The coffee burned before dawn, and Nola Vance decided it was probably a warning.
She stood alone in the staging-house kitchen with one hand wrapped around a chipped cup while a thin ribbon of smoke curled from the blackened pot on the iron stove. Outside, wagon wheels rattled across the yard. Horses snorted against their harnesses. Somewhere upstairs, two young women laughed while packing dresses for their journeys west.
They were the sort of women ranchers wrote letters about.
Twenty-two.
Maybe twenty-five.
Pretty enough to make a lonely man forget how many miles separated him from civilization.
Nola was forty-three.
She had rough hands, tired brown eyes, and a face that had survived enough winters to stop apologizing for every line upon it. Her auburn-brown hair had begun showing streaks of gray near her temples, though most mornings she twisted it tightly enough that nobody noticed.
Nobody except Nola.
She noticed everything.
That was what hardship taught a woman.
Mrs. Talbott appeared in the doorway carrying a telegram.
The agency supervisor usually walked as though the entire building belonged to her. That morning, however, she hesitated.
Nola noticed that too.
“You’re going to Hollow Creek.”
Nola slowly set down her cup.
“When?”
“Today.”
“To whom?”
Mrs. Talbott unfolded the telegram.
“Garrick Hale. Cattleman. Thirty-five years old. Widower. Three children.”
Nola waited.
Mrs. Talbott cleared her throat.
“His wife died in February.”
“What’s he paying?”
“Room and board. Thirty dollars a month if you stay through harvest.”
That was more money than Nola had seen in months.
Which meant something was wrong.
She folded her arms.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Mrs. Talbott looked toward the hallway.
“One woman reached Hollow Creek and left four days later.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“And?”
“Two others turned around before reaching Hale’s property.”
“Why?”
Mrs. Talbott sighed.
“They say the place is cursed.”
Nola almost smiled.
“Curses usually have names.”
“This one might. Garrick Hale.”
That wiped away the smile.
Mrs. Talbott lowered her voice.
“His wife, Rebecca, became sick last fall. Nobody knew what was wrong with her. She kept losing weight. Couldn’t hold down food. Could barely stand toward the end.”
“And the doctor?”
“Apparently treated her.”
“Apparently?”
Mrs. Talbott shrugged.
“She died anyway.”
Nola looked toward the dark window.
“And now?”
“His cattle are failing. His children are practically raising themselves. The house is falling apart. People say Hale barely speaks unless he has to.”
Mrs. Talbott paused.
“There’s also a businessman named Vernon Crow trying to buy the ranch.”
Nola glanced back.
“For what?”
“For almost nothing, from what I heard.”
“That sounds less like a curse and more like a bargain hunter.”
“Believe whatever you want.”
Mrs. Talbott placed the telegram on the table.
“You’re the only woman still willing to go.”
That sentence told Nola more than anything else.
She walked upstairs, collected her carpetbag, and came down wearing her heaviest traveling coat.
Nearly everything she owned fit inside that bag.
Two dresses.
Stockings.
A Bible that had belonged to her mother.
A sewing kit.
Several letters tied together with faded blue thread.
And a small leather roll containing instruments she had not used professionally in years.
Mrs. Talbott stared at the bag.
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough.”
Nola stepped outside.
She had nearly reached the waiting stage when Mrs. Talbott spoke behind her.
Not loudly.
But loudly enough.
“Thank the Lord that one’s finally off our hands. Nobody wants a woman that old unless they’re desperate.”
The driver looked toward Nola awkwardly.
Nola never turned around.
She climbed into the coach.
“Ready?”
“No.”
The driver raised an eyebrow.
Nola settled against the seat.
“But go anyway.”
The three-day journey west carried her through country so empty it seemed God had begun creating the world and simply lost interest.
Grassland became hard earth.
Hard earth became hills.
The hills rose toward distant mountains stained purple beneath the evening sky.
At the second relay station, Nola ate dry cornbread beside a one-eyed old man who introduced himself as Amos Pike.
When he learned where she was going, his chewing slowed.
“Hollow Creek?”
“That’s right.”
“To Hale?”
“That seems to be everybody’s reaction.”
Amos wiped his mouth.
“You know about Rebecca?”
“His wife?”
“Good woman.”
His voice softened.
“She could make bread outta nothing and get a laugh from Garrick Hale when he was determined not to give one.”
“What happened?”
“Sick.”
“So I heard.”
“Six months sick.”
Amos stared into the fire.
“Changed him.”
“Grief tends to do that.”
“Not like this.”
He leaned closer.
