally lifted his head, blinked a few times rapidly, and gave him a questioning look.

“Where’s Justine?” Greg asked. “Is she around?”

“Downstairs bathroom,” Darryl replied. And then, as if to explain, “Said she doesn’t like to use the upstairs one. It’s too cramped, and the window is really small, so it gets dark in there, even during the day.”

“I see.” Darryl started to lower his head again, so Greg stepped through the door. “Hey, son, is…is everything okay?”

Darryl opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something, then he stopped himself. With a grunt, he rose from the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m fine,” he said, after a moment. “Actually, Dad, I’ve been meaning to ask you the same thing. Are you okay?”

The question took Greg by surprise, and he couldn’t formulate an answer. Darryl was the last person he had expected to confront him about his strange mood lately. After all, he’d been the most preoccupied. It took a second of fumbling around before Greg could articulate an answer.

“Everything is fine,” he said. “Just fine. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you never caught the mountain lion or whatever took the cow, for one thing,” Darryl said. “I figured you’d be frustrated about that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Greg said. “We can spare one cow, and, hey, it forced us to build a better, stronger fence. We’re ready if the thief comes back.”

Darryl shrugged. “Well, besides that, you’ve just seemed like you’re in a weird mood lately. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Just fine,” Greg managed to say again, trying to force a smile. “Thanks for asking.”

Darryl flopped back onto Justine’s bed, folding his hands on his stomach. “I’m fine. You’re fine. Everyone’s fine. So there you go. I enjoyed this little chat, Dad. Thanks.”

Despite the obvious sarcasm, Greg decided to let it go. What else could he say, anyway? Darryl wasn’t going to open up, Greg didn’t want to open up, and that was that. This whole dynamic reminded Greg just a bit too much of the relationship he’d had with Tuck.

“Well, I’d better so get a little sleep,” he said finally. “Been up since about two in the morning.”

“Don’t let me hold you back,” Darryl said, shutting his eyes.

Greg lingered a second longer, then turned and headed back down the hall to his bedroom. He pulled off his coat and snow pants and hung them on a hook on the back of the door. Then he pulled his winter boots off one by one and set them beside the bed, realizing that in his sleep-deprived state he must have left wet tracks all through the house. Finally, he flopped down on the covers, feeling a deep, warm exhaustion wash over him.

You can’t keep the lie going indefinitely, he thought. Sooner or later, they’re all going to find out that Eustace is alive and that he’s put down roots in Glenvell. Then again, if you kill him before they find out, it’ll be less of a problem.

Yes, he had to get it done soon. This thought was foremost in his mind as he drifted off to sleep.

9

Justine didn’t join Darryl for his watch after dinner that evening. She said she wasn’t feeling good and excused herself to go to bed. Of course, due to the tension, Darryl couldn’t help but worry that she was just trying to get away from him, but he didn’t dare ask. Her emotions were still so raw, he didn’t want to stir up trouble between them. They were united in purpose, but it felt like a tenuous unity, made fragile by fear.

The watch was interminable and entirely uneventful. He spent most of the time up in the platform, gazing off toward the trees as a light snow fell. When he got bored, or too anxious to sit still, he climbed down and made a circuit of the property, looking for any signs of damage to the fence or animal tracks. Nothing. It was quiet and frigid, and try as he might, he couldn’t find any way to keep his mind from running in circles.

Finally, when his watch ended, as the night had finally set in, his mother and grandmother came to take his place, and he trudged upstairs to get ready for bed. He considered checking on Justine, but her door was shut, and the small gap at the bottom of the door was utterly dark. Still, he lingered outside her door for a few seconds, debating with himself.

Will she be upset if I intrude, or will she be upset if I don’t intrude?

He didn’t blame her for the roller coaster of emotions, but he also didn’t always know what she wanted from him. Finally, with a quiet sigh, he went to his room and changed into a long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants. It was chilly in the room. With only a large fireplace downstairs in the living room to provide heat for the entire house, his only recourse against the cold was to double up on blankets.

As he pulled the blankets back, he happened to glance at his desk, where the stack of college books sat, along with a notebook with abandoned notes from the days when college mattered, and his dead, dark cell phone. Some days, he was tempted to throw them all away, but he had an iota of hope left that the world would someday get back to normal.

Man, if I had a working smartphone, all of this would be a thousand times better, he thought.

“What the hell are we going to do?” he whispered into the darkness. “When are we going to break the news to everyone about Justine? We can’t hide it forever, but, God, everyone’s going to be mad at us.”

He shuddered to think about how his grandmother would react. Pulling the many layers of blankets over him, he curled up deep beneath and tried to put his problems out of his mind. Unfortunately, his restless mind made it difficult to sleep, and he spent a good hour or more tossing and turning, as if he were wrestling with his own mind and body to get them to submit.

Sleep. Sleep, stupid. Sleep! Don’t think about the pregnancy. Don’t worry about Justine. Don’t remember dead men in the front yard or Grandpa’s grave or the terrible, unseeable future. Just sleep!

And then it happened, and he slept long and hard, buried beneath the blankets as snow continued to build on the windowsill outside his bedroom.

He awoke to bright morning sunlight coming through the curtains. Sitting up, he pulled a curtain back and looked outside. The snow had ceased falling in the night, but it looked deeper in the yard. He wondered if it would just keep piling up and piling up until it buried the whole ranch.

Darryl pulled on his socks and rose from his bed, stepping lightly across the room. It was almost midmorning, but when he poked his head into the hallway, the house seemed strangely quiet. All of the usual sounds—the clatter of dishes, voices speaking, stairs creaking—were absent. In the hall, every bedroom door was shut. No one slept late these days. No one. There was simply too much to be done on the ranch. Had anyone drawn water from the well? Fed and milked the cows? Started to prepare breakfast?

He went down the hall to the stairs and listened. Downstairs was utterly silent. He went down to the living room and saw the Remington rifle sitting on its shelf. The front door was shut and bolted. The dining room and kitchen were empty.

What the hell? Did everyone just up and leave?

He went back upstairs and stood there for a moment. Finally, he heard what sounded like a soft groan coming from Justine’s room, so he hurried to the door. He knocked lightly. She said something that he didn’t quite make out, but he dared to open the door just enough to speak through the crack.

“Justine?” he whispered.

“I said, ‘Come in,’” she replied. Her voice sounded rough.

He poked his head through the door and saw her lying in bed, the sheet, blanket, and quilt folded down to her stomach. He went to her side and knelt down.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I feel like crap,” she replied. “My head hurts, my throat hurts, I have all kinds of weird aches and pains.”

He laid the back of his hand against her cheek, then her neck, then her forehead. She didn’t seem to have a fever.

“Is it something to do with the pregnancy?” he asked.

“No, I think it’s a cold,” she replied. “Do we have any medicine? I feel awful.”

“I’ll go ask Grandma,” he said.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” She rolled over in bed and pulled the covers up, and he helped tuck them in.

Despite her illness, the brief, friendly interaction had a profound effect on his mood. A few gentle words made him feel like everything was better. He shut her door and went to Grandma’s room down the hall. His improved mood made him bold, and he knocked on her door repeatedly until he heard an angry croak from the other side.

“Grandma?” He dared to open the door. “Are you in here? Justine needs some…”

His words trailed off as he saw Tabitha still in bed. At this late hour? It was unthinkable. She had wrapped a heavy blanket around herself and had a couple of candles burning on a nightstand. Grandma’s room was filled with shelves covered in knickknacks, landscape paintings on the walls, and a big framed portrait of a relatively young Tuck and Tabitha standing together in some kind of professional photographer’s studio.

“I didn’t realize it was so late,” Grandma said. Then she coughed and groaned. “I’m not feeling so hot this morning. Seems like I came down with a bit of a cold. Could you get me some medicine? We’ve got cold and flu syrup in the medicine chest.”

“Sure, Grandma. I think Justine is sick, too.”

“You’d better check on everyone else,” she said. “I think we’ve got something going around.”

He did just that, going to his parents’ room, then to Emma’s room, and finally down to Horace Bouchard’s room, and he found that every single one of them was sick. The entire household had come down with the same severe cold.

After finding a bottle of cold and flu medicine in the bathroom, he went from person to person, treating each of them like the household nurse. He started with Justine, of course.

“Do you think it’s safe to drink this?” he asked, as he worked the lid off the bottle of medicine.

“What does the label say?” she asked.

He read the tiny print. “It says if you’re pregnant to consult a doctor before taking it.”

“Damn,” she said with a sigh. “Just give me a little bit then. A half dose.”

“Are you sure about that?”

She sniffed and nodded. “If the baby can’t handle a half dose of over-the-counter cough medicine, he’s not going to be tough enough for the world.”

If she meant it as a joke, Darryl didn’t find it funny. Still, he doled out slightly less than a third of a dose, pouring it into the lid, and helping her sip it.

“It tastes like grape,” she noted. “Thanks.”

From there, Darryl worked his way from room to room, finishing with Horace. Everyone had the same symptoms: headache, sore throat, body aches.

Of all the sick, his father was in the foulest mood. Whatever had been bothering him the last few days had been magnified by the sickness, so much so that Darryl’s mom seemed to be occupying herself by reading a novel rather than talking to him.

“Maybe it was that damn pheasant we ate last night,” Greg grumbled. “Some kind of bird flu. Wouldn’t it be just my luck if it turned out I brought back a diseased bird for dinner?” If not for the fact that he rolled his eyes when he said it, Darryl might have thought he was being serious. “Son, you’ll have to take care of the chores on the ranch today. People need to stay in bed and get over this thing.”

“Of course,” Darryl said. “I’ve got it covered. You just rest, Dad.”

“No, I’ll handle my own tasks,” Greg added. “Don’t worry about that. But let everyone else rest. I’m not lying here in bed all day, no matter how bad I feel. I just need a few more minutes to rouse myself.”

“Are you sure about that, Greg?” Marion asked.

“Yeah, it’ll just put me in a worse mood if I stay here,” he said.

Marion gave him a brief, unhappy look. “Well, nobody wants you lying around and grumbling. Just don’t push yourself too hard, or you’ll end up a whole lot sicker.”

“I know,” he muttered.

“Darryl, are you sure you don’t feel any symptoms?” Marion asked.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

Actually, Darryl not only didn’t feel sick, but he was in a pretty good mood now, for the first time since learning about the pregnancy, actually. He didn’t care to analyze too deeply how the sickness in the household had contributed to this. As he put on his coat and boots, he realized just how much work he had to do. Every member of the family had regular chores they did every day, in the barn, in the house, root cellar, around the property, everywhere. All of it was on him now. At least the prospect of filling every hour of the day with activity meant he would have fewer hours to sit with Justine and agonize about the future.

He checked on Justine one last time, found her sleeping, then headed outside to take care of the daily chores, grabbing the Remington Model 700 in passing. He started with the cows, feeding them, milking them, making sure they were warm and comfortable. That, in itself, took almost two hours, and he was sore and exhausted by the end. He made tea and oatmeal for everyone—the best meal he could manage on his own—and served it to them one tray at a time in their bedrooms. Then he shoveled the common paths: from the porch to the barn, from the porch to the platform, from the shed to the barn. Then he checked the root cellar, walked the perimeter, climbed the platform, and did some other odd chores about the house.

It was a strange, solitary experience. Despite his father’s earlier insistence, he never came downstairs. The old man remained in bed all day, and each time Darryl checked on him, he seemed to be quietly brooding—and coughing and sniffling—while Marion read her book beside him.

By early afternoon, Darryl had finished almost every chore and found himself looking for something to do. He spent some time cleaning the rifles: the Remington Model 700, Horace’s SIG Sauer Cross, Tabitha’s .270 Winchester, the Bushmaster AR-15 they’d stolen from one of Mayor Filmore’s men. Then he rearranged some of the bookshelves and cupboards, though they didn’t need it.

You’ve handled things pretty well, Darryl told himself, standing in the kitchen and admiring the perfect rows of plates, cups, and bowls in the cupboard. You took care of everything all by yourself. Heck, you might make a pretty good father after all. If you can pick up the slack for an entire household of people, you can certainly take care of Justine and the baby.

It was the first time he’d dared to feel good about his unexpected, impending fatherhood. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all. This also made him want to keep busy. He remembered that his father had never gotten around to checking the traps in the stream, so he decided to take care of it. He made a final check on Justine and gave her a little more medicine. Then he grabbed the Remington rifle, took an empty wicker basket for the fish, and set off for the stream.

The stream was located about two hundred meters east of the property fence, deep in the woods. It wasn’t the biggest stream in the world, but it was possible to catch various kinds of trout, carp, whitefish, even bass. Since the banks of the stream were steep and rocky, Greg preferred to set up nets and traps, rather than stand and fish. Plus, the edges of the stream near the banks were still frozen solid.

As Darryl passed through the gate and circled the property, he thought again about what a good day it had been, despite the sickness. It made him feel better about the future. He was bound and determined to hold on to that feeling as long as possible.

He headed east, approaching the tree line. Along the way, he noted a set of small animal tracks circling through the snow. But no people, no mountain lions. It was cold, calm, and beautiful.

10

Emma still felt gross, her head still hurt, and her throat was scratchy, but she’d spent an entire day moping in her bedroom. By the next morning, she’d had enough of it. Even though she was doing only marginally better, she got dressed, brushed her teeth, put on some warm clothes, and made her way downstairs to get a few chores done. She hated being useless. There was too much work to do, and she had too many plans for the ranch.

When she got downstairs, she found Tabitha grumbling as she prepared a fresh pot of tea. Greg was out on the porch, wrapped up so tightly in winter clothes that no part of him showed except his eyes. He was grilling some beef sausages for breakfast. Marion had been setting out plates and cups, by the look of it, and given up halfway through, plopping herself down at the dining room table. Horace was nowhere to be seen. Emma assumed he was still in bed. Due to his age, she imagined the illness might have hit him hardest.

“Boy, everyone still looks half-dead,” Emma said, walking into the kitchen. “Winter colds are the worst.”

Grandma was heating water on the antique wood stove in the corner. The old stove was seeing a lot of use now that the power was gone. As the kettle began to whistle, Emma grabbed a towel and picked it up.

“Let me help, Grandma,” she said, carrying the kettle over to the counter. “I think I feel a little better than you.”

“I think you do,” Grandma croaked in reply. “I feel like a mummy that just crawled out of its tomb. A fresh pot of tea will help though.”

They practically lived off tea these days. In warm weather, Grandma preferred to make it by setting the pitcher on a warm windowsill, but in the bitter cold, a kettle of hot water would have to do. That meant getting a fire going in the old stove, which was no simple task on a cold morning. As Emma made cups of tea, she wished, not for the first time, that they had sugar and lemon to add to it. She carried the cups on a tray to the table.

“Why don’t you check on your father?” Marion asked. “See if the sausages are ready.”

“Sure, Mom.”

Emma set the tray down and headed back across the living room. She found her father rocking quietly in one of the chairs as the sausages crackled on the small charcoal grill.

“Mom wants to know if they’re ready?” she asked.

“Not quite,” he replied, then had a fit of coughing. “Few more minutes.”

Emma started to head back into the house when she spotted her brother. He was coming out of the barn with Grandpa’s old toolbox in his hand. In truth, though she hadn’t yet dared to say anything about it, she resented how little time or attention he paid to her these days. Even though she’d been shot, spent weeks recovering from the wound in her leg, and barely made it home—heck, she still had a slight limp—Darryl rarely spent any time with her. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a real conversation or worked on anything together.

He was always busy, either with Justine or working on his own. There was so much she could learn from him. She’d had some ideas about how to rebuild and reinforce the fence, but no one had asked for her input. The few times she’d asked to help Darryl with some project on the ranch, he’d politely declined or put her off until later (a later that never came). Even his birthday had been cut short by the stupid fence, and the birthday boy himself had walked out of the party.

He’s got a girlfriend now, she thought. I guess he doesn’t need a sister.

She’d started to feel pretty invisible. Emma had a whole notebook full of ideas for the garden, for a smokehouse, for an irrigation system, and many other things. Before the EMP, she’d planned to become park ranger or do some other work in nature, so she’d studied a lot about wilderness survival. Indeed, it had been her idea to collect acorns in the forest in order to grind them into flour. Even Grandma hadn’t thought of that.

Emma turned to her father, who was transferring the sausages from the grill to a plate with a small set of tongs.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

“I’ll take these inside,” he said. “Why don’t you go get your brother and tell him to come and eat breakfast?”

“Okay.”

He closed the grill and shut the vent to smother the fire. Then he picked up the plate of sausages and headed for the front door. Emma almost let him go, but she suddenly blurted, “Hey, Dad?”

He paused at the door and looked back at her. There was something weird going on with him. The look on his face seemed to shift at random from angry scowls to strangely excited little grins. What was on his mind? She couldn’t imagine.

“Do you think after breakfast you could help me with a project?” she asked.

“Oh, what’s that?” he said, reaching for the door knob.

“Well, it’s just that I heard you mention something to Darryl about the netting on the fish traps getting worn out by the strong current,” she said.

“Yeah, we had to work with available materials,” he said. “The design was my idea, using scrap wood and hard-knotted netting to make small drum traps, but the current is too strong for them.”

“If you would show me how to repair the netting, I would take the responsibility for keeping the traps in good condition.” When he hesitated, she continued, “I could probably figure something out on my own, but if you showed me how you made the netting, it would at least give me a start. Heck, maybe I could improve the design.” She shrugged.

She could tell by the look on her father’s face that he was not excited about the idea, but he worked up a smile and replied, “That would be just fine. I’d be happy to.” It was the phoniest smile she’d ever seen, and when he immediately stepped inside, she regretted asking him.

I don’t want to do it if he’s just going to be secretly irritated about it, she thought. He doesn’t hide his real feelings as well as he thinks he does. Well, that’s what I get for bringing it up.

Fuming, she stomped down the porch steps, shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets. It was times like these when she missed having friends. How long had it been since she’d seen her friends in Vancouver? No way to call or text them, no social media. She didn’t even know if they were alive or dead. They, at least, hadn’t resented spending time with her.

She found her brother walking from the big shed back to the barn, and she hurried to catch up to him.

“Hey, Darryl,” she called. “Darryl.”

He kept going a few steps, as if he hadn’t even heard her. Finally, he stopped and slowly turned toward her. He seemed lost in his own thoughts.

“Did you want something?” he said.

For some reason, the question annoyed her more than it should have. Did she want something? Maybe to not be ignored. Maybe to not have her brother walk out on birthday parties that she’d planned for days. His question made her suddenly willful. Darryl was not Dad, and she didn’t have to tiptoe around him. He was just her brother, a self-involved, sometimes bratty boy who had grown into a self-involved, distracted young man.

“After breakfast, you’re going to show me how to make netting for the fish traps,” she said. “I just thought I’d tell you now, so you’d be mentally prepared. I’m taking over responsibility for tending the traps.”

“I am?” he replied. “You are?”

“Yes and yes,” she said. “Do you have a problem with that?” She drew herself up tall, as if to challenge him, daring him to back out.

“Well, I mean…I have to make sure Justine doesn’t need my help,” he said. “She’s still not at a hundred percent.”

“She doesn’t need your help,” Emma replied. “She’s still resting and getting over her cold. Look, if you can spend a whole hour roaming around the ranch before breakfast without her, you can spend an hour with me after breakfast working on the fishing nets. She’ll be fine.”

At this, Darryl rolled his eyes. “You don’t understand.”

She didn’t know what he meant by that comment, but she responded, “I understand just fine. You’re going to help me with the fishing traps and that’s it. We need to repair the netting and maybe come up with a better design.”

He stared at her flatly for a few seconds, and finally said, “Okay, come with me.” Still lugging Grandpa’s old toolbox, he headed for the porch, waving for her to follow him. “I’ll help you repair the traps. I’ll help you right now.”

“What does that mean?” she said, following him.

“Just follow me,” he said. “I’m going to help you with the traps.”

“You’re supposed to come to breakfast right now,” she said. “We can work on the nets afterward.”

“I can’t help you with the traps after breakfast,” he said, mounting the porch steps. He set the toolbox on the table between the chairs. “I can help you right now. Come on. I’ll show you.”

She fully expected him to walk right to the dining room table and sit down as if nothing had happened, but she wasn’t going to let this go. After more than a full day of lying in bed feeling miserable, her tolerance for being overlooked or ignored had greatly diminished. Glaring at her older brother’s back, she followed him inside.

In the dining room, her mother, father, and grandmother had already sat down at the table. Instead of joining them, Darryl crossed the living room to the den at the back of the house. It was a small, wood-paneled room with a fancy Persian carpet on the floor, a heavily curtained window, and a ton of bookshelves. At one time, it had been the place to watch television, but that old device sat like a brick on its stand in the corner.

Darryl went to one of the bookshelves and began rooting through the books. Grandma liked to shelf books thematically. One shelf for fiction, another for historical books, another for encyclopedias and dictionaries. Darryl seemed to be rooting through the “How To” and DIY books. Finally, he grabbed one and pulled it off the shelf. It was a big, fat book with a well-worn green cover. He thrust it at her.

She didn’t want to take it. This was just a lame joke meant to throw her off.

“What is this?” she said.

“Seriously, Emma, take it,” he said. “This is going to be a huge help. Not just with the fishing nets, but with a whole bunch of stuff. Take it. You’ll thank me.”

She read the title. Back to Basics: How to Learn and Enjoy Traditional American Skills. Then she opened the cover and saw that someone had scribbled a message there in bad handwriting: “For Tuck. Picked this up in Seattle. Some light reading for the cabin, perhaps? -Tabby”

“Now, look,” Darryl said. “I’m dealing with a lot of stuff right now. I know maybe it doesn’t look like it, but I am.”

“What kind of stuff are you dealing with?” she asked.

“Personal business,” he replied sharply. “The point is, it’ll be hard to teach anybody new skills. You can’t get on my case about it, okay?” Something on his face, the way he knitted his eyebrows and scrunched up his nose as he spoke, made her think he might be a lot more emotional than he was letting on. And why should that be? Was something wrong that she didn’t know about? It caught her off guard. “This book will teach you all sorts of stuff. Add it to your other survival books. It’s good. Trust me.”

And with that, he patted her on the shoulder and walked past her back into the living room. She flipped through the book and arrived at a chapter on building animal traps. There were a ton of full-color illustrations showing all kinds of animal traps, from snares to deadfalls. It was right up her alley.

I guess I can work with this, she thought.

She shut the book, tucked it under her arm, and headed to breakfast. No, she hadn’t succeeded in getting anyone to spend time with her, but she at least had something new and interesting to work on. Maybe when she trapped some tasty food and brought it home, her family would finally take notice.

11

Of course, what Darryl hadn’t dared tell his sister was that he’d found the Back to Basics book the evening before while looking for information on pregnancy and traditional childbirth. He’d read and reread the relevant chapters the previous evening while everyone was tossing and turning, coughing and feeling miserable in their beds. There’d been a lot of useful information, and he certainly felt more informed about delivering a baby using traditional methods, but it hadn’t comforted him at all. Not at all. What a terrifying prospect! There was so much that could go wrong having a baby at home instead of at a hospital.

This had been bothering him all day, and he gnawed on it and wrestled with it, gradually sinking deeper and deeper back into worry. Justine was still sleeping, so he couldn’t talk to her about it. Maybe she would feel better about the whole subject once she’d looked at the book, but it hadn’t worked for him.

As he took his place at the breakfast table, he noticed his mother and grandmother staring at him. Did they suspect something was wrong? He couldn’t tell. No one had asked him outright. Only his sister had come close to it, and he’d had to fight hard not to get furious at her. Could she leave him alone and stop prying? Didn’t she have someone else to bother?

Maybe that book will keep her busy, he thought.

“Eat up,” his father said.

Darryl reached across the table and grabbed the tongs, snagging a few sausages and putting them on his plate. Then he added some dried fruit, a few of Tabitha’s weird acorn flour biscuits. His mother poured him a glass of tea and slid it in front of him.

“Busy this morning?” she asked.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied, then took a big gulp of tea to avoid having to say more. The tea was warm, not sweet at all, and too watery. Still, better than nothing.

“How is Justine feeling today?” Mom asked.

“Still pretty crummy,” he said. “Sore throat, headache, all of that stuff, you know? We still have some cough medicine, but I was wondering…do we have any vitamins? That might help her fight off the cold.”

In truth, he wanted the vitamins for reasons that had nothing to do with her cold. He’d read quite a few alarming things about prenatal care. Their diet had become fairly restricted, and the lack of vitamins could lead to birth defects and a whole host of unfortunate complications.

“I’m afraid we’re all out of vitamins,” Tabitha said. “In the future, we’ll plant a wide variety of vegetables. That will ensure we have the nutrition we need.”

“When can we start planting vegetables?” he said. “The sooner, the better.”

His grandmother gave him a look that was both amused and confused, then she pointed at the small window on one side of the dining room. About four inches of snow was piled up on the windowsill.

“Well, we’re not going to plant anything in the dead of winter,” she said. “The ground has to thaw, so we can plow and prepare it. In this climate, that’s not going to happen until late March at the earliest.”

“Oh.” He stabbed at a sausage but found he didn’t really have any appetite. “There’s no other way to start growing vegetables earlier?”

“Well, of course, there is,” she replied. “Heck, we used to have an old greenhouse on the property, but it hasn’t been usable in probably fifteen or twenty years. The building is out beyond the fence on the far east side of the property. If it were in decent shape, we could grow some things year-round, but it’s a wreck. Most of the windows have probably fallen out.”

It was something, not much but something. He’d built a lot of the fence by himself. Surely, he could renovate an old greenhouse. He’d seen the building before but only in the distance. It was well beyond the fence, almost in the forest itself, overgrown and falling apart. In fact, he hadn’t even been sure it belonged to the Healys, which is why he hadn’t messed with it.

“I didn’t realize that was your property, Grandma. I think maybe I’ll go check it out after I eat,” he said. “You never know, we might be able to fix it up and make it useful again.”

Emma finally appeared then, taking her seat. She had the book under her arm, but she set it on the ground before pouring herself a cup of tea.

“You just really miss vegetables, do you?” Darryl’s mom asked him. “Can’t live without beets and radishes in your life?”

Darryl laughed uncomfortably to cover his real feelings. He didn’t need them probing for the reason until he was good and ready—until Justine was good and ready—to tell them.

“I don’t know about beets and radishes,” he said. “I was thinking more about leafy green vegetables, stuff with lots of vitamins. Maybe…” Seeking some excuse, he seized on the most obvious. “Maybe if we have more vitamins in our diets, we wouldn’t be prone to getting colds.”

As if his mention of it reminded her, Tabitha coughed, took a drink, and blew her nose into a handkerchief. Through all of this, Greg had been quietly eating, staring at nothing in particular, but he sat up now and said, “Sounds like a good project. It’ll keep you busy. Take a look at the greenhouse and let us know if it’s beyond repair or not.”

“I will, Dad,” he replied, cutting into a sausage. Maybe he could eat a little, after all.

* * *

The fence was reinforced like crazy by now. It looked even uglier than before, but it was taller and sturdy, topped with lots of jagged edges of sharp objects. If it didn’t dissuade thieves now, nothing would. Darryl considered this as he walked outside and followed the property line. He hadn’t thought much about the cow that had been stolen out of the barn. He’d been way too preoccupied to worry about it, especially when they still had more cows than they needed.

His dad could deal with the theft. Darryl had enough to worry about on his own. There was absolutely no room left in his mind or heart for any other problems. He finally arrived at the far east edge of the property, just beyond the fence, where the old greenhouse stood. It was so overgrown and in such poor condition that he’d barely noticed it when building the fence. He could see why they’d placed it in this spot. It was on a slight hill that put it in direct sunlight much of the day, the ridge of the roof running from east to west.

The building itself wasn’t large, which made him think this had been more of a hobby his grandparents had taken up at one time. Maybe it had proven to be more work than necessary. Before the EMP, they certainly hadn’t needed the vegetables when they could just drive to the farmer’s market.

A few small trees had sprouted up around the building, but Darryl shoved his way through the dry wall of branches, dragging his legs through the high snow, and passed through the door. The framework of the building appeared to be mostly intact, though he wouldn’t really know that for sure until he cleared the broken pieces out. As he crossed through the snowy interior, he heard glass crunch under his boots. About half of the panes had fallen in, many of them now underfoot.

It doesn’t matter, he thought. I can make this work.

It would be a big project. All the better. It would give him something to focus on so he wasn’t simply wandering the property worrying about the future. They already had a store of seeds in one of the sheds. If he could plant them by early spring, Justine would have plenty of fresh vegetables for herself and the baby.

Stooping down, he dug into the snow and rooted around until he found one of the panes of glass. He dug it out and set it on top of the snow. It was thick glass, slightly chipped along the edges, but otherwise in decent shape.

He would need help. That was the only complication. Some of the work would require two people. He considered the possibilities. Emma would certainly love to get to involved. His sister wanted to be an expert at everything. However, he felt like she would notice he was worried about something, and she had no qualms about asking probing or personal questions.

Dad was the safest choice. Darryl’s dad was just oblivious enough that he might not notice or care if Darryl was acting a little bit strange.

That settles it, then, he thought. Thanks, Dad, for being just a little bit dense.

12

It was hard work, and Darryl thoroughly enjoyed it. To bend all his attention and mental energy to a difficult and exhausting task was a gift. He didn’t have to wander and worry, try to avoid curious family members, and at the same time, he was directly building a future for Justine and the baby. Every scoop of the snow shovel was part of his effort to take care of them. Never had menial labor taken on such profound purpose, and it made him feel proud.

He began at the door, clearing snow and cutting down the biggest of the plants which had grown up in front of it. Then he worked his way through the building. It wasn’t a big building, maybe three meters wide by three-and-a-half meters long. He went in rows, shoveling snow from front to back and depositing it all by the woods. Along the way, he uncovered old panes of glass, strange debris that might have been garden stakes or rotted tools, and even some animal bones. Had a few more critters been squished by falling glass? That thought made Darryl glance up to ensure no wobbly panes were on the verge of dropping onto his head.

Some of the panes of glass were broken—at least two by his own footsteps. He assumed glass would be hard to come by, but he figured he could fill the gaps with plastic bags or old tarps.

I will make it work, no matter what, he told himself.

Shoveling out the entire building took at least two hours, but when he was done, the transformation was dramatic. It was so much easier to imagine the completed building. Now came the trickier work of restoring the windows and plugging the gaps. For that, he needed help, so he headed back to the house to find his father.

He found Greg scrubbing the grill with a metal brush on the porch, bent over his work with a scowl on his face. Dad had been as distracted and lost in his thoughts lately as Darryl. What in the heck could he possibly have to worry about? The stolen cow, perhaps, but was it really such a big deal? Maybe he was still feeling bad about what had happened on the trek out of the mountains. Tuck’s death had hit him hard, and he’d been furious about Emma getting shot, even though she had recovered well from the wound to her leg.

“Hey, Dad,” Darryl said, approaching the porch from the open gate. “I could use your help with the old greenhouse.”

Dad didn’t respond at all, didn’t even look up from the grill, and his lips were moving as if he were talking to himself under his breath. Darryl walked right up to the porch railing, pulled off his glove, and rapped on the side of the grill. This seemed to startle Greg, who slammed the grill lid shut and looked up.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked. “What?”

“I need your help,” Darryl replied. “I know you’re distracted. That’s fine. You don’t have to talk about anything. I just need your help with a project today.”

Greg gave him a confused look and said, “What project is this?”

“A project way out on the far side of the ranch,” Darryl replied. “Where nobody will bother you or try to figure out why you don’t want to talk to anyone or what’s really bothering you.”

The confused look quickly became a frown, and his father said, “I don’t know what you’re referring to. Nobody is bothering me.”

“Personally, I’d just rather do some work and not having people wondering why I don’t want to talk,” Darryl said. “It’s okay to be lost in my own thoughts and not have, like, Emma staring at me. But maybe you don’t feel the same way. Still, I could use your help. It’s up to you, Dad.”

The frown twisted into something so strange that Darryl knew he had him.

“Anyway, I’m going to go work in peace,” Darryl said, turning to leave.

“I don’t know why you’re being so weird about it,” Greg said, setting the wire brush on top of the grill. “If you really need help with your project, I’ll help. Let’s go.”

Darryl made sure his father didn’t see the smug look on his face. He’d set out the bait and pulled him right in. Yes, his father was worrying about something he didn’t want to talk about, just like Darryl. Now, it was confirmed. While Darryl was somewhat curious, he had a big enough worry of his own. He would respect his father’s secrecy and let him deal with it at his own pace.

And, hopefully, he will do the same for me in return, he thought.

They rounded up some tarps, nails, caulking, scraps of wood, a ladder, and the big toolbox, pushing it all in a wheelbarrow to the far east side of the ranch. Darryl was as good as his word. He didn’t ask his father a single question or attempt to engage him in conversation. They only exchanged words when absolutely necessary in order to coordinate work. Strangely, it felt like a curious form of father/son bonding.

Getting the wheelbarrow to the greenhouse took quite a bit of effort, as it became a kind of makeshift snowplow. Darryl started out pushing it, but once they were beyond the gate, Greg took the handles from him without a word and began powering his way through the snow. Upon arriving, they set to work immediately. Fortunately, Darryl’s father had a better sense of how to repair the building.

They replaced as many of the fallen window panes as they could, sealing them in place with caulking and, in some instances, repairing and reinforcing the frames around them. Once they ran out of unbroken window panes, they filled the remaining gaps with pieces cut from plastic tarps, pulling them taut and securing them in place around the frames.

Though the tarps didn’t work as windows, once all of the holes were covered, Darryl noticed an almost immediate rise in temperature. When they pulled the old door back into the doorframe, this only intensified. The late morning sun was shining brightly through the roof, and Darryl felt the first sheen of sweat on his forehead and cheeks.

“Wow, it really works,” he said. “This is nice.”

His father pulled his toque off and pushed his sweaty blond hair back from his forehead. “Yes, greenhouses work,” he said, and seemed on the verge of laughing. “That’s why people have used them for centuries.”

“Nice sarcasm, Dad,” Darryl replied.

“Thanks. I save my best sarcasm for you.”

At this, they smiled at each other, and Darryl felt a wonderful connection with his father. It was great. They were working side by side as equals, neither probing, questioning, or peering into each other’s secret worries.

“You must have been pretty young when this greenhouse was in good condition,” Darryl said.

“My parents built this place when I was seventeen or eighteen,” Greg replied, picking up some large pieces of broken windowpanes and setting them in the wheelbarrow. “I can’t remember for sure.”

“Wow, so you must have worked in here with Grandpa sometimes,” Darryl said, returning tools to the toolbox. “He would be really proud to see you fixing it up again. That’s cool, Dad.”

At this, Greg only grunted, and Darryl felt an immediate shift in his mood. He tried to ignore it as he continued picking up the tools, but his father rose, dusted off his hands, and pulled his toque back on.

“Well, I think this is enough for today,” he said. He wouldn’t look at Darryl. “I’ve got a lot of other things to do. Can you handle it from here?”

“I guess so,” Darryl replied.

“Good.” Greg turned to leave. “Might as well keep the wheelbarrow and tools in here for now.”

And with that, he pulled the door out of the frame, set it aside, and headed outside. Darryl watched him go, suppressing an urge to say something biting. Had a single reference to Grandpa really killed the mood so completely? Dad was a mess.

What the heck is going on in your head, old man? Darryl wondered. Maybe I don’t even want to know.

As he stood there seething, he heard a soft whistling. When he looked for the source, he saw one of the panes his father had replaced sliding out of the frame. It felt to the ground, hit some of the debris on the ground, and cracked into pieces.

“Quality work there, Dad,” Darryl grumbled. He stooped down and picked up the pieces, tossing them into the wheelbarrow.

Over the next hour or so, Darryl went back and examined all of the work his father had done, finding much of it subpar. Window panes had been shoddily installed, many of them on the verge of falling out. Darryl went to work fixing all of his dad’s mistakes, using duct tape to reinforce the caulking and strengthening the shoddy frames, fighting a rising tide of bitterness. Why had he asked the old man to help him in the first place if he was just going to give it minimal effort?

Well, so much for the father/son bonding, he thought. I should have kept a closer eye on him while he was working.

Darryl was in the middle of fixing part of the metal framework, balanced on top of a ladder, when he heard someone moving below him. He carefully repositioned himself on the ladder and looked down. To his surprise, he saw his sister, Emma, stepping through the door. She had the Back to Basics book tucked under her arm.

“I just saw Dad,” she said. “He said you guys were basically done on the repairs, but it looks like there’s still quite a bit of work to do.”

“Oh, he said we were basically done, did he?” Darryl replied, as he resumed his work. “Interesting.”

“It doesn’t look like you’re done,” she continued. “Not even close.”

Darryl grunted in disgust and set his tools down on top of the ladder. He was just annoyed enough with his father that he didn’t feel like protecting him. “Nope, we’re not done. Actually, I’m redoing a bunch of the work Dad did. I’m surprised at him. It’s like he was barely paying attention to what he was doing. Well, that’s what I get for asking him to help me.”

He descended the ladder and shifted it a few feet to the right, positioning it beneath another one of the panes his father had replaced.

