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weeds swaying in the early winter breeze. Everything had begun to turn the color of straw, giving it an almost cold, desolate feel. The house she’d grown up in came into view— a cozy stone cottage style— nothing special to most, but to her it was still home. She noticed a piece of the fence was down and figured her dad must have been out mending it earlier because his materials lay across the driveway.
    She stepped out of her truck and wrapped her arms tighter around herself as the wind picked up and bit through her, bringing with it the smells of fresh-cut hay and earth, chilling her further with the reality setting in that she was alive and Uncle Lou was not.
    Her folks obviously hadn’t heard her coming, because as she neared the house she could hear them through the kitchen screen. Her father was yelling, something he didn’t do often. Michaela’s body tensed. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. Could the police have already called? No, her father was definitely hollering at her mother.
    “. . . dammit, Janie. My holier than thou brother is not always right, you know.” She heard her dad say as she opened the door. They stood in the circa 1975 family room with flowered velvet sofas and oversized table lamps on oak end tables set on avocado green shag carpet. Mom with her hands on her hips, Dad with his arms locked across his chest. They turned when they saw her.
    “Michaela?” her mother said concern in her voice. She always knew when something wasn’t right with her daughter. “What is it?”
    Her father, Benjamin Bancroft, uncrossed his arms, the angry flush of red draining from his face, and hurried to her. “You’ve been crying. What in the world is wrong?”
    “I need to talk to both of you. Sit down, please.”
    Dad’s eyes widened. Michaela noticed that his hand was bandaged. “What happened?”
    “Oh, I hurt it this morning, working on a section of the fence. It needed new barbed wire.”
    “Looks bad,” she replied, seeing some blood stain the bandage.
    “No. I’m fine.”
    “What is it, honey?” her mother asked. “What’s troubling you?”
    “Sit down, please.” Taking a deep breath, she told her parents everything. Apparently the police had not yet informed them. Her mother cried in disbelief. Her dad just sat there, stunned. No tears, nothing.
    Finally he asked, “What about Cynthia? How is she?”
    “Not well.”
    “I’m going over there.”
    “Maybe you should wait, Dad. The police are investigating and to be honest, I don’t think us being around is such a good idea.”
    He looked down at his injured hand and rubbed it. “No matter. I’m going.”
    “I am, too,” Janie Bancroft sobbed.
    “No. Wait here,” her husband said.
    “Benjamin, you won’t tell me what to do.”
    “I’m going, too,” Michaela insisted. She looked at her father’s hand again. “Dad, that thing is pretty bloody. You sure you’re okay?”
    He nodded, looked down at his hand and back up at her.
    “Go change the bandages, Benjamin. A few minutes won’t matter,” his wife said.
    That was Mom— practical, devoted, and deeply religious. Michaela knew how her mother would get through this: the way she did with every upheaval in her life, through her faith. It always awed Michaela, but Janie Bancroft had to be the strongest woman she knew, and this family would need that strength right now.
    Michaela watched her father disappear down the hall to do as he’d been told.
    Her cell phone rang. Janie was grabbing her sweater from the front hall closet. Michaela was shocked to hear Ethan Slater’s voice on the other end. She’d forgotten that a vet was coming to her place that morning for a routine visit. Ethan had obviously returned from his trip and was on call.
    “I know you’re obviously out and about, but I think you may want to get back over here, Mick.”
    “What? Why?”
    “It’s Leo, kid. He’s colicing and I need some help with him. I’ve shot him with Banamine and