“The tract is long and skinny. Shaped sorta like a fishhook.” He drew one in the air. “We’re here, at the bottom of the bend. The shack is up here on top.”

She’d never thought to ask about who owned the shack and the plot it was on. “It seems farther than that.”

“Nope. The road loops and meanders around. But as the crow flies, the shack is just over that hill. Didn’t you ever notice the smoke coming from this direction?”

“I thought it was another house.” She’d had distractions, God knew, but her own gullibility fanned her temper. “You could get caught, Irv.”

“Haven’t yet, and we’ve been at it going on five years.”

“Yes, but now Prohibition is in effect.”

“Increasing the demand for whiskey,” he said, giving her a shrug that emphasized the practicality. “That’s why we want to double our production.”

“You could go to jail!”

“Not for the first offense. We’d be fined, is all.”

She flung her hand back toward their vehicles. “You drive around in that rattletrap, which is always breaking down, and it’s loaded with jars of moonshine? That’s…that’s begging to be found out.”

“I stage most of the truck’s breakdowns, so all its rattling is convincing. As for being found out, I’m in plain sight every day. People are used to seeing me.”

“Who do you sell to?”

“I have a route of regular customers that I keep supplied.”

“Someone, anyone, who buys from you could turn you in.”

“What kinda damn fool getting corn liquor delivered straight to his door would turn me in? Wives, now, are another thing. Gotta be careful of them, but that ain’t my problem.”

Infuriated by the logic of his arguments, she lashed out, “I should turn you in myself!” She pivoted and gave the two of them her back, hugging her elbows to her body.

Ernie hissed, “Shit, Irv. Have you gone plumb crazy, bringing her out here?”

“I didn’t bring her. She followed me,” Irv whispered back. Apparently both had forgotten how well sound carried.

On top of Derby’s suicide, on top of Pearl’s cruel death, on top of everything, THIS? Her father-in-law was committing a federal crime, with nonchalance and no shame, and for months she had been living off the profits of it, oblivious.

Dear God! When would enough be enough? What was she supposed to do about this?

“Laurel?” Irv said softly and with hesitation, “Are you gonna—”

She raised her hands, fingers spread, in an unspoken but emphatic demand that he not say another word. He fell silent.

She looked above at the panoply of stars. There was only a fingernail moon. The sky was very black. Somewhere in the distance a coyote yapped. While living out here in the shack, she’d gotten used to hearing them.

Now that she thought about it, it was remarkable how much she had gotten used to in the months she had been here. She was a different person from the woman who had left Sherman, clinging to the fragile hope that Derby and she would be happy together, or at least that their situation would improve. How naïve she’d been about love, loyalty, life, about a lot of things.

She looked down at the ground, pressed a loose rock deep into the chalky soil with the toe of her shoe, then turned her head and looked back at the still.

It was an odd configuration; all the separate parts of it looked crudely assembled, wrongly angled, and disjointed. She wandered over and went up the slight incline toward the limestone backdrop where Ernie had resumed using the long stick to stir the contents of the cooker.

Still regarding her with apprehension, he said, “It’s just beginning to bubble. We’ll be capping her soon.”

Laurel peered down into the simmering mixture, then looked over at the empty glass jug sitting on the ground beneath the spout of the barrel, waiting to be filled with a product in huge demand. She thought of the “file cabinet” full of unpaid bills.

She met Ernie’s nervous gaze, then turned to Irv.

“What’s the recipe?”

Twenty-Two

When Sheriff Amos strolled into the stable late one afternoon, Thatcher was in the center aisle grooming a mare that had been brought to him the day before.

“Another bucking bronco?” Bill asked.

“No, this one just needs to be taught that it’s not up to her when she’s ridden. Her owner has to chase her down. She has him trained, not the other way around.”

“I’ve seen your handbills all over town.”

“They’ve paid off. I’ve got only one empty stall.”

“Good for you. When you’re done there, let’s take a walk.”

Thatcher lowered the currycomb and looked over at the sheriff, whose grave expression indicated that this wasn’t a social call. He asked the first question that came to mind. “Has she been found?”

“No.”

Thatcher waited, but when the sheriff didn’t expand on that, he said, “Time to quit anyway.”

After returning the mare to her stall and putting away the grooming utensils, he walked with Bill toward the bridge. They didn’t cross. Instead the sheriff led him down the grassy embankment to the water’s edge. The creek’s current was sluggish.

Bill removed his hat and fanned his face. “This spot isn’t as cool as I thought it would be. Not much of a breeze.”

“Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.”

The sheriff turned his head and gave Thatcher several moments of intense scrutiny. “Does anything bother you, Thatcher?”

“Lots of things.”

“You don’t show it.”

Thatcher raised a shoulder, not knowing how else to respond.

“What about people’s opinion of you?”

Thatcher shifted his stance and tilted his head to one side. “One thing that bothers me is for someone to beat around the bush.”

“All right.” Bill hiked up his gun belt and took a deep breath. “I officially called off the search for Mila Driscoll today. It’s been three weeks. Volunteers have petered out. I can’t spare the manpower to keep up the search.

“I informed Gabe in person. I promised to hop on any leads that turned up, but I’m not hopeful there’ll be any. The case remains open-ended.”