“Garrick used to be stubborn. Loud sometimes. Too proud by half. But he wasn’t dead inside. Now?”
Amos shook his head.
“Something died in that house before Rebecca did.”
Nola studied him.
“And his children?”
“Eli’s ten. Tries to be a grown man.”
Amos frowned.
“That’s never good for a boy.”
“No.”
“Clara’s five. Sweet little thing when she talks. Baby Weston was born not long before Rebecca started getting worse.”
“And the ranch?”
“Falling apart.”
“Why?”
“Cattle getting weak. Calves dying. Fences cut now and again. Equipment breaking at exactly the wrong time.”
Nola’s gaze sharpened.
“That doesn’t sound like grief.”
Amos smiled without humor.
“That’s why I said curse.”
“And Vernon Crow?”
The old man looked at her sharply.
“Who told you about Crow?”
“The agency.”
Amos lowered his voice.
“Crow owns half the businesses between Hollow Creek and Miller Junction. Feed store. Freight contracts. Piece of the bank, people say. Wants Hale’s property bad.”
“Why?”
“Good land.”
“That can’t be all.”
Amos’s one good eye narrowed.
“You ask too many questions.”
“I’ve been told.”
He leaned back.
“Maybe you’ll last longer than the others.”
“What happened to the woman who left?”
“Nobody knows.”
Then Amos added quietly, “But she looked scared when she passed through here going east.”
Hollow Creek appeared beneath a dying sunset on the third day.
Nola first saw the ranch from the crest of a ridge.
The house stood beneath a line of cottonwoods, two stories of faded timber beneath a roof missing shingles. A sagging porch stretched across the front. Several outbuildings leaned under years of wind.
Dust coated everything.
Not ordinary dust.
The place looked buried beneath it.
Like somebody had thrown a burial shroud across an entire life.
The stage stopped.
The driver handed Nola her bag.
“Good luck, ma’am.”
“That sounded suspiciously like goodbye.”
“It might be both.”
He snapped the reins and disappeared toward town.
Nola stood alone.
A man stepped from the barn.
He was younger than she expected.
Perhaps thirty-five, just as Mrs. Talbott had said.
Tall and lean, but too lean.
Dark hair fell across his forehead. Several days of beard shadowed his jaw. His beige work shirt hung loosely beneath a dark brown vest.
His eyes caught Nola’s attention most.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Empty.
He walked toward her.
“You’re the woman from the agency?”
“Nola Vance.”
His gaze moved over her face.
Then her dress.
Then the carpetbag.
“How old are you?”
Nola stared at him.
“Old enough to know that’s a rude question.”
His jaw tightened.
“I requested somebody younger.”
“And I requested a mansion in San Francisco. Apparently neither of us got what we wanted.”
For the first time, something moved behind his eyes.
Not amusement.
Irritation.
“I need somebody capable of keeping up with three children and ranch work.”
Nola picked up her bag.
“I’ve been keeping up with hard work longer than you’ve been shaving.”
Garrick’s gaze hardened.
“You look like you’ve been keeping up with hard luck and not much else.”
Silence settled between them.
Nola placed the carpetbag back on the dirt.
“Mr. Hale, I traveled three days to get here. I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I don’t particularly care whether you find me young enough, pretty enough, or cheerful enough.”
His expression shifted.
“You need help.”
She tapped her chest.
“I need work.”
Then she pointed toward the house.
“So you have two choices. Keep insulting me until that stage comes back in three days, or show me where the kitchen is.”
Garrick opened his mouth.
A child cried inside.
Both froze.
It was not the healthy wail of an angry infant.
It was thin.
Hoarse.
Exhausted.
Garrick’s face changed instantly.
“That’s Weston.”
“The baby?”
“He’s been sick.”
“How long?”
“A week.”
Nola’s anger disappeared.
“Doctor?”
Garrick looked away.
“Won’t come.”
“Why?”
“I owe him money.”
Nola picked up her bag.
“Where’s the child?”
Garrick started to answer.
Nola had already walked past him.
The house smelled of dust, old cooking grease, damp cloth, and grief.
A little girl stood in the hallway clutching a stuffed bear so worn one ear had been repaired with mismatched cloth.
She could not have been older than five.
Her brown hair hung unevenly around her face.
Her dress was too small.
Nola crouched briefly.
“You must be Clara.”
The girl said nothing.
Only hugged the bear tighter.
A boy appeared at the top of the stairs.
Ten years old.
Thin.
Dark-haired.
Trying desperately to stand like a grown man.
“Who are you?”