“I’m not surprised,” Emma said. “You haven’t noticed how weird he’s been acting lately?”

Darryl didn’t want to look at her, lest she see the same weirdness on his own face. “Yeah, his heart definitely wasn’t in the work. Let’s put it that way.”

“He was in a bad mood on your birthday,” she said, “but it got a whole lot worse after the cow got taken. That’s when he completely shut down. It’s like he’s just focused on that one thing, you know?”

“I don’t know why the loss of a single cow is such a big deal,” Darryl replied. “Yeah, it’s frustrating, but we’ll be fine. Let the old man mope. What does it matter?”

“I’ve seen him like this before,” Emma said.

Darryl started to climb the ladder again, but he turned and sat down on the lowest step instead. “When?”

“Out in the woods. After Eustace turned against us.”

Darryl dared to look at her and saw that his sister was pacing in front of the door. She’d taken the book out from under her arm, and she was idly waving it back and forth.

“Either he’s planning something,” she said, “or he saw something really bad, and he doesn’t want to tell us what it is. Or both. That’s what I think.”

“Well, I wasn’t in the woods with you,” Darryl replied, putting his head in his hands, “but maybe you’re right. I haven’t been paying enough attention to him, but he’s definitely hiding something.”

“Should we force him to tell us?” Emma said.

“No,” Darryl said with a sigh. “Sometimes, people just need their privacy for a while, and pushing them will only make it worse.”

13

Greg found Horace Bouchard sitting up in bed. That, at least, was an improvement. The old veteran had a cup of hot tea steaming on the nightstand beside the bed, a big book on world history opened on his lap. Horace seemed quite fond of his proximity to all the bookshelves in the den, and he often spent his quiet hours reading.

He had a crumpled handkerchief stuffed into the breast pocket of his shirt. Otherwise, he looked like he was on the mend. He’d even combed his wispy hair and trimmed his beard.

“Hey there, sir, how are you feeling this morning?” Greg asked, standing in the doorway.

“Give me another day, chief, and I’ll be back out there building fencing and feeding cows,” Horace replied, closing the book but using his thumb to hold his place. “I’m not much one for laying around. This is the pits.”

“I know it’s not fun, but don’t rush it,” Greg said. “Take your time. You want to be back to a hundred percent before you go tromping around in the snow again. Doctor’s orders.”

“You got it.” Horace gave him a little salute.

“Hey, I just wanted to ask your permission to take your rifle out with me again today,” Greg said. “I used it the other day to go hunting, so I guess I’m asking for retroactive permission as well. It’s got a nicer scope than the Remington.”

In truth, he was only asking on the off chance Horace might go looking for the rifle to clean it and find out it was missing. That, in turn, could lead to awkward conversations with other family members, and Greg didn’t need that right now. He didn’t need any more scrutiny. Darryl clearly knew something was up, and if Darryl knew, others probably did as well. It was time to act. Once it was done, Greg could explain everything to everyone.

“That’s a high-powered rifle,” Horace said. “You planning to blow the heads off more pheasants? If you’re hunting small game, you might use a rifle with a smaller caliber bullet. You don’t want to damage the meat.”

“I’m hoping to find some deer or even elk,” Greg said. “Sorry if you had your heart set on pheasant.”

“Fresh venison sounds excellent,” Horace said. “Help yourself to the gun. In fact, you can use the SIG anytime you want. You don’t have to ask. I know you’ll take good care of it. Have a great time, Greg. I’d join you if I was feeling up to it.”

“Maybe next time.”

And with that, Greg left the room, gently shutting the bedroom door behind him. He headed into the living room and retrieved the SIG from the mantel above the fireplace, exactly where he’d left it the other day after tracking Eustace to the warehouse. It really was a beautiful gun. Though it was a bolt-action rifle, which meant he wouldn’t be able to pump out shots quite as fast, he figured it was better for long-range shooting. And if he was going to snipe Eustace Simpson, he wanted plenty of distance between them.

They kept boxes of ammunition on a shelf in the coat closet, and Greg grabbed a box of 6.5mm Creedmoor bullets—high-density ammo that was perfect for long-range game hunting. He loaded the rifle’s magazine, then loaded an extra magazine and shoved it in his coat pocket. He didn’t expect to need that many bullets, but he wanted to be prepared for any opportunity. If he got a chance to take a clean shot at Eustace, he was going to go for it.

Greg slung the rifle strap over his shoulder. As he shut the coat closet and turned to leave, he saw his wife standing in the dining room door, a dusty towel dangling from her right hand.

“Hey there, honey, I’m going out hunting for a little while,” he said, averting his eyes. He didn’t want her to notice the bloodthirst in his gaze. Technically, he hadn’t lied. He was indeed going out hunting, but he had one specific prey in mind.

“You spent hours out there last time and didn’t bring back much,” she replied. “Are you sure it’s worth it? Maybe all the snow has driven the game deeper into the woods.”

He couldn’t tell if there was suspicion behind her words or not, but he felt a twinge of guilt. So much lying. She was going to be furious when he finally told her the truth, but it had to be done. Eustace Simpson couldn’t be left alone to scheme, and Greg knew if he shared his plan with her, she would oppose it.

You’re not being deceptive if you actually do a bit of real hunting, he told him. Bring back a real deer, make killing Eustace a side quest, and then it’ll all be fine.

“This time, I’ll make it worthwhile,” he said. “You’ll see.”

She crossed the living room and gave him a hug, which he returned, though it made the guilt surge.

“Be safe out there,” she said.

“I will.”

The doubt and guilt were going to quickly smother him—he could feel it—so he stepped outside, shut the door behind him, and hurried to the gate. As soon as he passed through the gate, he heard the rattle and clank of the wheelbarrow being pushed through the snow. Darryl and Emma shortly appeared, coming from around the corner along the now well-worn path to the old greenhouse. He immediately locked eyes with Darryl, and he could tell that his son knew something was up.

“I’m going hunting for a little while,” Greg said. “I’ll bring back a deer for some fresh venison. How does that sound?”

“If you say so, Dad,” Darryl replied, as he picked up the handles and resumed pushing the wheelbarrow. “Watch yourself out there.”

As Darryl headed for the gate, Emma lingered. She looked like she was on the verge of saying something.

Too many secrets, Greg thought. It’s not good for the family. I have to finish this task quickly so we can get back to normal.

“You really like Horace’s rifle, don’t you?” Emma said, after a moment.

“It’s good at long range,” he replied. “Anyway, I’ll be back before dinner. Take care, Emma.”

“Of course. Watch out for the mountain lions. And bandits.”

“You got it, kiddo.”

And with that, he strode past her and hurried toward the trees. He could sense that she was staring hard at his back, but he kept going until he was out of sight of the house in the tangle of trees and undergrowth.

It will all be back to normal soon, he told himself. Everything’s going to be fine once I’ve taken care of business. We can put this whole Eustace business behind us and get on with our lives.

He adjusted the strap of the rifle on his shoulder and began working his way through the woods, headed toward the back road. He hadn’t gone far, maybe a couple hundred meters, when he heard something moving in the distance. Squatting beside a tree, he unshouldered the rifle and lifted the scope to his eye. It took a few seconds, but finally he spotted it. A buck standing in the middle of the snowy road, staring off in another direction—like an answer to a prayer he hadn’t prayed.

Really, the woods were crawling with big game. It wasn’t that big of a surprise. The timing wasn’t great. He would have preferred to bag an animal on his way back from dealing with Eustace, but he would take the opportunity as presented. This was exactly the cover he needed. Greg leaned his right shoulder against the tree trunk for extra stability and sighted the rifle down the animal’s neck to a spot just behind its shoulder.

Just then, the animal turned it head in his direction, as if it sensed him. Greg pulled the trigger. The gun had a fierce sound, and it kicked like hell. The buck leapt forward, startled, took a couple of steps, then dropped. On the ground, however, it thrashed, trying to get up again. Not a perfect shot. Greg took aim again, but he was dealing with a moving target now. He took another shot, and another, hitting it on its underbelly, and finally the buck flopped down, dead.

Your aim sucks, Greg chastised himself, rising from his place beside the tree. That was a much bigger target than Eustace, and he’s already a big target. If you can’t bring down a full-grown buck, how are you going to bring down a full-grown bearded idiot?

He just needed to concentrate a little harder, hold his breath, and steady his hand. He could do it. At least, he told himself he could as he hurried toward the carcass. He folded the stock of the rifle and slid the strap over his shoulder again, though he could feel the heat of the barrel against his back and shoulder. It was lightweight. He appreciated that about the rifle. Easy to carry, super compact, comfortable to hold, and had a great, long-range scope. It would make this whole messy business a lot easier, even with his poor aim.

As he knelt beside the carcass and drew his hunting knife, he felt good. He hadn’t entirely lied to his family. They would have heard the shots from the house, so they knew he was indeed hunting. He went to work field dressing the buck, gutting it right there on the snowy ground, splashing the blinding white snow with bright red blood and dark, greasy guts. It was, as always, a disgusting, smelly mess, and he didn’t have a way to really clean his gloves afterward except to scrub them in the snow.

When the hard work of field dressing the carcass was done, he produced a length of nylon rope, tied it to the buck’s back legs, and hoisted it up into a nearby spruce tree. It was hard work, and he was bloody and tired by the time he’d finished. It didn’t help that he wasn’t completely over his cold. He still had a bit of the achiness, and his energy level was lower than usual.

Finally, he buried the offal as best he could under the snow, spent some time trying to clean his gloves and knife, then he set off again, heading south toward Glenvell. If he’d had a way to contact his son, he would have told him to bring the wheelbarrow or cart and retrieve the buck. As it was, he would just have to hope a bear didn’t come along and snatch it.

He followed roughly the same path he’d taken on his previous scouting trip, weaving his way north of town, keeping to the trees, until he came in sight of the town hall. He saw a few people strolling through the town center, but it was mostly pretty quiet. The bitter cold had no doubt driven folks indoors. Indeed, he could see smoke trailing from many chimneys, and firelight flickered through a few windows. As he moved past town, he spotted a couple of the local guards pushing a small handcart along a well-worn path, and he hunkered down to watch them. The handcart was piled high with what appeared to be large cloth sacks, possibly full of flour or some other grain. They were taking it in the direction of the warehouse. Greg waited until they were well past him before moving after them, stepping as lightly as possible.

When he finally came in sight of the warehouse, he saw that they had cleared a large area of the parking lot just outside the small side door. Six people were there now, all bundled up so that Greg couldn’t tell who they were. A number of boxes and bags had been stacked here, and the contents of the handcart were currently being added to the piles.

He’s stockpiling supplies, Greg realized. Just like Mayor Filmore.

Among the bags and boxes were a number of large metal drums. They were unmarked, but when a couple of guards lifted one of them onto a dolly, Greg could tell they were heavy. As he watched, they positioned the barrels along the wall beside the door, but they took the bags, boxes, and other items through the door. Eustace appeared briefly on the other side, waving them inside the warehouse.

What the hell are you planning, Eustace? Greg wondered.

Because he was using the scope to watch them, Greg had the rifle pointed at Eustace, and for about two glorious seconds he had a perfect shot. His finger slid down to the trigger and rested there. But he hesitated. If he took the shot now, would he be able to get away from all of these guards? Not likely. And if they caught him, then what? What would become of his family?

The uncertainty was just enough to make him waste those two seconds, and by then, Eustace had ducked back out of sight. Clearly, Eustace was up to something. Consolidating supplies, certainly, but was there more to it than that? What was in the big metal drums? Greg decided to move a little closer to get a better look.

He crept forward, moving in a crouch and taking careful steps. He tried to use the trees, brush, and snow piles as cover, but when he got to within about thirty meters of the parking lot, he decided he’d taken as big a risk as he was willing to take. He crouched behind a pine tree with many low branches, raised the rifle, and gazed through the scope again.

Greg watched them for a while as they unloaded the handcart. Then a couple of guards set out again, headed back toward town. Shifting his gaze back to the open door, Greg caught a glimpse of the inside of the warehouse. Stacks and stacks of bags, boxes, and barrels. Was Eustace looting every house and business in the entire city, area, province? What was his plan here, and how had he put together this little ragtag army? Were they the former city guards that Mayor Filmore had employed?

He’s the CEO of a national energy company, Greg reminded himself. The guy has access to people and resources, and he knows how to motivate others. He has deep pockets and plenty of belligerence.

Eustace stepped into the door then, a great red wall blocking his view of the warehouse interior, and suddenly Greg had a perfect shot again. The sight was lined up right on the middle of his torso. Greg could even see the details on the buttons of his flannel coat.

Take the shot. Worry about the guards afterward. One bullet through the heart, then run like hell.

But one of the guards stepped in the way then, passing something to Eustace, and Greg saw the AR-15 hanging from the man’s shoulder. No, the risk was too great. Despite Greg’s burning need for revenge, now was not the time.

He was so furious at the missed opportunity that he was shaking. This made it hard to hold the scope still enough to see clearly. He lowered the rifle and slipped the strap over his shoulder.

Another time, he told himself. You’ll have better opportunities. Just keep an eye on him. At some point, he’ll step outside, move away from his guards, or give you a clean shot.

The guards pushing the handcart were just a little too close for comfort now, so Greg ducked behind the tree and listened as the sound receded in the direction of town. As he was doing that, he traced his own tracks back into the woods. He’d left fairly obvious footprints all along the way, and there was no falling snow now to cover them. He rose, intending to backtrack the same way, covering his tracks by using his own footprints.

As he started to move in that direction, he noticed something just to the right that had escaped his notice before. Another set of tracks headed toward his position from the east, circling around in the area, then curved back the way they’d come. Someone else had been out here recently. Had they spotted his tracks? He dared to moved close to them, stepping out from behind cover to do so but keeping low.

Someone’s patrolling the woods, he thought. If they’ve seen my tracks, they know someone’s been out here spying on the warehouse.

Yes, that seemed likely, and as he thought about it, Greg’s anger suddenly melted, replaced by a strangling fear. Whoever it was, they would see Greg’s footprints when they came back through, if they hadn’t already. There was no way to stop that now. He couldn’t possibly cover himself. He glanced in the direction of the warehouse just in time to see a guard carrying the last bag through the door, then he started back the way he’d come.

14

Greg stepped carefully in his own deep footprints, hoping that somehow, he might fool anyone who tried to track him. The last thing he wanted to do was lead Eustace’s men all the way back to his house. Had he put his whole family in danger? The foolishness of this whole secret assassination quest suddenly seemed clear to him. He was out of his league, dealing with a dangerous group of people. Eustace was not Mayor Filmore. The man had years of experience running a large national company, which included covering up secrets, probably bribing and threatening powerful people, and generally getting away with criminal activity. And now, in a world with so little accountability, Eustace Simpson had become more dangerous than ever.

Still, Greg couldn’t give up. He dared not abandon the mission. If anything, it was more imperative than ever that he take out Eustace.

He has to die, Greg thought, for the thousandth time. But how do I pull this off? What if my cover is already blown?

Somehow, he had to get Eustace away from his guards or at least away from the warehouse. Greg needed more advantageous circumstances before he took his shot. While he hated the idea of returning home with the mission incomplete, he didn’t see that he had much choice.

Of course, just retracing his steps wouldn’t throw anyone off his trail. He would have to walk some loops in the woods, try to lead any trackers astray. It was going to be an ordeal. As he was planning it out in his mind, he heard distant shouting somewhere behind him. Greg froze. A woman’s voice, coming from the direction of the warehouse. She was shouting something over and over, and he held his breath and strained to make it out.

“He’s back. He’s back. I spotted him. He’s back.”

The realization that she was talking about him was like a jolt of electricity. Greg lurched forward. At the same time, he looked back over his shoulder, but he could no longer see the warehouse through all the trees and brush. The woman’s voice was soon joined by others, frantic people shouting over each other. In the middle of the noise, there was one voice sharper and angrier than the others, and Greg knew it was the boss.

“Go, go, go, hurry,” he said. “Follow his tracks this time and get him. If you can, cut him off before he gets home. Don’t come back empty-handed.”

It was too late to backtrack or hide his footsteps. Greg pulled the rifle off his shoulder and took off running as fast as he could in the deep snow. He hadn’t gone far when he heard his pursuers somewhere behind him. He didn’t dare look back for fear of tripping or falling. The terrain before him was treacherous, with the deceptively smooth snow hiding all sorts of roots, plants, and vines that he could trip on. He kept to his own tracks as best he could, if only to have an easier path.

The path went due east, then gradually curved to the north, meandering through the trees. He was moving so fast now, it felt reckless, stepping high so he didn’t have to drag his legs through snow. His pursuers made no attempt to be quiet. Indeed, if anything, they were making far more noise than was necessary, shouting and cursing as they went.

Greg had gone another fifty meters or so when he stumbled on a root half-buried in the snow and fell against the rough bark of a black walnut tree. He managed to soften the blow slightly by thrusting his bent arms in front of him, but in the process, he lost his grip on the rifle. It fell, hit another root, and tumbled into a snow drift.

Using the momentum from his fall, Greg dropped his knees and thrust his hands into the snow, rooting around for the rifle. It had gone deep, but his left hand found the narrow stock and grabbed hold. Just then, he heard the sharp crack of another rifle as a bullet hit the trunk of the tree just above his head with a burst of bark. He felt the small pieces of bark bouncing off the back of his head and neck, saw others landing in the snow around him.

He dared a glance back and saw a distant figure through a gap between trees. More than a hundred meters back but coming fast, some kind of long rifle in his hands. He was dressed all in black, with a fur-lined hood, and had what appeared to be tinted snow goggles over his eyes. Greg pulled Horace’s rifle out of the snow drift and lunged behind the nearest tree for cover.

He was tempted to shoot back, but he feared that would only make himself vulnerable to his pursuers. Instead, he lifted the rifle in both hands, rose, and took off again, trying to keep the tree at his back as he cut a new path through deeper and more tangled woods. He could no longer high-step over the snow, so he tried to bulldoze with way through by brute strength alone. It was slower, but at least he had more obstacles between him and his pursuers.

As he cut a path back in the direction of town, he could hear his pursuers spreading out behind him. One voice was moving to his left, another to his right, others staying in the middle. They were trying to cut him off. This caused a surge of adrenaline that overcame the lingering achiness in his body. He reached a large tangle of snow-dusted vines, but instead of going around them, he charged right through. He felt the vines pulling at his coat, at his snow pants, and he heard fabric ripping somewhere. But the sheer force of his advance tore through and he kept going.

Ahead, he saw buildings on the edge of town. A couple of small houses in a cul-de-sac, the corner of the small shopping center. He debated briefly whether or not it was safer to move closer to town. Would they be less likely to fire on him? Probably not. Even if there was collateral damage, Eustace would just claim he was defending his property from a burglar.

Greg didn’t want to put any innocent lives at risk, so he turned the other way, coming up alongside the backyard fence of one of the houses. Just then, he heard the crack of a rifle again and saw a puff of snow about ten feet to his right. When he looked back, he saw a figure that he knew immediately to be Officer Pam Grasier. She had found a gap between two trees just wide enough to take a shot at him.

In a fit of panic, Greg tossed his rifle over the fence, leapt up onto the center crossbeam, and pulled himself up. He rolled over the tops of the fenceposts and fell into the backyard. On the way down, he hit some plastic surface, felt it buckle under his weight, then he slammed into the ground. He picked himself up and cast about for the rifle.

He’d fallen on a small, plastic playground slide, knocking it down in the process. The rifle had fallen a few feet away. He scrambled for it on his hands and knees and picked it up. As he rose, he glanced toward the back of the house at a sliding glass door and saw someone standing in a gap between the vertical blinds. An old, white-haired woman in a purple housedress, she gaped at him like he was an alien that had fallen out of the sky.

He waved her away and tried to mouth the words, “Hide. Get down,” though he was sure she didn’t understand him. She didn’t react. Feeling pain in his side from landing on the slide, Greg ran for the gate in the fence on the east side, pushed it open, and slipped through. Then he took off running again into the deepest and most overgrown part of the woods. Here, at least, the snow was not as deep, blocked by the dense canopy of evergreen boughs overhead. This enabled him to sprint full-out, the rifle tucked against his chest and belly. Out of breath, his blood rushing in his head, he cut a zigzagging path—east then north, then east, then north—as he gradually worked his way around the outskirts of Glenvell.

Soon, he caught a glimpse of the town hall far to his left. This gave him enough of an indication of his location that he was able to adjust course. He heard a third gunshot, but it sounded farther away. Where the bullet hit, he had no idea. Out of breath, in pain, his legs on fire, he forced himself to keep moving as fast as his body would carry him, eventually reaching the back road that cut through the neighborhood. He saw his own tracks crossing the road here, and he followed them, hoping to somehow confuse his pursuers.

Finally, after perhaps another thirty minutes of running full-out, he felt his legs buckle, and he stumbled to a stop, catching himself against a small pine tree. Gasping for breath, his lungs burning and his legs on fire, he planted the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and turned, aiming back behind him. In between breaths, he heard sounds of his pursuers, but they seemed very far away now. He waited a minute, but they didn’t seem to get any closer.

Finally, when he’d caught his breath, he resumed moving. He wanted to head back to the hanging deer carcass and drag the thing home, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He had to confuse his pursuers somehow, so he began walking in strange looping patterns through the woods, creating crisscrossing tracks that seemed to go in every direction. At one point, he came in sight of the rural highway, and he created a set of tracks leading right into the ditch, heading south for a while before cutting back into the woods.

After almost an hour of this, he paused again and listened for his pursuers. He didn’t hear them at all. He didn’t hear anything. The snowy woods had grown deathly quiet, but he stood there for a bit, aiming the rifle into the distance and waiting. When the silence endured for a few more minutes, he finally started back toward home. Along the way, he passed through the backyard of the old Carmichael place and saw the rotting barn and old, empty house sitting in the snow like a forgotten grave.

From there, he was able to adjust course and head for the deer carcass. He had a pretty good idea of where he’d left it, hanging from the sturdy limb of a spruce tree a few meters north of the back road. Along the way, he saw other tracks, which could have been his. He wasn’t sure. He’d left many paths in the woods that day.

Finally, he spotted blood in the snow ahead of him and knew it was the place where he’d buried the guts. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and ran toward it. However, when he came in sight of the spruce tree, he saw only a length of nylon rope, still tied to the branch and hanging down but severed. The deer was gone, and among the many footprints in the area, there was a distinct drag mark heading south.

They got my deer, he thought, muttering every profanity in the book. Eustace’s people got my deer!

He raised the gun and aimed in the direction of the drag mark, but whoever had taken it was long gone. He was utterly alone in the cold, quiet woods. And Greg realized that part of him wanted to go after them, to gun them down and wrest back the deer that was rightfully his. It was a dark realization, and he felt suddenly as if he were on the verge of crossing a terrible line. Shooting someone to defend his family was one thing, killing someone for stealing meat was something else altogether, but the feeling was there. He couldn’t deny it.

Keep it together, Healy, he scolded himself. Forget about the deer.

The light had changed overhead, and he realized he’d wasted so much time on this complete failure of a mission that the afternoon was edging toward early evening. He’d left the house hours ago.

Even so, he waited a bit longer, standing there beneath the length of severed nylon rope until the shadows grew long and evening settled in. Only then, in the relative safety of the dimming light, did he dare to trudge back home. Clearly, Eustace knew he was spying on them, which only made him angrier and more determined to kill the man.

At the same time, he was coming home empty-handed after wasting hours in the woods. Could he still keep the lie going? He dreaded the idea of telling his family—especially his wife and his mother—the full truth about what he’d been up to, but maybe it was time.

Worry about that later, he told himself. For now, just get home.

* * *

The behavior of Eustace’s little ragtag band was embarrassing. They wore their emotions so close to the surface. Even the former cop, Pam Grasier—normally so stoic—stormed through the warehouse door, ripped her hat off and flung it to the ground, and yanked the scarf from around her neck, wadded it up, and threw it. The others stomped in like children that had just lost a youth hockey game.

Must I be associated with these people? James Teagan thought. These untrained yokels have never heard of professional detachment.

He’d dragged the field-dressed deer all the way back by himself. Couldn’t they see how calm he was? Didn’t they see what it was like to maintain control? Little children pretending to be tough guys, that’s what they were. It sickened him.

He was in the process of hoisting the carcass using a pulley and chain that hung from the ceiling of the warehouse when Eustace strode up, scowling at everyone. At least their target had done them the favor of preparing the animal. It was already gutted and bled out. That was the nastiest part of the work, and it was done.

“That guy’s a lot faster than I expected,” Pam Grasier said, stooping down to pick up the broad-brimmed hat she’d tossed on the ground. “He’s not a small guy, but it was like chasing a rabbit through the snow. I just couldn’t catch up to him. I don’t know why.”

“He knew what he was doing. The guy’s no amateur.” A wannabe villain with a round baby face, Donald was perhaps the most annoying of all Eustace’s cronies. James avoided talking to the man as much as possible. He was dressed all in black, except for the big shiny silver belt buckle, which gleamed as soon as he unzipped his padded jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. He also had a squeaky little voice that made him sound like a kid. He’d served as a local cop alongside Pam for years, apparently.

“He’s just a local rancher,” said the third guy. An employee of Eustace’s company, Benny was a class above the others—or below, depending on the point of view. He had rough skin, deep-set black eyes, and a flinty little stare. He was carrying an old SKS rifle that looked like it had sat in someone’s closet for twenty years. He propped it against the wall as he entered the room. “Don’t give him too much credit. If a man is scared enough, he’ll run like a rabbit.”

Pam, Donald, and Benny passed James, all of them avoiding looking in his direction as they headed deeper into the warehouse. That was fine. James didn’t want to be friends with these people. He wanted them to be anxious and quick to do what they were told.

“Close that damn door,” James said, gesturing at the side door of the warehouse, which that deep-eyed cretin Benny had left ajar.

Of the three, Donald rushed back at his command and promptly shut the door, setting the deadbolt. James took note of this. He didn’t bother to thank the man. Thanks were for favors, not orders. Instead, James drew the enormous buck knife from its sheath under his coat and went to work skinning the deer.

The warehouse had been a grocery distribution business at one time, which meant originally much of it had been refrigerated. Now, it was just a big, dim room with no windows and a bunch of tall shelves running in long rows from front to back. They’d managed to fuel up one of the generators, which provided just enough power to get the lights working, but the other generator was fried—a consequence of the capricious nature of the EMP. That meant they didn’t have enough power to run the cold storage. Unfortunate, but they would make do. Already, the shelves were beginning to fill with the growing stacks of “acquired” supplies.

For a few minutes, James heard the cronies grumbling and complaining as they moved through the warehouse, but he tuned it all out and made short work of the deer. He had just finished removing the hide and was draping it over the back of some chairs that he’d lined up when he heard familiar unhealthy breathing coming from behind him. Eustace came waddling up. Because it was insulated, the interior of the warehouse was quite a bit warmer than the outside air, so Eustace had removed his flannel coat, hat, and gloves. Underneath, he had a sweat-soaked, long-sleeve t-shirt. His red beard and hair were sticking out in a comical way, but he had an angry glint in his eyes.

That anger better not be directed at me, James thought. None of this is my fault.

James decided to nip it in the bud.

“You’ve got to whip these people into shape,” he said. He’d learned that it was best to set the agenda in any conversation with Eustace Simpson. It put him off balance just enough to make it easier to deal with him. “They’re bungling fools, and they show their emotions too easily.”

“I sent you to chase after a spy, and instead of bringing back the spy, alive or dead, you brought back a deer carcass,” Eustace said, with a bitter laugh. “How does that work? Did you wind up chasing the wrong animal?”

“Let’s call it a consolation prize,” James said, wiping his hands on an old rag he’d taken from the employee break room. “We can cure the meat and add it to your supplies. At least we didn’t come back empty-handed.”

“I don’t care about that,” Eustace said, with a swipe of his big hands. He had fingers as thick as sausage rolls. James found himself wondering if the man had ever strangled anyone to death. He had the right hands for it. “What did you find? Was someone spying on us?”

“Yeah, he was watching the warehouse for sure,” James replied, using the rag to clean the blade of his knife. “He got pretty close, too, so I’m sure he now has some idea of what’s going on here.”

Eustace balled up his fists. “Damn. It was one guy! How did you manage to lose him?”

James shrugged, opening his coat and sliding his knife into the sheath. “He had a head start, and he’s fast even in the snow. Plus, the woods are fairly overgrown, and the snow made it hard to catch up. What do you want me to say, Eustace?” The big man’s outburst could’ve made him furious, dangerously so, if he let it, but James chose to ignore him. He could do that when necessary, just let offenses roll off his back, by simply disconnecting himself from the moment. A useful skill that had served him well in his career, especially when he’d worked for Eustace and his company. The man was prone to outbursts, and he fed off negative responses. James had seen it plenty of times, but it didn’t work with him.

Eustace seemed to collect himself, tucking his thumbs under his belt, and he stepped past James. He gave a long, throaty growl. Much of his anger seemed to go with it. “It was Greg Healy,” he said, after a moment. “I just know it. He followed us back here after we took the cow. I should’ve dealt with him a long time ago. I had plenty of opportunities, and I didn’t take them. What is he up to?”

James needed to go and get a much larger knife, ideally a big sturdy cleaver, so he could begin butchering the deer, but he figured he should finish dealing with Eustace first. He preferred to butcher carcasses in peace. “Look, there’s no way to know for sure who it was or what he wants right now. Next time he comes around, we’ll catch him and ask a few questions. Okay? So quit throwing a fit about it.”

“Forget trying to catch him,” Eustace said, with a swipe of his hands. “I want him dead. Him and his whole family.”

James sighed. Emotional overreactions and vengeance only caused unnecessary problems. Didn’t this big idiot realize that? “We don’t need him dead,” James replied. “We definitely don’t need to kill his entire family. Come on, man. Think rationally. If we play this right, we might be able to convince that family to join up with us, or at least stay out of our way. It’s to their advantage, and to ours. This family seems to be thriving over there on the ranch. They clearly know how to live off the land.”

“You’re delusional,” Eustace said. “You can’t convince those damned Healys to do anything they don’t want to do. They are a truly obnoxious tribe. You don’t know them like I do.”

“You’re right. I don’t,” James replied, “but maybe it’s time I get to know them.”

15

Rarely in his life had Darryl worked so hard on something and achieved such an impressive-looking end result. Of course, he’d spent days, hours on end, building the fence, but the end result had looked exactly like a fence built by a modestly skilled sixteen-year-old. The greenhouse was a different story altogether. His father had contributed a bit, and Emma had helped out a lot, but Darryl felt like he’d largely redeemed himself from the shoddy work he’d done on the fence. The greenhouse was really starting to look nice, and more than that, it already seemed functional on the inside. At least, it was warm enough.

On the second day of work, as he finished up preparing the ground inside the greenhouse, scouring it of debris and rocks, he had to pause and marvel at the place. Yes, seven glass panes were missing, replaced with tarps, but all the others were firmly back in place, and he’d even managed to repair some of the weak spots in the framework.

I think it may be time for a grand unveiling, he thought, leaning his rake against the wall. This is the best thing I’ve done around here since the root cellar.

He’d even reframed the wooden door, so it opened and closed smoothly now. The door itself would need to be replaced at some point. It was slightly warped from age, but it would work for now. He stepped outside and pushed the door shut, then headed back toward the house.

Of course, his pride wasn’t just about the quality of the repair work. Far more importantly, it was proof that he would be able to care for Justine and the baby. If he could show her, if she could see proof that he was getting everything ready, maybe she would worry a bit less about the future, maybe she could climb out of the funk she’d fallen into.

Darryl followed the fence back to the gate. He’d worn a nice path along the way now. At some point, before he planted anything in the greenhouse, he would need to extend the fence to surround it. No reason to leave it out in the open where thieves could steal his crops. However, to do that, he would need to find more scrap wood.

I have plenty of time, he thought. It’ll all be done long before the baby arrives.

When he stepped through the gate, he saw his father sitting on the porch. Horace’s rifle was resting on the handrail beside him, as if he’d been out hunting again. Greg seemed to have taken a liking to the SIG. Darryl assumed it was because of the big scope. Still, it hadn’t done him much good. After days of hunting, he’d still only brought back the single pheasant.

“Hey, Dad,” Darryl said, approaching the fence. “No luck again today?”

His father stirred slowly, as if struggling to get out of his own head. “No, I didn’t get anything. Another bad day of hunting.” Oh yeah, by the sharp tone, Darryl could tell he was in a foul mood. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll keep trying. I’m persistent when I need to be.” He wouldn’t even look at Darryl.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Darryl agreed. “Hey, I was going to round everyone up and show them the greenhouse. All the work is done. It looks pretty good. Want to see it?”

“Yeah, right, sure,” Greg replied, then reached up to pull his toque down lower.

Darryl decided to leave it at that and made his way inside. Maybe Dad needed to take up a new hobby, or maybe there was something else going on out there in the woods that he didn’t want to talk about.

Darryl found Grandma, Mom, and Emma in the dining room. It looked like they were in the process of repairing the fishing traps—a task that normally would have fallen to Greg. Horace Bouchard was in the den. He was finally up and about, feeling good enough to leave his bed, but still quite weak. The books in the den were keeping him busy. Still, just to make him feel welcome, Darryl invited him to come. He politely declined and went back to flipping through the pages of an outdated world atlas.

The others at least came willingly. Emma had contributed to the work, and she made sure to point this out a few times as they all headed back outside.

“Some of the work definitely took two people,” she said, as they passed through the gate. “The ground was really uneven, so someone basically had to prop up the ladder and bear the full weight of it while Darryl replaced the windows.”

“Yeah, it helped a lot,” Darryl replied. “I’m glad you showed up when you did.”

Greg came with them, but he lagged behind. When Marion tried to engage him in conversation, he barely responded. Mom was generally pretty patient, but Darryl knew she would eventually reach her limit with his moping. Then things would get really exciting around the house.

Great, he thought sourly, then Justine will be more determined than ever not to say anything about the pregnancy.

They came in sight of the greenhouse then, and Darryl marveled again at just how good it looked. The rusty framework needed a paint job, and the door was ugly, but otherwise the building looked sturdy. Darryl approached the front and turned, holding up his hand as if presenting it to his family. Emma was beaming, her hands on her hips, as if to bask in the glow of her own participation.

“It hasn’t looked that good in many years,” Tabitha said, approaching the greenhouse and reaching out to set her gloved hand on the corner. “My goodness. Look at you, Darryl. You’ve really stepped up, haven’t you?” She came toward him, reached out, and set her hand on his shoulder.

His mother approached and gave him a hug. “I’m proud of you, Darryl. You’ll make a great dad someday. You really take initiative and get things done.”

Make a great dad someday? Did she know? No, surely not. Darryl decided not to entertain the suspicion and received the praise without worrying about it.

“Thanks, Mom. I worked really hard.” He looked past his mom and saw Emma standing there with her hands on her hips, and her beaming smiling was starting to slip. “Emma, thanks for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” she replied, wagging a finger at him, “and don’t you forget it.”

After disentangling himself from his mother and grandmother, he opened the door and ushered them inside. He noticed that his father was standing back a few feet, his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at the building. The man looked thoroughly unhappy. Was he annoyed, like Emma, that his contribution had been overlooked? It seemed unlikely, but Darryl decided to cover all of his bases.

“Thanks for your help, too, Dad,” Darryl said. “I know you’ve got enough of your own stuff to worry about, so I appreciate it.”

His dad just gave him a weird little nod and waved him off. Darryl didn’t know what to make of it, but it was awkward enough that he turned and walked into the greenhouse. Was it possible that his dad was upset at the compliment? He’d spent days hunting with almost nothing to show for it, and everyone was tiptoeing around him as a result, but his son was making actual progress toward providing for the family. Was that the issue?

Dad, I don’t need another problem to deal with, Darryl thought, fighting the first stirring of real resentment. Get your act together and deal with your issues, whatever they are. I have enough on my plate. We need peace in the household, for Justine’s sake.

16

When the moping didn’t stop, Darryl finally decided to take matters into his own hands. He couldn’t have his father adding tension to an already tense household. Justine didn’t need that. If Dad put everyone in a worse mood, it was only going to make things that much worse when Justine decided it was time to announce the pregnancy. Or else, she might just keep putting it off indefinitely. Darryl wasn’t comfortable with either scenario, so he cornered his father during breakfast two days later.

Everyone was eating in relative silence. Indeed, things had gotten somber lately, and Darryl assumed it was his dad’s mood rubbing off on everyone. Even now, he was just sort of hunched over his plate of biscuits and beef, staring at the tabletop. Darryl was feeling bold. He’d proven his ability to take care of things, so now he was going to do it again.

“So…Dad,” he said, swirling the dregs of his herbal tea in his cup. “Are you planning on going hunting again today?”

His dad took a big bite of a biscuit—clearly trying to buy time. “I was thinking about it. Going to try a new area. Should have better luck.”

“Great,” Darryl replied. He glanced at his mother, and she gave him a little nod and smile. She saw what he was going for. “I’ll join you. If we hunt together, we have a much better chance of bringing down a nice, big deer. What do you say? You can bring Horace’s SIG, and I’ll bring the Remington.”

