West

I always wanted animals. John had tons of horses and sheep. Curious to explore my temporary home and avoid Philip as long as possible, I left my room without waiting for Nell and strode out of the house. Several farm hands were out, preparing the property for the storm. Shutters were closed, buggies rolled into the massive carriage house, canvas tarps thrown over hay and other items that might fly away, and the wells covered. Most of the animals present were huddled together or being led into barns.

I watched the efficient, quick preparations that told me they were used to storms here and entered the horse barn. All the stalls were filled, and half the barn was roped off to form a makeshift corral for additional horses.

The horse I borrowed was eating and came to the stall door when I approached. I reached out to rub his forehead. "Thanks for not telling anyone about our escape last night," I murmured.

Smiling, I stroked the smooth hair of its jaw and soft skin of its muzzle. It blew out its nostrils in response, ears flickering.

Anxious to visit the sheep before Nell found me, I left the barn and walked around it to reach the large pen with goats and sheep, pausing to observe what looked like an old well. The waist-high stone circle was boarded up and sat among piles of loose straw that had been recently tarped down.

An odd memory flickered, less of a vision and more of an instinct, the strange sense of knowing that plagued me at Fighting Badger's cave. There was history to the old well, and not a good one, if my enhanced memory was to be believed.

I forgot to ask Carter how I can read dead people and places, I thought absently.

I leaned over the stone, trying to see through the cracks between boards into the depths of the well. Wind pushed me aside and I gripped the boards, testing them. Some appeared old and cracked, the nails holding them in place rusted. Others, however, looked newer, if weathered. I rested a hand on the newer ones, trying to capture the whisper I heard from the well.

There was more than one, I realized with some puzzlement. Unlike Fighting Badger's cave, where the whispers came from different places, these were all centered at the bottom of the well.

One … two … three. Three distinct, if fuzzy, images.

"You found Fighting Badger. Running Bear told me not an hour ago that you knew about my uncle's illness. How is this possible, Josie Jackson?"

I whirled. The man I least expected to see stood near a stack of hay. The sheriff was edgy, his intense gaze on me. It was a difference from earlier, when he'd almost been friendly while comforting me.