“Nola.”
“We don’t need another wife.”
Garrick stopped behind her.
“Eli.”
The boy’s face hardened.
“The last one said she was going to marry you. Then she left.”
Nola looked directly at him.
“I didn’t come here to replace anybody.”
Something in Eli’s expression loosened.
“Where’s your brother?”
The boy turned toward the upstairs room.
Nola climbed.
Weston lay in a wooden cradle beside an unmade bed.
His face was frighteningly red.
His tiny lips looked dry.
Each breath came too quickly.
Nola placed two fingers against his neck, then touched his forehead.
Hot.
Far too hot.
“When did he last drink?”
Eli answered.
“Milk this morning.”
“Water?”
The boy looked confused.
Nola turned toward Garrick.
“He needs fluids. Not thick milk. When was his diaper changed?”
Garrick’s face tightened.
“I’ve been dealing with cattle.”
Nola stared at him.
“Your ten-year-old has been caring for a sick baby?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I’m looking at it.”
His temper flared.
“You’ve been in my house five minutes.”
“And in five minutes I’ve seen enough.”
“Woman—”
“Eli is a child.”
The words struck harder than shouting.
“He should be climbing trees and tearing his pants. He should not be deciding whether his baby brother has enough water.”
Garrick stepped closer.
For a moment Nola thought he might order her out.
Instead his shoulders sagged.
The anger vanished.
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
Eli looked away.
Garrick stared at the cradle.
“I know.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Silence.
“I’ve been trying.”
He swallowed.
“I swear to God I’ve been trying.”
Nola looked at the man who had insulted her less than ten minutes earlier.
For the first time, she saw him clearly.
Not cruel.
Not heartless.
Drowning.
He worked himself until there was nothing left because stopping would mean remembering.
She knew that kind of grief.
She had once worn it herself.
Nola turned toward the cradle.
“Eli, bring me the cleanest basin you have.”
The boy moved immediately.
“Clara, I need fresh cloth.”
Clara stared.
“Can Bear come?”
“Bear can supervise.”
The girl nodded solemnly.
Nola pointed toward Garrick.
“You.”
He almost seemed surprised.
“Me?”
“Boil water. Then bring drinking water from your safest source.”
“The kitchen pump.”
“No creek water.”
His brow furrowed.
“Why?”
“Because I said safest.”
He stared at her for a moment.
Then obeyed.
Nola removed her coat.
Rolled up her sleeves.
And placed a damp cloth against Weston’s burning forehead.
The infant whimpered.
“Easy, sweetheart.”
His fingers curled weakly around hers.
Nola felt something inside her chest tighten.
She had come to Hollow Creek for thirty dollars a month.
Nothing more.
She had promised herself she would never again make the mistake of needing people who could disappear.
Yet looking at Weston, she knew she would not be leaving that child tonight.
Perhaps not tomorrow either.
Garrick returned carrying water.
Nola began examining the items beside the cradle.
A cup.
A spoon.
A folded rag.
And a small brown medicine bottle.
She lifted it.
The liquid inside was cloudy.
There was dark sediment gathered at the bottom.
“What’s this?”
Garrick looked.
“Medicine.”
“From the doctor?”
He hesitated.
“No.”
Nola slowly turned toward him.
“Then from whom?”
Before Garrick could answer, Eli spoke from the doorway.
“Mr. Crow.”
Nola looked at the boy.
Eli’s face had gone pale.
“He brought it for Mama too.”
The room became very quiet.
Nola held the bottle toward the oil lamp.
Something gritty shifted through the dark liquid.
Eli whispered, “Mama started getting worse after she took it.”
Garrick stared at his son.
“What did you say?”
Eli’s lip trembled.
“I thought you knew.”
Nola put the bottle down carefully.
Garrick stepped forward.
“Vernon Crow gave Rebecca medicine?”
“Every week.”
Garrick looked as though the floor had moved beneath him.
Nola picked up the bottle again.
Then she looked at Weston.
“Has the baby been given this?”
Garrick’s face drained of color.
“This afternoon.”
“How much?”
“A spoon.”
Nola’s entire posture changed.
“Do not give him another drop.”
Garrick stared at her.
“Nola—”
“Not one.”
She held the bottle between them.
“And nobody in this house drinks anything until I know exactly where it came from.”
Outside, darkness settled over Hollow Creek.
And for the first time since Rebecca Hale had died, somebody inside the house began asking the question everyone else had been too frightened—or too convenient—to ask.
What if the Hale family had never been cursed at all?
What if somebody had been killing them?
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