His dad chewed for a moment, still staring fixedly at the tabletop. Finally, he lifted his gaze, dared to look at Darryl for a second, and said, “No, that’s okay. Maybe next time. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of stuff to do around the ranch.”

“No, not really,” Darryl said. “Since I finished the greenhouse, I’ve got a lot of free time.”

“You don’t want to hang out with Justine today?” he said.

“She just wants to take it easy and read this morning,” Darryl said. “I’ve got all kinds of free time.”

His father continued to eat for a bit, then took a long sip of tea. In the awkward silence, Marion added, “It sounds like a good idea to me. I’m looking forward to a nice, juicy venison steak.”

Finally, Greg harrumphed and set his cup down. “Well, let’s talk about it later, okay? I’ve got a few things to get done right after breakfast.”

“Okay, later it is.” Darryl glanced at his mom, and they traded another smile. Oh no, Dad wasn’t going to worm his way out of this. Darryl was in too good of a mood today, and he had every intention of going with it.

His father finished breakfast first, excused himself, gave his wife a kiss on the temple, then headed outside. Darryl still had a few bites of food left, but he pushed the plate back and finished his tea. Then he grabbed a couple of biscuits and wrapped them in a napkin.

“Well, I think I’m full,” he said, pushing his chair back. “Going to check on Justine.”

“Check on Justine?” Tabitha said. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, she’s fine,” he said, hastily. “She’s just the slowest to recover from the cold.”

He left the table then and headed upstairs. Justine was sitting in a chair beside her bed, flipping through a National Geographic. She’d opened the curtains to let the bright morning light stream into the room. When Darryl stepped through the door, she slowly closed the magazine and looked up.

“Are you hungry at all?” he asked, holding up the napkin-wrapped biscuits.

“Mostly sick to my stomach,” she replied, “and to be honest, I’m not the biggest fan of stuff made with acorn flour. For some reason, it really makes me nauseous now.”

He set the napkin on the bed and unfolded it. “Are you sure? Grandma says they’re healthy.”

“Those don’t look appetizing at all,” she said. “Like little circles of dirt. I’m sorry, that’s how I feel.”

“Well, I’ll leave them here for now,” he said. “You might get hungry later.”

She reached over and folded the napkin over again to hide the biscuits, then went back to flipping through her magazine.

“Okay…” He shuffled his feet. “Anyway, I’ll probably be doing a few tasks this morning, so I might be busy for a while. I’ll stop by later and check on you.”

And with that, he turned to leave. As he stepped through the door, she said, softly, “Thanks, Darryl. Maybe I’ll work up some appetite. Have fun.”

It was enough. He headed back downstairs, picking up the Remington rifle from a shelf near the front door. He checked to make sure it was loaded then headed outside.

Dad, we’re going hunting, he thought, whether you like it or not. I’ll drag you out there into the woods if I have to.

He expected to find his father roaming around the property somewhere, trying to pretend he was busy. Instead, he found him sitting with the SIG Sauer on the porch, a second magazine balanced on the handrail beside him. He didn’t seem to notice Darryl at first. When he did, he was startled, grabbed at the second magazine, and knocked it onto the porch. With a grunt, he stooped down to retrieve it.

“I’m ready to go out there and get our dinner,” Darryl said. “If we set out right now, we should be back in plenty of time. Come on.”

“I’d rather you stayed here at the ranch and kept an eye on things,” Greg replied. “Grandma might need your help.”

“Grandma’s fine,” Darryl replied. “The ranch is fine. Now that the greenhouse is done, I don’t have a lot to do. Emma and Mom milked the cows this morning and fed them. What else is there to do? I’d rather go with you and do some hunting. It’s still early. Let’s go.”

Greg shoved the extra magazine into his coat pocket just a little harder than was necessary. Then he snagged the strap of the rifle and slung it over his shoulder as he rose.

“All good?” Darryl said. He knew he was pushing, but he couldn’t help himself. “You’ve got enough ammo to take out an entire herd. We can’t possibly fail.”

“I said no, and I meant it,” Greg snapped. It was the sharpest he’d spoken to Darryl since before the EMP, and it caused him to take a step back. “I’m going hunting by myself today, just like I told you, and that’s it. It’s too…it’s too dangerous.”

And with that, he gestured for Darryl to get out of his way and stomped down the steps. Darryl moved to one side, stung by the sharpness. He knew he’d asked for it, but still, his father’s mood was getting ridiculous. Unsure of what to do next, Darryl stepped up to the handrail and watched as his father moved toward the gate.

He didn’t realize his mother and grandmother had come out onto the porch until Tabitha spoke.

“Hold up. Hold up,” she said. She was a small woman, shriveled and leathery as a sun-charred satchel, but she could speak with razor-sharpness when she wanted to. “Greg, get back here right now. What do you think you’re doing?” Not loud, but fierce enough that Darryl eased away from her, even though the words weren’t directed at him.

Like a possum caught in headlights, Greg froze. Slowly, as if trying to fight his own instinct, he turned to face the porch. Tabitha and Marion were standing at the top of the steps, glaring down at him.

“What’s going on?” he said. “Why are you yelling at me all of a sudden? I’m just heading out for a little while. Darryl’s going to stay here and do some tasks around the farm.”

“No, he’s not,” Tabitha replied. Her voice could have sliced a brick wall in two. “He’s going hunting with you. Spend time with your son. You’re more likely to come back with something other than a headless pheasant.”

Marion cut right to the chase. “Greg, you’ve been in a foul mood for days. I’m sure it has a lot to do with these wasted hunting trips. Take Darryl with you. There’s nothing else for him to work on today.”

When Greg hesitated still, Tabitha added, “I’m not discussing it with you. This is not a debate. Quit being a brat and do what you’re told. Darryl, get down there and go have some quality time with my ornery son.”

“Fine, fine,” Greg said, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, yes, I’ve been in a bad mood. I admit it. I’m sorry. Things have been frustrating lately. Darryl, come on. Let’s go.” He beckoned Darryl and headed for the gate.

“Come back in a better mood,” Tabitha said, “because you’re getting on my last nerve. I don’t care if you’re forty years old, I’ll tan your hide like I did when you were ten.”

And with that, she harrumphed loudly and stormed back into the house.

“Have a good time,” Marion added. “Make it fun. Love you both.” And then she followed her mother-in-law.

Greg reached the gate, unlatched it, and flung it open. Darryl saw the sliding track on top wobble, and he was tempted to say something but decided it wasn’t worth it. He followed his father through the gate. As soon as he was on the other side, he grabbed the gate before his dad could do it. As gently as possible, he slid the gate back in place and latched it. His father didn’t wait for him but went right on, tromping through the snow as he headed for the trees. Darryl hurried after him.

I’m going to regret pushing this issue, he thought. Now I’m stuck out here in the wilderness with this grump.

His dad was following a path he’d already created on previous hunting trips, as if he were going somewhere specific. Darryl managed to keep pace with him, but walking in the strange, tense silence was singularly unpleasant. As they worked their way through the snowy woods, Darryl spotted numerous tracks looping about, as if people had been walking circles all over the place. Had his father done this? Had he just been circling and circling looking for some animal to shoot?

Is the old man losing his mind? This is weird, compulsive behavior.

They headed into the woods, weaving through the trees until they came upon the clearing where the dirt road was still covered in snow. Numerous tracks went back and forth, as if the road was being regularly used.

“Where are you thinking about heading, Dad? Should we find a place that hasn’t seen so much foot traffic?”

His father grunted, and Darryl thought for a second that he wasn’t going to answer. However, his dad finally replied, “Oh, I’m not too sure where we’ll go.” He stopped suddenly. Darryl could tell by the lighter tone in his voice that he was trying to sound casual, less irritated. “I’ll tell you what, Darryl, my aim isn’t what it used to be. I don’t know if I’ve just gotten rusty, if it’s this new gun, the ammo, or what. What if we did some target practice for a while? I need to get better at hitting a distant, moving target.”

It was more than his father had said all day, and it worked wonders at easing the tension. “Sounds good to me. What did you have in mind?”

Greg pointed south down the road. “See that big spruce tree down there, the one with the bit of nylon rope hanging from it? Let’s set up a crude target there and practice our aim. I brought plenty of ammo for just this reason.”

Well, that’s explains it, Darryl thought.

It took a moment to spot the tree he was referring to. The old road went straight for about a hundred meters before veering slightly to the west. Just beyond the bend, there was a big tree set back a bit from the road. Indeed, a length of bright yellow nylon rope hung from one of the bigger branches. The ground around the tree seemed to have been heavily disturbed, as if animals had been moving about in the area.

“We’re going to practice target shooting out here on the old road?” Darryl asked. “Is that safe?”

“There’s a bend in the road here and no houses behind that tree,” Greg said. “Just woods all the way to the stream. I think it’s fine.”

“If you say so…”

In the end, they constructed a crude target by weaving together some thin branches. They had to pluck them off the trees so they were fresh and springy. Darryl was a bit more dexterous than his father, so he did much of the work, weaving the branches in crude, concentric circles, with a large, flat piece of bark in the center as the bullseye.

It wasn’t pretty, but Darryl found the experience so much better than when he’d worked with his father on the greenhouse. Finally, Greg seemed invested and involved, not cranky or distracted. They worked together to find the best branches, discussed different ways to put the target together. When it was done, they hung it from the bit of nylon rope, adding a heavier stick at the bottom of the target as a counterweight to keep it from being blown around by the wind.

“What do you think, son?” Greg said, stepping back from the target.

“I think it’ll work,” Darryl said.

“You think we can hit the bullseye from a hundred meters down the road?”

“Horace once told me that when he was in the armed forces, he could hit a target at three hundred meters,” Darryl said, pulling the Remington off his shoulder.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Greg replied. “Forget the Remington. We’ll take turns with the SIG. It’s got the better scope. First to hit the bullseye wins.”

“You got it, Dad.”

They walked back from the target. Of course, they had no way to measure the distance precisely, but Greg counted off a hundred paces before coming to a stop. This put them far down the road and just off into the trees on the other side. When Darryl turned and looked at their target, it seemed so tiny. In reality, a hundred meters was a lot farther than he’d realized.

“This rifle has an impressive range,” Greg said, pulling the SIG Sauer CROSS off his shoulder. Once again, Darryl marveled at what a wicked-looking gun it was. The barrel was surrounded by rows of vent holes, and the stock was practically skeletal. It was all black, and it had been topped with an enormous scope. “It’s designed for long-range shooting, but we’ll have to practice to get used to it. Otherwise, we’re not going to be able to pick off the right targets from a safe distance.”

“What are we planning on shooting?” Darryl asked. “Bears? Bandits? Monsters?”

“All of the above,” Greg replied.

“Well, bear steaks might be interesting,” Darryl said. “I don’t think I’ve eaten bear before.” It was such a normal conversation, it almost seemed surreal.

They used the crook of a forked tree as a place to position the gun and shoot. Greg went first, taking his sweet time balancing the gun, adjusting the scope, and peering at the target. His first shot missed not just the target but the entire tree. His second shot also missed. His third hit the tip of a branch above the target and sent it spiraling off into the distance. He managed to clip the crude target on his fifth shot, which caused it to spin lazily.

“Okay, I’m getting better at it,” he said, rising. “It’s just a matter of concentration. I have to stay focused and not let emotion interfere. Let the rifle cool down, then you can try.”

“That wasn’t bad, considering how far away the target is,” Darryl said. “I’m not sure I can do better.”

Greg grunted, and when he spoke, Darryl sensed a bit of the surliness creeping back in, “Not close enough. I should be able to hit the bullseye. I need to.” He passed the rifle to Darryl. “There are a few bullets left in the magazine. They’re all yours. See if you can do better than your old man.”

Darryl traded places with him, leaning against the trunk of the tree and positioning his right arm in the crook of it. He set his eye to the scope and turned until the target was directly in the crosshairs. He wasn’t used to the feel of the gun, and even the slightest movement caused the image in the scope to wobble wildly. Finally, Darryl had to hold his breath to steady his hands. He took aim at the bullseye and gently squeezed the trigger.

He felt the jolt of the rifle and heard the satisfying crack. The small piece of wood they’d used for a bullseye shattered into a hundred little splinters, and the target bounced on the end of the nylon rope before coming apart and unraveling as it fell to the snow.

“How in the hell did you manage that?” his father grumbled. “First shot. Bullseye.”

“I don’t know,” Darryl said, rising. He felt heat radiating from the rifle. “I just took careful aim.”

His father was scowling off in the direction of the target with narrowed eyes. He turned and snatched the rifle out of Darryl’s hand. “Oh, for God’s sake. Let’s just go hunt a deer.”

And with that, he stormed off across the road.

17

They set off to the west, hopping over a narrow spot on the small stream near where the fish traps were set and aiming for the denser woods beyond the last of the houses in their rural community. There were a few other human tracks in the area, but not nearly as many. Still, Greg seemed to be following a specific path, moving for a while first one way, then turning for no discernible reason and heading another.

“What are you thinking?” Darryl said, after a while. “Are you looking for a specific place?”

“Just getting a lay of the land,” Greg replied. Indeed, he did seem to be scanning the ground as he walked. But they turned back and crossed the stream again, heading toward the road.

“Isn’t it better to keep heading the way we were going?” Darryl asked. “Beyond the stream? More likely to find animals farther from town, right?”

Greg shushed him. “Keep it down. Don’t want to scare them away.”

But as Darryl looked around, he didn’t see any evidence of animals in their vicinity. A few small tracks, maybe foxes, but that was it.

“Maybe we should’ve set up a deer stand,” Darryl noted. “All this walking around certainly won’t help.”

“We’ll try that next time,” his father said.

Greg paused for a moment, as if getting his bearings. Darryl took the opportunity to choose their course, heading back toward the deeper woods. However, his father didn’t follow him, and when Darryl turned back, he saw Greg gazing off to the south.

“Are we going, Dad?” Darryl said. “I thought if we went back this way…”

He trailed off as his father beckoned. “We’re going this way. Come on.” With that, Greg set off in his own direction. “Keep up, son.”

It was one confirmation after another, and Darryl wouldn’t ignore it any longer. His father had almost no interest in hunting, and it seemed clear now what that other purpose was. Still, Darryl wanted him to admit it, so he rushed to catch up with his dad.

“You realize this direction takes us closer to town…” he said. “We’re not going to find any animals in that direction, and it’s probably not safe. Mayor Filmore’s people might still be lurking around.”

“It’s fine,” Greg said. “Mayor Filmore is buried in the backyard.”

“It’s fine, because…why?” Darryl persisted. “You didn’t refute my points, so you must be okay with it. Why are we headed toward town? You know, it’s okay to level with me, Dad. It’s not like I can’t tell you’ve been acting weird for days. Are you going to say it, or do I have to put the words in your mouth?”

His father looked him in the eyes, and Darryl could tell by the pained expression that he felt chastened. Somehow, Darryl’s words had gotten to him. He sighed loudly and said, “Okay, here’s the deal, son. Remember those guys who knocked down our fence the other day?”

“You mean, when the cow went missing,” Darryl said. “When you told Mom and Grandma it was probably a mountain lion, but you know for sure it was actually a person, don’t you?”

“Correct,” Greg said, but averted his gaze again. “More than one person, actually. I said the mountain lion thing because…”

“I know why you said it, Dad. It’s fine.”

“Well, the thing is…when they ran off the other day, they headed into the deep woods beyond the stream, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen their tracks over there. I don’t want to run into them. That’s why I’m not going that way.”

The logic might have made sense if Greg hadn’t already aroused so much suspicion with his behavior. His father was not good at being sneaky, so his words rang untrue. Even the slight warble in his voice gave him away. If anything, it was just further confirmation of Darryl’s suspicion. They were headed now directly toward town, as if that had been his father’s real destination all along. Off to the right, Darryl caught sight of the snowy back road.

No wonder he hasn’t managed to bring anything home from his hunting trips, Darryl thought. He’s not even really hunting…not animals, anyway. Dad, you’ve gone off the deep end.

As he followed his father, he heard a soft crunching sound off to his left. Darryl stopped in his tracks, though his dad kept going. Bracing himself against the nearest tree, Darryl turned slowly in the direction of the sound, trying to make as little movement as possible. It didn’t take long to spot the small buck in a clearing about forty meters to the east. The animal was standing with its right flank to them, its head turned away as if looking back in the direction of the stream. A perfect target.

Darryl slowly, achingly pulled the Remington off his shoulder. His father continued to walk in the direction of town. Darryl didn’t dare say anything to him, lest he scare off the deer, and just hoped his father wouldn’t make any loud noises. Raising the rifle, he socketed the butt against his shoulder and took careful aim. He wished now he had the SIG with its amazing scope, but the Remington had a decent enough scope of its own. Darryl lined up his shot.

The buck turned its head in his direction, and for a second they seemed to lock eyes. Darryl sensed the sudden tension in the animal as it prepared to leap away. He pulled the trigger. The sudden crack of the rifle caused his father to cry out in alarm. The buck bolted, made it about five steps, then its front legs collapsed. With a final swing of its head, it rolled onto its side, exposing the perfect bloody bullet hole right behind its shoulder.

Darryl stood there marveling at his aim, feeling the curious trembling excitement of a successful hunt. He’d brought it down in a single shot, even with his father tromping around behind him! He was tempted to cheer, but suddenly he felt a firm hand clamp down on his shoulder. He turned, expecting to see his father glaring at him. Instead, he found Greg giving him a huge toothy grin, his eyes practically sparkling.

“My goodness, son, you did it,” he said. “You brought it down in one shot. I didn’t even notice the damn thing. It could have snuck up on me and given me a kick in the butt, and I still wouldn’t have known it was there. Great job!”

“Thanks, Dad,” Darryl said, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and heading toward his kill. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear it. It was so close.”

Greg’s smile faltered only for a fraction of a second. “I guess I’m getting old. Hearing’s not what it used to be. Do you know how relieved your mother and grandmother are going to be when we drag this thing back to the ranch? You have no idea how much weight you’ve just taken off my shoulders.” He gave Darryl another big, friendly clap on the shoulder. “I owe you big time for this one.”

“See, now, aren’t you glad you brought me with you?” Darryl said.

“Absolutely,” Greg replied. “You just saved my bacon.”

“I saved your venison, technically.”

Greg laughed far too hard at this. It wasn’t entirely forced. Clearly, his dad was relieved that they would have something to show for themselves.

Did I just help him cover his tracks? Darryl thought. Is he relieved because now they won’t get suspicious about his little hunting trips? I think it’s too late for that, Dad. Emma, at least, already knows something’s up, and so do I.

They field dressed the deer, which was—as always—a bloody business. Darryl didn’t particularly enjoy it, even though he’d shot, skinned, and butchered a variety of animals by now. He was fairly good at it now, at least. Tabitha and his mom had helped him improve his technique, so he did most of the work while his father grinned beside him.

“Ten points,” Greg noted. “Not bad. You want to mount the head in your room?”

“No, that’s fine,” Darryl replied. “It would give me nightmares having this dead-eyed thing staring down at me in the dark. Stuffing animals was Grandpa’s hobby. I’ll just eat the meat, if you don’t mind.”

Once it was all gutted and prepared, they trussed it up in a long length of nylon rope—yellow like the bit of rope they’d seen hanging from the tree. Darryl noted this fact, but again said nothing. He didn’t like finding out his father’s secrets. It was a singularly unpleasant feeling. For now, he rode the surface of his emotion and just enjoyed the successful hunt and his father’s happiness.

“Let’s get this thing back home,” his father said, picking up the ropes. “We’ll have venison steaks for dinner.”

* * *

The immediate reaction to them dragging the carcass through the gate was exactly as his father had anticipated. Tabitha, Marion, and Emma came down the porch steps clapping and cheering. Emma walked right up beside the carcass and bent down close, as if to examine it.

“Ten-point buck,” she noted. “What are you going to do with the rack?”

“Make you a nice hat with real antlers on top,” Darryl joked.

“Actually, there’s a lot you can do with antlers,” Emma said, following them toward the front of the barn. “The book had diagrams for making a coat rack, a lamp stand, a curtain holder, even table legs.”

“Well, the antlers are all yours,” Darryl said. “Experiment to your heart’s content. Make drinking straws out of them, if you want. It’s up to you.”

As soon as they’d butchered the deer and removed the antlers from the skull plate, Emma took them and went running off to the house. That night, they had plenty of fresh venison. The rest they salt-cured with the last bit of salt from the Carmichaels’ stash. Although it was still red meat, the taste was just different enough from beef that it seemed to reinvigorate everyone. Justine joined them, placing her seat so close to Darryl that their shoulders were touching, but she didn’t talk once the entire meal.

Horace even dared to leave the den and walk to the dining room, though he still seemed rather weak. Tabitha and Marion made sure to keep heaping praise on Darryl, to the point that he went from appreciating it to being embarrassed by it to being annoyed.

“It sure was a good idea to bring him along,” Marion noted, cutting into her medium-well venison steak. It was perfectly charred along the outer edges. Darryl had to respect his father’s grilling technique. “You two make a good hunting pair. Don’t you think, Greg?”

Greg hesitated a second, a chunk of meat stuck on the end of his fork and hovering just in front of his mouth. “Yeah, he’s a pretty good shot,” he said, finally, taking a bite. “He’s got better hearing than me too.”

“Well, there you go,” Tabitha said, jumping in. “You’ve found yourself a hunting buddy. You guys could bring us back a variety of meats. That’d be good for our diets.”

“I’m sure we’ll go hunting together again sometime,” Greg said, chewing as he spoke. He did not, however, glance at Darryl.

Darryl didn’t let it bother him, as he continued to enjoy the meal, but he was too wise now to his father’s ways. He knew what was up, and he made plans accordingly. After dinner, he helped clear the table as Greg washed the dishes. Justine had excused herself after dinner and gone outside, so Darryl went to check on her. He found her sitting in one of the rocking chairs, cast in the warm glow of an oil lamp.

“I’ll be setting out early tomorrow morning,” he said, “but I hope to be back before lunchtime. Are you okay with that?”

“Another hunting trip,” she said. “Is that going to be your daily ritual now?”

“No.” Darryl glanced over his shoulder to make sure the front door was shut. He heard the clink of dishes coming from the kitchen. “My dad doesn’t know we’re going hunting together tomorrow. I plan on surprising him.”

Justine brushed her hair back over her ears and gave him a confused look. She was slightly flushed. Maybe from the cold, maybe from the pregnancy—Darryl didn’t know, but he thought she looked quite lovely in the candlelight.

“What are you up to?” she asked. “You look like a kid planning to steal candy from the convenience store.”

“I think Dad is going to get up early and try to give me the slip,” Darryl said. “He’s up to something, and I intend to find out what it is.”

“He’s not really hunting?” she said.

“I don’t want to make any assumptions, but we’ll see,” he said.

She frowned and said, “Well, if he’s doing something stupid, please don’t go along with it.”

“I won’t.”

And with that, he excused himself and went to bed. Before he lay down, he opened the blinds of the window and parted the curtains. With no alarm to wake him, he wanted the first pink light of sunrise to rouse him. He stripped down to just a t-shirt and sweatpants and removed the top blanket on his bed, hoping that the cold would help him sleep lightly. Then he lay down, folding the blankets so they only came up to mid-chest.

It worked like a charm. He struggled to fall asleep, shivering. Finally, he had to pull the blanket up to his neck, if only to stop his teeth from chattering. It was enough, and he proceeded to skim the surface of sleep through the night. By the time the very first light of morning was shining through the window right onto his face, he was wide awake and ready to go.

He hopped out of bed, trembling violently, and put on his extra layers of clothing. Then he crept to the bedroom door and pressed his ear to the thin wood. It didn’t take long to hear someone moving around downstairs. They were trying to be quiet, he could tell, but the creaky old floors gave them away. Darryl cracked his bedroom door open and slipped through, tiptoeing down the dark, quiet hallway. Every bedroom door was shut.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he heard the distinctive soft clatter of Horace’s SIG Sauer CROSS being pulled from the mantel, then the softer sounds of his father muttering under his breath.

What are you really up to, Dad? Darryl wondered. Why don’t we find out?

He heard the front door whoosh open and then quietly shut. Once his dad was outside, Darryl felt a moment of intense debate. Was he really going to follow him? His father wouldn’t appreciate him butting into his business. Plus, Justine had asked him not to do anything crazy, and what if his father was indeed up to something crazy?

Just go. You can always turn back, he told himself.

He made his way downstairs, grabbed the Remington off its shelf, and checked the magazine. Loaded and ready to go. He slung it over his shoulder, counted to twenty, then headed outside. His father was already through the gate, but his fresh footprints were apparent. Light snow had fallen in the night, giving him away. Darryl pushed the front door shut and started down the porch steps, following his father’s trail toward the gate.

18

His father’s footprints cut a straight path from the gate to the trees and then directly to the back road. Greg was moving with purpose this morning. Darryl followed him, keeping far enough back to remain unheard and unseen. The fresh tracks made it easy. They led him straight down the back road, as if Dad had intended to go to town all along.

My suspicions were right, he thought. He wasn’t hunting. No wonder he was annoyed by my presence yesterday. I sidetracked him from his secret mission.

Any hesitation or regret he’d had about following his dad was gone now. Indeed, Darryl found himself fighting a growing bitterness toward the old man. Dad had become practically insufferable around the house. He was lousy at keeping secrets, and he’d soured the mood at home with his rotten attitude. Darryl fully intended to tell him so when he got the chance. As he followed the tracks down the road, he worked through the conversation in his mind. Dad could be grumpy and sullen when he didn’t want to talk about something, but Darryl was going to push through.

You’ve been lying to everyone, Dad. You can’t keep secrets like this. Whatever you’re up to, we all deserve to know, because we’re all in this together. You’re old enough that you should know this. Your seventeen-year-old son shouldn’t have to remind you.

At a bend in the road, he thought he caught a glimpse of his father, so he stopped in his tracks and used a nearby walnut tree for cover. They’d gone almost half a kilometer, and his father was leaving the road. Apparently, he didn’t intend to go through town. Darryl waited a few seconds, then resumed following him. Just where the heck was the old man going? Darryl might have thought he was headed for the town hall—Mayor Filmore’s old headquarters—but apparently not.

Dad appeared to be circling east around the town, going wide enough to avoid the houses. However, as Darryl followed his path, he realized there were older tracks moving in the area, many of them. They’d been partially filled in by the previous night’s snow, but they weren’t that old. Who the heck was moving around so much out here in the woods north of Glenvell? They couldn’t all belong to his father, could they?

Finally, on the far side of town, Dad’s tracks curved back to the south. The snow wasn’t quite as deep thanks to the dense tree canopy, but that made it a little harder to follow the tracks. Darryl passed within sight of a home with a small fenced backyard. There appeared to be older tracks that went right up to the middle of the fence, then came out from the gate. Strange.

Another twenty or thirty meters on, he heard sounds coming from straight ahead. He slowed down, taking careful steps and moving from cover to cover. Soon, he spotted his father in the distance. The old man was crouched behind a tree, the SIG rifle poised on a low branch. He was peering through the scope. Darryl had to shift position to get a clear view through a gap in the trees. When he did, he saw the corrugated outer shell of a large warehouse.

He knew the place. Justine’s mother had worked there. A grocery distribution business that had been abandoned after the EMP. The owners of the place lived a few towns over, and they’d never come back. There was a single small door in the side of the building, and it looked like Dad was pointing the rifle in that direction.

So this is it, Darryl thought, his bitterness building. This is what you’ve been lying about for days. You haven’t been hunting. You’ve been hiking out here to this old warehouse to spy on it.

But just what was he doing? Waiting to snipe someone when they came out of the building? Was Dad planning to assassinate a specific person? Darryl hunkered down as quietly as he could and waited. A few minutes passed, and suddenly the side door swung open. Darryl tensed, expecting his father to shoot, but he didn’t He just kept staring through the scope as two people bundled up in black coats and ski pants stepped outside. They spoke for a minute, one of them gesturing broadly, then went back inside.

Maybe those weren’t Dad’s targets, he thought.

His father didn’t move. He stayed right where he was, peering through the scope as the minutes passed. Darryl had had enough. All the anger and tension was making him restless. He rose and began creeping backward. Once he felt like he was a safe distance away, he turned and headed home. He’d seen enough.

Well, I hate to break it to you, Dad, but your secret’s out, he thought, seething. We’ll just get it all out into the open and have a nice chat about your second life as a spy.

It was a long, miserable hike. At one point, he heard an animal scampering about somewhere off to his right, but he didn’t even bother trying to hunt it.

After a good hour or more, he finally came in sight of the ranch and stormed his way to the gate, sliding it open and trudging back across the yard. When he stepped into the living room and set the Remington on its shelf, he found Tabitha, Marion, and Emma sitting at the table eating breakfast. Darryl moved to the couch and dropped down, sinking into the cushions.

“Any luck hunting this morning?” Marion asked.

“Kind of,” Darryl replied, trying his best to keep the seething resentment out of his voice. He wasn’t entirely successful. “I’ll let Dad tell you all about it.”

“Is everything okay?” Marion asked.

He lay down on the couch, leaning his head against the armrest so he wouldn’t see anyone in the dining room. “Everything’s just fine. Like I said, Dad can tell you all about it when he gets back. He’s got an interesting story to tell.”

“What does that mean?” Marion asked.

“Just wait,” he replied. “I’ll let him tell you. He can tell the story a whole lot better than I can.”

“Is there a problem?” Tabitha said.

“Not sure,” Darryl said. “It’s not for me to say.”

He heard Emma make a soft little grunt. Did she already know? Had she figured it out? Maybe. She suspected something was up, but soon she would know for sure. They would all know. Darryl realized it was somewhat hypocritical to force his father to reveal a secret when Darryl and Justine were keeping a secret of their own, but there was a distinct categorical difference. Anyway, Dad’s moping was affecting the whole house.

The others resumed eating. He heard the scrape of forks against plates, the clank of cups on the table, occasional hushed conversation. Maybe fifteen minutes passed before he heard his father tromping up the porch steps. Then the front door swung open, and the old man stood there, silhouetted in sunlight. He’d removed his toque, and his head was steaming, his sweaty blond hair sticking out in strange tangles. Now that he knew the truth, Darryl thought he could see the guilt in his father’s blue eyes. He stepped inside, carrying the SIG in his right hand, and the whole house went still. Tabitha, Marion, and Emma stopped eating.

As Greg was setting the SIG on the mantel above the fireplace, the orange glow of the remaining embers giving him a faint nimbus, Marion finally spoke.

“Any luck out there today?”

He ripped off his gloves and shoved them into his coat pockets. “Nope. Another fruitless day.”

Darryl knew that if he hesitated much longer, it would become increasingly difficult to speak his mind. He sat up, removed his toque, and just let it out.

“I have reason to believe Dad has been spying on the men who knocked down the fence and stole our cow.”

About three seconds of dead silence followed. Darryl glanced to his left and saw the wide eyes of Tabitha and Marion turned in his direction. Emma, on the other hand, was bent over her plate, frowning at the last bites of food.

“Wait, what? That’s not…don’t…” Dad’s attempt at an excuse just sort of crumbled on his tongue.

“I know, Dad, because I followed you this morning,” Darryl added. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the old man. “You were staring at that warehouse through the scope of the rifle for a long time, and you had old tracks from previous days leading to the same spot. You’ve been lying to us about hunting. And that’s why you almost never bring any animals home, because you’re not looking for them.”

“Greg, is this true? Why?” Marion said.

“I knew it,” Emma said, before Dad could answer. “I thought it was weird that he wasn’t checking the fish traps more often. He’s the one who told me when we first set them up that they had to be checked regularly so coyotes or bears didn’t steal what we captured, but then he almost never checked them, even when I asked. Even though he knew the netting was wearing out.”

Darryl sensed his father moving toward him and saw the shadow growing on the hardwood floor in front of his feet. Finally, he looked up into angry eyes, the old man looming over him, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I don’t appreciate that you spied on me,” he said. “I also don’t appreciate that you left the ranch without telling me.”

It was clearly an attempt at intimidation, but Darryl, already stressed out by his own life circumstances, was too angry to be cowed. He rose from the couch and moved into the dining room, sitting down beside his sister.

“You put me in this position, Dad,” he said. “You’ve been moping around the house for days and acting rude to everyone. We all deserve to know the truth. Sorry.”

Greg’s posture changed. The folded arms came down, hands sliding into his coat pockets. His shoulder slumped, and his expression softened.

“I hope you have a good explanation for this,” Marion said. “You’ve been lying to us…to me…for days.”

Grandma hadn’t said a word yet, but Darryl thought her expressionless gaze was the most intimidating of all. She was boring holes right through Greg, as if she were actually staring at some awful thing a thousand meters behind him.

“Okay, fine,” Greg said. “It’s true, and I was going to tell everyone about it eventually. Yeah, I’m spying on people, but these people need to be watched. They pose a threat.”

“If someone poses a threat, then why all the sneaking around?” Darryl said. “Why act like you resent having me go hunting with you? You could have told us. Heck, you could have invited me or Grandma to come with you. What was the point of lying about it?”

“Hey, son, I think you’re forgetting your place here,” Greg said sharply. “I’m your father. I don’t answer to you. If I’m doing what I believe is in the best interests of the family, I don’t have to run it past you for your approval.”

Marion rose then, pushing her chair back and turning to face him, “If it involves some risk to you or any of us, I think it’s fair for me to expect you to discuss it with me. Wouldn’t you say?”

Greg held his hands up. “Everyone’s attacking me for doing what I thought was best for the family.”

“Everyone? Oh, I haven’t even begun to attack,” Tabitha said, in a low voice full of threat.

“Mom, please,” Greg said. In that moment, he sounded whiny and young. “You don’t need to pile on.”

“Please, nothing,” Tabitha said. “You know damn well we have to face any problems together. You know damn well the only reason we’ve survived this long is because we’ve looked out for each other, helped each other, worked together. I don’t respond well to lies, even when they’re well intended. Ask Darryl.”

The sudden turn of blame in his direction caught Darryl off guard. Yes, he had lied and schemed behind his grandmother’s back once, hadn’t he? He’d made a secret trade with the former mayor in the dark of night to obtain medication for Tabitha’s diabetes.

“To be fair to Darryl, this is worse,” Tabitha continued, “so I’m going to give you a chance to redeem yourself in my eyes, son. You lied to your whole family, to your own wife, to your mother, for days. The only way to get out of this now is to tell us the truth—the full truth. Now, who the heck are you spying on exactly, and what are they planning? I can maybe accept that you were keeping us out of the loop so we wouldn’t worry, but that phase is over. Let’s hear it.”

At the end of her tirade, a tense silence filled the house. Greg just stood there in the middle of the living room, his hands still poised in the air, but Darryl could see his resistance crumbling. He was clearly intimidated by Tabitha, though she was almost half his size. The boldness that had moved Darryl to pick this fight was all but gone now, and he shrank back into his seat.

Distantly in the house, he heard a door shut, and he knew it was Justine. Perhaps she had started to come down to breakfast, heard the argument, and retreated back into her room. Darryl hoped so. She didn’t need to be in the middle of this.

“Dad, just tell us,” Emma added, practically whispering into the silence. “You know Grandma’s not going to let this go until you do.”

For some reason, her gentle voice was like a haymaker to the jaw after Grandma had lowered his defenses. Greg hung his head and groaned.

“Fine,” Greg said, lowering his hands to his sides. “You want the whole truth? I was trying to keep everyone safe, but I’ll put it all out on the table. Yes, I’ve been spying on someone. I didn’t want to say his name, because I was hoping I could take care of it on my own. I thought if I handled the situation privately, you would never have to know about it, and we could just get on with our happy lives. But what’s the point now? It’s Eustace Simpson, okay? There it is.”

Emma gasped, her eyes went wide, and she leaned back in her chair. Tabitha went the other direction, leaning forward and covering her mouth with her hands. Eustace Simpson. It was a name Darryl knew, but a man he’d never met. Grandpa’s killer.

“He’s alive,” Emma said, in a shocked little voice. “I thought maybe Grandpa…”

Greg shook his head. “I’m afraid he made it out of those woods alive, and he’s set up shop right here in town. Can you believe it?”

As the revelation sank in, Darryl felt a heaviness in the air. The Glenvell community had felt somewhat safer in the aftermath of Mayor Filmore’s death, but now a bigger threat had moved into the area. More than that, they’d all assumed Grandpa Tuck had shot and killed Eustace during his final standoff at the edge of the woods. Now, it was clear that Grandpa had lost the fight, and the enemy had escaped.

“I’ve been spying on Eustace because I intend to kill him,” Greg said, his voice shaking. “He’s got some merry little band of thieves working for him, so I’ve been waiting for the right moment. I don’t want to get in a shootout when I’m outnumbered.”

“This isn’t something you can handle by yourself, Greg,” Marion said. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking about keeping my family safe,” he replied, “and I’m thinking about getting revenge. He needs to pay for what he did to my father.” And with that, he looked at each family member in turn. Any shock or shame from having his secret mission exposed was gone from his expression, replaced by a cold, tight-lipped intensity. He ended by fixing his gaze on Emma, who was still leaning back in her chair with a wide-eyed look of shock on her face. “I’m going to avenge your grandfather…and you, Emma. The man who shot you will die for it, I swear to God.”

