No White Knight

It’s haunting as Frost takes one slow step at a time into the ruins. He heads toward the saloon like he knows.

The poor boy feels my tension, probably. I swear this place looks much creepier at night.

Like that dead man could jump up anytime and make me pay for my father’s sins.

My heart thuds, my palms sweat.

I dismount and tie Frost up to a hitching post so old the Vanner would probably pull it out of the ground with one good tug.

But he’s good—he always is—and only nudges my shoulder with his warm, velvety nose like he’s reminding me he’s always here for me.

I step through the creaking double doors, their scream too loud, too hollow, a terrible lament of the dead.

It’s almost like the cry comes from the wide-open mouth of the skeleton slouched in the chair like he’s been waiting just for me.

I know his name now.

Gerald Bostrom.

It just makes this worse.

I take a few tentative steps closer, but there’s no sudden motion, no jump scare, nothing paranormal.

Just my own footsteps on brittle floorboards, which is bad enough.

My breathing thins.

When I look at the skeleton up close, he doesn’t scare me.

He just makes me sad.

Sitting there with so many unanswered questions, haunting my life.

Dad told me to find his gun, but I throw my flashlight around everywhere and don’t see it. There’s nothing behind the bar but debris, a few fallen chairs around the tables, and an ancient piano in the corner.

Nothing catches the light but a spent shell casing I know too well.

Every gun’s got its own kind of shell casing, and Dad’s rifle…

Yeah.

I leave it where it is. I guess the bullet itself probably fell out of the mummified remains of Bostrom and might be hanging around inside that suit somewhere.

God, what gun? Where the hell is it?

I don’t know.

I’m not thinking straight.

There’s got to be something here that’s key to burying this mess.

After taking a couple more long, nervous rounds, it’s all I can stand. I head back outside and mount up.

Frost seems as eager to get the hell out of Dodge as I am, but just in case, I make one more run through the town.

I never really explored here much the last time I came, but there’s a sort of quiet fascination to this place.

It really is a straight-up Wild West town like something right out of a movie set.

Just not sure if that movie’s a western or a thriller flick.

It’s eerie how it looks like the people just stopped what they were doing and left.

Plates are still on tables when I peer through windows. Tools left lying around, half-finished horseshoes next to a dead forge at the blacksmith’s, ledgers left open at the bank, though from what I can see the weather’s gotten in the windows enough to make the ink illegible.

One day soon I’ll pick through every building until I find something, anything, just one scrap of paper that says this place is Ursa.

As I get to the far side of town, though, I’m caught by the church.

It’s as run-down as everything else. Sturdy and standing, but dirty and with some shingles torn out. There’s a small graveyard beyond it, mostly wood markers crumbled into bits of kindling and a few brave stones still standing.

Was this Father Matthew’s church?

Could this be the key, linking this church with that journal?

Another thing catches my eye as I start turning Frost away, though.

And it chills my bones more than any skeletons or spiderweb-clogged churches ever could.

Tire tracks. They’re there on the road leading out the far side, toward the exit of the mountain pass.

Fresh ones.

Someone found where the road lets out and the pass opens up on the other side of the mountains. They came in from the opposite direction so I wouldn’t catch them skulking around and chase them off for trespassing.

Despite the melting heat of the summer night, I’m frozen with dread.

Just staring at those tracks.

Frost picks up on my unease and prances restlessly under me.

Someone else knows about the ghost town, now.

Someone besides me and Holt.

Which also means…

Oh, no.

Someone knows about Gerald Bostrom, too.

Shit.

12

Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth (Holt)

Gotta say, it’s a lot easier to track an arsonist down when he’s conveniently spewing fire everywhere.

That’s what happened the last time things blew up in Heart’s Edge.

Turns out, it’s a whole lot harder when all I have is guesswork about who might be pissed off at me, plus a little detective help from my brother.

Whoever set the blaze knew what they were doing. It’s easy enough to rule out any random jealous boyfriends, husbands, or lovers, or angry ex-lovers themselves.

I’m good, but I’m not worth burning six figures in equipment and inventory good, and possibly going to prison.

Rival contractors?

Nah. Most everyone in town with any construction experience is an independent contractor.