In the distance, the outline of Abandon formed an eerie profile in the dusk.
Scott walked over, followed by Lawrence and the Tozers.
“What’s up?” Jerrod asked.
“I was just listening to the latest report on my weather radio. . . . Doesn’t look good.”
“You’re kidding,” Lawrence said.
“This early-season storm was supposed to plow through New Mexico, and now the track is farther north. Not particularly cold, but it should be all snow above nine thousand feet. As you know, Abandon sits at eleven.”
“How much they predicting?” Lawrence asked.
“One to three feet. Winter storm warnings are already up. Supposed to start late tonight.”
“So what does this mean?” June asked.
“Means we should pack up our shit and make a beeline for the trailhead.”
Jerrod looked up. “You aren’t serious.”
“Actually, I am.”
“Hike back in the dark?”
“Maybe we get only halfway. Be better than postholing all seventeen miles in a meter of powder.”
“You don’t know that it’s gonna be that bad.”
“Don’t know that it isn’t.”
Jerrod looked at Emmett. “You paid a hefty chunk to come out here and shoot this town, have Lawrence give you the rundown—”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Scott asked.
“I’m talking to our client. Maybe he should make the—”
“
Emmett said, “We have to leave?”
“If this storm really winds up,” Scott said, “hiking out will be a bitch. We didn’t bring snowshoes or skis. You ever tried to walk in three feet of snow?”
“Let them decide, Scott,” Jerrod said.
Scott shot him a glare, then turned back to the Tozers.
“Look, I suggest we get the hell out of here, but if you want to stay, see what happens, I guess that’s an option. What do you think, Lawrence?”
“Their dime, their permit, their choice.”
Emmett glanced at his wife, then back at Scott. “This is our last chance to shoot Abandon this year?”
“Yeah, it’s late in the season and a miracle there’s not more snow already. We don’t do it now, you won’t be able to get back here until next June or even July, depending on how bad the winter is. And that’s assuming you get another permit.”
Emmett said, “Honey?”
In the silence, Abigail watched dark billowy clouds spilling over the top of the canyon, sweeping down into the ghost town like an avalanche.
June looked at her husband, nodded.
“We’ll take our chances,” he said as Abandon vanished in the fog.
1893
SEVEN
B
artholomew Packer pushed open the door and stepped out of the storm. He brushed the snow from his wool overcoat, hung his derby on the coat-rack. The floorboards creaked under the substantial load as he waddled toward the potbellied stove.
While his fingers thawed, he surveyed Abandon’s only remaining saloon. The light was poor. It disseminated in a smoky dimness from three kerosene lamps suspended from the ceiling, never reaching the corners of what was little more than a thin-walled shack.
There were only four of them in the saloon tonight. He saw Lana Hartman across the room, seated at the upright piano by the front window, playing “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” She was always here, as much a part of the place as the bar stools. He’d never seen her in this dress—dark green, with red piping on the collar and cuffs.
Jocelyn Maddox sat on a stool behind the bar, watching Lana play, a cigarette burning in her hand, eyes glazed with boredom.
The young deputy tasked with guarding her had passed out in a chair beside the stove. A raging high lonesome, he snored, a line of tobacco-colored drool creeping down his chin.
Bart stepped to the bar, said, “Evening, Joss. Lively tonight.”