His comment hung in the air. Darryl could see conflicting emotions on the faces of his mother and grandmother. Clearly, they wanted revenge too, even if they were still upset with all the secrets. As for Darryl, he didn’t know how he felt. Did Eustace deserve to be put down? Certainly, but his primary concern was Justine and the baby. He didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

“Well, what am I supposed to say to that?” Tabitha grumbled finally. “I don’t excuse the lies, Greg. You know better than to be running around in secret. Still, if there’s any man in the world that I’d love to bury out in the backyard, it’s Eustace Simpson.”

And then Darryl heard creaking on the stairs, and he turned to see Justine standing there. She was wearing her winter coat over a t-shirt and pajama pants, walking in her socks. She looked bleary-eyed and half-asleep.

“Why…?” Her voice cracked when she first tried to speak. She wrapped both arms around her belly and cleared her throat. “Why is everyone shouting down here? Don’t you realize how loud you’re being? It’s going on and on. Aren’t you ever going to be done fighting?”

Everyone turned slowly to look at her. Greg still had that cold scowl on his face.

I stirred up a fight, and look at what I’ve done, Darryl thought, feeling the sting of guilt.

“Sorry, dear,” Tabitha said. “We’re just exposing secrets down here, and things got heated, but the worst of it is over.”

Justine started to say something else, but then her face scrunched up, as if in pain, and she burst loudly into tears. Clutching her belly tightly with both hands, she turned and ran back up the stairs, disappearing around the corner. Darryl heard her footsteps moving down the upstairs hall, and he rose to go after her. Greg even stepped to one side to give him clear passage.

“Why don’t you sit down again for a second, Darryl?” Tabitha said, in that low, dangerous voice that only she possessed. It could have stopped a charging bull.

Darryl made it about three steps before he stopped. Justine’s bedroom door slammed shut again.

“Since we’re exposing secrets this morning, why don’t we talk about you and Justine?”

This caused his mother and sister to gasp, almost in unison.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grandma,” he replied, but his own cracking voice betrayed him. “I need to go check on her. She’s clearly upset.”

“I don’t blame her,” Tabitha said sharply. “Keeping secrets is hard.”

“Darryl, what are you two hiding?” Marion asked.

Darryl was sorely tempted to walk away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Fighting every step of the way, he turned and went back to the dining room, his gaze fixed on the floor. He felt every eye on him, burrowing into him. He made it to the doorway and stopped, leaning his right shoulder against the doorframe. Still, he could see the whites of his grandmother’s eyes at the edge of his vision.

“Why don’t you go ahead and tell us?” Tabitha said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied. “I have to go check on Justine. She’ll be mad if I don’t.”

“She needs more sleep,” Tabitha replied, “but it’s hard to sleep in when you’re sick every morning. I heard her vomiting in the guest bathroom through my bedroom wall just before sunrise. It confirmed my suspicions. How long have you known she was pregnant?”

This went through the room almost as powerfully as the revelation of Eustace’s presence. Darryl saw his mother cover her mouth with her hands, his dad take a step toward him in the living room. On Darryl, this had the effect of making him suddenly angry. Yes, he also wanted to protect Justine from their shock and disappointment.

“We were going to tell you once Justine was ready,” he said. “I’ve known for a few days, that’s all.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Greg said. “Are you serious?”

And that pushed Darryl’s anger over the edge. For the first time in his life, he was sorely tempted to turn and punch his father in the face. He would have done it, if he hadn’t feared the consequences. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek and fought against the sudden surge of fury.

“Dad, I don’t think you of all people have any right to judge us for keeping a secret,” he said. “Well, fine, now everyone knows. Congratulations. Justine will be twice as scared and even more stressed out, and maybe that’ll hurt the baby. Are you happy, Grandma?” And with that, he dared to meet his grandmother’s gaze. He couldn’t manage it for long. Finally, unable to bear all the shocked expressions, he turned away. “I’m going to check on Justine. Just leave us alone, would you? You’ve already made it worse. Don’t even talk to us about it.”

And with that, he stormed off, giving his father a wide berth as he headed toward the stairs, his stomach all twisted up in knots. As he stomped up the steps, no one followed him.

19

Without question, it was the most uncomfortable breakfast of her entire life. Emma was sorely tempted to storm out of the room just like Darryl, but she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself. Secrets upon secrets. She couldn’t believe what she’d learned that morning, and she felt a potent mix of incompatible emotions. That awful Eustace Simpson was alive, but they might be able to get revenge on him. Justine had been hiding her pregnancy, but that meant a new baby was on the way. It was all awful and wonderful in equal measure, and she just desperately wanted to get away from everyone to process her emotions.

As she sat there in her seat, forgetting all about the cold food on her plate, Greg stepped out onto the porch. Tabitha and Marion had a whispered conversation, and then they finally got up and went to the porch, as if to convene with Greg. That left Emma alone at the table, for which she was grateful. She moved her food around on the plate with her fork for a few minutes, until she couldn’t stand the smell any longer. Then she rose, pushed her chair back, and stepped out from behind the table.

At first, she wasn’t sure where to go. She might have gone outside to find some task around the ranch that would occupy her time, but she didn’t want to step onto the porch if her parents and grandmother were still arguing about stuff. She considered heading upstairs to her room, but Darryl and Justine were up there. The crying would bother her. Finally, she settled on the den. It had become something of a haven.

She approached the nearest bookshelf, intending to find some big picture book she could idly flip through, when she realized Horace Bouchard was in the room. He’d taken a small padded chair in the corner. His breakfast and morning tea were on the table beside him, and he had a hardcover novel open on his lap.

“Oh, sorry,” Emma said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” he replied, closing the novel and setting it on the table. He’d unfastened his prosthetic legs and set them on the floor in front of the chair. Emma wondered if they were uncomfortable—they certainly looked uncomfortable—but she wasn’t bold enough to ask.

“I was just going to get a book or something,” Emma said.

“People get pregnant. It’s not really a big deal,” Horace said with a chuckle. “There’s no reason to make them kids feel bad, even if the timing doesn’t seem right.”

“Yeah, I guess I agree with you.” Emma really didn’t want to talk to Horace, of all people, about it. She quickly grabbed a book off a shelf, intending to take it out of the room.

“It means you’re going to be an aunt,” Horace added. “This isn’t just happening to Darryl and Justine. As an aunt, you’ll be really important in the life of this new little baby. They’re really going to need your help, whether they realize it or not.”

His words hit deep. The impact of the revelation had been so shocking that she hadn’t really considered the long-term implications of the baby. Suddenly, she found herself on the verge of tears. Yes, they would need her help. Justine and Darryl were in no position to deal with this all by themselves. Indeed, this realization hit her so strongly, and moved her so profoundly, that she slid the book back onto the shelf and walked right out of the den without saying another word to Horace.

She needed her notebook and a pencil. It was time to begin making a list. Yes, she was going to be an aunt, and she was going to be the best and most supportive aunt ever.

* * *

It continued to be tense and awkward around the house, and Emma found herself walking on eggshells anytime Darryl was in the same room with his parents or grandmother. Justine had become even more reclusive, practically confining herself to her room. Many times as the days passed, Emma considered going up there and breaking the ice with her. After all, if she was going to be an aunt, then that made Justine pretty much her sister-in-law, even if there’d been no wedding. Surely, they should get to know each other. As it was, they’d barely spoken more than a handful of times.

Still, it was a lot more awkward than it should have been, and by the third morning, she had yet to work up the courage to say anything. Instead, she took her extensive list of tasks that she needed to accomplish to help the new mother, and she began picking through the library to find relevant books. The Back to Basics book had included information on pregnancy and natural childbirth, but she wanted more. She grabbed anything that seemed even tangentially related, creating a hefty stack that she kept on the nightstand beside her bed.

Her best find was a thick book called Encyclopedia of Medicinal Plants by someone named Andrew Chevallier. As she worked her way through this one, she took copious notes in her notebook. Anything that might contribute to either the baby’s or new mother’s health got jotted down. Emma had a small desk beside the window in her bedroom, and since it faced the west, she got plenty of sunlight in the afternoon.

Maybe this is why Darryl wanted to finish the greenhouse so badly, she realized. Plenty of fresh vegetables to help Justine keep the baby healthy.

As she worked that day, she could see the rest of her family moving back and forth across the yard. As Emma was preparing for the pregnancy, the others seemed mostly focused on bolstering the defenses against Eustace Simpson. Indeed, just after lunch, as she was flipping through the encyclopedia, she saw Darryl, Tabitha, and Greg building a second platform in another tree on the far side of the barn. As they worked, she could tell Greg and Darryl weren’t talking to each other. Even from this distance, she could feel the unpleasant vibe.

Horace and Marion were working on the fence, adding even more layers and supporting structure to it. Mostly, Emma tried not to think about the fact that Eustace was alive and well in Glenvell. It was a disturbing thought, and as she watched her family at work down below, her right hand went down to her leg, brushing the spot low on her right thigh where she’d been shot. The bullet had passed through, missing anything vital. She’d recovered quite well from being shot, though she still had a knot of scar tissue on both sides of her leg, and she felt little more than a twinge of discomfort when she walked on the leg now.

Don’t think about Eustace, she told herself, trying to drive that big, red face out of her thoughts. Concentrate on the baby.

By the time she was called down to lunch, she’d learned quite a bit and made a few pages of notes. She was so excited that she dared to approach Justine’s bedroom door and knock softly.

“Darryl?” came the muffled reply.

“No, it’s Emma.”

“Oh.” Justine was quiet for a couple of seconds, then said, “Well, you can come in, I guess.”

Emma opened the door and peeked inside. Justine’s room still looked rather empty, even with the growing pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Sprucing the place up might make for another good project. Emma made a mental note. As for Justine, she was sitting in a chair beside the bed, idly flipping through an old magazine. She was wearing her heavy coat and gloves, but the hood was down. Despite this, she was pink-cheeked and had a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She’d pulled her long black hair into a loose ponytail. As Emma stepped into the room, she didn’t look up from her magazine.

“I’ve heard everything,” Justine said. “You can hear people downstairs when they talk loudly, so I know what they’re all saying. Personally, I think I have the right to wait to announce the pregnancy until I feel ready, but whatever. They can all hate me if they want.”

“Nobody hates you,” Emma replied. “They’re just stressed out about the guy in town, you know.”

“Then someone should go and shoot him and get it over with,” Justine said, flipping a page in her magazine. “This isn’t a healthy atmosphere for a baby.”

“I agree.” As soon as she said it, Justine glanced up for the first time from her magazine. Emma pressed on. “Hey, I’ve been doing a bunch of research about pregnancy and stuff, and I learned that lean meat is good for pregnant women. Also, fish is really good for you and the baby, and this one book recommended red raspberry leaf tea. I know we get some wild raspberry bushes in the woods sometimes. Of course, it’s winter, so there won’t be any fresh leaves, but maybe that’s even better. They need to be dried out for tea anyway, right?” She realized she was talking in a blur, so she stopped and took a breath. It was so easy to get worked up when she felt like she was being productive.

At first, Justine just stared at her, knitting her eyebrows in confusion. Then, suddenly, she broke out in a big smile, and it was perhaps the most genuine smile Emma had ever seen the otherwise gloomy girl make.

“Hey, all of that sounds good,” Justine said. “Thanks for doing the research, Emma. I’ve been too nervous to really think about that kind of stuff.”

“Oh, no problem,” Emma said, beaming. “Just trying to do my part to help the baby and the new mom, you know? Heck, I may need to learn this stuff for myself one day.” Her last comment sounded so awkward after she said it that she uttered a strange little laugh and felt instantly uncomfortable.

“Yeah, no doubt,” Justine replied, and resumed flipping through her magazine. “Just maybe be a little more cautious than I was. No rush.”

“Right, right.” Emma had reached her limit. The fit of boldness was gone, so she shuffled her feet for a moment, then excused herself. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything else. Bye.”

“Thanks again,” Justine said, as Emma shut the door.

Though she now felt completely awkward, she’d had a little moment of heartwarming normalcy with Justine Carmichael. That felt like a monumental accomplishment, and Emma headed downstairs feeling quite proud of herself. It made her want to continue being productive, so she grabbed her coat off the coat rack by the front door, pulled on her boots, and headed outside. She decided to join the men in building the new lookout platform, and she didn’t even bother asking. Instead, she just walked right up to them and started rooting around in Grandpa’s old rusty toolbox.

Her father was currently laying boards on the platform, poised precariously on the high step of a ladder, while Darryl cut and smoothed boards on the ground below. Horace was seated on a chair, working with Marion on the fence.

“Emma, if you want to help, you can climb up on the low branch there and start working on the other end of the platform,” Greg said.

The old big-leaf maple tree had a couple of fat, low branches, and Emma pulled herself up onto them, one foot planted on either branch. The other side of the platform was just above her. They’d set it about three meters off the ground, just high enough that someone standing on it could see over the fence clearly. Emma had grabbed a hammer so old that the wood handle had gone soft and smooth. It had a comfortable grip, worn by decades of use. Darryl passed her a few nails, which she tucked into her coat pocket. Then he handed her a long, smooth board.

“Where did we get the wood?” she asked, as she set the board in the framework they’d built.

“Scavenged from the old Carmichael place,” her dad said.

“Justine said it was okay,” Darryl quickly added. “I asked first, of course.”

She was impressed that they were working together, even though they barely addressed each other directly. It was a minor improvement to their relationship, and Emma found that it was comfortable enough to fall into a working rhythm. They worked for a couple of hours, and by then, the platform was essentially complete. It was two meters by three meters, with a low wall on the side facing the fence.

Afterward, they retired back to the house for a late lunch. Marion and Horace had preceded them, having apparently taken a break from reinforcing the fence. When Emma stepped into the living room, she found her mother sitting on the couch, an enormous ball of yarn and knitting needles on the cushion beside her. She held a small magazine full of clothing patterns in her left hand, and when Emma walked around behind her, she realized it was a bunch of baby clothes.

“What are you going to make?” Emma asked.

“I’ll start with a cap,” Marion replied. “Then work on a baby outfit. Our family is about to grow by one. We’d better get ready. There are no clothing stores to go to, so we’ve got to create a whole wardrobe for the little one, including plenty of cloth diapers. I’ve always wanted an excuse to learn some of the more complicated patterns. This is more your grandmother’s area of expertise, but I guess it’s time to develop my skills.”

Darryl was standing in the doorway, knocking the snow off his boots, but Emma thought she saw a brief smile on his face.

“Can I join you?” Emma asked. “I’m not much good at knitting. I prefer crocheting, but I’m always willing to learn.”

“Of course,” she replied, gesturing with her head to the empty couch cushion beside her. “We’re all going to have to work together. We have a few balls of yarn left, but we can salvage more from the ratty old blankets up in the hobby room.”

Emma spent her time learning the basics of knitting from her mother. She wasn’t particularly good at it. She’d only ever been mediocre at crocheting, and knitting seemed more difficult. She just didn’t have a natural talent for it, but she gave it her undivided attention until lunch was ready.

After lunch, she decided to set out for the stream to check the fish nets. All the work that day had been invigorating, but more than that, her brief conversation with Justine boosted her confidence. There was nothing she loved more in all the world than being useful. She grabbed one of her grandmother’s small wicker baskets, just in case they’d caught anything, and added a small cloth bag.

Maybe I’ll gather some red raspberry leaves while I’m out there, she thought. Let’s make it the most productive day ever.

20

Horace knew himself well enough to know that if he allowed sickness to make him sedentary long enough, he’d find it a heck of a lot harder to get back up again. Even though he still felt sickly and weak, he was determined to get off his butt. Half a day of working on the fence had wiped him out, but he wouldn’t allow himself to rest too much. He sat at the dining table for lunch, no more cowering in the den, and that went just fine. Indeed, it went so well that he decided to keep up the momentum.

Of course, he’d heard the entire family argument two days earlier. Horace was no fool. He’d had plenty of his own family drama back in the day. In fact, he’d had a couple of kids who went bad. By the time the EMP hit, he’d already gone a few years without seeing or talking to them, only the occasional birthday card or Christmas card. Yes, he knew how families could fall apart, but at least the Healys had settled again into something resembling peaceful coexistence. How long would it last?

Families are volatile when situations are uncertain, he thought, as he shuffled back across the living room, especially when people’s roles begin to change.

He would have said this to them directly if he thought they’d listen, but maybe they just needed to work it out for themselves. At least he’d gotten through a tiny bit to Emma. Horace intended to keep working until he absolutely couldn’t stand it, but he’d done about as much free walking as he could manage for the day. He needed at least one crutch. His thighs were hurting—they often did when he spent too much time walking around on his prosthetic legs—and his back was sore. He retrieved a crutch from his bedroom, put on his coat, zipped it up, and headed outside.

He already had an idea for a project in mind, though he hadn’t run it past anyone else in the family. Marion had commented on the fact that they had no access to clothing stores or baby supplies, and while she was doing a good job knitting clothes for the little one, Horace knew the baby would also need some kind of cradle or bassinet. He had just the thing in mind. With enough long, thin branches, he could weave a cradle that would be both functional and interesting to look at.

He decided to start looking for supplies in the shed, so he hobbled down the porch steps and made his way around the house, leaning heavily on the crutch as he went. It was slow going, and he had to step carefully in the snow lest he stumble on some hidden object. He was afraid if he went down, he might not be able to get back up. As he approached the shed, he saw movement beyond the barn. Justine Carmichael had taken a turn on the new platform. She was leaning back against the trunk of the tree, her legs stretched out in front of her, and the Remington rifle resting beside her. As she sat there, she was idly moving her feet from side to side in what appeared to be an anxious gesture, and the bright pink boots had drawn Horace’s gaze.

Horace went into the shed and rooted around for a while, but he didn’t find anything that might contribute to making the cradle. All the scrap wood had been used up. He’d hoped to maybe find some old piece of wicker which he could dismantle for parts. No such luck. When he left the shed, he looked toward the new platform again. Justine was standing up now, hugging a branch and hanging her head. Horace headed in her direction, but his creaking crutch must have given him away. She turned and looked down at him.

“Hey, there,” he said, giving her a wave. “They gave you the afternoon shift, did they?”

“No,” she said, with a long, drawn-out sigh. As she often did, she’d pulled her hood all the way up and forward, practically hiding her face. “I volunteered. Darryl was helping his dad with something. I guess they’re pretending to get along. It’s so awkward how they won’t talk directly to each other. Anyway, I’m sick of just sitting up in my room all the time. I start to feel like a prisoner after a while, you know?”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” Horace said. “Believe me. Look at me stumping around on my aching legs.”

She didn’t seem to know how to respond to this, so she gave him an awkward nod and sat down on the platform.

“You want me to take over for you?” he asked. “I’ll cover the rest of your shift, and you can find something more interesting to do.”

She seemed to consider this, drumming her fingers against her chin. “Can you even get up here? Is it safe?”

He gestured at the ladder, which was still propped against the tree below the platform. “I believe so. I’ll take it real slow and careful.” Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure, but he was willing to try. He’d once gotten stranded on the second floor of his own house when his stair lift had broken, but since the EMP, and especially since moving in with the Healys, he’d been pushing himself just a little more.

“Well…if you say so,” she said. “Yeah, I’m getting pretty bored up here, and there’s nothing to see. Just an empty field and trees on the other side of the fence. You can only stare at it for so long.”

She started to grab the rifle, then waved it off, and slowly descended from the platform. She stepped onto the ladder at an angle, and it wobbled. For one awful second, it looked like it might tip over. Horace braced himself, preparing to lunge forward and throw himself in the way. He could at least cushion her fall, even if it meant he took the brunt of the damage. But Justine managed to hook her foot around the step and pull the ladder back into the place.

“We need to install permanent steps or something,” she said, picking her way down the ladder. “I don’t know if you should go up there. You might never come down again.”

“If I get into trouble, I’ll start shouting,” he replied. “Darryl will come running.”

This produced something that was almost a smile from her. Instead of heading back to the house, she lingered beneath the platform. Horace approached the ladder, leaning his crutch against the tree trunk.

“If I fall, just let me fall,” he said, setting his right foot on the lowest step. “You don’t need to put yourself in danger on my account.”

“This might be a bad idea,” Justine grumbled. “I’m not going to stand here and watch you fall down.”

“I won’t fall,” he replied. As he began to climb, his legs and back cried out in protest. No, his body didn’t want to do this at all, but he defied it and kept going. He moved slowly, focusing on every movement. The ladder felt a little shaky, which was disconcerting. Justine finally came over and grabbed the side of the ladder to hold it in place.

“Thanks,” he replied. As he reached the top of the ladder, he thrust his arms out onto the platform and slowly wriggled his body onto it. His stomach lurched. This was a dumb idea, but I did it, by God. He could feel the straps of his legs coming loose as he dragged himself fully onto the platform, and he had to twist around and pull them up onto the edge of the wood.

“I should’ve just finished my shift,” Justine muttered. “I feel bad letting you go up there.”

“I’m good,” Horace replied, tightening the leg straps. “You go on inside and take it easy. I’ll handle things up here for a while.”

Justine groaned. “If Horace Bouchard breaks his back because of me, I’ll never live it down.” And with that, she started back toward the house, shaking her head.

Horace Bouchard’s not going to break his back, he thought. Mark my words. Horace Bouchard still has the fortitude of a CAF soldier.

He grabbed the Remington and pulled it toward him. In truth, he was now utterly exhausted, sweating inside his heavy coat, and out of breath. He pulled off his toque and shoved it in his pocket. It felt like his head was steaming in the frigid air, but he rather liked it. As he sat there, he glanced back at Justine just in time to see her round the corner of the house. He felt bad making her worry.

Maybe I got carried away today, he thought. That bad cold made me restless.

But at least it was done. He settled himself as comfortably as he could on the platform, drew the Remington across his lap, and fixed his gaze on the snowy trees beyond the overbuilt fence. From his place just east of the barn, he could see tracks that had been left on the other side of the fence from people moving back and forth between the gate and the greenhouse. They planned on extending the fence to encompass the greenhouse eventually, but that was going to be a big project. It would require a lot more scrap wood.

As he sat on the platform, looking to pass the time, Horace picked some of the long, thin branches around him, stripping them of needles. He began to weave the branches together in what he thought might become the framework of the cradle. He wasn’t sure if the end result would be something Justine and Darryl would want for their baby. Still, it passed the time, and he didn’t expect to come down from the platform for quite a while.

He’d passed a pleasant hour or so when he noticed something moving within the trees. Thinking at first that it might be some animal, he picked up the Remington and slowly, achingly rose on the platform, bracing himself against the trunk. It was a small black shape behind some bushes just beyond the tree line. Horace watched it shift back and forth. Then suddenly, it strode forward, pushing through the bushes and stepping out of the trees.

It was a man in a heavy, black coat with a fur-lined hood. He stepped out into the open, his head moving from left to right as if he were scanning the fence. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder. Most of his face was hidden behind the high collar of his coat, which had been zipped to the top and raised, and he wore mirrored ski goggles. A second man soon joined him, dressed in a heavy coat and a toque with ear flaps pulled low. He also had a rifle over his shoulder. Then a third man joined him, also dressed in black.

Horace lowered himself onto the platform, lying flat so he was mostly concealed by the low wall on the south side. He raised the Remington, bracing it against the top of the wall, and peered through the scope. Hoping to scare the men off, and also warn the family, he began to utter a high, hoarse cry, a sharp and wordless noise. The three men looked at one another and seemed to be discussing the matter, but otherwise Horace’s weird shrill sound didn’t scare them off.

“Hey! Heyo! Hey!” He continued to shout.

After a moment, he heard the front door slamming shut, followed by footsteps on the porch. He looked over his shoulder and saw most of the family coming around the corner. Greg came first, carrying the SIG Sauer. He’d taken a liking to Horace’s gun for some reason. Horace didn’t mind and hadn’t made an issue out of it. Tabitha came next, Tuck’s Walther PPK handgun in her right hand. Then Marion and Darryl. Horace leaned over the edge of the platform and used hand signals to try to indicate that there were three men beyond the fence. Greg nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.

“What are they doing?” Tabitha asked loudly.

Horace peered over the low wall again. Two of the men had stepped back into the trees. Horace could see them, but they were largely concealed now behind tree trunks. The third man, the one wearing the mirrored goggles, remained out in the open, his hands calmly at his sides, as if he were standing at attention.

An old military man of some kind, Horace realized. He has the posture.

Horace couldn’t tell if the man had spotted him or not. It was impossible to see what he was looking at. Finally, the lone figure strode forward. As he did, he pushed down the fur-lined hood and collar of his coat to expose a black beard and close-cropped hair. He cupped his hands to either side of his mouth, as if he intended to speak. Horace decided not to give him the first word.

“Halt. Don’t come any closer,” Horace shouted, giving his voice its deepest and most intimidating timbre. He could still bellow like a soldier when he needed to. “This is private property, and we are well armed! What do you want?”

The strange lowered his hands, as if surprised by the sound of Horace’s voice, but Horace saw a glint of teeth. The man was smiling.

This fellow looks like trouble, he thought.

21

Greg would have gone outside the fence to confront the men if he didn’t think his family would stop him. Still, he was livid. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who had been bold enough to approach the fence, and he wanted to see them face to face. He signaled for Darryl to head to the other lookout platform on the southwest corner of the property. Darryl nodded and set off in the that direction.

“Greg, don’t do anything foolish,” Marion said, lingering beside the barn.

“I won’t,” he replied. “We just need to scare these guys off and make sure they don’t come back.”

He moved to the second platform, just as Horace began shouting at the men beyond the fence. Greg grabbed the ladder that was leaning against the tree, wrapped his right arm around the steps and hoisted it awkwardly off the ground. He lugged it over to the fence and set it down, the SIG in his left hand. Then he mounted the steps. They’d built the fence extra high, but there was a crossbeam halfway up that he could use for extra stability. He planted his left boot there, put his right boot near the top of the ladder, and rose above the tops of the fence posts.

“What do you want?” Horace shouted at the stranger from the platform.

Greg propped the SIG Sauer CROSS on top of the fence and put his eye to the scope, finding the lone figure standing in the snow. He was dressed in a familiar black coat and fur-lined hood, a pair of mirrored ski goggles hiding his eyes. As Horace shouted questions at him, the man appeared to be smiling. Finally, he reached up, grabbed the goggles, and slid them up to his forehead, revealing his face.

He had a broad face, bushy eyebrows, and a thick, black beard. His forehead was deeply lined, with a receding hairline, and a heavy brow. A scar bisected his mouth, cutting through the dark beard and mustache at an angle. The man cupped his hands on either side of his mouth. When he spoke, he had a sharp voice that carried well despite this distance.

“Healy family, I’ve come here to talk,” he said. “Let’s not start shooting at each other. That won’t accomplish anything. You’re easily outnumbered and outgunned, and what’s the use of everyone dying here today? Surely, we can discuss our problems like good neighbors?” As he spoke, he kept that mirthless, toothy grin on his face. Though the man had multiple guns trained on him, and he was standing out in the open fully exposed, he showed not a hint of fear. Greg wasn’t sure if he believed the man’s boast. Were they truly outnumbered and outgunned? Horace had indicated that there were three men, but maybe they’d brought others and hidden them out of sight.

Greg cleared his throat and responded to the man. “We’re not neighbors. You’re a stranger to us, so there’s nothing to discuss. Leave us in peace.”

This only made the man smile even bigger. “Strangers? My name is James Teagan. I am a former United States Marine. You are Greg Healy, patriarch of the Healy clan, and you own this nice, big ranch here. See how much we know each other? That means we’re not strangers.”

Greg had the man dead center in the crosshairs, and he was sorely tempted to pull the trigger. The urge went all the way down to the tip of his finger, and he finally had to move his finger off the trigger and set it against the side of the gun. He would not provoke a gunfight when his entire family was present, especially when he didn’t know the full size of the opposing force. This was something he would have to take care of on his own far away from the ranch.

“What do you want, James Teagan?” he called. He heard Horace shifting position on the platform behind him. As for the others, he wasn’t sure where they’d gone. He wanted to tell Marion to grab the kids and return to the house, just in case bullets started to fly.

“Well, Mr. Healy, I’m very glad you asked,” the man replied. He dared to take a few steps closer to the fence. Greg struggled to track him through the scope. As he did, he briefly caught sight of people moving deep in the woods, but he couldn’t tell how many. “I was brought to town recently in order to help local authorities keep the peace after a rash of violence. I just want to make Glenvell and the surrounding community a safer place for everyone. Now, isn’t that a goal we can all agree on?”

“The former violence was caused by local authorities, James,” Greg replied.

“Now, see, I’ve been told that the violence went both ways,” James replied with a shrug. “In fact, there’s a wild story going around about the former mayor getting ambushed and murdered by a local family, but who am I to spread gossip? I’m just here to help.”

“You work for Eustace Simpson?” Greg asked.

For some reason, this caused James to laugh. “He’s paying me, but I wouldn’t say I work for him. The way I see it, I work for the community. Let’s be honest with each other, Greg. Eustace Simpson is a buffoon. We both know that, and I don’t let him push me around.”

“Good for you,” Greg replied. He had the crosshairs right between the man’s eyes, and he was steady now, and calm enough to keep it there. “I’m sure you have no problem taking his money—or whatever the hell he’s paying you with.”

“We all have to get by somehow,” James said.

Would it really be the worst thing in the world to take this guy out right now? he thought. We have the fence. We’re all armed. We can defend ourselves.

But he also wanted to hear what the man had to say. Maybe he could learn a bit about what Eustace was up to. Still, he struggled.

“What do you want from us, James?” he shouted.

“I’ll level with you, Greg Healy,” James replied, “because I’m an honest man, and you deserve to know the truth. Eustace told us all about your ranch here, your cattle, all of your hoarded supplies. You’ve got a small family living there, and far more supplies than you could ever want or need. Hell, the cattle alone could provide meat and milk for three times as many people. And we’re struggling out here, Greg. This whole community is struggling. It’s tough for people on the other side of the fence. People are working hard, but they need help.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Greg replied. “And why is Eustace Simpson, of all people, pretending to give a crap about this community?”

“Those are very good questions, Greg,” James said. He reached up and grabbed the edges of his goggles, pulling them back down over his eyes. “Let’s just say he’s taken a shine to the place, and he wants to help out. Look, I’m not going to waste your time by trying to sway your opinion. I know how you feel, and I can respect that. So, instead, I’ll get to the point. You’re hoarding supplies, you’re hoarding a nice, big piece of property, and we can’t go along with that.” He pulled the collar of his coat up and adjusted his hood.

“It seems you already stole one of our cows,” Greg replied. “That’s all you’re getting. We’re willing to help a neighbor in need, but our stuff belongs to us. You have no right to it. Take another step toward the fence, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” James said, with another infuriating laugh. He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “You’ve got me in your sights. I can see that. Hell, you could shoot me right now, if you wanted to. But, look, I’m doing you a favor. Eustace didn’t want me to come here. He just wanted to attack in the middle of the night. I resisted that, Greg. I insisted that we talk to you face to face like men. It’s the decent thing to do, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sure,” Greg replied. “Say whatever else you came here to say and go away, James.”

“Fair enough.” Greg could tell, even with the goggles on, that the man was now scanning the fence, his head shifting from left to right. Perhaps he’d put the goggles back on to try to hide this, but it was clear he was studying the property, maybe looking for a weakness in the fence. “We want your ranch, Greg. There it is. No more dancing around the issue. We want your ranch and at least some of your supplies. Now, if you want to play it the smart way, you can hand it all over and join forces with us. Become part of the broader community. Let’s pool all our resources and make sure every family is provided for equally. That’s what Eustace is working toward. Doesn’t that sound like the fair and decent thing to do? The neighborly thing to do? We’ll all be safe, happy, and well-fed...one big, happy Glenvell family.”

Greg spotted more movement in the tree, and he shifted the scope, tracking to the right. There were people moving in the shadows. At first, he saw two, then he saw two others, then a big cluster of people even farther back. Just how many people had Eustace sent? How many were lurking out there with guns, ready to back up James Teagan the second he encountered resistance?

He hadn’t responded, and a few seconds had passed. When he moved the scope back to James, he saw the man holding his rifle, not aiming it yet, tapping out a little rhythm on the stock with the gloved fingers of his right hand.

“What if we don’t agree to your terms?” Greg asked. Outnumbered or not, they had to protect what belonged to them. He glanced to his left and saw Marion standing nearby, her eye pressed to a narrow gap between fence boards. “What if we don’t agree to your terms, James? What are you going to do about it?”

“Well, in that case, I’d first have to inform you that most of the community is on our side,” James said. “I’m fairly certain we can take your ranch. Hell, the only reason we’re talking to you is because I insisted on treating you like a respectable human being, but if you’re going to be a problem, we’ll just take it all. Are you willing to pay the price for holding on to it?”

Greg felt an equal measure of seething hatred and cold fear. This was the worst-case scenario, the thing they had tried to prepare for, but really, how could they have prepared? A large group of armed maniacs wouldn’t be held off for long.

Horace spoke up then, his crusty old voice crackling in the winter air. “No, Mr. James Teagan, the real question is, are you willing to pay the price for trying to take it? You’ve got all manner of guns trained on you right now, and we’ve taken care of worse people than you.”

At this, James just shook his head and smiled that damned toothy smile again. “Shooting me won’t solve your problem, because I’m the most reasonable man in the group. You’re a lot better off dealing with me than with any of the others, but if you don’t believe that, go ahead and take a shot. We can set this off right now. Your choice, old man.” He paused a second, as if waiting to see what they’d do, then he said, “Tell you what, I’ll give you a day to think it over. We could burn this whole ranch to the ground right now. I’m sure Eustace would love that, but decent people don’t behave that way. You think about it, Greg Healy. Talk it over with your people, and we’ll see if we can’t come to an agreement tomorrow.”

“Our decision won’t change,” Greg shouted. He said it so loudly it hurt his throat. “We’re staying on our ranch. Go and tell that bloated loser I said so!”

“I’ll pass along the message,” James said, with a big comical shrug. “Talk it over with your people. We’ll meet again and confirm your decision tomorrow. I just hope you make the right choice, for the sake of your children. Don’t let your anger cloud your judgment. We can all benefit from this deal.”

With a final salute, he turned and started back toward the trees. As he did, Greg felt his finger sliding down to the trigger again, as if it had a will of its own. His heart was hammering against his chest, his breath loud in his ears.

This is not the man you need to kill, he reminded himself. James Teagan is just a mouthpiece. If you shoot him, you’ll start a war, and you might never get a chance at Eustace.

That thought alone was the single thin barrier that stayed his hand. As James approached the trees, Greg saw others moving in the shadows again. At least a dozen, he estimated, probably more, they began to converge as they headed off in the direction of town. And then they were gone, and his moment to shoot had passed. He lifted the rifle and turned. When he did, he saw Horace Bouchard looking down at him with a steely gaze.

“If you’d shot him, I’d have backed you up,” Horace said, “but it’s probably good you didn’t. They had the tactical advantage.”

“I’m afraid I’ll regret not pulling the trigger,” Greg said, slinging the rifle over his shoulder, “but it’s done now. We’d better get ready. Looks like we’ll have to kill them all.”

22

Marion had tried her best to keep things positive on the ranch. She never lost her tempter. She was patient with people and tried to mediate tense situations. When Greg and Darryl had revealed their big secrets, she’d tried to respond calmly, withholding judgment until she could speak rationally. She’d fielded numerous complaints from Tabitha, Greg, and Emma, and took it all in stride. But she couldn’t paint over this situation with a veneer of quiet hopefulness. Indeed, she was done trying.

It was a tense and somber group that gathered on the porch after the encounter with James Teagan. Justine had come outside and sat on a corner of the porch with her back to the handrail, Darryl beside her. The first hint of purplish evening light had begun to fill the yard with long shadows, and it seemed ominous somehow.

“He’s got the whole town working for him,” she said. “Either that, or he’s already killed everyone who opposed him.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Greg said. “Eustace can come across as a big gregarious buffoon when he wants to, but he’s a coldhearted piece of garbage all the way to the core. This is why I’ve been spying on him. I was looking for an opportunity to take him out before he provoked a confrontation. I knew he wouldn’t leave us alone.”

“So, his little sidekick gave us a day to think it over,” Tabitha said.

“Well, he said he’d give us a day to think it over,” Greg replied. “I don’t trust him.”

“The offer is bogus,” Marion said. “He wants us to let our guard down. If we’re planning on having another meeting tomorrow, we won’t be ready when they show up early.”

Horace was sitting in one of the rocking chairs, his crutch placed across his lap. The poor old guy was absolutely exhausted, his face twisted up in pain. It had taken a while to get him down off the platform, and by the time he’d hobbled back to the porch, he’d completely run out of energy. He’d leaned the Remington against a corner of the house beside the front door.

“It’s a smart move on their part,” Horace said, then coughed. “Make us think we have until tomorrow, then attack in the middle of the night. That seems likely. They’ll surround the property, come at us from multiple angles. In the dark, it will be hard to see where they’re coming from. Even with our fence, they’ll have an advantage.”

