The Last Good Rope

Chapter One: No Crying Woman

The knock on the door came just before dawn.

Not a hard knock. Just enough to wake the dead. Or those who feared them.

Sheriff Clay Turnbull rubbed the sleep from his jaw and didn’t move. He already knew what it meant.

No one knocked like that unless something bad had found its shape overnight.

He opened the door slow, oil lamp in hand. The deputy’s face was pale in the flicker.

“It’s Jonas Bell,” the boy said. “He’s dead.”

Turnbull let out a breath that felt like gravel.

“Where?”

“Behind the feed store. Mara Gable found him. Or claims she did.”

That got the sheriff’s head to tilt.

“She say how?”

“She ain’t said much. Just sat there. Blood on her dress, knife beside her.” The deputy hesitated. “She didn’t run.”

Turnbull pulled on his boots.

The cell at the back of the jail was colder than usual, though the stove had been lit before sunrise.

Mara sat on the cot, upright, hands folded. The blood on her skirt had dried to rust.

She didn’t look at the sheriff when he entered. Didn’t look at anyone, really.

He studied her a long moment.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

She didn’t.

“You didn’t run. That counts for something.”

Still nothing.

He sighed, took a step forward, and leaned on the bars.

“You knew Jonas Bell?”

She nodded.

“Were you at his place last night?”

Another nod.

“You kill him?”

She looked up, finally. Her voice was soft.

“No.”

Turnbull didn’t blink.

“Someone saw you leave. Then heard the scream. And the knife matches the one from your kitchen.”

Her eyes didn’t waver.