Free The Winslow Incident by Elizabeth Voss Page A

this?”
    “Because you love rocky road.”
Hazel took the carton from her and pushed it back in.
    “ You love rocky road.”
Whenever Sarah smiled, her bright blue eyes disappeared.
    Hazel placed her hands on her hips.
“What are you implying?”
    But Sarah looked concerned now.
“Your father told me he’s having trouble with Pard Holloway again.”
    Hazel’s stomach dropped. Had her father
found out what happened at the ranch between her and her uncle? How much did
her grandmother know? She decided to test the waters before giving her
grandmother any information that could make her victim to the same blackmail.
“True. Dad didn’t want the carnies at the rodeo this year. Said he’s had it
with their rusty rides and rigged games, that they’re not in the best interests
of our town. And Uncle Pard said, ‘You’ve got it exactly wrong, as usual,
Winslow.’ ” Hazel deepened her voice in imitation of her uncle: “ ‘Anything that
brings in tourist dollars is in the best interests of this town.’ ”
    Sarah shook her head, clearly
distressed. “I’m telling you, dear girl, this business at the ranch bodes ill.”
She took Hazel’s right hand and turned it up to inspect the red marks left on
her palm post splinter surgery, seeming to sense that there was a connection. Then
Sarah raised her eyes to Hazel’s: “Tell me what happened at the rodeo.”
    “I saw Ben Mathers,” Hazel replied
matter-of-factly. “Eating a hot dog.”
    “And?” Sarah asked as though she
didn’t have all day.
    Hazel hesitated, then said, “And something
went wrong with Indigo. They had to put him down.”
    “The bull, I know about. What I want
to know is what, exactly, all of this has to do with you. ”
    The look on her grandmother’s face
told her that she was giving her a chance to come clean. And since everyone in
town already seemed to know about the cattle crisis—thanks to Tanner’s
gigantic mouth, she strongly suspected—was there any point in continuing
to lie? She just had to leave out a few key details. Like her Uncle Pard’s
threat. Like what really happened that day five years ago at Three Fools Creek.
Like why Hazel was so terrified, deep down, that the incident was rising to the
surface like a long-dead catfish: spectral, slippery and foul.

Sunday Afternoon
Matherston Cemetery
    T hey sat in the shade of the granite wall,
sweating into crisp yellow weeds. No one in town could recall who built the
long squat wall around Matherston Cemetery, or why. It resisted memory; its
white face wiped clean each time the snow came. There were no messages written
on the wall that afternoon.
    Hazel swiveled to admire Sean. The
sun lit his eyes a warm color, like the bourbon they’d swipe from his dad when
Samuel was so drunk he’d never remember he hadn’t been the one to polish it
off. Only now, with Sean’s blank stare and sweaty face, he appeared feverish.
    “Uh, oh . . . ,” she said, “are you
feeling sick too?”
    He barely turned his head to look
at her—too much effort, apparently. “Just hot, I guess.”
    Looping the front hem of her
t-shirt through the neck, she fashioned it into a halter-top. Sean watched her
perform this operation with interest. Then she swabbed the sweat pooled on her
belly with her palm and wiped it on her shorts. That seemed interesting too. She
leaned back against the wall with a sharp sigh. “Does anybody even care that
we’re broiling to death up here? And with the stomach flu or something equally
nauseating going around on top of that?”
    “I don’t think anybody gives us
much thought between rodeos.” He yawned hugely. “Do you suppose that’s the end
of the Winslow Rodeo?”
    “Probably. Quite a finale.”
    “Do you suppose that’s the end of
Holloway Ranch?”
    “It’d serve my uncle right,
wouldn’t it? Trying to keep it quiet only makes the whole situation worse.
Obviously, it’s impossible to keep secrets in this town anyway. I bet if he
brought more vets up