“This makes me wish I’d build a damned stone wall like I wanted to,” Greg mumbled. “It seems like you need an impregnable fortress to survive in this cutthroat world.”

At this, Justine collapsed forward, burying her face in the crook of her arms, which were resting on her knees. Darryl leaned over her protectively and embraced her. “We have to keep Justine and the baby safe,” he said, “at any cost. No matter what that means, or what it takes. We can’t let a single one of those people get over the fence. They could start a fire, take a shot at the house, or…who knows what?”

“Even if this James Teagan guy is a man of his word, Eustace is not,” Greg said, “so we can assume the worst. I don’t know why he chose to come here and try have a dialogue with us instead of launching an attack, but I do not believe for one second that it was for our benefit. They’re scared enough of what we might do to them, so it’s a last-ditch attempt to avoid a fight. That’s what I think.”

Everyone went quiet after that. A stiff, cold wind was blowing, kicking up snow. It bit any exposed skin, so Marion pulled the flaps of her cap down and tied the threads under her chin. Everyone seemed to agree that the offer from James was a fake, but what were they supposed to do about it? Marion didn’t like to consider the alternative, but she knew they had limited time. They couldn’t wait for Eustace and his people to make the next move. Marion expected Tabitha to say something, but she seemed lost in thought.

“Well, it’s not the first time we’ve dealt with someone who wanted what we have,” Marion said finally, “and with the world the way it is now, it probably won’t be the last. We defended ourselves last time, didn’t we? So why can’t we do it again?”

“It’s a little more dangerous this time,” Tabitha said. “For one thing, it seems like we’re dealing with quite a few more people. For another, that Mr. Teagan claims to be a United States Marine, which means he has military training.”

“I have military training as well,” Horace reminded her. “Yeah, those American Marines like to boast and brag, but I’m not afraid of them. I fought in Afghanistan against tougher and more dangerous enemies than him. I could’ve plinked that guy between the eyes while he was blabbing, if I’d wanted to.”

“Why didn’t you?” Tabitha said, giving him a sour expression.

“Because a gunfight right then might’ve got us all killed,” Horace replied.

“He’s right,” Greg said. He’d begun to pace, weaving around people as he walked from one end of the porch to the other. Marion could see the fire in his eyes. He was keeping his voice level, but he was all twitchy and anxious, ready for action. Ready to kill. “No, we have to confront Eustace in a manner and at a time that gives us the advantage. It’s my fault for not finding that moment sooner.”

Marion could see nightmare images in her head of what an all-out gun battle at the house would be like. Ambushing the mayor and a few of his cronies had been dangerous enough. “Can’t we somehow provoke a fight far away from the house?” she asked. “That way, it won’t get burned down or shot up in the process?”

Greg stopped and turned to her, smiling. It was a villainous grin, and she shuddered. She’d never seen her husband so hungry for revenge. “You’re absolutely right, Marion. We have to make this happen away from the house, and it just so happens I know where they’re hiding out. The old grocery warehouse on the other side of Glenvell.”

“Where my mom used to work?” Justine said, her voice muffled inside the crook of her arm.

“That’s right,” Greg said.

“You’ll never get in there if they don’t want you to,” Justine said. “Most of it was cold storage. The walls are super thick, and the doors have big bolt latches on them. The whole place is insulated like crazy, and it’s designed to keep people from breaking in.”

“We can pick them off as they try to step outside,” Greg suggested.

“As soon as you get one guy, the rest of them will just go inside and lock the doors,” Justine said. “Plus, they have rooftop access. You’ll never get them all.”

This seemed to diminish Greg’s enthusiasm, and he resumed pacing. Marion found it distracting, and she was tempted to grab him when he passed by for the tenth or eleventh time. A few quiet seconds passed, and then Tabitha suddenly cleared her throat and perked up. She was seated in the other rocking chair, and it creaked as she leaned forward.

“If we need to get some of our people away from the house, there’s a place we can go,” she said. “Tuck and I have an old hunting cabin out in the woods. I don’t know if you remember the place, Greg. We didn’t go there often. Last time I checked on it was maybe a year and a half ago. Did some basic maintenance. As far as I know, it’s still standing.”

“I vaguely remember the place,” Greg said, but he stopped pacing. “I trust you could get us there?”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s not livable though. To be honest, it’s a dump, and it’s in poor condition. Still, it’s within a day’s hike from here, in a valley northeast of the stream. There used to be an old hiking trail that led into the valley, but I’m sure it’s snowed under by now. However, we can get there by an access road a couple of kilometers down the main road. The cabin is private and definitely a safer location than the house.”

“What if we stashed some of our people at the cabin, as sort of a safe haven?” Greg asked, making eye contact with Marion. “Then a few others could set up some sort of ambush here at the ranch. That way, when the gunfight ensues, the whole family won’t be in danger?”

“Well, it’s certainly better than leaving everyone here,” Marion said. “Eustace won’t know about the cabin, so anyone that needs to be completely out of harm’s way can hide out there. That means Justine for sure. Darryl can watch over her. I think that would be best.” At this, Darryl hugged Justine even tighter. “I think Emma should be there as well. Emma?”

She turned to look for her daughter. It was only in that moment that she realized she hadn’t seen her daughter for a while. Everything had been so hectic since the confrontation that Marion’s mind had been reeling. She’d just assumed that Emma was in the corner somewhere, as usual, listening to the conversation while working on something or making notes in her notebook. However, as she looked around the porch, Marion realized her daughter wasn’t there.

“Wait,” she said, feeling a sudden surge of dread. “Where is Emma? Has anyone seen her?”

23

The raspberry bushes were more plentiful than Emma had realized. Once she’d started looking for them specifically, she found them growing between the trees in abundance close to the small stream. There were far more than she could ever need, enough to keep Justine in red raspberry tea for the rest of the year. Before gathering them, however, she headed down to the stream to check the fish traps.

The small stream ran down a rocky gully about two hundred meters beyond the back fence of the ranch. Ice had formed around the rocks along the edges, but the middle of the stream was still liquid and running swiftly. The fish traps were hung from a couple of nylon ropes that had been strung from tree to tree over the stream. Formed of wooden baskets covered in netting, they had small openings on the upstream side. Greg and Darryl had come up with the design, but Emma had recently repaired some of the netting, making it stronger.

A pulley system on the trees allowed them to reel in the nets toward the water’s edge, where they could be accessed from relative safety. It was a simple but smart design, and Emma only wished that she had thought of it first. She approached the sturdy pine tree on the west bank and began pulling at the bottom rope. The little pulley wheels had a bit of ice on them, and they cracked and squealed as she pulled in the traps.

As the first trap reached the shallow, rocky water, she saw a silvery shape flopping about within. She moved closer to the water, sliding her hand along the bottom rope. When she got to the icy rocks, she knelt down, grabbed the handle of the fish trap in her gloved hands, and lifted it out of the water. It was a good-sized fish, some kind of trout, she thought. She set the trap on the rock, tipped it, and opened the side hatch. Then she reached in and grabbed the trout, fighting with it for a few seconds as she attempted to get it out of the trap.

“Filleted and sautéed in a pan with some butter,” she said, placing the trout into her basket and shutting the lid. “That’s how you’ll taste best. Yum!”

She found a smaller trout in the second trap, and she put it in the basket with the larger one. They flailed and flopped against each other as she closed the lid. The third trap was empty, but two fish was better than usual. She set the traps back in the water, rose, and pulled the top rope to move them back out into the middle of the stream. As she started away from the water’s edge, the wriggling fish made it hard to hold on to the basket, so she finally had to move it in front of herself and grab the handle with both hands.

Still, she was so proud she could scarcely think straight. She’d found an abundance of raspberry leaves, enough fish to make almost an entire meal, and she’d done it all by herself. Justine would feel better knowing that the baby’s future aunt was looking out for her, and perhaps her family would finally take note of her contributions.

She checked the latch on the lid to make sure it was secure and started back toward the house, following the path she’d already made with her boots through the snow. As she worked her way back through the woods, she came across another large raspberry bush she hadn’t noticed on her to way to the stream. It was half-buried in the snow beside a lumpy little tree.

Emma had to kick her way through a knee-deep snowdrift to get to it, but she didn’t want to pass it by. This single bush would provide enough leaves to fill the bag she’d attached to the side of her handbasket. A brisk wind had begun to blow, kicking up snow and filling her ears within her hood with a high howling sound that drowned out everything else. In her heavy coat, ski pants, deep hood, and toque, she scarcely felt the cold. Indeed, she’d worked up enough of a sweat to feel rather comfortable. She wasn’t in a hurry to go back home, where things continued to be tense, if cordial.

She set the basket down in the snow and cleared some of the ground around the big raspberry bush. Then she began plucking the best of the leaves, carefully placing them in the bag. They were perfectly dried out by the winter weather. Of course, she’d never actually tasted red raspberry tea. She’d only read about it, and they were all out of sugar. Hopefully, it wasn’t too bitter. Justine could be a bit picky, and Emma didn’t know her taste preferences.

The bag was almost full when she heard a strange noise just beneath the whistling wind. It was like a low wheezing sound, and her first thought was that an animal had snuck up behind her. Maybe a bear or coyote. Both were rare in this area, but it wasn’t unheard of for the big creatures to wander down into Glenvell from the deeper woods and mountains. Emma dropped the leaves that were in her hand and whipped around, her left hand going instinctively to the ground around her, feeling for some kind of makeshift weapon.

Instead of a snorting grizzly bear, she found a man standing behind her. He was as broad as a barn, a girthy giant in a green coat. While a toque covered the top of his head, his massive red beard protruded like a mane, dusted with snow, his breath steaming in its depths. Emma went instantly cold, and she began to shake uncontrollably. Yes, she knew him. The memory of his face, his unhealthy breathing, the shifty eyes, had come to seem unreal in the weeks since she’d been carried out of the wilderness. Seeing him now in the flesh, the man who had tried to kill her, was such a shock that for a few seconds, she couldn’t move.

Another man was standing directly behind his left shoulder. He was dressed all in black and had mirrored goggles over his eyes. He also had a rifle slung over his shoulder, and he was smiling. At first, Emma thought it was just the two of them, but then she saw other people moving through the trees circling around to her left and right, as if to cut off escape. One of these people she recognized, a stern-faced woman with hateful brown eyes: Officer Pam Grasier.

“Now, what in the world are you doing out here all by yourself?” Eustace Simpson said, pressing his hands to his prodigious belly, as if to contain his amusement.

“Nothing,” she replied. “None of your business. Leave me alone.”

She looked left and right. Two on either side, two directly in front of her. The only escape path was behind her, through the raspberry bush. She was frozen in fear. Where had these people come from? What had made them follow her tracks to the stream? Emma glanced at her basket, which was sitting in the snow nearby. How fast could she grab it and run?

“I can’t believe your father would let you come out here alone,” Eustace said. “That doesn’t seem very smart, especially after picking a fight with half of Glenvell.”

As the initial shock released its hold on her, Emma felt a frantic urge to get away. She gauged her exit again. Pam Grasier was blocking her clearest path back to the house.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emma said to Eustace. “I was just gathering food. You should leave people alone when they’re minding their own business. Haven’t you got someone else to harass?”

She lunged then, grabbed her basket, and took off running. Stepping high in the snow, she flung her body through the bushes, feeling them rip and tear at her clothes. It was too slow. It was like trying to run away in a dream. The terrain was against her.

“Grab her,” Eustace said.

Pam Grasier moved in from the right. Emma saw her shadow cutting off her escape route. A second person closed in from behind, crashing through the bushes just as Emma pushed past them. Running with the basket was a problem. It was heavy, and it kept slamming against her hip, but she wouldn’t let it go. Indeed, as Pam Grasier rushed at her, Emma swung the basket, using it as a makeshift weapon. Pam slowed and lunged to one side, batting at it.

Just then, arms wrapped around Emma from behind, and she was driven to the ground. The weight of her attacker pushed her under the snow, and she felt a moment of full-blown panic. This, in turn, caused her to thrash, and she began kicking behind herself wildly. There was a crust of ice on top of the snow in some places. When she broke through it, she felt a sharp edge of ice jab her on the leg, but the pain only made her fight harder. She felt some of her blows connecting, and she heard a man’s voice cussing.

“Stop fighting. Just stop it.” She didn’t recognize him. This wasn’t the unhealthy moistness of Eustace Simpson. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Strong hands hoisted her off the ground and flung her onto her back. In the process, she lost the basket and caught a glimpse of it landing on its side, the lid latch breaking as it opened. The trout spilled out onto the snow. This turned panic into fury. A man was looming over Emma, the guy in the mirrored goggles. She could tell he was strong, well-built, and his teeth were clenched as he reached for her.

“No, I’m not going with you,” she shrieked, her voice carrying far and wide in the woods. “Get away from me!”

She kicked at him with both feet, hitting him in the stomach. He cussed again under his breath, but otherwise he didn’t react. In fact, the full force of her kick didn’t even cause him to stumble. He reached down and grabbed the front of her coat, picking her up again. Emma began flailing at him, punching and slapping him repeatedly, most of her blows hitting him in the shoulders and arms, a few smacking him in the face. Surprisingly, he chuckled at this.

“This one’s kind of feisty,” he said. “No crying, no pleading. She just commenced to kicking and slapping me. Good for her.”

“Just restrain her and let’s go,” Eustace said. “Don’t get too impressed. Remember, she’s Greg Healy’s kid.”

“She may be tougher than him,” James said.

Emma saw Pam Grasier standing behind her attacker, her hands on her hips. How could she just stand there and watch this happen? Wasn’t she a police officer? She had no expression. If anything, she seemed slightly bored by this whole thing.

“I get the point, kid. You can lay off,” her attacker said, as Emma continued to slap and kick him. He grabbed her by the throat and dragged her close, clamping down so tightly that she found it hard to breathe. “I don’t want you to get hurt, so just calm down.”

Finally, Emma reached up with her left hand and dragged her fingernails across the man’s right cheek as hard as she could. She felt the nails scraping into his skin, even as the man tried to twist away from her. With a cry, he flung her back onto the ground and stumbled backward.

“It’s just a child,” Eustace said. “Hurry up and grab her. What’s your problem, James?”

Her attacker—apparently named James—stumbled backward until he bumped into Pam Grasier. She caught him by the shoulders, rolling her eyes, and pushed him away. Emma saw bright red lines, three of them, cutting horizontally across the man’s cheek, beads of blood welling up along the scratches. She’d gotten him good. She took a dark satisfaction in this, but she didn’t dare linger. Rolling onto her belly, she pushed herself onto her hands and knees.

The full weight of her attacker slammed onto her back then, shoving her to the ground, burying her again in the snow and driving the breath out of her lungs. She continued to thrash and fight, but her hands were wrenched behind her back. She was picked up again, and she sank back against her attacker. Out of breath, her arms aching, she finally went limp, forcing him to bear her full weight. As James turned, she saw Eustace and Pam standing there, one amused, the other bored. Three other men were behind them.

“Just let me go,” Emma said. “I didn’t do anything to you people.”

She knew it was a dumb thing to say, even as the words came out of her mouth.

“I think we’re going to keep you,” Eustace said. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure your dad knows where you are. I’m sure he’ll try to mount a rescue. It’ll be fun.” He stepped forward. Emma lifted her foot, intending to kick him, but James stepped back and tipped her off balance. Then he left her hanging in his arms.

“You’re damn right he’ll rescue me,” Emma said, tears burning in her eyes. “My dad’s going to kill you, Eustace Simpson. Mark my words!”

Eustace reached down and plucked the toque off her head. She’d had the hat for a couple of years. It was a dark crimson color, with a little puffball on top. Eustace turned it back and forth, then nodded, as if he’d made a decision.

“I want him to come,” he said, tossing the hat onto the ground. It landed in the snow not far from the basket. The smile suddenly left Eustace’s face. “When he does, I’m going to shoot him right in the heart.”

24

Marion knew. As soon as she saw that Emma wasn’t among the people on the porch, she knew. Even though she had no reason to suspect that her daughter was in trouble, some instinctive feeling warned her. Saying it out loud seemed to confirm it, and the sudden confusion on every face only intensified her sudden sense of panic.

“When was the last time someone saw her?” she asked, pushing away from the handrail. “Think back. Did she leave the ranch? What was she doing?”

“We saw her at breakfast,” Tabitha replied. “She went into the den after that.”

“I think she came in to swap out a book,” Horace added.

Greg had stopped pacing. “Maybe she went to the greenhouse. Weren’t Darryl and Emma working on it the other day?”

“Is that possible?” Marion asked Darryl.

“The greenhouse is done, Mom,” he said. “We can’t do more there until the ground thaws. Emma knows that. She wouldn’t go back there.”

“I think we need to spread out and look for her,” Greg said. “Check every place she might have gone.”

Horace grabbed his crutch and rose to his feet. “I’ll check inside. Maybe she’s in the den or dining room. I see her jotting in her little notebook sometimes.”

“I’ll look upstairs,” Tabitha said. “Maybe she’s in the hobby room working on baby clothes.”

Horace and Tabitha went inside, but Marion knew they were wasting their time. She heard Tabitha calling Emma’s name, but Marion knew her daughter wasn’t inside. She didn’t have a reason to know this, but she knew it. She turned to her husband and saw the fear in his eyes. She grabbed his hand.

“If she went beyond the gate, we should be able to find and follow her footprints,” he said.

Marion nodded. “Let’s go.”

“I’m coming too,” Darryl said, standing up and helping Justine to her feet. “I’ll get the guns.”

As he headed inside, Justine grabbed a fold of his coat and followed him. “Don’t do anything crazy,” she said. “You don’t want those men to find you roaming around outside the fence.”

“We won’t give them a chance to do anything,” Darryl said darkly.

He slipped inside. A few seconds later, he returned with guns. He handed the SIG Sauer to his father, the Walther pistol to Marion, and he kept the Remington for himself.

“We’ll stick together,” Greg said. “If you see or hear anything while we’re out there, let me know. I don’t want any of those people to sneak up on us.”

The three of them set out, following the well-worn path from the porch to the gate.

“She must have been outside,” Marion said, as she unlatched the gate and slid it open. “During that entire confrontation with Eustace’s men, she must have been out there somewhere.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Greg replied. “She could be anywhere on the property.”

“If she was in the barn or down in the root cellar, the shouting earlier would have brought her out. Don’t you know your own daughter? She’s curious and likes to be in the middle of things.”

“I know,” Greg said. “I was just hoping…”

But Marion couldn’t hope. She could only worry. “Can you imagine what would have happened if she’d come back home in the middle of the confrontation? Can you image what would have happened to her? They would have taken her hostage, used her to force our hand, or worse.”

“If she’s not at the greenhouse, maybe she went to check the fish traps,” Greg said. “That’s far enough from the fence that Eustace and his men might not have seen her.”

As they walked around the corner of the fence, Marion could see tracks cutting across the snowy yard in various directions. A worn path led down the fence toward the distant greenhouse, but this was also the beginning of the path most often taken to the stream. She headed in that direction, trying to pick out the shape of Emma’s boot prints, shouting her daughter’s name. Greg and Darryl came up alongside her.

“I don’t remember her saying anything about checking the fish traps, Mom,” Darryl said. “She usually mentions it to me before she heads out there. I think she wants me to go with her, but I’m busy most of the time.”

“Well, maybe next time you should take the Remington and go with her,” Marion muttered. “Why in the world are we letting our youngest go traipsing off into the wilderness alone? Surely, you can spare a few minutes to help her out.”

She noted that Greg and Darryl still weren’t speaking to each other. They got along when necessary and worked together on projects with no problem, but they rarely addressed each other directly. Indeed, as Marion followed the tracks along the fence, they only spoke to her. It was damned annoying under the circumstances, but she bit her tongue for the time being.

I’ve spent too much of my life biting my tongue, she thought.

Ahead, she saw the little greenhouse, the windows frosted in the cold. Yes, they’d done impressive work. It looked quaint there on its little hill beside the trees. Seeing the hard work Emma had done only made Marion’s fear more intense. As she studied the tracks around the front of the greenhouse, she saw footprints leading off past the greenhouse and curving slightly to the south as they headed into the woods. They also seemed fairly recent.

“Are we sure Darryl and Emma finished all of their work on the greenhouse?” Greg asked. “Is there no chance she might be inside? The windows are frosted over, so I can’t tell. Let’s double-check it anyway.”

The fact that he’d addressed this question to her rather than to Darryl, who was walking right beside him, was too much. Marion felt her anger flaring up. She was carrying the pistol as she walked, and she felt her finger twitch against the trigger. Fortunately, the safety was on, so nothing happened. She tucked the gun into her coat pocket.

“Mom, Emma and I are done with the greenhouse until the ground thaws out,” Darryl said. “I’m pretty sure I already mentioned that, but we should check it. Sure.”

It was the final straw. “Stop it. Both of you stop it,” she said, tightly. Greg and Darryl both glanced at her and quickly looked away. Did they not realize just how alike they were? They had the same great qualities, and some of the same frustrating flaws. “You don’t think I see what you two are doing here? You don’t want to talk directly to each other, so you use a go-between or just avoid talking at all. This is how it’s been since we had the big fight the other day, and I’m sick of it.”

“We’ve been getting along just fine,” Greg said. “We’ve worked together on projects. Heck, we spent a couple of hours building a new platform, and there wasn’t a single cross word said by either of us.”

“Not a single cross word or any word,” Marion said, with a wave of her hand. “Just stop it, Greg. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re not getting along if you’re giving each other the silent treatment. Both of you need to put your macho feelings aside so we can focus on what’s important. Got it?”

They were quiet for a few seconds, then Darryl trudged off toward the greenhouse and opened the door. He stepped inside for a second, then reappeared, shaking his head. Marion wasn’t surprised. She could clearly see the most recent trail created by Emma now. She had veered off an older trail to create a meandering path of her own. Calling her daughter’s name again, she followed the trail.

“Okay, fine,” Greg said, after a moment. “Things had been a little strained, I admit. Maybe I’ve been acting a bit childish.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Darryl added. “Things just seemed a bit weird, and I wasn’t sure how to break the ice.”

“Well, I need both of you to stop it,” Marion said, cutting him off before he could say more. “Act like men instead of children. Can you do that for me?”

“You got it,” Greg said. “Sorry.”

“Sure thing, Mom,” Darryl added.

“Good. Now, let’s go find Emma.”

Just then, she spotted the other trails. They came out of the south, intersecting with Emma’s footsteps. Marion’s stomach dropped, and she rushed forward. As she drew near the spot where the trails converged, she saw something even more alarming. Bright drops of blood on the snow. It was a small amount of blood, but the drops followed one of the trails. Marion didn’t know which way to go, so she headed to her left, beyond the place where the tracks converged. The surge of panic made her dizzy, and she had to fight to prevent it from taking over.

She rounded a large tree and spotted a small crumpled shape in the snow. She recognized it immediately, and she stooped down to grab it. A small toque with a little red puffball on top. She picked it up in her trembling hands and crushed it against her chest.

“Over there,” Darryl said, pointing to one side. He rushed over to a large bush, bent down, and dragged something out of the snow. “This is hers.” He lifted the large woven handbasket. A dead fish was hanging over the side.

Marion’s vision was blurred by tears, but she furiously wiped them away. She had to be able to see. She had to find her way. Casting about, she spotted more blood on the snow here. Indeed, she could see where the person—whoever it was—had begun to bleed. A number of drops, still fresh enough to be bright red, marked a spot not far from where she’d found Emma’s hat.

Please, God, let it be one of them and not Emma, she thought. Let it be James Teagan. Maybe she shot him or stabbed him or at least broke his nose.

“Well, they should be easy enough to follow, at least,” Greg said, pulling the SIG off his shoulder. “They left a trail of blood and footprints clear as day. Come on.”

He turned and followed the tracks back to the place where they converged. Marion, still clutching the hat, went after him, but she was fighting panic every step of the way. This was worse. Worse than Emma being lost in the wilderness. Worse than people approaching the ranch and threatening them. Worse than the gun battle in the front yard. Marion could scarcely wrap her head around it, and she didn’t want to think of the possible implications of what had happened here.

Greg was moving fast now. Darryl dropped the basket and hurried to catch up to him, taking the Remington in his hands. They crossed Emma’s original tracks and headed south deeper into the woods, Marion at their backs.

“We’ll find her,” Greg said. “They can’t have gone far. I’m sure they won’t hurt her. They’ll want to use her as a hostage so they can bargain with us. She’s only useful to them if she’s alive and well.” He seemed to be trying to convince himself.

“We don’t know that,” Marion said. “We don’t know how they think or what they’re capable of.”

He stopped suddenly at a spot where the underbrush was especially thick. Marion could see where large bodies had crashed through the bushes, leaving broken twigs, pine needles, and dead leaves scattered on the ground. But Greg seemed drawn to something else. He reached into the low branches of a nearby pine tree with his free hand, worked something loose, then held it up. A scrap of pink nylon cloth with a bit of white padding still stuck to one side. He turned and showed it to Marion, but she already recognized it.

“It’s from Emma’s coat,” she said. “Looks like part of the sleeve.”

“Maybe she tried to break free,” he said, tucking the scrap in his pocket. “Grabbed onto a tree and her sleeve got caught in the branches. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

He glanced at Darryl, but Darryl shrugged sadly. Marion had reached her limit. She could bite her tongue no longer.

“This is your fault,” she said to Greg, her voice shaking with emotion. She had to angrily wipe away fresh tears. “You and your desire for revenge. You should have been focused on keeping the children safe.”

He wouldn’t look at her directly. His gaze went from his shoes to his hands to Darryl and finally off into the distance. Somehow, this only made her angrier.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” he said, after a moment. “I’ve been trying to keep everyone safe.”

“Maybe if you’d been open about this from the beginning,” she said, “we could have come up with a plan together. A better plan. Safer. Instead, we’re chasing a trail of blood through the woods, hoping against hope that it’s not our daughter.” She shouted this last word, then pressed a hand over her mouth. Brushing away the tears had become a futile effort now, so she let them flow. “Tuck gave up his life to save you and Emma so you could come home to us. Was it in vain, Greg?”

To this, he had no response. Indeed, he had turned his back to her completely, restlessly dragging the fingers of his left hand through his hair.

“He never would have wanted this,” Marion added.

* * *

His face still stung like hell. The girl had some vicious little claws on her. All the way back to the compound, she fought him. She almost got away at one point, latching on to a passing tree and trying to drag herself out of his arms. James got kicked in the shoulder during the struggle, and that hurt almost as much as the claw marks across his cheek. Now, three people were holding her. James had his arms around her midsection. Pam was holding her boots to keep her from kicking, and that dim-light of a man name Benny held her head in place. It made for an awkward procession.

James was seething, but he governed his tongue. He would not explode in front of the hostage. Indeed, the long walk gave him plenty of time to formulate what he would say. It was always better, in his experience, to carefully plan out one’s angry tirades. Off the cuff tantrums rarely led to productive outcomes.

Eustace led the way, and he seemed far too amused with himself. James caught glimpses of his smile, watched him mumbling and nodding. He even laughed a few times. Oh, yes, he just thought he’d pulled off some kind of masterstroke, didn’t he? James had to keep reminding himself that he was being compensated very well for this job. Very well. Money alone wasn’t worth much in the world at the moment, but food, supplies, and power smoothed over most frustrations, even Eustace Simpson.

They skirted well clear of the town. They’d made a lot of connections with families in the area, some through bartering, others through coercion, but it wouldn’t do to let the locals see them kidnapping a child. That might turn some against them. When they finally reached the warehouse, they took the girl around to the back. A row of truck bays were lined up along the back wall. All the bay doors were shut, locked, and latched, but a small door in the corner gave access to the loading area and a small back office. Eustace produced a key, which he’d found in a desk drawer in the office, and unlocked this door, leading them inside.

As they stepped through the door, the girl began to struggle with renewed vigor. She managed to turn her head and get her mouth out from under Benny’s gloved hand.

“My dad is going to kill you,” she shrieked. “He’s going to kill all of you!”

This only made Eustace laugh harder. Benny clamped both of his hands over the girl’s mouth, but this also put him right up against James. The guy had a serious case of halitosis. James gagged and pressed his nose against his own sleeve. Beyond the back door, a short hallway led to the office, which was little more than a closet with a desk and chair.

“We’ll put her in here,” Eustace said, waving them toward the office door. “It’s fairly secure. We can lock the inner and outer door.”

They hauled the girl into the office. A narrow window on the door allowed a bit of light to filter in from the warehouse floor, but otherwise, it was dim and cold. They set the girl on the chair. As soon as James let go of her, she began fighting them again.

“You’re only hurting yourself,” he said, grabbing her arms and pulling them behind the chair. Indeed, she’d developed a rather ugly bruise beneath her right eye at some point. “Calm down. You don’t have the strength to break free, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, I hurt you,” she replied. “I hurt you, and I’m glad.”

It took four people to hold her in the chair as Eustace produced zip ties. Using the zip ties, he fastened her hands to the support posts of the chair and fastened the chair to the legs of the desk. Only then, out of breath and crying, did the girl finally seem to give up. She slumped back in the chair and shut her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Just stay here and be good,” James said. “Don’t make things worse for yourself or your family.”

And with that, he retreated from the office, beckoning the other goons to follow him. Eustace came last, pausing a few seconds to gloat over his captive. Finally, he left the office, pulling the door shut behind him and locking it. James could see the girl through the narrow window, a gray shape in the darkness seated behind the desk like an office drone who had fallen asleep at work.

As soon as Eustace turned back around and pocketed the key, James stepped in front of him.

“Hey, boss, can I talk to you privately?” he asked. He was impressed with his own ability to moderate the tone of voice. Despite the fact that he was a seething cauldron of contempt, he managed to sound calm and collected. “Not in front of these other guys.” He gestured at the other guards who were lingering outside the office.

“What about?” Eustace said, his eyes narrowing.

“For your ears only,” James replied, and he even managed something that was almost a smile.

Eustace nodded, though his lips were pursed. “Okay,” he said, making a small signal to Pam Grasier. “Go keep an eye on the front of the building. Donald, Benny, the rest of you, do whatever she says. Go on.”

“Fine with me,” Pam replied, in a voice that suggested otherwise.

She turned, beckoned the other guards, and walked deeper into the warehouse. A wall with a heavy fire door cut down the middle of the warehouse. James waited until they passed through the door before he turned back to Eustace.

“Let’s talk over here, boss,” James said, moving toward the back door of the warehouse. “Don’t want the kid to overhear what I have to say.”

Eustace followed him, a weird little look on his face—half curious and half annoyed. One red eyebrow was climbing his mottled forehead, and James was sorely tempted to smack it back down into place.

“Are you going to scold me now?” Eustace said.

“Let’s call it constructive criticism,” James replied, still maintaining his even tone and restrained demeanor. “You can handle that, can’t you? You’re not just paying me to be muscle. You’re also paying for my expertise. At least, I hope so.”

Eustace glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure no one was within hearing, but his other little cronies had already disappeared into the front half of the warehouse.

“I didn’t want to share this in front of the others,” James said. “I’m trying to protect your authority. Keep that in mind. The others don’t need to know how frustrated I am with you.”

“Oh, so it is a scolding,” Eustace replied, with a sour expression.

“I’ve done a lot of work for you over the years,” James said. To ensure he had the man’s undivided attention, he stood directly facing him, staring into his eyes, his back straight and shoulders squared off. “All of the past jobs were pretty straightforward. Bribing officials, threatening environmental activists, a bit of property damage here and there, even some wet work. You’ve always paid well, half upfront, made your intentions clear, provided whatever tools I needed, and you never got in my way. That’s the only reason I was willing to work for you again. I didn’t come to Glenvell to babysit Eustace Simpson. Remember, I first came here looking for my sister. When you offered me a job, I agreed based on my past experience with you.”

“Nothing’s changed,” Eustace said. He wouldn’t maintain eye contact with James, and he kept idly scratching his beard, as if it were infested with lice. But he was mostly just infested with stupidity, and that could never be scratched out. “You’re here to do a job, and you’re still doing it. Don’t get impatient, James. It’s all going to be worth your time. I’ve never let you down.”

“It would have been better if you’d left town and come back when I was done,” James said. “All you’ve done is complicate everything. You wanted control of the whole community, and I’ve given you that. We’ve bribed some, bartered with some, threatened the rest. I even made one or two disappear. All that remains is the Healy ranch out there on the other side of town, and I would have them under my thumb by now if you hadn’t been so stupid.”

“What did I do?” Eustace said.

“Picked a fight,” James said. “Stealing a cow was a dumb idea, and I should’ve stopped you. It was stupid chest-thumping macho nonsense. And now you’ve kidnapped a kid. What the hell were you thinking? She’s thirteen, fourteen, and you’ve got her tied up in the office. What’s wrong with you? I could have swayed the Healys, just like I did all the other families in town, but you had to go blundering about like the big half-wit you are!” He finally allowed a little heat to enter his voice, and it had the desired effect. Eustace took an anxious step backward holding up his hands as if he thought he were about to be punched.

“You need to calm down, James,” he said. “You’re overreacting. Kidnapping the kid will force Greg’s hand. There’s no way he’s going to choose his ranch over Emma, and when he comes to get her…” He mimed a gun with his thumb and forefinger, like a kid pretending to be a cowboy, and fired at the invisible Greg.

“Forcing his hand isn’t to our benefit,” James said, and again he allowed some heat to enter his voice. “I gave him a choice. If we’d left it at that, the family might have made a more rational decision. They might have packed up and left the ranch in the middle of the night, and then the problem would be solved. Now, Greg Healy is going to be a man on edge. We’ve taken his daughter, and he’s liable to do crazy things to get her back. Before, we could have cut a deal with him. Now, that option is off the table.”

“He was already a man on edge long before you showed up.” Eustace said. “You had no chance to reason with him, okay?”

“And why is that, Eustace? Why is that? Did you do something to him before I took this job?”

A slow smile crept over Eustace’s face. “Let’s just say, I got in a little showdown with his papa once upon a time, and I won.”

For a moment, James felt his control on his emotions slipping, and he had to turn away to ensure he maintained his composure. “That’s a detail you might have shared with me before. So he’s been out for blood from the beginning.”

“Yes,” Eustace said, “And that’s exactly what I want. If he’s irrational, he’ll be reckless. Don’t forget who’s paying you, James. I’ll take a little constructive criticism, but I expect you to do a good job. Let Greg Healy come. Let him be half out of his mind. We’ll be ready for him. We’ll be ready for his whole family. You can handle it, eh?”

James groaned and turned away, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d said his piece. What was done was done. Now, he just had to deal with the cards that had been dealt. “Of course, I can handle it. You know what I’m capable of.”

25

Darryl hated the thought of turning back, but once it was clear that Emma had been taken all the way to the warehouse, they knew they had no choice. They would never get inside the building if they just tried to storm in blindly. It was a big, sturdy structure, filled with Eustace’s armed guards, and they had no idea where Emma was being held. Still, they spent a few excruciating minutes trying to accept that they would have to go back home and formulate a better plan to rescue her. Darryl felt about as low as he’d ever felt. He stood there listening to both of his parents cry and argue, and all he could do was stuff his hands in his pockets and stare at the ground.

“We’ll get her,” Greg said. “We’ll do it the right way. If we rush in, one of us is liable to get hurt. Emma is liable to get hurt. We can’t let that happen.” It was a remarkably rational decision from a guy who’d been acting quite irrationally and emotionally in recent days. Darryl could see the terror on his face. Perhaps it wasn’t a rational decision after all, but a decision made out of fear.

“James gave us until tomorrow,” Marion replied, furiously swiping the tears from her eyes, as if they angered her. “We have to make our move before then. Otherwise, they’ll show up with Emma, a gun pressed to her head, and we’ll be forced to surrender.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Greg said. “We’ll make our move, but we’ll do it the right way—planning and working together.”

“I should be glad to hear you say that now,” Marion said. “If only you’d been thinking that way before.”

The three had trudged back to the ranch in misery and silence. Rarely had Darryl felt so scared or so defeated. When they passed through the gate, Tabitha rose to greet them on the porch, but she must have read their expressions. She slumped back down onto her rocking chair, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

“They got her,” she said. Not a question. “Those awful men captured our baby girl.”

But Greg and Marion marched back into the house without a word. Darryl lingered a moment at the steps, waiting until Tabitha followed them. He wanted to collect himself before he went to see Justine. He could feel something awful welling up inside him, a potent mix of terrible feelings that threatened to spill over. And what would happen then? He didn’t know, but he didn’t want to dump all of this on poor Justine.

Standing there on the porch steps didn’t help, however. If anything, he felt himself spiraling downward fast, so finally he grabbed the snowy railing and dragged himself up to the porch and through the front door. As he stepped into the living room, moving in a dark fog, he sensed people at the dining room table. Father, mother, grandmother, Horace, all bent over and speaking in hushed tones. Darryl pulled his boots off and set them beside the coatrack.

