I thank her and head to the hardware store. Carl’s behind the counter, replacing a spool of fencing wire on the rack.
“The woman who’s been checking the notice board,” I say. “What do you remember?”
“Looked at the flyers. Took pictures of the ranch hand postings with her phone. Came by twice: Saturday and again on Sunday.” Carl straightens the spool. “She ask you for a job yet? She’s been calling around. Martha Caldwell told me she rang Tuesday asking about seasonal work.”
“What did Martha tell her?”
“Same thing Martha tells everybody: We don’t hire strangers, try the Forresters.”
I nod. “Anything else?”
“Nothing worth mentioning. Seemed capable. Didn’t waste time.”
The gas station is next, though I already know what I’ll get from Jake. Three words, if I’m lucky.
“The woman with the out-of-state truck. She’s been in a few times.”
Jake fills a windshield-wash reservoir without looking up. “Couldn’t say.”
“She bought gas Tuesday. Paid cash.”
“Lot of people buy gas.”
“Jake.”
He looks at me. Sets down the jug. “She came in. Paid for gas. Didn’t say anything interesting. Didn’t do anything strange.” He picks the jug back up. “That’s all I got.”
That’s Jake. The man would describe a tornado as “some wind.”
I lean against my truck outside the gas station and lay it out.
A woman—Willow—arrived Saturday with a companion. She spent the first day scouting the town and asking about work. Her companion spent the day in the hills… Tate’s trail on the eastern ridge. Since then, she’s been around town intermittently: general store, hardware store, gas station, Dutch’s. She’s asked about ranch work at two properties and been directed to us both times. She bought field provisions. She knows cattle, knows ranching, knows how to move through rural country without drawing attention.
Her companion—Briar—likes the outdoors. Stays out of town. That’s all I’ve got on the second one.
Nothing I’ve found today contradicts the picture of two women traveling together, looking for work, passing through. The story is consistent. Nobody flagged anything suspicious. Nobody saw anything that didn’t fit.
I should be satisfied.
The problem is that satisfaction came too easily. I went looking for confirmation that she’s clean, and I found it, and therelief I feel tells me I wanted this answer before I started asking the questions.
Sometimes it just is what it is, Conner.
I don’t examine this thought too closely. I put the truck in gear and head for the compound.
Garrett’s at the south pens when I find him. He’s overseeing a crew moving yearlings from the lower pasture: the fall sorting, separating the keepers from the ones headed to market. He’s on the fence rail, hat pushed back, watching the work with the unhurried attention of a man who’s been handling cattle since before he was handling the pack. Two of the younger wolves are working the pen, moving animals through a chute while Garrett calls the cuts.
He sees me pull up. Doesn’t get off the fence. That means I go to him.
I climb the rail beside him. We watch the yearlings move through the chute for a minute. A red heifer balks at the gate, and one of the hands swings wide to push her through.
“Anything on the outsiders?” Garrett asks. Not looking at me. Watching the cattle.
“I made the rounds this morning. General store, hardware store, gas station. Called Martha Caldwell.”
“And?”
“She’s been asking about ranch work. Tried Caldwell, tried Hollis. Nothing from Hollis. Caldwell turned her down. Both pointed her to us.” I watch the heifer finally clear the chute. “She bought field provisions at the general store. Knows what she’s buying—ranch hand supplies, not tourist gear. Paid cash everywhere. Polite. Didn’t push.”