The Winslow Incident Read Online Free PDF Page A

wear that?
It’s not true to the period.” The old man shook his head as if it really did
spoil everything. “Your grandmother would not approve.”
    Patience had been fiddling with
her chain link bracelet, her fingertips nervously stroking the golden
horseshoe, the wishbone, a tiny four-leaf clover, seeking protection in the
lucky charms she had begun to collect soon after her Gram Lottie died, to
defend herself from further blows of fate. Not wanting to argue with her
grandfather, she tucked the bracelet up under her long, tight sleeve—she
never dared take it off and didn’t understand why he even bothered to ask.
    As she walked over to the group of
fifteen or so tourists, she looked them over to see if any were likely to tip.
Always the men, and nearly always they told her, “You look like Scarlett
O’Hara,” when they slipped her a five or a ten. She’d say, “Really?” as if
she’d never heard that one before. And all the while their wife or girlfriend
would be standing there like poor Miss Melly saying, “Come on. ”
    When Patience reached the expectant
group, she forced a smile. “Howdy,” she said with a cheerfulness she did not
feel. “Welcome to Matherston Ghost Town.” She turned to lead the way. “If
you’ll follow me, we’ll start with the blacksmith shop up here on the right and
the livery stable next door, where you’ll see a collection of mining equipment,
including the original Burleigh drills and rolling mounts . . .”
    The clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp of
thirty feet pounding the wooden boardwalk as they made their way past the
false-front buildings further grated on her nerves.
    She stopped the group in front of
the Mother Lode Saloon, saying, “This was one of three saloons in Matherston.”
She led them inside through batwing doors and pointed to a poker table covered
in ratty felt with barely discernable markings. “Story has it—”
    Without warning, her train of
thought left the station without her. She’d given the ghost town tour a hundred
times, yet all of a sudden, she had no idea what came next.
    The tourists were all staring at
her, obviously growing impatient.
    What’s wrong with me? She felt a surge of panic. Say something!
    “Story has it, dear?” the old gray
woman gently prompted.
    “Uh . . . uh . . .” Patience
swallowed hard, concentrating on the poker table until it finally came back to
her. “Story has it that no less than five men killed themselves after losing
their fortunes at that table even quicker than they’d made them at their
claims.” She chased her rush of words with a long exhale, still reeling from
her memory lapse. Yet she managed to finish. “And some say those souls have
never left the Mother Lode, unable to rest until they reclaim their treasure.”
    A tourist kid made a mock spooked
sound and two little girls fell into a fit of giggles.
    Patience gave the kid her best
evil eye before taking the group back outside, deciding then to cut the tour even
shorter for fear that her brain might short circuit again. “Our last stop,” she
continued, “is the Chop House Restaurant, which was said to have the thickest
steaks and surliest service in the West, both courtesy of Holloway Ranch.”
    Suddenly Patience wished the ranch
would just go away, wished it would simply slip off the mountainside in a
jumble of barns and cows, and then she’d have so much less to worry about.

Warn
the Innocent
Holloway Ranch
    T anner Holloway sat alone at the bench table
recently vacated by the ranch hands, spooning in clumps of lukewarm oatmeal and
considering his options (which, he had to admit, were few) when his Uncle Pard
stormed into the mess building with fire in his eyes.
    Oh shit , Tanner thought, shooting up and looking for the quickest
route of escape.
    Pard charged up. “Where have you
been and what the hell were you thinking last night?”
    Tanner pretended not to see or
hear him, glancing casually around at the litter of breakfast dishes on