As the others continued to talk, he turned the other way and went up the stairs, setting the Remington rifle on its shelf in passing. He found Justine in her room. She was sitting in her chair beside the bed, staring out the bedroom window. It looked like she’d wiped the frost off the glass. Darryl shut the bedroom door behind him, crossed the room, shedding his coat in passing. Then he turned and collapsed onto her bed.

“What happened to her?” Justine asked.

“Captured,” he replied, and that single word almost made him burst into tears. He fought it mightily, rolling away from Justine just in case he failed. “Eustace and his men ran into her when she was coming back from the stream, and they dragged her away. Mom and Dad think they’re holding her hostage so they can use her against us, force us to give up the ranch.”

He felt Justine’s hand on his side, patting him gently. That small gesture of tenderness brought out the first tears, but he quickly blinked and let them fall onto the quilt.

“That means they won’t hurt her,” Justine said. “Probably. They can’t use her as a bargaining chip if they’ve already hurt her, right?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “The only thing I know for sure is that it’s my fault.”

“Don’t say that,” Justine replied. “It’s nobody’s fault except the people who did it. If you’re going to be mad at anyone, be mad at Eustace and his gang. They’re the ones who caused all of this trouble in the first place. Eustace is the one who started it up there in the mountains, and he’s the one who brought it down into Glenvell.”

He wanted her words to take root, but they just wouldn’t. “You know, I always saw my dad as a heroic person. I aspired to be liked him. He was someone who always did the right thing, never made mistakes—or, if he did, he apologized right away and tried to fix it—but it turns out, he’s not like that at all.”

“What do you mean?” Justine asked. She had shifted to the edge of her chair so she could lean against him. Despite his frustration, Darryl felt comforted by her presence.

“He always complained about Grandpa being aloof and distant,” Darryl said, “but here he is running around in secret, spying on people and planning assassinations without telling anyone, stirring up big trouble. By the time I forced him to admit it to everyone, he’d made things so much worse, and now look what’s happened? He screwed up.”

“So you think it’s your father’s fault, then?” Emma asked.

Darryl wanted to say yes, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He shifted slightly so he could see the bedroom window. Justine’s clear spot was slowly frosting over again.

“No, like I said, I blame myself,” he said. “I should have seen what was going on with Dad a lot sooner. I knew he was acting weird, but I was too caught up in my own little world to do anything about it. I just assumed the best for a while because he’s Dad, you know? That’s on me. If I’d confronted him right away, as soon as I realized he was in a strange mood, we could have avoided all of this. We would have known about Eustace, and we could have all made a plan together. Maybe some of us could have relocated to Grandma’s hunting cabin a lot sooner, and Emma would be okay.”

He felt tears burning in his eyes again. He turned his face so Justine wouldn’t see. She finally got out of her chair and lay down on the bed beside him. It was a twin bed, so it was tight fit. Darryl shuffled closer to the wall to make room for her as she put her arm around him. For a while, they just lay there together. He reached up and grabbed her hand, holding it tightly, though the angle was awkward.

“In a way, I guess it’s just part of growing up,” she said, after a few minutes had passed. “Somewhere along the way, you realize your parents are just people, mostly doing the best they can but sometimes making big mistakes. At least your dad still has the opportunity to make it right. Look at what happened to my parents. Their mistake cost me my whole family. So it could be a lot worse.”

“I know. I know,” he said, softly. Yes, of course, she’d been through much worse, and it made him feel guilty for complaining. Justine had lost her parents and her little sister. What if the same thing happens to me? He didn’t want to say it out loud. “I just don’t know what to do. If anything happens to Emma, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Your grandma is a tough lady,” Justine said. “She’ll think of a way to rescue Emma. I just know she will.”

Darryl heard the jostling of the doorknob then. Startled, he sat up, and in the process, Justine was almost pushed off the bed. He reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her up with him. It took a few seconds of fumbling around before they both managed to position themselves on the edge of the bed. By the time they got there and Darryl looked up, he saw his father standing in the open doorway.

He’d taken off his coat, and the long-sleeved t-shirt underneath was soaked with sweat. He’d also removed his toque, and his hair was all in wild disarray. Darryl almost apologized, giving him the usual excuse: Justine and I weren’t doing anything, just sitting here. But he was irritated enough with his father that he decided not to. Let him think what he wanted.

“Darryl, can I talk to you privately?” Greg said, leaning against the doorframe. “Sorry, Justine, it won’t take more than a few minutes.”

“That’s fine with me,” Justine said, shifting back over to the chair. “You guys need to talk anyway. Don’t rush it.” She grabbed a book off the small table beside her chair and set it in her lap.

With a sigh, Darryl rose from the bed. Was this a conversation he wanted to have? Maybe not. He didn’t think he could say to his father everything he’d just said to Justine. It was too cruel. Still, how was anything ever going to get resolved if they didn’t start being more open with each other?

Maybe he just wants to plan the rescue mission, Darryl thought, as he headed for the door. That’s more important than resolving our differences.

His father backed up and led him down the hall. They went into the hobby room, which was otherwise unoccupied at the moment. A large blue couch sat beneath the window against the far wall, a recliner in one corner, and a bean bag in the other. A massive dresser with a bunch of shelves on top dominated the room. It was positively overflowing with sewing and knitting supplies, pattern books, knickknacks, little kitsch objects, and small boxes.

Greg shut the door as soon as Darryl entered. Then he headed to the couch. It seemed like he was going to sit down, but he remained standing. The room was dimly lit. None of the many candles on the dresser were lit, and a thin curtain covered the window. After a moment, Greg turned to face Darryl, who had lingered by the door.

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

That these were the first words out of his mouth surprised Darryl. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Excuses, maybe, explanations, but not this.

“Okay,” Darryl replied. “For what?”

“For everything,” Greg replied. And now he did sit down, dropping onto the couch with a huff. He patted the cushion beside him, but Darryl ignored it. He much preferred to stand. “I couldn’t seem to focus on anything but killing Eustace. I wanted revenge so badly after what he did to my dad that it took over my mind. I tried to let it go. Some of his people actually chased me through the woods at one point. I came very close to being killed that day, but I couldn’t let go of my need for revenge. I kept thinking about the day we went to retrieve Tuck’s body from beside the old rusted-out car. It was all so cruel and unnecessary. It just filled me with rage, and I lost sight of everything else.” He held up his hands and gave Darryl a sad look. “There’s no excuse for it. I take full responsibility, and I’m sorry.”

An apology is the least you can do, Darryl thought, and he wanted so badly to yell just then. Checking the fish traps was your job. You set those traps out there in the first place. Emma wouldn’t have gone out there if you’d focused on taking care of your family instead of running stealth missions against Eustace.

He wanted to say it so badly, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He knew damn well it had taken monumental effort for his father to humble himself and apologize like that. Nothing would be solved now if Darryl kept the fight going. And anyway, he shared plenty of the blame with his father. He could have checked the fish traps himself.

Darryl took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It seemed to take much of the anger with it.

“I know you were trying to do the right thing,” he finally managed to say. “It must have been hard dealing with this all by yourself. I forgive you, Dad.”

That seemed to release some darkness in his father. He bent forward, putting his face in his hands, and the tightness in his shoulders seemed to melt. Darryl thought he might cry, but instead, he just sat there quietly for a minute. Finally, he lifted his head, the sadness replaced by a tight-lipped look of determination.

“Son, I need your help,” he said quietly. “We have to get Emma back.”

“Let’s do it,” Darryl replied. “Whatever it takes. I’m ready.”

26

Marion was conflicted. Yes, on a deep level, she wanted to kill them all. How dare they threaten her family? How dare they take her daughter? On a higher and more rational level, she was tempted to give Eustace the ranch. Was it really worth putting her family at risk to hold on to a piece of property? They could always relocate somewhere safer, somewhere farther away. Heck, maybe the hunting lodge could be converted into a small family farm. It seemed like the reasonable thing to do, even if it failed to satisfy the primal desire for revenge.

They’d talked it over endlessly, looking at the issue from all angles. Indeed, Marion was practically talked out. Now, she sat at the dining room table, fiddling idly with a folded napkin as Greg went upstairs to talk to Darryl. That was a rift she had insisted he mend. She would not put up with any more unresolved conflict between those two, and it fell on Greg to make it better. Fortunately, he hadn’t fought her over the issue. When she’d told him to go upstairs and apologize, he’d swallowed his pride for once and left the dining room.

Now, Tabitha, Marion, and Horace sat sullenly at the table, saying little as they waited for Greg to return. Greg had left the SIG Sauer on the table, the barrel pointed at the wall, and Tabitha kept reaching out to touch it. At the moment, she was tapping her fingernails on the stock.

“I wish I could go,” Horace said. He was slumped over, his hands clasped on the tabletop. “If I could just get a bead on the big red guy, I know I could take him out with a single bullet, but it’s just too far for me. I should have taken the shot at that Teagan fellow when I had the chance.”

“If you’d opened fire when they were outside the fence, we would have lost some of our people,” Tabitha said. “It wasn’t the right time, but the right time’s coming.”

“I don’t like all of this gung-ho talk,” Marion said. “We don’t need to provoke a gunfight right now. We need to sneak in, get Emma, and get her out of there. We can worry about shooting people once she’s safely back home.”

She heard footsteps on the stairs then, and she turned to see her husband and son walking into the living room together. She could tell from their body language that Greg had somehow managed to patch things up between them. They crossed the living room, stopping together in the broad doorway, side by side. Yes, they’d patched things up. The hardness was gone from their faces.

“We’re going to get Emma back,” Greg said.

“Good,” Tabitha replied. “Let’s bury a few more bodies out in the backyard. What’s the plan?”

Tabitha’s words made Marion wince. Had she forgotten that one of those bodies was Tuck?

“We can’t rush in guns blazing,” she said. “Emma might get caught in the crossfire. It’s not worth it.”

Greg reached past Marion and picked up the SIG Sauer. “Mr. Bouchard, will you permit me to keep using your fine rifle here?”

“Of course,” Horace said. “It’s yours as long as you need it.”

Greg slung the rifle over his shoulder. “Thank you. Listen, we’re going to get her back no matter what it takes, but we’ll avoid unnecessary risks. Mother, I know you’d love to take a shot at Eustace, but I think it’s best if Darryl and I go alone. Fewer people will make it easier to approach the building unseen.”

Marion felt conflicted. She desperately wanted to go herself, but she also knew that a smaller group would have a better chance of getting to wherever Emma was being held. Still, she took no comfort in it. The whole thing made her sick to her stomach.

“Greg, this is so dangerous,” she said. “You have to promise me you’ll do this the right way. Prioritize getting Emma out of there, not revenge. Don’t linger. Just get her out and bring her home. Promise me.”

“Emma is the priority, of course,” Greg said. “I promise.”

Tabitha harrumphed loudly and leaned back, grabbing the edge of the table as if restraining herself. “They’ll never leave us in peace. You know that, Greg.”

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why we have to kill him. If I get a chance to take out Eustace Simpson, I’m going for it, but not if it jeopardizes Emma’s rescue.”

Tabitha shook her head. Her face was all scrunched up, wrinkles running deep as chasm. Marion knew that look by now. Yes, Tabitha Healy could be a dangerous woman when her family was threatened.

Marion decided to share her thoughts, though she knew she would be walking a fine line. “The problem is not limited to Eustace Simpson,” she said, “and it’s not just James Teagan or whoever those other people are. This is bigger than one group. First, it was Mayor Filmore and his people, now it’s Eustace and his crew. Fact is, no one is going to leave us in peace as long as we’re prospering here on the ranch. We have nice land. We have cattle. We have a greenhouse, good proximity to hunting and fishing, a nice fence. People will keep lusting after our homestead. We can put down Eustace, James, Officer Grasier, but some other gang of loonies will come along sooner or later.”

Tabitha started to say something, but then she caught her. The scowl on her face seemed to dissolve, and she bowed her head.

You know I’m right, Tabitha, Marion thought, even if it’s something you don’t want to think about.

“First, we rescue Emma and deal with Eustace,” Greg said. “Then we worry about future threats.”

“And you have a plan for getting her out of there?” Tabitha replied.

“I do.”

He left it at that and turned, heading back across the living room. Marion rose then and went with him. Greg and Darryl proceeded to load up on weapons. Greg put an extra magazine for the SIG in his coat pocket. Darryl took the Remington and an extra magazine. Greg also took the Walther PPK, holstering it on his left side, as well as a hunting knife in a sheath on the right side. Finally, he loaded up a small backpack with some tools—a hammer, a couple of screwdrivers, even a small crowbar—which he wrapped in towels to dampen any noise.

Marion helped them put on their coats, boots, and gloves, trying not to let the anguish show on her face. Almost her whole family was in imminent danger now. She could barely stand it. Justine came downstairs as they were preparing, and she helped Darryl zip up his coat, pull the collar up, and put the extra magazine in his pocket.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Justine said to him. “Be really sneaky, okay? Don’t let them know you’re coming. Creep in there like ninja.”

“We’ll be careful,” he replied.

They embraced, and Marion could see that the girl was clinging to him tightly, desperately. In that moment, she felt a kinship with the girl that she’d never felt before. Indeed, they were one family. Darryl kissed Justine, and Marion politely averted her gaze.

“I know I haven’t done much to earn your trust lately,” Greg said, embracing Marion. “I’m sorry about that, but this is where I turn things around. We’re going to get Emma out of there. She’ll be home safe and sound before you know it.”

“Don’t try to be a hotshot,” Marion said. “This isn’t about revenge.”

“I know.” He kissed her on the forehead, on either cheek, then on the lips. “This is about keeping our family safe.”

Everyone congregated on the porch then. Even Horace hobbled his way there on his crutch, clearly determined to see them off. He had a wistful look on his face. Clearly, like Tabitha, he wished he could go with them.

“Keep an eye out for trouble,” Greg said “They may come here while we’re gone. It’s unlikely, but not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Oh God, I hope they try it,” Horace said. “I’ll go get the AR-15 and give them my friendliest greeting. The second I see one of those guys trying to come onto this property, I start shooting at the knees and work my way up.”

“That’s the attitude,” Tabitha said, clenching a fist and holding it up. “I can get behind that, Horace. I’ll go get my Winchester and sit right here on the porch. It doesn’t have the punch of the AR-15, but it’ll tumble through a man’s skull like sugarplum fairies on Christmas morning.”

It was such an odd comment that Marion laughed, despite the stomach-churn of anxiety she felt.

Greg headed down the porch steps, moving with purpose. Darryl gave Justine a last quick embrace then followed him. As Marion watched them walking across the yard—father and son—she noticed that they turned and looked at each other, nodding. There was a warmth in that brief glance, a shared purpose, that she hadn’t seen between them in days.

“We’ll get Emma back,” Greg said over this shoulder. Then he tipped a salute at Marion and moved to the gate.

27

Darryl was surprised at how calm he felt. Once he’d committed to the mission, fear had left him, and a cold determination had taken its place. He wasn’t stupid. He knew damn well they were headed into extreme danger, but at the same time, he was putting his life at risk for the sake of his family. Somehow, that took the fear away.

Still, it was a long, cold walk to the warehouse, and the world was so quiet. Darryl’s breathing seemed especially loud, his breath puffing out in great clouds. At first, they followed old tracks they’d left during a previous hunting trip, but then his father cut further to the east. He kept going in that direction until they came in sight of the stream, then he turned back south.

“Let’s talk now before we get to town,” he said.

“Why did we walk this far east?” Darryl asked.

“So we can circle around behind the warehouse. Less likely we’ll run into them that way. Also, less likely someone in town will see us. We’re not going in guns blazing. In fact, we don’t want to cross paths with them at all until we have good idea where they’re holding Emma.” Darryl was impressed with how calm his father sounded. Yes, indeed, he’d finally gained control of his emotions.

“Any idea where she might be?” Darryl asked.

“I’ve been studying the compound on my little surveillance trips,” Greg said. “There are three ways into the building: west side, north side, and south side. West door leads into the front office area. I doubt she’ll be in there, so that leaves two possibilities. We’ll have to keep an eye on the place and look for any sign of activity. Let’s hope they give themselves away. This is going to take some patience.”

“I can bide my time,” Darryl said. “It’ll be like a hunting trip. Just sitting in a deer stand waiting for the big red beast to show itself.”

“That’s right,” Greg said. “The scope on the SIG has great range, so we’ll position ourselves deep in the woods. Just follow my lead.”

“You got it, Dad.”

After that, it was a long, slow slog through the silence. The stream eventually curved off to the east, heading down a rocky slope into a deep ravine. Greg veered away then, moving southeast through a section of the woods where the dense canopy had made the snow shallow. Still, they’d gone maybe another hundred meters when Darryl spotted an old set of footprints moving through the area. Large boots. Did they belong to his father? Had he passed this way during one of his espionage excursions? It seemed likely.

For some reason, the sight of those old tracks made Darryl start to feel anxious again. The reality of what they were about to attempt took root, and he felt a low, queasy churning in his guts. He heard the rifle rattling around and realized his hands had begun to tremble. He tightened his grip on the gun barrel in an attempt to stop the shaking.

Suddenly, in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere, his father came to a stop just behind a very large spruce tree, leaning his shoulder against the rough bark. Darryl moved to the other side of the tree and squatted.

“What are we meant to see?” Darryl asked. He was peering into the distance, but he saw only trees and bushes and snow.

His father made a soft shushing sound and pointed southward. Then he raised the SIG, braced it against a low branch, and peered through the scope. Darryl continued staring in the direction his father had indicated. After a few seconds, he realized he could just barely see the back corner of the warehouse through a gap between two trees. He raised the Remington, aiming in that direction, though it was at least two hundred meters from their position. The day was still. No wind was blowing, which made everything seem eerie, as if the whole world were holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen.

After a couple of minutes, possibly longer, Darryl’s father made a soft sound to draw his attention. Darryl lowered the rifle and realized his father was beckoning him. He rose and approached. His father grabbed the Remington from him and motioned toward the SIG Sauer scope. Darryl leaned forward, grabbed the barrel of the SIG, and gazed into the distance.

The scope had impressive range. He could even see the dust on the painted aluminum outer wall of the warehouse. He tracked slowly to the right, moving along the wall, until he spotted a featureless metal door. It had a single metal handle and a small black box beside the doorframe, but no window, sign, or indication of what was on the other side. Moving the scope down, Darryl saw multiple tracks in the snow and a row of large metal drums. People had been coming and going through this door quite a bit. He watched for a moment, feeling the anxiety move through his body, slowly filling every part of him. What if someone suddenly appeared in the doorway? How would he respond? Would he instinctively pull the trigger?

Don’t do it, he told himself. Stay calm. Emma is counting on you.

These thoughts were futile. His whole body had become electric. He slowly shifted the scope back to the left, tracking back along the dusty wall until he reached the corner of the building. When he kept going, he spotted a second door along the back of the building. Like the other, it was a simple metal door, and the snow around the base of it had been disturbed. However, this door seemed to have less traffic than the other. Darryl watched it for a few minutes, but no one appeared.

“I imagine they’re all safely hidden inside the building,” he said, speaking barely above a whisper. “They have to know we might come after them, so they’re not going to stand outside and make themselves easy targets.”

“That’s true,” Greg replied, “but I think I might have an idea where they took her. Can you see it? Look carefully.”

Darryl studied both doors again—the side then the back. He looked at the ground around them again. It didn’t take long to realize what his father was referring to. Tracks leading to the back door were newer. Indeed, they looked fresh, and no new snow had fallen to soften the edges. These had been made that day for sure, and possibly within the last couple of hours.

“They took her to the back door,” he said. “Looks like a group of people went that way earlier today.”

“Exactly,” Greg said. “Which means the place where they’re keeping her is probably right on the other side of that door. Otherwise, they would have taken the side entrance and walked through the building, right?”

“Makes sense, Dad.”

“Good. Keep an eye on it for me. I think your vision is better than mine,” Greg said.

Darryl wasn’t sure if that was true, but he took it as a slightly odd vote of confidence. Using the scope, he kept moving back and forth between the two doors. He didn’t really expect to see anything, yet not a minute had passed when he saw the back door jostle. It startled him so much he almost pulled the trigger. He felt his finger slide down to the trigger and brush the edge. He let go of the handle to stop himself, his heart pounding.

I almost made things a hell of a lot worse, he thought.

Suddenly, the door eased open a few inches, and a body appeared in the gap. He knew the shape of her: Pam Grasier. She raised a pair of binoculars to her eyes, and Darryl eased behind the trunk of the tree.

“They’ve got a lookout with binoculars at the back door,” Darryl said. “I don’t think she saw me.”

“I doubt she’ll spot us here,” Greg said. “Keep an eye on her.”

Darryl eased slowly out from behind the tree and put his eye to the scope again. Officer Grasier was still scanning her surroundings with the binoculars, but she was turned away from him now. She’d stepped through the door to get a clear view. As she did, he noticed something strange in her other hand. It took a moment to realize it was a paper plate with some scraps of food on it. A crust of a sandwich, some potato chips—her meal or the remnants of food they’d fed their hostage?

He looked through the open door. The interior of the warehouse was dim, though he saw some hints of faint light coming from deeper inside. He could just make out a second door a couple of meters beyond the outer door. It had a narrow window to the right of the door knob, but the room beyond was even darker. Still, as he studied the distant window, he thought he saw some kind of dim, shadowy shape on the other side. He was studying it, trying to make sense of it, when the door swung shut again and blocked his view.

“She went back inside,” he said softly. “I think you’re right, Dad. I think they’re holding Emma somewhere near the back door. There’s a little room of some kind on the other side. Do you think we can get inside?”

“If we can slip past the guards?” his father replied. “Absolutely. I brought all the tools we need.”

Darryl heard a sound then, coming from somewhere in the forest, and he began scanning for the source. It was strange metallic sound he couldn’t quite identify. He scanned all the way to the side door and then out along a well-worn path across the warehouse parking lot. Finally, he saw it: another one of Eustace’s men in a black coat and hat, and he was pushing a wheeled cart out of the forest from the direction of town. A large metal drum sat on top of the cart.

“You see that?” Greg said.

“Yeah, another one of his guys,” Darryl said. “He’s pushing a barrel. What in the world could it be?”

“I’ve been watching Eustace and his men bringing barrels just like that to the warehouse for days,” Greg said.

As the guard approached the side door, it opened, and another guard held it. For a second, Darryl saw electric lights shining on the ceiling. They were dim and flickering, but they were clearly working.

“How are they powering the lights in the warehouse?” Darryl wondered aloud.

“Well, you’ve made the connection,” Greg said. “I believe the barrels are full of fuel, probably diesel. I think they’re stockpiling it, using it to power a generator to keep the lights working in the warehouse.”

Darryl saw the metal drums lined up beside the door, blue paint flaking off. Darryl knew from experience that diesel was much less flammable than gasoline, but once it was burning, it could make a nice big fire. His own grandfather had loved to toss a little diesel onto a campfire to make it flare up—though he’d always done so with a mischievous grin.

What would it take to set off the barrels? Darryl didn’t know, but he thought it would be worth finding out.

Let it burn. Let his whole little empire burn.

28

Darryl watched as they rolled the barrel up beside the door and added it to the row already sitting there. The men spent a few moments adjusting the row of barrels, and one of them seemed to be making marks in a small notebook which he produced from his coat pocket.

“Why don’t they take the diesel inside?” Darryl wondered aloud. “Seems like it would be safer that way.”

“Not sure,” Greg replied, “but they might be afraid to stockpile it inside the building because of the fumes. If I had to guess, I’d say the generator isn’t producing enough power to run the ventilation system inside the warehouse. I mean, they’ve got a heck of a lot of it sitting there. Each of those drums is probably two hundred liters, and I count eight barrels.”

As Greg was talking, Darryl watched the first guard step outside again. He caught a hint of the man’s face. He had big round cheeks and large eyes, bad skin, and curly black hair. He also had an AR-15 rifle in his arms, and once he was outside, he proceeded to walk the perimeter of the parking lot. Darryl watched him as he circled the entire warehouse property.

“Well, they’ve got a guard strolling the parking lot now,” he noted. “This is getting more complicated. We have to make a move soon, Dad. The longer we sit here, the more time they have to prepare for us.”

He heard a soft sound and looked over to see his father removing his backpack and setting it on the ground. Unzipping the big pocket, Greg rooted around inside.

“Keep an eye on the warehouse,” he said to Darryl. “Make sure the guard is following a consistent pattern.”

Darryl looked back through the scope and soon spotted the big-cheeked guard. Indeed, he seemed to be walking a regular circle around the entire property, making the circuit approximately every twelve minutes. When he reached the side door, he would pause in front of the barrels, turn in the direction of town, and aim the rifle for a few seconds, before resuming.

As Darryl watched, he heard the soft sound of towel-wrapped tools. After a minute, he heard the backpack being zipped up again.

“Okay, look, son,” Greg said, “there’s no way to do this without taking a big risk.”

“I realize that,” Darryl said. “The bigger risk is letting them continue to hold Emma hostage, so I’m ready to do whatever it takes to get her out of there.”

“Good. Take this.”

Darryl turned to his father. He was holding a small tool out to him. Darryl recognized it as an awl, with a bulb-shaped wooden handle that seemed about fifty years old, a long shank of dark metal, and a tip that seemed like it had been routinely sharpened over the years. When Darryl took it, his father then offered him a small mallet. He tucked both tools in his coat pockets.

“Puncture a hole in the side of one of those metal drums,” Greg said. “Let the diesel flow out onto the ground, then light it.” He next handed his son a plastic cigarette lighter. “It’ll take a while to get it burning, so hang in there. Diesel doesn’t combust like gasoline. But once it’s burning really good, get away from the flames.”

Darryl tucked the lighter in beside the awl. “Got it.”

“Don’t be afraid to make a big scene,” Greg added. “In fact, that’s what we want. We want them to rush to the fire. In the immediate confusion, I’ll break in and snatch Emma, and then we’ll run like hell. The timing is going to be important, and we’ll have to act fast.”

Darryl’s heart was pounding. He could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. This was about to happen. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed entirely real until this moment. He retrieved the Remington, checking it again to make sure it was loaded, that the safety was off. It had become somehow familiar and reassuring. He also reached into his coat pocket, pushing past the awl to find the extra magazine.

Not handy enough, he thought. He moved the awl to the other pocket and readjusted the magazine so he could grab it quickly.

“You don’t want the SIG?” his father asked.

“I’m more comfortable with the Remington,” he replied, “especially if the people are close.”

Greg had taken the SIG, but he reached out and grabbed Darryl’s arm. “Remember: Don’t be afraid to make a big scene. I need you to draw them all to the north side of the warehouse. A big fire will do it. Maybe some noise and chaos, as well. Try to avoid a firefight, if you can, but if someone finds you before you start the fire…” He cocked his head to one side. “You know what you have to do.”

Darryl nodded. It wasn’t the first time, of course. Indeed, this all felt rather familiar, though the last time he’d been caught in the middle of an actual gun battle, he’d been crawling along the ground trying to avoid the bullets.

“Do you think you’re going to be able to handle this?” his father asked.

He wants to know if I can kill a person, Darryl realized. It was a fair question. Greg had been close but not actually present during the fight with Mayor Filmore and his guards. Then again, Darryl hadn’t actually shot anyone then. He considered his father’s question.

“Yes, I think I can,” he replied, after a moment. “If it comes down to it and I have to shoot some of these people, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

At least, I hope it won’t, he thought.

His father nodded and clapped him on the back. “Okay, let me take a look and see where the perimeter guard is located.” He raised the SIG and peered through the scope. “As soon as he heads around the corner, I’ll give you the signal. Move fast. Don’t let them know you’re coming, but move fast.”

“Got it.”

Darryl stepped around the trunk of the tree, crouching slightly so he could take off at a sprint. He saw the corner of the warehouse between the trees in the distance. With the naked eye, it seemed so far away. He tightened his grip on the rifle and took deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself.

“Now,” his dad said. A single word, soft as a whisper, and filled with so much dread.

Darryl let the breath out in a rush and took off at a sprint, trying to step as lightly as possible as he weaved his way toward the distant gap. From behind him, he heard his dad moving in a different direction, but he couldn’t look back now. They were each on their own.

As he drew near the parking lot, he slowed down and diverted his course, aiming for the well-worn path that Eustace and his guards used to travel to town. He turned in the direction of the side door, realizing now just how visible he would be to anyone who opened the door at that moment. Not much he could do about it. He raised the gun and aimed it at the door, his finger sliding down to the trigger.

It seemed strange that his father had simply trusted him with this dangerous task and sent him on his way. The risk was extreme, but it was perhaps the first time in Darryl’s life that his father had treated him as an equal, like a competent man who could handle a dangerous task all by himself. More than that, his father trusted him enough that the whole rescue of Emma hinged on this task. If Darryl failed to draw the guards to the side door, Greg might not be able to get inside.

I won’t let him down, Darryl thought. No matter what.

29

Being tied to the chair in such an awkward position, with her hands behind her back, induced full-body panic. Emma’s whole body was shaking violently. Finally, she was able to calm herself enough to begin tugging at the restraints, twisting them back and forth. She was afraid to scream, afraid to draw the guards into the room. If they realized she was trying to escape, they might add additional restraints and make it even worse. Still, she pulled and twisted her arms as much as she could, trying to break out of the zip ties. It proved futile. How could little plastic straps be so damned sturdy?

She kept it up until her wrists hurt so much that she cried out in pain. Only then did she slump in her seat and let her shoulders sag so the zip ties were no longer pulling against her wrists. That helped, but only a little bit. It felt like she’d cut herself. She blinked back tears. Breaking free was clearly not going to be an option, but she wouldn’t resign herself to her fate. These creeps wanted to use her somehow against her family, and Emma refused to be a pawn in their game. Somehow, she had to find a way to get out of here. She racked her brain trying to think of something, anything.

Some time had passed, maybe an hour or two, when she saw shadows moving in the flickering light beyond the narrow window. She heard a voice and knew it was that damned Eustace Simpson. The sound of him was like dragging fingernails across rusty aluminum. What a despicable creature.

Suddenly, the door to the little office flew open. Surprisingly, it was Pam Grasier standing there, the female police officer. Her broad-brimmed hat was pushed up to reveal her face. She had the unfriendliest features Emma had ever seen, like a face chipped out of coarse concrete. Always scowling, her dark eyes practically smothered by her lowered eyebrows. Still, as she stepped into the room, Emma noticed she was carrying a paper plate with a sandwich and potato chips on it.

She crossed the small space and set the plate on the desk in front of Emma.

“If I untie your hands so you can eat, do you promise you’ll behave,” Pam said. A flat voice, emotionless as a robot. “I’d hate to have to break both arms, but I’ll do it.”

“I’m not hungry,” Emma replied. She was terrified, but somehow, this only made her more willful. “You can eat the sandwich yourself. Someone probably spit in it anyway.”

Pam stood in front of the desk, gazing down at Emma with what seemed like absolute clinical detachment.

“Fine with me,” she said, after a moment. She picked up the sandwich and took a big bite, tossing the rest of it back onto the plate. Then she spoke through a mouthful of food. “Don’t complain later about being hungry. I did you a small act of kindness, and you refused it. Point taken.”

“If you want to do an act of kindness, let me go home,” Emma replied, fighting tears. “I’m just a kid. I shouldn’t be here.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere. Accept it. Don’t bother trying to play on my sympathies, kid. I don’t care about anyone. Never did. There’s a word for it. Misanthrope. That’s what I am. That’s what I’ve always been. Got it?”

“I know what misanthrope means,” Emma said.

“Good.”

And with that, Pam picked up the plate of food, ate a potato chip, and walked out of the office. She started to kick the door shut behind her, but a fat arm reached around the corner and caught it. Eustace stepped into the doorway then. He looked redder and sweatier than ever, and with his toque removed, his hair was tangled and damp as rain-soaked grass. As he shuffled into the room, she realized he was holding a rectangular bottle in his right hand. Booze of some kind, though she couldn’t read the label.

He took a few unsteady steps toward the desk and came to a stop, glaring down at her. Red cheeks, red eyes, red hair, the man looked like an ember plucked from a campfire. His sidekick followed almost immediately. Unlike Eustace, who was mostly disgusting and strange, James was clearly a real tough guy. He had a severe face, narrow eyes, a nose that had probably been broken a few times over the years, a black beard, and a prominent scar cutting across his lips.

“So you’re going to refuse food, is that it?” Eustace said. His regular speaking voice was far louder than was necessary. Emma made sure to play up her annoyance, twisting her facial features for maximum effect. They could hold her hostage, but they couldn’t stop her from expressing her contempt and disgust.

“Yes, sir, I’m refusing food,” Emma replied. “I can’t trust that lady cop not to spit in my food. She’s a misanthrope. Haven’t you heard?”

“The kid’s got a point,” James said, with a small smile.

“Oh, shut up, James,” Eustace replied. He spun the cap off the bottle and took a swig. Then he set the bottle on a corner of the desk. Now, she could see the label: Canadian Club 100% Rye. About half the bottle was gone, though he didn’t seem drunk. “Now look, Emma, I would love to reunite you with your family when this is all over, assuming they decide to work with me here, so let’s play nice. Eat your food and behave, and things will go better for you, okay?”

Emma averted her gaze. She couldn’t look at him. He was hideous in every way. “And what if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll do what your daddy should have done and smack you around a little bit,” Eustace said, his eyes going wide. He raised one of his meaty paws.

“Oh, stop it,” James said to him. “What does it matter? Come on. Leave the kid here and let’s go.” He reached out and grabbed a fold of Eustace’s coat, tugging at it. “What does it matter if she doesn’t want to eat?”

Eustace angrily shook off the man’s hand. “Stay out of this, James. I’ve had enough of this kid. I’ve had enough of this whole family!” He picked up the bottle, seemed to debate with himself for a moment, then screwed the cap back on. “I don’t know why I’m putting up with any of this, quite frankly. This kid should already be buried out in the woods somewhere.”

His words went through her like ice, but for some reason it only made her even more defiant. Clearly, these two men didn’t like each other.

What happens if I keep pushing? she wondered.

“Did he just threaten to kill me?” she said. “Do you kill actually kill children? Is that the kind of people you are?”

At this, James sniffed loudly and said to Eustace, “You need get ahold of yourself.” He grabbed Eustace’s coat again, and this time, he managed to pull him back a step. “Come on. Leave the kid here, and let’s go.”

“You’re a hired man,” Eustace replied, angrily, shaking off his hand once again. “Don’t forget that, James. I’ve had enough of your feedback. Your damned constructive criticism. Quite frankly, if we just killed the girl, it would force Greg to do what we want. Why are we treating this family with kid gloves? What’s it getting us?” His voice was getting louder, deeper, becoming a bellow that stabbed into Emma’s ears.

“I’m not going to participate in killing a kid,” James said. “Can we talk about this outside somewhere?”

“No, damn you,” Eustace shouted. He slammed the bottle onto the table and rounded on James. “Stop telling me what to do. I’m sick of dealing with this family. Why are we prolonging this situation? Let’s be done with it.”

“We will be done with it, soon enough.” James sounded remarkably calm, despite Eustace’s outburst. “And we’ll do it the right way, the smart way. There’s no point in resorting to barbarism if it doesn’t get us closer to the goal. Come on. Let’s go. Leave the kid alone.”

He beckoned Eustace and took a step toward the door, but Eustace held his ground. When he reached for the bottle again, his sleeve pulled back, and Emma noticed the edge of a bandage wrapped around his forearm.

“A little barbarism goes a long way,” Eustace said, picking up the bottle. His sleeve fell back down to his wrist, hiding the bandage.

“You want the ranch,” James said. “You’re going to get it. Just stick with the plan.”

“Oh, shut up.” Eustace spun the cap off the bottle and took a swig. “Yeah, I want the ranch, but I also want Greg Healy to suffer. That’s just as important to me as that ranch, and having his kid here is the best way to get it done. If we kill her, we’ll wound Greg for the rest of his life.”

Though she was terrified, Emma decided to stir the pot a little more. It seemed like the best way to keep these two guys at each other’s throats, and maybe, just maybe, if they were fighting with each other, they’d be too preoccupied to carry out Eustace’s threat.

James started to say something, but Emma quickly blurted, “Why do you have a bandage on your arm, Mr. Simpson? Who did that to you? Did you and James have a fight?”

Eustace slowly, deliberately, put the cap back on the bottle, glaring down at her with a withering look of contempt. “Oh, you noticed that, did you? Well, for the record it hurts like hell. My whole arm is in constant agony.”

He unzipped his coat all the way and shrugged it off. It fell to the ground, revealing the sweat-soaked flannel shirt underneath. The left sleeve was already unbuttoned. As he rolled it back, he uncovered a massive bandage that went all the way from his wrist to his elbow. A huge bloody stain had soaked through most of it. Eustace leaned forward, holding the arm up in front of her face.

“You see that?” he said. “It’s getting worse, but that’s just fine by me, eh? It keeps me nice and angry. Now, what sort of wound do you think that is?”

She shuddered at his closeness. He reeked of booze and sweat. Still, she couldn’t resist provoking him. “I assume you bit yourself,” she said. “Or maybe that guy over there bit you.”

