No White Knight

No—no, I know I’ve seen it somewhere before.

I frown, thinking back to the boxes of Dad’s junk.

That trunk. There was a leather-bound journal in there, real old.

I’ve seen it before.

I faintly remember Dad reading it when I was just a little girl, sitting next to him on the sofa and poring through my picture books of constellations.

I’d look over now and then with a child’s curiosity, squinting at the lettering and tight script that my little eyes couldn’t quite make out.

Do I remember seeing Ursa scrawled in ink?

Hmm.

Pushing the laptop away, I get up to dig in the chest, searching through all the little cases and foam padding until—

There it is.

An old-timey leather travel journal. It’s all thick yellowed paper with crinkly, stiff edges wrapped up in portfolio-style binding and tied with a leather cord.

It’s so old and feels so fragile I’m afraid it’ll crumble. I peel it open carefully, undoing the leather knots and then laying the journal out on the table.

The old pages fan up stiffly, and I turn them over carefully so they don’t snap right in half, reading through the faded ink that looks like it was scratched on with a quill.

It’s the journal of a priest, I guess. That’s what it sounds like, when it talks about reading services in the small towns he passes through. I guess he’s a traveler, a wanderer…or maybe he was just on his way somewhere and doing his duty in settlements he passed through.

He signs every entry as Father Matthew, nothing else. Not even on the inside cover to say who it belonged to.

There’s a peaceful, humble quality to the writing that makes it easy to get absorbed in. I page through his ruminations on nature and the beautiful things he saw, his thoughts on finding God in the skyline, in a hunting hawk, in the smiles of the kids in the towns he passed through.

When I’m almost halfway through, I stop.

It’s a single entry dated almost a hundred and fifty years ago.

Arrived in Ursa today.

We shall see how well I settle in at my post.

I should pen letters to the Bishop at once, letting him know of my safe arrival.

He was right to send me.

There are many lost souls here in need of guidance.

Ursa, he said.

I don’t think I’ve ever cursed a priest before, but damn if I’m not ready now.

I just wish he’d mentioned more places, some landmarks that would make it clear he charted a path right to these mountains and that ghost town.

The entries after don’t help much, either.

They’re day to day chronicles of people’s confessions, their worries, the problems of the town. People suffering in poverty, wanting for food and basic needs as the silver—and the money—started to dry up. People doing terrible things to survive and falling in with some bandit guy named Danny as their leader.

And then nothing. A bunch of pages look torn out, just ragged edges left behind, and then blank space after that.

Shame.

At least I’m clear on one thing now.

Ursa exists where I think.

I just have to prove this journal came from there.

I’ve got to go back and get rid of Bostrom’s bones.

Even if it means doing something crazy like dissolving him in lye to make sure there’s not a single trace of DNA left.

It feels questionable, yeah. My belly tightens, I don’t know if I could really do it.

Especially if an innocent man lost his life.

But is it that wrong for me to want to keep my home?

I didn’t kill anyone.

I didn’t hide it for years, though I’m hiding it now.

I just want my ranch, my horses, my life to be safe.

Why is that so wrong?

* * *

I wait until dark to saddle up and head out.

Most of the time I can be pretty sure I’m alone on my ranch, but right now that’s no guarantee.

I’ve got too many people who want a piece of it—and me. I never know who might show up and catch sight of me disappearing down Nowhere Lane.

It’s unfamiliar terrain beyond the first mile in.

It’s been almost an entire year since I came down this path. But Frost is good, and I trust him to sense any predators, potholes, or other pitfalls long before I’d notice.

We take it slow, moving under moonlight that turns the grass silver and lights up the bluffs. They almost reflect back the sky from their cragged edges.

I can vaguely make out the path Holt made when he came through.

Doesn’t seem like any fresh tracks since then, though, and that’s a relief.

I’m jittery for the whole ride, and although we get through without running into anything scary…

That feeling doesn’t fade.

If anything, it only sinks in deeper.

I feel like I’m being pulled around by Dad’s ghost.

Like he wants me to find something, but I just don’t know what.

Maybe I’m just carrying his guilt for him now that he’s not here to carry it himself.