Page 41 of Three-Inch Teeth

SHERIDAN HAD LEFT Twelve Sleep County on the day after Clay Junior’s memorial service, which had been held in a tiny cemetery on the hillside that had been there since the founding of the Double Diamond Ranch in the 1880s. She’d found the affair equal parts sad, uncomfortable, and bewildering. People she’d never met—most of whom were Clay Junior’s relatives or family friends—had been cautious around her.

What did one say to an almost-fiancée? And how did that almost-fiancée respond when she knew in her heart that the inevitable wedding was never to be?

For the most part, Sheridan had kept her head down and stayed close to her mother and dad. Her emotions that day—and since—had been all over the map. Clay’s shocking demise had opened a lane for her to proceed in life without him, and she felt horribly guilty for thinking that. Clay’s father held her and cried and said that as far as he was concerned she would always be a part of the family, as if that had ever really been her goal in life. After all, she was perfectly happy being a part of her family.

As the peregrine crunched the hollow leg bones of the road-killed rabbit, Sheridan admitted to herself how grateful she was to be away from Saddlestring, Clay Junior’s memory, and all of that. She needed a break from it and she welcomed an out-of-state bird abatement assignment.

Before she left, Liv had presented her with the Yarak, Inc. credit card to use for gas, lodging, and other expenses. It was the first time she’d ever had a company card, and she’d vowed not to abuse it.

And she wondered what DeWayne Kolb had meant when he said her client was “unusual.”

*

THE NEVER SUMMER Ranch owned by Leon Bottom was located eight miles west of Walden on a rutted gravel road that wound through swampy bottomland and eight-foot walls of willows. Sheridan drove to it while glancing down at the navigation feature on the screen of her phone in her lap. Through breaks in the willows, she noted both modern multimillion-dollar second homes of newcomers in the meadows above the bottomland and ramshackle homesteads littered with rusted-out pickups and farm machinery that no doubt belonged to hardscrabble old-timers. Mountains framed the valley on three sides.

Again she thought, Just like home.

As she bounced over the rough road and her SUV pitched from side to side, she spoke soothing nonsense to the hooded peregrine, the only falcon she had brought with her in case she needed to provide a demonstration. Although most peregrines she’d flown had dispositions that were as steely as an assassin, this one was young and a little agitated by the rough road.

“It’ll be fine, sweetie,” she cooed to the bird. “It’ll all be just fine …”

Sheridan passed under an ancient archway that leaned to the left. Although some of the elk antler tines that made up the lettering were missing, she read:

NEV_R _UM_ER _ANCH

*

THE RANCH HEADQUARTERS itself was a collection of aged stone and log buildings scattered across a sagebrush bench framed by timbered foothills. Abandoned vehicles and a rusty Sno-Cat bordered the two-track road on the way to the main house, which was a three-story gabled structure that was higher than it was wide, despite the vast acreage all around it to spread out.

Sheridan had seen similar homes high in the mountains before. They were constructed so that if the snow got so deep on the surface, the residents could conceivably access and exit the house through the second—or third—levels. She’d also seen old outhouses constructed with the same thought in mind.

The only hints at modernity at the Never Summer were the two vehicles parked at odd angles in the ranch yard and the multiple small television and internet satellite dishes mounted to the top side of the headquarters building.

She parked between a four-wheel-drive pickup and an older-model Honda Civic and turned off her engine. The peregrine instantly settled down once they’d stopped. Sheridan cautiously opened the door and stepped out.

Immediately, she sensed that something was seriously amiss. Then she realized what it was: the quiet.

A slight breeze rattled the leaves of cottonwoods bordering the ranch outbuildings, and a red-tailed hawk screeched from miles away.

*

HER BOOTS CRUNCHED on the gravel as she approached the solid front door of the house. She climbed wooden steps to a veranda and knocked on the door. Nothing.

After a full minute, she made a fist and banged on it. A beat later, she could hear someone inside call out, “I’m coming. Just hold your horses.” It was a harsh older female voice.

Sheridan stepped back and tucked her hair behind her ears. The door cracked open about three inches and a single light blue rheumy eye looked out.

“What do you want?”

The woman was shorter than Sheridan by half a foot, with cat-eye glasses and tight gray curls in her hair. Her mouth was pursed into a look of disapproval, highlighted by the web of wrinkles that framed her lips. The small hand that gripped the side of the door to keep it open looked to Sheridan like a talon.

“Hi there,” Sheridan said, mustering a smile. “I’m here to see Leon Bottom.”

“I asked you what you wanted,” the woman said. Not friendly.

“I’m with Yarak, Inc. We’re a bird abatement business out of Saddlestring, Wyoming. Mr. Bottom contacted our office about some problem birds here on the ranch. The arrangements were made for me to come here and look it all over and try to fix the problem.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Sheridan felt a little flustered because she had assumed she’d be welcomed instead of questioned.

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