Eustace gave her a hateful look. She could see the deadness in his eyes in that moment. Yes, this was a man capable of just about anything, and her skin crawled at the realization. Beside him, the one named James smiled, clearly amused by her willful sarcasm, but he, too, had the eyes of a dangerous man.

“No, your grandpa did this to me,” Eustace said, in a soft voice, so low she felt it in the air. He leaned in closer, mere inches from her face, baring yellow teeth. “Good old Tuck Healy. He was a piss-poor shot, but he got lucky with the last bullet.”

Good. I’m glad, Emma thought, but she thought maybe it was pushing things just a bit too far to say it. Eustace was already far too close. His beard reeked like a dying animal.

“Bullet went right through,” Eustace continued, still speaking in that low, rumbling voice. “I thought I was okay until the infection set in. I’ve taken the last of the antibiotics that the dead and rotting Mayor Filmore had stashed in his office, but it doesn’t seem to have worked. I’m afraid the arm is becoming useless. I’d unwrap it and show you, but I think you can probably already smell it.”

So that’s where the foul odor is coming from, Emma thought. Not his grungy beard. She turned her face away from him to keep from gagging. Good job, Grandpa. I just wish you’d hit him in a more vital spot.

“Grandpa wouldn’t have shot you if you hadn’t shot me first,” Emma said. “Unlike you, we kept my wound clean, and it’s all healed up now.”

Emma realized James was glaring darkly at the back of Eustace’s head. “Wait,” he said. “You shot this kid?”

“Yeah, so what?” Eustace said. “It happened when we were lost in the wilderness.”

“You didn’t tell me about that,” James said. “I didn’t realize you were out there in the woods shooting at kids. That’s beneath me, man. It should be beneath you.”

Eustace snatched the bottle off the desk again. It looked like he was going to unscrew the cap again, but he seemed to change his mind. Instead, he rounded on James. “Yeah, I shot a kid, and guess what? She deserved it. That whole family was scheming against me. They dragged me into the wilderness just to bring me down. Her dad was building a legal case against my company. Exactly the kind of people I’ve hired you to deal with in the past. You know the type. They’re trash. I’ll shoot every single one of those damned Healys if I get the chance, and I expect you to help me.”

He was so red in the face now he looked like he’d been turned inside out. As he tugged the sleeve back down, covering the bandage, he winced. If anything, this seemed to make him angrier. He turned and swiped a hand at James, motioning him out of the way. When James held his ground, giving him a cool look, Eustace grunted and stepped around him, storming out of the office.

“Go cool off,” James said over his shoulder. “You’re acting foolish.”

The only response was heavy footfalls in the warehouse beyond the office door.

This guy, Emma thought. He doesn’t want Eustace to kill me. Maybe he’s my way out of here.

James turned back around and looked down at her, his face unreadable. He was like a blank mask. For some reason, Emma found him much more intimidating, but she gathered up her courage and forced herself to speak. Still, it took a monumental act of will to get the words out when she was caught in that lightless gaze.

“Why are you working for him?” she managed to say. “You don’t even like him.”

“You got that right,” James replied. For a second, it seemed like he might leave it at that. He started to turn, as if to leave, then he caught himself. “I’ve worked for Eustace in the past, but to be honest, I wasn’t all that excited about it. To be honest, I came to Glenvell for another reason.” He hesitated, and she saw the first glimmer of emotion. He seemed to be debating with himself about how much to say. “My sister. I came here looking for my sister. She used to live in Glenvell, and I haven’t heard from her in a long time.”

“Did you find her?” Emma asked. Now that smelly Eustace was gone, she was becoming all too aware of her aching wrists again.

“No, I did not,” James said, answering her question. “A neighbor said she left town with her boyfriend, headed for a warmer climate.”

“Oh,” Emma said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

James shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “I gotta say, you remind me of her a little bit.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, she was a little hellcat, too.” He smiled briefly, all too briefly, and took a step back. “Well, anyway, I probably won’t ever see her again. It’s practically impossible to track people down these days. Sorry you got into this mess, kid, but it’ll all be over soon enough.”

Finally, he did turn away and started to move toward the door.

“I just want to go home,” Emma said, desperate. The thought that he might walk out of the room, that her one little glimmer of hope had failed, brought on a fresh wave of tears. She had no way to wipe them away so they ran down her cheeks.

James paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. “If your parents make the right decision, you will,” he said.

He started to say more, but someone shouted from elsewhere in the warehouse. At first, Emma couldn’t tell what he was saying. It was just a strange noise in the high ceiling, but then it grew louder, more frantic.

“Fire! There’s a fire! A fire!”

James rushed through the office door and turned to his right, looking at someone. Just then, a loud boom shook the entire building. James stumbled, went down on one knee, and reached out to a nearby wall to steady himself. As he rose, he pulled the rifle off his back. Then he ran to one side and disappeared.

Emma heard many voices now. Men shouting angrily. Boots on a hard floor.

He left the office door open, she realized, staring through the opening down the short walkway to the back door of the office. What the heck is going on out there? Did my dad do something?

Suddenly, she heard one set of footsteps getting louder, as if someone were running toward the back office. James or Eustace? Maybe someone else? She didn’t know, but she braced herself.

30

Greg angled deeper into the woods before cutting back to the east entrance, but he was careful to keep his distance. He didn’t want to risk being spotted before Darryl made his move. The woods were wild and tangled here, and he found it difficult to move without dragging his legs through the thick bushes. That, in turn, made far too much noise. To avoid this, he wove a wild path, picking each step carefully.

What we’re doing here is insane, he thought. Did I really just send my son in there all alone? Marion will never forgive me if something happens to him.

It couldn’t be helped. This was the best plan he’d been able to come up with. He would just have to trust that his son was competent and careful enough to pull it off. He headed back toward the warehouse until the back wall and the loading bays were visible through gaps in the heavy underbrush. Then he raised the SIG, braced the barrel against an available branch, and peered through the scope.

From here, he could see the back door clearly. It was firmly shut, but he could see the uneaten crust of a sandwich and a few chips scattered in the snow near the front of the door. Pam had apparently just discarded the leftovers. More indication that the food had been intended for Emma, perhaps? Greg wanted to believe so.

From this angle, he could no longer see Darryl or the side door, but he wanted to be able to come at the back door in a direction that wouldn’t make him visible to guards around the corner. He waited, scarcely able to breathe. It was such a still, windless day, so quiet, he could hear every small movement he made, the soft clanking of the rifle every time he shifted the scope.

Come on, Darryl. You can do this. I trust you, son.

And then it happened, as if in response to this thought. He heard a whoosh followed by a boom, and a great orange light painted the snow along the corner of the warehouse. This was followed almost immediately by shouting from a cracking, desperate voice. The first voice was soon joined by a second, then a third. All shouting, cursing. Greg couldn’t see them, but the back door remained closed.

Time to go, he told himself.

He pushed off the tree and cut through the woods toward the back parking lot. As he ran, his breath rattling in his ears, he felt the tools shifting around in the backpack. He would have to break the door down. No doubt they would have it locked, so he could only hope the crowbar was enough.

By the time he reached the edge of the parking lot, the orange glow at the corner of the building had intensified. Now, he could see a trail of dark smoke rising above the building, and the voices had only gotten more frantic. He was pretty sure he heard Eustace’s coarse voice among the others, shouting orders, cursing at people.

“The snow! The snow, you morons! Shovel it onto the flames!”

“The fire’s coming through the door,” shouted one of his lackeys.

“It’s melting the snow,” cried a second. “What do you expect us to do?”

At the edge of the parking lot, Greg hesitated a second, the SIG aimed squarely at the back door. He was ready for Pam Grasier or any of the others to burst through the door. Indeed, he was hoping for it. That would make it a whole lot easier than trying to crowbar the thing open.

With a start, he lunged forward, racing across the parking lot, digging new tracks as he approached the back door. When he got there, he dropped to his knee and reached back behind him. He’d placed the tools in a smaller pocket so they were easy to grab. He felt the cold metal of the crowbar and pulled it out. To do this, he had to set the rifle aside, propping it against the wall, but he unzipped his coat so the Walther PPK was in easy reach.

The shouting and activity of the men seemed to get louder and more chaotic, and the glow of the flames brighter. Whatever they were doing to try to put out the fire clearly wasn’t working. He heard banging and clanging.

Darryl, I hope you got far, far away from here, Greg thought. Just keep running. You did your part perfectly. Leave the rest to me.

The door looked quite sturdy up close, all metal with a thick bolt visible in the crack of the doorframe. Forcing it open was going to require bending the frame or the door out of shape. Greg took the crowbar in both hands and jammed the sharp end into the crack.

I’m coming, Emma, he thought. Just hang in there.

He pushed at the crowbar, leveraging it against the door, leaning forward and using his full weight. The edge of the door gave a little groan and started to bend ever so slightly. Then the tip of the crowbar slid out of the crack, and Greg was thrown forward. He smashed his hands against the doorframe, and his body slammed into the door, making a tremendous thud.

It was loud. Too loud. Even though the men continued to shout and curse around the corner, they must have heard it. Nothing to be done about it now. He just had to pick himself up and keep going.

Clumsy idiot, he told himself.

He grabbed the large door handle as he struggled to get his feet under him again. In the process, he inadvertently pulled down on the handle, and he saw the bolt between the door and doorframe move. He let go of the handle and took a step back, staring at the door.

Wait a second, he thought. Don’t tell me…

He reached out and grabbed the door handle again. Could it be? He turned the handle, watching the bolt slide in the gap. And then the door gave a loud click and popped open.

Unlocked, he thought. Someone unlocked this door.

It couldn’t be accidental. Eustace wasn’t that incompetent. Was he? Slowly, Greg eased the door open, drawing the pistol as he did so. He aimed the gun through the crack. On the other side, he saw a short hallway leading to a second door. The back half of the warehouse was open on his left, and orange light flickered against the far wall. The flames had made their way inside the building.

Bracing the door with his shoulder, Greg reached for the rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Then he crept into the building, drawing the pistol and thrusting it out in front of him. The small door just ahead of him seemed the most likely place for Emma. A small window revealed the dim interior of an office. Greg let the door behind him ease shut, then he raced across the gap.

He reached the inner door and peered through the narrow window. On the other side, he saw a cramped office space with a desk and chair set against the far wall. Greg turned the doorknob and found the office unlocked as well. He pushed the door open and stuck his head inside. The room had a lingering unpleasant smell, but it was empty. No one in the room. No closet, no cabinet, nowhere they could have stashed a person. Emma wasn’t in here. Greg’s heart sank.

What have they done with you?

He stepped back and pulled the office door shut. If she wasn’t here, then where was she? He turned and looked at the vast open space around the loading bays. There were a few boxes and crates scattered here and there, but no obvious place to hide a hostage. Greg stood there, staring dumbly, feeling all of his hope fading.

And then he heard the voice. It came from deeper in the warehouse, a booming voice that seemed to fill the vastness above and around him.

“Hey there, Greg Healy!” It was Eustace, of course. His voice was unmistakable. “I know you’re back there. Heck, I left the door unlocked for you. By the way, I have your daughter with me. Why don’t you meet us outside? I’d hate for something bad to happen to her, especially with all this fire around us!”

31

For a few seconds, he just stood there, listening to the fading echo of Eustace’s deep voice. He could still see orange light against the far wall, but the men were no longer shouting and screaming. Greg was frozen, unsure of what to do next. Of course, Eustace wasn’t a complete idiot. He must have figured out the purpose of the fire.

I didn’t move fast enough, Greg thought. Eustace had time to counterattack.

But, no, he’d made it to the door within seconds of the fire. Eustace had just moved faster. Either that, or he’d expected Greg to show up all along. At least Eustace hadn’t said anything about Darryl. He’d only mentioned Emma.

Greg eased away from the office door. He couldn’t decide if it was better to use the handgun or the rifle. Clearly, the handgun would be better in a tight space, but the warehouse was fairly open. More than that, he’d grown comfortable with the SIG. Finally, his mind made up, he holstered the pistol and slid the rifle off his shoulder.

“We’ll be waiting for you out here!” Eustace again. This time Greg was certain the man was outside. “Don’t take too long. I don’t know how long I can stop these guys, Greg!”

Greg was staring across the open warehouse floor, but he glanced toward the back door. Which way would Eustace expect him to come? He couldn’t be sure, but the back door seemed more likely, especially if flames were blocking the side door. Greg eased to the corner of the little office, aiming the rifle ahead of him. Slowly, achingly, he leaned around the corner, leading with the SIG.

The small office was little more than a drywall box built against the outer wall of the warehouse. On the other side, he saw a heavy-duty wall cutting across the open warehouse floor, a sturdy fire door half-open in the center. Beyond the open door, orange light flickered brightly against stacks and stacks of bags, boxes, crates, and more. No, Eustace probably wouldn’t expect him to go that way.

That decided the matter. Greg hopped down from the low ramp that connected the back door to the office and headed across the open warehouse floor, trying to step as lightly as possible. Shadows danced on the walls, which made him jumpy. They looked like bodies out of the corner of his eye. He rushed to the wall beside the fire door and pressed his back against it.

He had a moment of doubt then. Maybe he was giving Eustace too much credit. Maybe the back door was the best approach. He could cross the back parking lot and hide in the trees, slowly making his way around to the side door.

No, too late for that. He’d made his decision.

Greg slowly turned into the open fire door, thrusting the rifle out in front of him. From here, he could feel the heat of the fire. He lunged through the door, aiming wildly back and forth, only to find himself at the end of a broad aisle between two tall shelves. Bags and boxes had been stacked on the low shelves, but there were plenty of gaps in between. Greg aimed through one of these gaps, looking toward the north side of the building.

First, he saw the flames. They were licking furiously at the shelves along the north wall, burning through the bags and boxes there. The open side door was just visible through the angry, orange curtain, the frame blackened. Now, Greg realized just how much smoke had gathered against the high ceiling. He could hear some kind of commotion coming from beyond the door. The scraping of snow shovels? Were they really trying to shovel snow onto the fire to put it out?

Greg crept across the room, moving low. Straight ahead, on the far side, an open doorway led into an office area. He rushed in that direction. Beyond the office door, he passed through a small L-shaped corridor that led into a carpeted area. The carpet muffled his footsteps, so he dared a little more speed. Rounding the corner, he entered a wide room with a large reception desk in the corner, a table in the middle of the room, some cabinets and a sink area against the wall.

A shadow rose from behind the table. Greg swung the rifle around, only to find the silver eye of a pistol pointed at him. The person holding it was small but had a sharp face, small eyes, black hair cut very close to her skull. She was dressed in a black coat just like all of Eustace’s goons. A broad-brimmed black hat sat on the table before her. Pam Grasier, that was her name. According to Marion, she’d been one of Mayor Filmore’s sidekicks.

“Don’t do it,” she said. “You’re going to get your whole family killed.”

In that moment, seeing the gun pointed at him and knowing his daughter’s life was in danger, Greg felt a surge of blinding rage. With a wordless cry, he flung himself in the direction of the reception desk, dropping to his knees as he did so. At the same time, he fired the rifle in her direction. The shot went wild. He saw it hit a corner of the table to Pam’s left.

He hit the ground, but his momentum flung him onto his side. He rolled against the side of the desk. At the same time, Pam ducked back down behind the table, but she took a wild shot at him as she went. It hit the drywall somewhere above and behind him. Frantic, Greg dropped the rifle and dug inside his coat for the Walther.

“You’re not going to win a fight like this,” Pam said in a growl. “You’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

He could see her moving in the gaps beyond the chairs. She seemed to be trying to circle around behind him. He raised the Walther and took a shot at her. It hit one of the chairs, cracking the plastic backrest. Pam pointed her gun above the table and fired another shot that hit somewhere above him.

“We will not hesitate to kill your whole family, Greg Healy,” Pam said. “How stupid are you? Give Eustace what he wants!”

“You people threatened my daughter,” he said. “You won’t get a thing from me except a one-way trip to hell.”

Furious, gnashing his teeth until they hurt, he rose and rushed the table. He fired two shots. Both hit the tabletop, but this forced Pam Grasier to duck down. He tried to leap deftly onto the table, but he wasn’t quite dexterous enough to pull it off. Instead, his boots hit the edge, and he fell forward, sprawled across the tabletop. It knocked the wind out of him, but he managed to keep hold of the gun.

Just then Pam rose and thrust the pistol at him, but he reached out with his free hand and grabbed it. Just as she fired, he forced her hand up and the bullet went into the ceiling, causing one of the drop ceiling tiles to dance in its frame.

“We run this town now, Healy. This is a fight you won’t win. Are you too stupid to see that? You’re not dealing with Filmore’s bunch. We’ve got a real crew.”

She turned her body, using her weight and momentum to pull him off the table. As he fell, he tried to bring his gun down. He hit the floor beside her, and in that moment, both guns fired. The sound was deafening, and for a second, his whole body went numb.

He had no idea if either of them had been hit. He felt nothing. Pushing himself to his hands and knees, he crawled away from her. As he did, he realized he’d let go of the pistol. He turned back to grab it. Only then did he notice the strange, wet gurgling sound coming from Pam Grasier. She was on her back, one arm folded beneath her, the other laid across her stomach. She, too, had let go of her gun. It lay beside the Walther on the carpet.

She had a dime-sized bullet hole punched into her left cheek just beneath her eye. Blood flowed from both nostrils and from her mouth, and her eyes were already glassy. Her right hand twitched, fingers curling and uncurling, and her eyes moved once, slowly shifting to one side.

In that final moment, she seemed confused, as if wondering what had happened to her, and Greg felt the anger leaving him. No, he couldn’t relish this. As the last light left her eyes, the puddle of blood growing quickly around her head, he felt sick to his stomach. He picked up the gun.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to protect my family. What sort of man would I be if I didn’t fight for them?”

He grabbed her gun as well. A Glock. He didn’t know the model. A pistol in either hand, he stumbled around the table. He hadn’t been shot, but he was sore all over from falling and slamming into things. Groaning, he moved toward the front door of the warehouse. Leaning against the crash bar, he eased the front door open, aiming both handguns through the crack. He saw only empty parking lot.

“Greg! I’ve got a gun to her head! Surrender yourself!” Eustace was still shouting, but Greg could tell now that it was coming from somewhere on the north side of the building.

He slipped through the front door, cushioning it as it closed so it wouldn’t make any noise. As he moved toward the corner of the building, he considered going back for the SIG. Firing two handguns was ridiculous, and he really wanted the scope. He pocketed the Glock and took the Walther in both hands, bracing the grip against his palm. He could see his hands shaking, the barrel making an endless, wobbling circle.

I’m coming Emma, he thought. Hang in there.

When he reached the corner, he hesitated, trying to calm himself by taking deep breaths. It didn’t help much. Finally, he lunged around the corner, leading with the pistol. The barrels were burning, huge flames licking up the side of the building. Greg was shocked to see two charred bodies on the ground. One had his arms permanently curled up in the air, as if he’d been fighting the flames to the bitter end. Two snow shovels lay on the ground near them.

Eustace was standing a few meters from the flames. He had his left arm wrapped around Emma’s neck, as he crushed her against his chest. In his right hand, he held a pistol, the barrel pressed against her temple. Emma had a blotchy face, as if she’d been crying, and her hair was all in disarray. Her arms were behind her, and her hands were bound. Eustace still had four goons, and they stood around him, each armed, each aiming in a different direction. Greg recognized one of them as James. The man had an AR-15 in his hands.

Despite the charred bodies nearby, Eustace and his men all looked hale and hearty. Initially, none of them appeared to be injured, but then Greg realized that Eustace’s left arm was trembling like crazy. He wore only a flannel shirt, and the sleeve was pulled back just enough to reveal the dingy white edge of a bandage above his wrist.

Greg had noticed something unusual about the man’s left arm during previous espionage trips, but now it was confirmed. If he was in enough pain to shake this badly, his grip on Emma couldn’t be that strong. Still, Greg knew he wasn’t above shooting a kid. He’d already done it once before. Greg raised the pistol and pointed it in their direction.

Eustace and his men were maybe thirty or forty meters from him, and none seemed to have noticed him yet. Still, Greg didn’t see any way he could get off a shot without risking Emma. Even if he went back for the SIG, Emma was surrounded, and Eustace had his gun pressed firmly against her head.

There’s nothing I can do, he realized. If I shoot at Eustace, Emma almost certainly dies at the hand of one of the goons. If I try to negotiate with him, he’ll make an impossible request, and we may both die. What other option is here?

He felt utterly helpless. The plan had failed. Still, he couldn’t wait to see if Eustace made good on his threat. There was really only one good option.

God, Darryl, I hope you got far away from here, he thought. The family will need you more than ever now.

“Eustace, I’m right here,” Greg said, stepping out from behind the building. He lowered his gun. “Don’t shoot. Let’s negotiate.”

Eustace and his men turned to face him. A broad, ugly smile split Eustace’s crimson beard, and he jabbed the gun against the side of Emma’s head repeatedly.

“There you are,” he said. “I guess Pam is dead. She was a decent worker. That’s another debt you owe me.”

“Let my daughter go, Eustace,” Greg said. “Let her go, unharmed, and you can have me. I’ll surrender.”

At this, Emma thrashed in his grip, trying to break free. He thumped her on the head with the handle of the gun—Greg heard the dull thud—and she stopped.

“I already have you, Greg,” Eustace replied, saying his name like it sickened him. “If you want this girl to live, drop the gun and take about ten steps forward. Come on, now. I haven’t got all day. You’ve already wasted enough of my time, and we need to finish our business before the whole building burns down.”

Greg dropped the pistol at his feet and raised both hands, stepping toward Eustace and his men. He counted off ten steps and came to a stop. Eustace’s smile twisted into a hateful sneer.

“Look at you,” Eustace said. “You always thought you were better than me, smarter than me. You’ve been trying to take me down for a hell of a long time, playing your little lawyer games, but who won in the end? Who won, Greg Healy? Say it!”

Though he hated it with every fiber of his being, Greg forced himself to say it. “You won.” He met Emma’s gaze then. She looked back with wide, terrified eyes. “You won, Eustace. There, I said it. Let Emma go. I’m done.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You’re done.” With his right hand, he made a gesture at his men. “I’m taking the shot. You guys hold off. I want the bullet that takes down Greg Healy to come from my gun. When he bleeds out in the parking lot, I want to know for sure that I was the one who did it? Got me?”

“Whatever you say,” James replied, lowering his rifle. “Just get it over with.”

At that, the other men lowered their guns. Eustace pointed his pistol directly at Greg. The black eye of the gun barrel stared back at Greg. He was too close now to get away, and there was no cover. He had Pam’s Glock in his coat pocket, but his hands were raised. There was no way he could pull it out, aim, and fire before Eustace pulled the trigger.

This is it, then, he realized, his heart sinking. I failed. All of my spying and planning came to nothing. I should’ve just given them the ranch and left town with my family. They wouldn’t have taken Emma hostage, and we would be safe somewhere far away by now.

And all he could hope for in that last moment was that Eustace’s thirst for revenge would be sated after he’d killed his enemy. Maybe then, he would let Emma go. Maybe. It was a faint glimmer of hope, but it was the only thing he could hold on to. Greg shut his eyes, held his breath, and waited, trying not to think about how profoundly he had failed his family at every turn.

And when he heard the crack of gunfire, it was like the distant thunder of some monstrous storm come to sweep everything away.

32

The sound caused such a shudder to go through Greg’s body that it took a couple of seconds to realize he hadn’t been shot. Then Eustace began making the strangest sound. It was the gurgling, howling protest of a madman—no words, just deep throaty noises. Greg opened his eyes and saw chaos. All of Eustace’s men had backed away from him, and they were staring at their leader with looks of shock, amazement, terror. Emma lay on the ground now, curled up into a ball.

Oh God, no. Was she shot?

But what was Eustace howling about? Greg realized the man was backing away, his injured left arm raised, hand pressed high against his right shoulder. The other hand was thrust out in front of him. It took a moment to make sense of the situation. What in the hell was going on? James was holding Eustace’s right hand. He’d twisted it around, and he was shaking it. Suddenly, the gun dropped from Eustace’s hand and landed in the snow at James’s feet.

“What have you done?” Eustace croaked. Blood oozed out from between the fingers of his left hand. “Have you lost your mind? How dare you!”

“I’ve had enough of you, Eustace, you bloated buffoon,” James replied. He sounded remarkably calm. He held the AR-15 with one hand, aiming it at Eustace’s face.

“You shot me,” Eustace wailed, he took another step backward, but his legs wobbled. “How dare you! Men, put this traitor down. Put him down right now!”

“Nah, I think these men would rather follow me than you,” James said. “Men, none of you are going to get hurt. Just let me finish this, and we’ll keep the crew going without this unstable nutjob. His personal vendetta has ruined almost everything we built. Let’s rebuild it without him.”

Indeed, the other men just stood there, guns lowered, watching with wide eyes but not interfering. Greg and Emma seemed to have been forgotten for the moment. Greg started to reach for the pistol in his pocket, but then he caught himself. Better to let events unfold.

“I could’ve killed you with the first shot,” James said to Eustace, “but I wanted you to know it was me. I wanted to look you in the eyes, Eustace Simpson, before I killed you.”

Eustace bared his teeth and gave James the most furious look, an animal look, all red eyes and yellow teeth, the great mane of red hair and the flaring beard.

“You traitor,” he snarled. “I paid you a lot of money.”

“You didn’t tell me you were killing kids out here,” James replied. “You’re sick, and you’re a loser, and I don’t need your money. Goodbye.”

Eustace lunged at James, grabbing at the AR-15 with his left hand. He managed to grab hold of it, but he clearly had no strength in his grip. The rifle barely moved. And then James pulled the trigger. Greg watch all of this in amazement. Until he saw the bullet shatter Eustace’s jaw, he thought it was all some kind of trick. But then he gushed teeth and blood, his lips shredded. The bullet erupting from the back of Eustace’s head in a spectacular fountain of blood, brains, skull, and hair. One of the other guards was standing behind him, and he turned away, ducking down as he was spattered with gore. On the ground, Emma, still curled up into a tight little ball, screamed.

Eustace’s legs buckled, but James maintained his grip on the man’s left hand. This caused him to collapse downward onto his knees, his head tipping forward in what looked like a prayerful gesture. Then James let go of his hand, and he fell forward, burying his face in the snow.

James lowered his rifle and slowly turned to Greg, still as calm and emotionless as ever. “Men, put your guns away. We’re not shooting anyone else today.”

“You killed him,” one of the men said. “You killed the boss!”

“Let’s consider it a demotion, Benny,” James replied. “We’re better off without him. Put your guns away.”

And then, to Greg’s amazement, they did as they were told, holstering pistols and slinging their rifles. Even the man with blood and bits of Eustace all over his shirt calmly holstered his gun and stood there. James tipped Greg a little salute.

“We can end it here, if you want, Healy,” he said. “Take your daughter back.” He set his rifle aside, pulled a small knife out of his coat pocket, and knelt beside Emma. With a quick flip of the blade, he cut the ties holding her hands behind her back. “Get up, kid. You’re safe now. Go back to your dad.”

Slowly, Emma opened her eyes and looked around. When she saw the body of Eustace crumpled beside her, blood from his massive head wound flowing into the snow around him, she gasped and sat up. She wiped her eyes, clambered to her feet, and ran toward Greg. He rushed to meet her, daring to take James at his word.

“Daddy,” she cried, sounding about five years younger than she was. She crashed against him, burying her face against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her protectively.

James gave them a few seconds, watching the reunion with that same unchanging expression, as his men looked on uncomfortably. Nearby, the fire continued to burn, licking up the warehouse wall and casting a long trail of black smoke into the still sky.

“At a certain point, it just wasn’t worth putting up with this incompetence,” James said, after a moment. “I should’ve put a bullet in his head the moment I arrived here. Things would’ve gone a lot smoother, but you live and learn.”

Greg let go of his daughter and gently moved her behind him as he faced James once again.

“You did my family a favor,” Greg said, “but now what?”

“I’m going to level with you, Healy,” he said. “You can’t stay here in Glenvell. I’m taking over the operation. We’re going to lose the warehouse. I can see that, but Eustace has a lot more resources stashed all over the place, and I know his business. It’s all mine now, and these guys won’t regret following me.” He gestured at the men on either side of him. “Yes, I did you a favor. I won’t kill a kid, and I don’t waste time with petty revenge plots. But you can’t stay here in Glenvell. I’ve got every other family in my pocket. If you leave the ranch, and my men, in peace, then there won’t be any more bloodshed. I promise you that.” As he spoke, he picked up the AR-15, though he didn’t point it at Greg. “You won’t win against us, especially with Eustace out of the way, so let’s make this deal and part ways in peace. Now, what do you say?”

Somehow, the deadness in the man’s voice made the threat feel more dangerous. Greg was exhausted from fear and anger. James still had four well-armed men fighting with him, and if the whole town was in his pocket, then he could swell his ranks again fairly easily. If it came down to a feud, the risk was simply too great. People would die on both sides, and Greg wasn’t willing to sacrifice any more family members. He hung his head, defeated.

“You have three days to get out of town,” James said. “I think that’s reasonable. I won’t take everything from you. Leave half the herd behind. Keep the rest. Take your personal property with you, but don’t damage any of the buildings. Do that and no harm will come to any of your people. Heck, we’ll even help you with the move. As a gesture of goodwill, I’ll have some local deliver horses and a wagon to the ranch in a couple of days. Use them to load up and head out. Now, I think that’s about as generous an offer as you could expect.”

He slung the rifle over his shoulder and motioned his men toward the warehouse. Then he beckoned for Greg to leave.

“Your son ran back that way,” he added. “You’ll find him about three hundred meters due north, thinking no one can see him in the trees there. Three days, Healy. Get going.”

Greg put an arm around Emma’s shoulder and guided her away from the warehouse. As they moved toward the well-worn path that led into town, he heard the men resume their fight against the flames. Snow shovels scraped against pavement as James barked orders. Greg didn’t bother to look back. His daughter was safe. His son was safe. The battle was over. He would accept the offer and move on with his life.

“Are we really going to leave the ranch?” Emma asked, in a breathless little voice.

“We’re going to do whatever we have to do to keep our family safe,” Greg replied. “If that means we have to leave the ranch behind, then so be it. Just remember how badly things could have gone today. I don’t know what turned James against his boss. You must’ve said something to play on his sympathy.”

Though her cheeks were streaked with tears, her eyes rimmed in red, she gave her father a mischievous smile. “I might have said a few things to pit them against each other.”

“Good job, kiddo,” he replied, patting her on the back. “Now, let’s go find Darryl and get back to our family.”

33

As soon as they were in sight of the fence, Greg spotted someone crouched on the platform at the southwest corner of the property. Despite the fact that he’d made it away from the warehouse with both of his children uninjured save for scratches and bruises, it had still been a long, nerve-wracking walk. Even now, as Greg stepped out of the trees and saw the familiar fence, his skin crawled, expecting to get shot in the back.

How do I know James will keep his word? He’s a criminal.

Darryl walked on his right, head down, clearly disturbed by the day’s events. Emma was on his left, and he kept reaching out to touch them, to lay a hand on their shoulders, pat their backs, needing to remind himself that they were okay. The plan had utterly failed, but somehow, they’d still made it out of that place alive.

“What did you say to James?” Greg asked, as they stepped out of the woods. “How did you turn him against Eustace?”

“He was already against Eustace,” Emma replied. She spoke softly. The poor girl was traumatized all over again. “I don’t think anyone really ever liked Eustace, but he was used to getting his way. All I did was provoke him a little bit, so he got mad.”

“Dad, do we really have to leave our home?” Darryl said, as they crossed the open ground toward the gate. “This isn’t a good time to be relocating, especially with Justine.”

“We’ll see if James keeps his word,” Greg replied. “A horse-drawn wagon will make it a whole lot easier. Let’s just wait and see. Not much more we can do.”

The person on the platform rose now, and he saw it was Marion. She leaned against the handrail, raising a hand to them. Greg returned the greeting. He could tell she was crying, and she wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve as she lowered herself onto the ladder. She reached the gate before them, unlatching it and sliding it open. Tabitha and Horace were both on the porch, and they made their way down the steps to join them.

A tearful reunion occurred just beyond the gate. Emma and Marion wept, hugging each other. Then Tabitha joined them, pulling Darryl into the circle. Greg stood off to one side. Beneath his coat, he was soaked with sweat, and he reeked of smoke. More than that, he dreaded having to break the news to the others about his deal with James. Victory had come at a heavy cost.

“Tell me they’re dead,” Tabitha said. “Tell me you got rid of those awful men.”

“Eustace is dead…” Greg said. And then he added “…and that former cop. Pam Grasier.” No, he didn’t like thinking about her. The last image of her, gurgling on the carpet with a hole beneath her eye, would haunt his dreams.

“And the others?” Tabitha asked.

“We’ll talk about it in a minute,” he said.

Marion noticed that he’d avoided the group hug then, and she reached out, snagging his sleeve and dragging him toward the circle. He gave in, but he noticed that Horace stopped well clear of them. He, at least, was not going to be dragged into the embrace.

Justine must have heard the commotion, as she appeared at the front door then. Seeing the group beside the gate, she rushed forward, leapt down the porch steps, and hurried to join them. However, when she reached the group, she worked her way through the net of arms and bodies until she got to Darryl. Then she folded herself against his chest and buried her face against his neck.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Marion said.

“The worst is behind us,” Greg said, “but it’s not quite over.”

“What does that mean?”

Greg sighed. “Maybe we’d better stop the hugging and reconvene in the dining room. There’s something we have to discuss.”

He managed to pull free, though both Marion and Tabitha gave him questioning looks. Yes, they could tell it was bad news. As Greg headed for the porch, Horace Bouchard reached out and briefly clutched his arm.

“Not too bad, I hope,” he said.

Greg didn’t know how to respond to this, so he kept going, trudging up the steps. As he stepped inside, he realized just how exhausted he was. His whole body ached with fatigue. He pulled Pam Grasier’s pistol out of the coat pocket and slid it onto the mantel above the fireplace. Even that small action made his arms and shoulders cry out.

Worse than the physical exhaustion was the mental and emotional exhaustion. All the weeks of secrets, of sneaking around, of thinking and planning assassinations constantly, had finally caught up to him. He could scarcely think straight, yet the hard work wasn’t done yet. He unzipped his coat and just managed to snag it on the coat rack in passing as he headed for the dining room. Boots came off halfway across the living room, gloves wound up on the couch, and his toque landed in a corner on the floor. He sat down at the head of the table, dragging his hands through his sweat-clumped hair, and waited for the others.

They trickled in slowly, each looking at him warily as they approached the dining room. Emma and Darryl dumped coats, boots, gloves, and hats as they came, and Tabitha said nothing about most of these things winding up on her floor. Darryl put the Remington in a corner beside the couch, though Horace came along behind him and picked it up, taking it to its shelf—not an easy feat, since he was using his crutch.

“Horace, I owe you a big apology,” Greg said. “I had to leave the SIG behind. It’s sitting on the floor in the front office of the warehouse, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to retrieve it. Somehow, I’ll make it up to you.”

Horace didn’t visibly react as he shuffled across the living room. Marion took the seat directly across from Greg, Tabitha beside her. Darryl, Justine, and Emma sat together on one side of the table, and Horace joined them last, sitting near Greg.

“Okay, Greg, tell us what’s going on?” Horace said. “Seems like things turned out good. Everyone came back alive and well. What’s the catch? I’m guessing it’s the reason my SIG is lost.”

Every eye was on him now. Emma and Darryl knew what was coming, of course, and he could see the anxiety in their eyes. After all they’d done to protect the ranch, to build it up, to guard it, how could he tell them now that they had to let it all go. Greg really wanted a hot cup of tea, but he didn’t want to kill any more time.

“I didn’t kill Eustace Simpson,” he said, anxiously drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He couldn’t meet the eyes of his wife or mother, so he stared at a little plastic flower arrangement that sat in the center of the table. “His own right-hand man, James Teagan, did it. Eustace had the upper hand. He could have…he could have killed me and Emma, but James turned on him. Shot him right out of the blue, right in front of us, and talked all of the other men into switching leaders. Eustace lived long enough to realize the betrayal and died a bitter death.”

He could tell by the way Marion, Tabitha, and Horace all suddenly leaned back in their chairs that this news shocked them. Justine leaned into Darryl, and he put his arms around her.

“But James refused to harm Emma,” Greg continued. “Furthermore, he promised that we would be left in peace…on one condition.”

“Don’t say it,” Tabitha muttered. Yes, she must have sensed what was coming.

“He’s going to send a horse-drawn wagon to the ranch in three days,” Greg said. “We’re to pack up and leave the Glenvell area, abandon the ranch. We can take all of our personal possessions, but the buildings have to remain intact, and…” He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. “We’re to leave half the herd. In exchange, we’ll have no more problems from his gang. That’s his promise.”

He held his hands up and left it at that, letting the words sink in. He could see each person struggling with it, their faces shifting as they ran through various emotions.

“That’s his promise, is it?” Tabitha echoed softly, a bitter half-smile on her face.

Horace suddenly made a fist and pounded it on the table. “He thinks he can just get away with taking our home? No, no, that’s unacceptable. It’s the same offer he made outside the fence. I told you people I should have shot him then.”

“No, if you’d killed James, we would still be dealing with Eustace,” Greg said, “and our situation would be a lot worse. Eustace wanted revenge. He never would’ve left us in peace, even if we’d given him the ranch.”

“Revenge for that?” Tabitha said with a derisive laugh. “He’s the one that killed Tuck. We never did anything to him.”

“Well, it turns out, Tuck shot him in the left arm,” Greg said, “and the wound had begun to rot. I guess, in his book, that was unfair and demanded justice. Also…you know, there was the whole lawyer business. Technically, I was planning to sue his company for violating environmental regulations.”

“I’m glad Tuck shot him,” Tabitha said. “I wish he’d died from the infection.”

Marion raised both of her hands then, waving at them to draw attention to the other end of the table. Horace seemed on the verge of saying something else, but he grunted and turned toward her. Only when she had everyone’s undivided attention did she lower her hands, folding them on the tabletop. Greg could tell by the look in her eye, the tightness around her lips, that she was about to share something she felt very deeply. He wouldn’t dare interrupt.

“I keep thinking about what James said to us,” she said. “What price are we willing to pay to hold on to the ranch?”

Horace shook his head. “This is our home. We have to protect it.”

“No,” Marion added. “The ranch is not our home. This is our home.” She made a circle with her hand, taking in the people sitting around the table. “Will we sacrifice anyone sitting here to hold on to the property?”

To this, Horace bowed his head, gnarled hands pressed against the edge of the table. “I wouldn’t sacrifice any of you,” he said, softly. “You’re all closer to me than my own kin ever were.”

“What’s a home without family?” Greg added. “I suppose you’re right, Marion. Home is wherever we are together.”

After this, everyone fell silent. The weight of the decision lay heavy in the room. All the work they’d done to the ranch, all the sweat and tears they’d poured into making it a safe place to live—could they really just walk away? Greg felt an obligation to break the silence. He had to suggest a destination. He owed his family that, at least, but he couldn’t think of what to say.

Surprisingly, it was Darryl who spoke next. He was still holding Justine, gently stroking her hair, when he said, “How far away is the old hunting cabin, Grandma? Could the cattle make it there?”

She seemed sad, her old leathery skin hanging down, as if she’d been partially deflated. “It’s not close,” she said, then quickly added, “but I think it’s worth trying for. What other choice do we have? I have more stake in this place than any of you. Tuck and I built it together. Hell, he’s buried here. But if I have to choose between my loved ones and this old place, there’s no debate. I choose all of you. If Eustace was behind the offer, I wouldn’t trust it. I’d say we stay and fight. But James killing Eustace is kind of like a down payment on his promise. I say we pack up and go to the cabin, try to make a new home there.” She looked first at Marion then at Greg.

“The matriarch has spoken,” Greg said. “I think that settles it. We pack up and head out in three days. And anytime we’re tempted to regret what we’re leaving behind, we’ll remind ourselves how fortunate we are that Emma came back to us alive and well.”

He could feel the fog in his mind. The decision was made, and he had nothing left to say. Pushing back his chair, he rose, wincing at the soreness and fatigue that moved through every limb. Without another word, he left the dining room and headed across the living room, intending to march upstairs and go to bed for a very long time.

* * *

Morning seemed brighter than usual, even with a mountain of tightly-packed crates lined up along the fence beside the open gate. As Greg lugged a big box of clothes down the porch stairs, he saw Darryl and Justine pushing the old handcart, lugging a crate full of the last good tools from Tuck’s shed. They’d left some rusty junk as a bonus prize for James and his men.

Tabitha and Marion were leading the cows across the yard. They were all tied together with a series of lead lines, eighteen cows, half the herd. They’d selected the healthiest among the herd, those who were most likely to endure the long trip. Still, Tabitha had been in a dark mood all morning, speaking little. Despite her decision, she was clearly feeling the loss now.

Fortunately, true to his word, James had instructed some locals to deliver a large covered wagon drawn by a couple of draft horses. It wouldn’t be enough for all of their stuff. The wagon was big, but it had to fit the people, food, and clean water above all. That meant a lot of things were being abandoned: almost the entirely library in the den, furniture, much of the cured meat, the large equipment in the barn—too much to think about.

Greg set the box of clothes on the stack. Through the open gate, he saw Darryl, Horace, and Justine loading up the wagon. Greg went to help them. When he drew near, he heard Darryl lamenting the loss to Justine.

“It’s just that I worked so hard on that greenhouse,” he was saying, “and now those losers get to use it. All the vegetables were going to be for the baby.”

“Just stop thinking about it,” Justine replied, pushing a plastic tub full of cured meat into a far corner of the wagon. “We’ll build another greenhouse. We’ll build another everything at the new place. It’ll give everyone plenty to do. This situation is safer for the baby, and you said yourself that’s what matters.”

It took a couple of hours to get the wagon loaded up. In the end, they had to leave about half the boxes they’d lined up beside the fence. There just wasn’t room. The wagon had a single bench down the middle for riders, which left space along the sideboards for their personal items. Clothes, food, barrels of fresh water, essential tools and equipment took up most of the room. Each person was allowed to bring one bag or box of their most cherished possessions. Greg had his backpack filled with ammunition, knives, small tools, and a couple of family photo albums. As he climbed onto the driver’s seat, he set the backpack beside him.

Tabitha and Marion sat with him on the driver’s seat. The others found spots on the bench in back. The wagon looked quite old, and it had clearly been repaired many times over the years. When Greg flicked the reins and the draft horses began to move, he felt it creaking and groaning beneath him. The deep snow did little to cushion the wheels as he set out toward the driveway.

As they pulled away, Greg glanced over his shoulder into the back of the wagon. He saw Emma sitting at the front of the bench, her backpack in her lap. She’d made sure to bring her favorite books, and the corner of one of them poked out of the big pocket. Behind her, Darryl and Justine sat close together, holding each other. Horace was in the very back, holding the Remington and staring out behind them, as if guarding their rear flank.

In that moment, seeing all these people that he cared about so much, Greg felt the heaviness drop away. His gaze shifted from the people to the line of cattle strung along behind the wagon. Then he saw the fence, the open gate, a corner of the porch, the big tree in the southwest corner with the lookout platform.

“It’s weird,” he said to Marion. “This place has been home for so long and yet…I don’t know. All of a sudden, I’m not all that sad to be leaving it behind. In a weird way, I’m relieved.”

“It’s just a place,” Marion replied. “Home is family. As long as we’re all together, then we’re home.”

Greg tugged on the reins, moving the horses toward the gap in the trees that would eventually bring them out onto the open road. There was a safe path to the hunting cabin a couple of miles north of Glenvell. Marion was right, of course, but he finally felt it. He turned back around, determined not to look at the ranch again. He didn’t need to. He could let it all go.

“We’ve done this before,” Tabitha said. Of all people, she had not looked back once, and she pointedly did not do so now. “We can do it again, as long as we’re together.”

And with that, the trees at the end of the driveway seemed to close in behind them, like curtains shutting out their old life.

Epilogue

James let Eustace’s body lay in the snow all day and night. He had no intention of burying the man. Let fresh snowfall do that the next time it decided to fall. None of the other men bothered with it either. If anything, they seemed relieved that the old blowhard was gone. Pam Grasier, on the other hand, had been professional enough that James figured she deserved a modicum of respect.

He had the men dig a grave for her the following morning, selecting a spot in the woods east of the back parking lot. They only managed to get about three feet into the frozen soil before the shovels cracked.

As for Pam’s body, they wrapped it in a filthy tarp, laid it in the shallow grave, dumped some lime and gravel in with her, then covered it with dirt as best they could.

“What about a grave marker?” Benny asked.

“That’s up to you guys,” James said, standing at the foot of the grave. “Pam won’t know the difference, and her family wasn’t local, as far as I know. Do what you want, just hurry up. We’ve got work to do this afternoon. Leave here in an hour and head for the new property. I’ll meet you there.”

And with that, he turned and left his guys standing around the grave, glancing at each other uncertainly. Eustace hadn’t been one to let his men make decisions on their own. They hardly seemed to know what to do. James, on the other hand, knew the illusion of autonomy made men more obedient. As he crossed the parking lot, he glanced back and saw a couple of the guys hoisting a large rock to the head of the grave.

He’d really had to throw his weight around to get the locals to give up the wagon and draft horses, but it was done. He figured it was worth any problems it might create as long as it got the Healys out of town. The money would be repaid to the wagon’s owners—or not. Whatever. James walked along the north side of the warehouse. They’d lost almost half the building, and most of their accumulated supplies, but it would all be replaced and repaired. With Eustace out of the way, James could really turn this whole community into a well-oiled machine, as he had now removed every threat.

Now, I can really create something stable and secure, he thought, as he moved toward the front of the building. And lucrative.

It was time to see if his plan had worked. The ranch was prime real estate, wide open grassland close to fresh water. At the thought of having free access to all those buildings, the fence and barn, the shed, the cattle, the greenhouse, he was almost giddy—if he’d had the capacity for such emotion. As he rounded the front of the building, he saw one of the locals waiting for him there. The man’s name was Albert, and he’d formerly run the little gas station in town. At the moment, he was sitting astride a small bay mare, stroking the animal’s neck and looking quite bored.

“And?” James said, approaching him. “How did it go?”

“What?” Albert replied. “The grandmother met me at the gate, and we left the wagon there. Looked like they’d already been packing up.”

“Good,” James said. He motioned for the man to get down out of the saddle. “Wait here. My men will compensate you. I need to head out there and check on the place.”

“Are you serious?” Albert replied. The poor man had lost quite a bit of weight since the EMP. All of the stock from his store had initially been forcibly taken by the former mayor of Glenvell, and what was left of it was now in the warehouse, mostly ruined by smoke. Albert’s clothes were all too big, ill-fitting. “I have to wait here?”

“Yes, that’s what I said,” James replied. “My men will compensate you for your help today, and I’ll bring the horse back later. You have my word. Look, everything is coming together in a wonderful way. Don’t sulk. This whole town is going to be thriving soon. Eustace, the fire, the Healys—all mere inconveniences. Now, hurry up and climb down from there. I’ve got work to do.”

Albert frowned but dutifully climbed down from the saddle. James pushed past him and took his place in the saddle.

“Where do I go?” Albert said. “Are your men inside?”

“No, you’ll find them out by the new grave. Behind the building. You might want to steer clear of the frosty corpse rotting near the north door. It’s starting to smell, despite the cold.”

And with that, James shook the reins, put his heels into the mare’s flanks, and set off toward town. He used the main road, following the tracks Albert himself had made on his way to the warehouse.

Maybe I’ll keep this horse, he thought. Albert doesn’t need it. Maybe he can have a cow in trade. I’ll convince him it’s a fair deal.

He wanted to approach the ranch alone. He wanted to see what was there, to make a mental inventory of everything before anyone else from town saw it. Just another small way to give himself the upper hand, and James always had the upper hand, whether people realized it or not.

He was greeted by a few locals on his way through the center of town. They all knew him now. He’d cut deals, made promises, a few choice threats, and even resorted to a bit of flattery, some of it right under Eustace’s nose. They were his people now, and it was his town. He returned each greeting with an appropriate expression—smile for some, serious look for others, calm emptiness for a few, even a couple of dangerous scowls.

As he rode past the town, his excitement was dampened only slightly by a bit of anxiety. He had the AR-15 slung on his back, and he used one hand to remove it now, laying it at an angle across the saddle. Eventually, he came across a sturdy mailbox beside the road with the name HEALY in white letters on the side. He turned down the driveway, feeling a crawling unease. Would they be waiting for him? Would that old woman be perched in a tree, ready to shoot him?

His eyes flitted from side to side, his finger resting to the side of the trigger of the AR-15. When he rode out of the trees and came in sight of the fence, his skin-crawling unease reached a fever pitch. The gate was wide open, and he could see a stack of large boxes on the other side. No sign of the wagon. James reined in the mare and sat there for a minute, gazing into the distance. No one in the tree platform, no one on the porch.

Could it be? he wondered. Did the Healys finally come to their senses and figure out what really matters?

James spurred the horse toward the open gate. It was Eustace’s death, of course. They’d needed it, and he’d given it to them. Just another one of the many exchanges he’d made to take control of the town. Well worth it. He could see the tracks of the wagon wheels, smaller wheel marks, drag marks from boxes. Yes, they’d left.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” James said, as he rode through the open gate.

The front door was wide open, the shed door was wide open. They’d left numerous boxes full of tools, clothes, and supplies. As he rode around the property, he found a root cellar half-full of meat, flour, and wild berries, cattle in the barn, a house full of furniture. It was amazing. Glorious.

By the time he’d ridden all over the place and headed back toward the open gate, he saw a group of men heading down the driveway. His guards had picked up Albert and a few other wannabe toughs from in town. James dismounted and waited for them inside the gate. Of course, he’d hidden a few things, some choice items from the house—medication, antiques, weapons, and so on. Always good to have a few secrets stashed away, even from his own people.

Benny was in the lead, the rough-looking goon in the filthy coat.

“Boss?” he said, as he passed through the gate. “Are they gone?”

Boss! You’ve got that right, James thought.

“Looks like they made it easy, after all,” he said, waving his people at the house. “I get to keep my word and leave the Healys in peace. Let’s hope they find a more suitable place to live. No hard feelings.”

Benny paused just beyond the gate and looked around in astonishment. “This place is amazing! There’s so much room, so many nice buildings. Wow!”

“That’s right, boys,” James said. “This is our place now.”

He grabbed the latch of the large gate and slid it shut. It closed with a deep, satisfying clank.

“Welcome home.”

End of Survive the Attack

EMP: Return of the Wild West Book Two

Survive the Fall, December 9th, 2020

Survive the Attack, January 13th, 2021

Survive the Journey, February 10th, 2021

PS: Do you love post-apocalyptic fiction? Then keep reading for exclusive extracts from Survive the Journey and Survive the Chaos.

Thank you!

Thank you for purchasing ‘Survive the Attack’

(EMP: Return of the Wild West Book Two)

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About Grace Hamilton

Grace Hamilton is the prepper pen-name for a bad-ass, survivalist momma-bear of four kids, and wife to a wonderful husband. After being stuck in a mountain cabin for six days following a flash flood, she decided she never wanted to feel so powerless or have to send her kids to bed hungry again. Now she lives the prepper lifestyle and knows that if SHTF or TEOTWAWKI happens, she’ll be ready to help protect and provide for her family.

Combine this survivalist mentality with a vivid imagination (as well as a slightly unhealthy day dreaming habit) and you get a prepper fiction author. Grace spends her days thinking about the worst possible survival situations that a person could be thrown into, then throwing her characters into these nightmares while trying to figure out "What SHOULD you do in this situation?"

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BLURB

They’re entering the storm—and only together will they survive.

Spring is around the corner, and the Healys must again face Canada’s mountainous onslaught to reach the security of the hunting cabin. Though they were forced to give up the family’s ranch to the post-apocalyptic mob, the most important thing to Greg Healy now is that they still have the cattle and the family is all together safe and sound. But just as the end of their grueling trek is within sight, the spring thaw brings unending trouble.

And heartbreaking tragedy.

The burden of leading loved ones falls hard on Darryl Healy’s shoulders as he confronts his most daunting task yet—becoming a father. But the trail is an unforgiving master, not fit for man, woman, or beast, and the cattle have proven time and again to be an irresistible draw to those determined to take everything the Healys have left.

When a vicious new enemy follows in their wake and guns are drawn in the avalanche-prone pass, Darryl is forced to defend and protect his family just as his father and grandfather taught him.

By any means necessary.

Prepper survivalist author Grace Hamilton invites you to step into a post-apocalyptic, EMP-ravaged world filled with strong, resourceful characters, survivalist knowledge, and edge-of-your seat action.

Get your copy of Survive the Journey

Available February 10th, 2021

(Available for pre-order now.)

www.GraceHamiltonBooks.com

* * *

EXCERPT

Chapter Two

The baby clothes were all folded up at the bottom of the box, waiting to be used. Darryl pressed them down firmly to make room for Justine’s clothes. She had a fairly limited wardrobe, comprised almost entirely of t-shirts, hoodies, and sweatpants, all in dark colors. The girl definitely had a distinct look.

“Maybe we should give it a few more days,” Justine said. She was rolling up her sleeping bag in the corner. “Not that I want to stay here, by any means, but if the pass just opened up today, a few more days of warm weather will only help, don’t you think?”

“Maybe so,” Darryl replied, putting the lid onto the crate of clothing, “but I also think people want to get the heck out of this cave, you know?”

“Add me to that list,” Justine said, “but going over the mountain is going to be a big pain in the butt. We’ve got a bunch of cattle and supplies. What if we get all the way up there and find that some of the trail is gone, washed away, or snowed in, or we get lost?”

Indeed, he’d had this very thought. It was the reason he’d gone looking for Tuck’s old compass. On a cloudy day, with no obvious trail, it was far easier to get lost in the wilderness than he’d expected. They’d had a hard enough time trying to find the winter camp after the pass had proved impassible.

“We’ll just have to hope for the best,” he said, “but the fact is, most of those things will still be possible in a week, or a month. Waiting longer won’t make a washed-away trail come back.”

She gave him a look that suggested she didn’t find his words comforting. He went to her side and put his arms around her. Initially, she just tolerated the embrace. But finally, she warmed up and returned it.

“I just want civilization again,” she said. “I’m tired of living like pioneers in the seventeenth century.”

“It’ll be a lot better at the cabin,” Darryl said. “We can fix it up and make it nice.”

“First we have to get there.”

“We will,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” she said. “But you don’t control nature.”

Once all of Justine’s things were packed up, Darryl went looking for the furniture dolly. He found his father at the back of the wagon, stacks of boxes and barrels around him. He was slowly loading them one by one, but he had a scowl on his face. The furniture dolly was on the ground beside the back wheel.

“Is there a problem, Dad?” Darryl said, as he picked up the dolly. He’d quickly learned, in their current living situation, not to let things fester. It was better to make sure his Dad put everything out into the open. The man tended to brood privately, and that only led to trouble.

“I’m just trying to figure out how to get everything into the wagon,” Greg said, hoisting a small barrel into the back. “We’ve acquired a bit of stuff here at the camp.” He gestured toward an open box. It contained a bunch of rusted old tools and scrap metal that they’d found in a back room of the cave. “Hopefully, there will still be room for all of our people, but it might be a tight fit.”

“Why do we need to bring all this junk?” Darryl asked. “We can leave half our stuff here and be just fine, Dad.”

Darryl was looking into the back of the wagon and trying to imagine poor Justine being all scrunched up between the boxes and crates. As his father continued to slide more and more boxes into the back, it only got worse. She would have more room if she rode up front on the driver’s seat, but Darryl didn’t think she would do that.

“I don’t want to leave anything behind,” Greg said, hoisting the big box of junk tools and scrap metal into the back of the wagon. “You never know what we might need once we get to the hunting cabin.”

Shaking his head, Darryl took the furniture dolly back to Justine. All of her things had now been packed away, and whatever illusion of a bedroom the cave chamber had held was gone. It was, after all, just an irregular space at the back of a cave.

“We’re going to be in the wagon all day, aren’t we?” Justine said. “I’d better sit in the very back so I can barf my brains out when the fancy takes me. Hopefully, Horace will trade places with me. I know he likes being the lookout.” She rose, pulling her hood up.

Pregnant, still suffering from morning sickness, and crammed into the back of an overfull wagon. Darryl didn’t like it, and as he pushed the boxes back through the cave, he again thought of all the unnecessary stuff they were lugging along. The journey from the ranch to the camp had been bad enough, with everyone crammed onto the back bench, but Justine was very pregnant now. When he returned to the wagon, he found his father tucking smaller boxes under the bench.

“Dad, I really think we need to leave some of this stuff behind,” Darryl said. “Why are we taking all of the old junk we found here at the camp?”

“If something breaks, we may need the scraps to make repairs,” his father replied, climbing out of the wagon. “I don’t want to leave anything behind and then realize I need it somewhere down the road.”

“Yeah, but we have to fit actual people in this wagon,” Darryl replied, unloading Justine’s stuff beside the other stacks. “You know how tough this ride is going to be for Justine? She’s still sick almost every morning, and she’s always uncomfortable. We need to get to the cabin as fast as we can, because the longer it takes, the harder it’s going to be on her and the baby.”

Greg just stood there for a moment, chewing on his lip.

“We don’t need to become hoarders just to survive,” Darryl added. He knew he was pushing things, but he felt strongly about this. More than that, he knew his dad could be stubborn. “We have to prioritize people.”

He’d gone too far, and he knew it. A look flashed briefly across his father’s face: eyebrows down, lips pressed tightly together, nose scrunched up. Darryl anticipated the anger and braced himself to stand his ground for Justine’s sake. But then the look passed, and his father resumed loading the wagon.

“I understand how you feel,” Greg said. “I really do. You’re worried about the mother of your child, and you’re right to make that your first concern.” It was a remarkably civil, even compassionate response, that reminded Darryl just how much things had changed between them. Could they actually have a decent conversation about something when they were of contrary opinions? “Here’s the thing, son. We can’t anticipate any and every problem, so we have to be ready for things we haven’t even thought of. That’s how we’ll keep everyone safe.”

Darryl knelt beside the big open crate full of junk. He picked up a leather boot with a huge hole in the sole. “Really? Is there a problem that would require an old boot?” He tossed the boot back into the crate and picked up a small hatchet with a broken handle. “Or tools we can’t even use? Dad, you’ve got a pair of jeans in here with a hole in the crotch, a couple of chipped glass jars wrapped in filthy rags. This stuff is never going to be useful, is it? It’s basically someone’s garbage.”

“It might be,” he replied, maintaining a remarkably even tone. “Broken tool handles can be repaired. The leather from that boot could prove useful. The cloth from the jeans, the glass from those jars—you never know. Look, it’s not just for the journey today. The hunting cabin is isolated and private. No one’s going to bother us up there. We’ll have all the time in the world to build and repair and make things, but only if we bring plenty of materials with us. You’re looking into that crate and seeing junk instead of thinking about the possibilities.”

“Oh, I’m thinking about possibilities all right,” Darryl replied. He was tempted to raise his voice, but his father had stayed so calm. If Greg could manage a civil discussion, so could he. “The possibilities of what might happen if we overload the wagon, if we get bogged down on the mountain pass, or if the travel is too rough for the people—yes, Justine, in particular. I see where you’re coming from, Dad, but I’m prioritizing people over junk.”

“Me too,” Greg said. “I always prioritize the people. That’s my whole point.”

Darryl heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Tabitha and Marion approaching. By the looks on their faces, it was clear they had overheard at least some of the debate. Between them, they were lugging a big sack of folded linens.

“Well, it sounds like the two of you are least being civil,” Marion said. “Is this really the best time to have an impassioned debate about what to bring and what to leave behind? We’ve had the whole winter to figure it out.”

“I think we’re at an impasse,” Greg said. He started to reach for the crate full of junk, but he paused and grabbed another box instead, hoisting it up into the wagon. “Darryl wants to travel light; I want to bring everything. What do you two think?”

Tabitha and Marion traded a look, as if waiting to see which of them would go first.

“Well, I’m with Greg,” Tabitha said, setting the sack of linens down. “I think we should bring absolutely everything we can. I haven’t been to the cabin in years, so I’m not sure what we’ll find there. The roof might have collapsed. It might be infested with vermin. Who knows? The more resources we have, the better our chances of being able to address any problems.”

“I think you’re jumping the gun,” Marion said. “Before we can worry about what we find at the cabin, we have to worry about getting there. The journey ahead is the most important thing right now. If we’re overloaded, we’re going to travel a lot slower, and we might struggle to even get over the mountain.”

“So it’s a tie,” Greg said, shaking his head. “We’re still at an impasse.”

Now, Darryl was struggling not to get really annoyed. At this point, he was ready to suggest that they build a second wagon. Maybe they could somehow get the cows to pull the damn thing? Whatever it took to make Justine more comfortable. He was still kneeling beside the crate of junk, but he was at a loss for words.

“Should we play a round of rock-paper-scissors to settle the debate?” Marion asked. She didn’t sound like she was completely joking.

“I’ll settle it.” Justine’s voice. Darryl turned to see his girlfriend stepping through the curtains, her hands on her belly.

“We were just debating—” Greg started to say.

“I know. I heard it all,” Justine replied. “Sorry, Darryl, but your dad and grandma are right. Take everything. I can handle being crunched up in the back. You never know what we might need. Okay?” She gave each person a lingering look, one by one. “There. No need for rock-paper-scissors. Bring it all, and I’ll be just fine. I’m not so delicate, you know. Thanks.”

And with that, she turned, sighed, and walked back through the curtains. Darryl felt chastened. He’d been trying to advocate for her comfort, but in the process, he’d made her feel awkward about being in the center of an argument.

“Are you okay with that, son?” Greg asked.

Darryl appreciated the question. It was clearly an attempt to prevent hurt feelings. “Yeah, if she’s fine with it, I’m fine with it. Let’s load up.” To prove he meant it, he wrapped his arms around the crate of junk and struggled to hoist it up. Greg had to bend down and help him, and they managed to get it onto the lowered tailboard of the wagon.

“Look, I’ll make sure the trip goes as smoothly as possible,” Greg said. “That’s my promise to you and Justine.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Darryl replied.

But as he said it, he heard the back axle let out a loud groan. The sideboards were already lined with boxes and barrels from front to back, and they had a lot more to go. Greg didn’t seem bothered by the noise from the wagon’s underbelly, as he proceeded to shove the big crate of junk beside the back bench.

“It’ll ride heavy, but I did some work on the wagon over the winter,” Greg said. “It’ll hold up.”

And then, even as the words were still leaving his lips, the axle gave another loud groan. Then it snapped with sudden violence. The back right wheel broke free of its hub and fell over, and the whole back corner of the wagon crashed down. Greg fell off the tailboard, landing among their supplies, and the crate of junk slid backward. It hit the back leg of the bench, spun, and tipped over, gushing broken tools, scrap metal, and tattered clothes all over the cave floor, as Darryl danced backward out of the way. Other bags and barrels soon followed, sliding down the slope, many of them tipping over, tumbling, scattering their contents all over the ground.

Get your copy of Survive the Journey

Available February 10th, 2021

(Available for pre-order now.)

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BLURB

When the lights go out, anarchy reigns supreme.

After journalist Austin Merryman’s wife died, he and his fourteen-year-old daughter left home to travel the country in an old RV. But the comfort and renewal they sought soon descends into chaos.

After a message from an old college buddy leads Austin to a bridge in the middle of nowhere, he finds his friend—now an NSA agent—waiting to give him a USB drive. Before the contents can be explained, machine gun fire strafes the bridge, killing Austin’s friend and forcing Austin into the raging river.

Rescued downstream by a beautiful veterinarian, Austin learns that EMP attacks have thrust the world into eternal darkness—and separated him from the only person he has left. Now, he’ll move heaven and earth to locate his daughter and make it to his brother’s prepper hideaway in Utah.

But the post-apocalyptic world is no longer a friendly place. Resources are growing scarce. Factions break out along ethnic and religious lines. Everyone is willing to do whatever it takes to survive in an increasingly hostile environment. And Austin’s daughter is caught right in the middle of this splintering society.

But an even deadlier foe stalks them as they struggle across the landscape. Someone who hasn’t forgotten about the USB drive Austin possesses.

And they’ll do anything to get it back.

Grab your copy of Survive the Chaos (Small Town EMP Book One) from
www.GraceHamiltonBooks.com

* * *

EXCERPT

Chapter One

Austin Merryman stored the last of the dinner dishes in the small cupboard of his thirty-two-foot fifth wheel. The RV wasn’t an ideal living space for a man and his fourteen-year-old daughter, but they’d been managing to make it work. As he and Savannah constantly reminded each other, it was both easy and difficult to keep the small living space clean. It only took a stray pair of shoes or a few dishes on the tiny kitchen counter to make things look untidy, and both of them were guilty of forgetting the fact on a too-regular basis.

Waiting for Savannah to emerge from the little upper bedroom, he folded a blanket, tossed it on the couch, and put the TV remote back in the little caddy mounted on the wall. Austin liked things neat, though he knew Savannah had to clean up after him just as he was cleaning up after her now.

“Savannah!” he called out, checking his watch again.

She popped her head out from around the upstairs corner of the fifth-wheel, a hair dryer still in her hand. “What?”

“I have to get going.”

She shrugged as she wrapped the cord around her dryer. “I told you, I don’t need a ride. Leave already.”

“I’ll be back within an hour or so. Where are you going exactly?” he asked. She’d told him she was going to the creamery for ice cream with the girl who lived on a nearby farm; somehow, he couldn’t believe it was that simple. He wanted to, but he’d seen the way she’d ogled that boy they’d run into in town—and the way they’d leaned in to each other to talk. He remembered being young and carefree. Yeah, it had been a long time ago, before life and the world had given him a much more jaded view of things, but he remembered. And Savannah was too pretty for him to forget what he’d been like as a teenage boy.

“Dad, I already told you. We’re going to get ice cream,” she groaned, adjusting her hair in a hand mirror. “Me and Cassie.”

Out with it, Austin. “Are you going to see that boy?” he asked.

She glanced over to meet his eyes and then gave him that maddening teenage shrug again. “He might be there,” she replied.

Right. He might be there. Austin kept eyeing her, trying to decide whether or not to trust her—not that he had much choice, but still. She looked so much like his late wife that it hurt sometimes. Her long, light brown hair had been brushed to a high shine and left loose around her shoulders. She’d only asked him to buy her lip gloss and mascara thus far. He dreaded the day she wanted to go full face-paint. He preferred the clean, youthful look that befitted her fourteen years over the girls her age who he’d seen with more makeup than a supermodel wore.

And he had to admit, she didn’t give him as much stress as he knew many fourteen-year-olds dealt their parents. Even with tonight being a warm early summer night, she wore something he couldn’t quite object to. For tonight’s ice cream trip, she’d donned the black flowy shirt with the shoulder cut-outs that she’d begged him to buy her on their last mall visit. And it wasn’t truly revealing, so he couldn’t complain. It just made her look far more mature than he liked, reminding him that he had to accept that she was growing up.

“I want you home by ten,” he reminded her. “Not at the farmer’s house with your friend down the street, either. Home.”

Finally starting to move down toward the door where he stood, she quirked her lips in a frown. “Dad, it doesn’t even get dark until like nine-thirty,” she argued.

“Ten, or don’t go at all. You don’t need to be walking around after dark. There are wild animals out here,” he lectured her.

“I have my phone,” she said, brandishing it as if the expensive gadget were a gun. He wished it were, the way she looked.

“And the service out here sucks,” he told her, “as you remind me all the time. Animals aren’t going to wait for you to call for help, either.”

The look she gave him told him she was mentally slapping her hand to her forehead, even if she was smart enough not to actually do it in front of him. “My phone has a flashlight and Cassie knows this area. We’ll be fine, Dad.”

“Don’t take rides from strangers, and remember what I told you if anyone tries to grab you.”

She got to within a foot of him and leaned back on the couch in obedient daughter mode. “I remember: palm to the nose, fingers in the eyes, and knee to the crotch,” she recited robotically.

“Upward palm,” he corrected her.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I got it. Maybe you should just have me carry mace or something,” she suggested.

Austin grinned, gesturing her toward the door to get her moving. “That’s a good idea. I’ll pick up some bear spray tomorrow when we go into town for groceries,” he commented, only half joking. He had to hide a grin when she gasped in a breath like they were in a horror movie.

“Dad! No! I can’t be the only girl carrying bear spray around!”

“Sure, you can. If you want to wander around by yourself, Savannah, you’ll do exactly that.”

She looked in the mirror on the wall, doing one last primp of her hair as Austin forced himself to remain patient. “You are so overreacting. We’re in the middle of the country,” she grumbled. “The nearest town has a population of like two hundred people,” she finished, exaggerating the low population by a few thousand.

He shrugged back at her, now holding the door open as a heavy hint that he wanted them both out if she was going. “Small towns have bad guys, too. And plenty of teen boys who don’t always know when to keep their hands to themselves,” he added.

She shook her head in disgust. “I’m old enough to date, Dad, and Malachi isn’t like other teen boys.”

So, she was planning on seeing him. Damn. He just curbed himself from telling her she had to stay home, knowing he couldn’t watch her all the time. But he wouldn’t consent to dating. Not yet. He caught her eyes with his before he emphasized, “No, Savannah. Not yet.”

“Da-a-a-d.” She dragged out the word.

This wasn’t a conversation he was going to have again tonight. She was growing up too fast. His wife had made him promise to take care of her, and that’s what he would do, even if it meant dragging her around the country and keeping her out of the reach of boys.

“Savannah, be glad I’m letting you go at all. I could insist on driving you to the creamery and meeting the boy who may or may not be there,” he warned her.

He heard her mumble something under her breath but didn’t bother asking what she’d said as he stepped into the doorway, hoping she’d get the hint that he really had to go. It had probably been one of those snappy comments that would only irritate him further. Austin grabbed his cellphone from the table beside the door and slid it into his back pocket as he stepped outside. It didn’t do a lot of good to carry the thing out in the mountains of west Kentucky where he and Savannah were currently staying, but he might as well. Despite it being inconvenient when it came to keeping track of Savannah, he liked the idea of being somewhat off the grid. So what if cell service was spotty? It gave them more time to focus on the moment, the here and now—wherever they happened to be on any given day.

When Karen had died a little over a year ago, he’d used part of the life insurance money to buy the fifth wheel. He’d waited until Savannah had finished the eighth grade and then they’d hit the road. He just couldn’t stand being in the house with all the reminders. He’d planned on traveling through the summer, and then it had turned into a year. He still couldn’t go back and face her clothes, the pictures of them on their wedding day, and all those little things in the house that were reminders of her.

So, now, he traveled the country with his daughter, doing stories about things national reporters were too busy to worry about. She could homeschool easily enough, and he liked the salt of the earth people and discovering little secrets in small towns and out of the way places; writing about them felt worthwhile. It was a way for him to fulfill his need to travel and make a living while still being a good dad to his daughter.

Finally, Savannah stepped down the two steps of the trailer and looked at him, daring him to say something about the mascara she had piled on. She was pushing it and she knew it.

“You look nice,” he said with a smile, completely throwing her off. “Thanks,” she mumbled, slipping her own cellphone into the back pocket of her jeans.

“Be careful, please,” Austin reminded her. “Be aware of your surroundings, and call me if you need anything,” he said, giving her a quick hug.

“I will, Dad. Stop worrying, okay?” she said, squeezing him back. “We’re just getting some ice cream. It isn’t that big of a deal.”

After she checked for her key, he locked the trailer door, though even he admitted it was a little silly considering they were out in the middle of farmland. Still, it was an old habit, and one really never knew when someone could stop by and rifle through their things.

Turning away from the door, Austin watched as his daughter cut across the pasture, dodging horse manure as she headed towards the dirt road that led into town. He shielded his eyes with his hand and saw Cassie standing under a tree by the roadside, gesturing for his daughter to hurry. He waved back when Cassie spotted him and sent him a big wave, happy to know Savannah had made a friend—especially one who lived just a few farms down the road. In another moment, Savannah picked up her pace, almost jogging as she rushed to meet her friend. He watched for another minute as they met and bumped shoulders before starting the mile or so’s walk into town.

Austin would have driven them, but Savannah had wanted to walk, and he was going in the opposite direction anyway. He climbed into his black F-350 and started the diesel engine, taking only a quick glance at the GPS before bouncing down the bumpy driveway and heading for the highway. Callum Barker had called him a few days ago, completely out of the blue, and asked to meet. Austin had thought it strange, but Callum insisted it was important and that the story would be worth his time. He’d also promised the meeting would take less than five minutes, which meant Austin would be home in plenty of time to make sure Savannah met her curfew—and to go looking for her if she lingered in town with that boy.

By the time he hit the highway, the meeting had taken over the fore of his thoughts. Austin remembered Callum as being a little off when they’d been in college, one of those conspiracy-type guys, but he’d sounded desperate on the phone. And they’d spent enough nights drinking together that Austin figured he at least owed him the gas it would take to hear him out. He figured he’d meet him, give the guy the proverbial pat on the head, and promise to look into the evidence he presented and be on his way. Maybe it would even be an interesting diversion from his usual stories and offer a brief change of pace. That couldn’t hurt, right?

The meeting place was a twenty-minute drive from the farm, set in some corner of nowhere. When Austin had punched it into his GPS, the dot had looked like it was in the middle of a forest, on the bank of a river with nothing else around it.

“Where am I going?” he muttered after driving about ten miles up the highway. The GPS was telling him to take a right turn on a muddy road that was barely wide enough for his truck to squeeze through the trees.

He heard the first branch scrape alongside his truck’s side after driving only fifty meters or so, right around the moment his GPS alerted him to a lost signal. He was on his own. In another minute, he grunted with annoyance and brought the truck to a stop. A fallen tree blocked the so-called road ahead—if he wanted to meet Callum, he’d have to go the rest of the way on foot.

Grab your copy of Survive the Chaos (Small Town EMP Book One) from
www.GraceHamiltonBooks.com

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