The next day arrived bright, crisp. The temperature had kept falling throughout the night and my outdoor thermometer read twelve-degrees below zero when I checked it through my kitchen window. Looking up from the thermometer, I could still see the car, laying in the creek bed, its wheels pointed skyward. Sam gave my hand a nudge, reminding me of my duties. I laughed and stroked his silky forehead.

"Say, you're going to be glad you're wearing a fur coat this morning," I said, ushering him to the back door and releasing him to the freedom of the open fields around our farm house.

I'd grown up in a city, married in a city and lived most of my life surrounded by concrete, heavy traffic and hectic schedules. But after my husband, Bill, died, and I lost our only child in a miscarriage six-weeks later, I'd crumbled. The doctors told me I'd done nothing to cause the miscarriage, but deep inside I faced a nagging doubt. Had I so given way to grief at Bill's death that I'd cost my unborn son his life? Somehow, as I worked my way through that trauma, I'd realized that I no longer wanted to live sandwiched between cold, hard steel, concrete, and heavy traffic. So I'd moved to Pleasant Fields, to the farm Bill had grown up on--to the one place where I still felt a connection with him and with the baby that I'd never had a chance to love.

Carrying through on my decision had been easy. I'd loved his parents' old brick farmhouse from when I'd first seen it. Dating back to the mid-1800s, it spoke of a time before flight, when babies were born robust and healthy and wives were more certain of their roles.

The radio, playing softly in the background, shifted from music into local news. The announcer gave the details of last night's accident at Troublesome Creek--all except the name of the victim. The name, he said, was being withheld, pending notification of the next of kin. Then news gave way to the weather forecast. I listened glumly as he said we were under a winter storm watch. Mentally checking my supplies, I realized I had to get to town before the storm struck.

Dashing upstairs to my bedroom, I threw on a pair of jeans and a blue turtleneck, topping it all off with a bulky fisherman's sweater for extra warmth. Tying my long brown hair up in a scarf, I checked my image in the mirror. Lean and hardened by my chores around the farm, my figure was slender. But lines were starting to give testament to my thirty-something age bracket. My brown eyes, even to me, still showed traces of past sorrows. I promised myself a trip to the beauty shop after the storm passed. Then, I grabbed my purse and parka, let Sam back in the house, and headed for town.

*****

I wasn't the first person to arrive at Swanson's grocery store that morning. The parking lot was packed with pickup trucks, four-wheel drives, and vans as I eased my Chevy Suburban into one of the lot's few open spaces. Inside, the bread shelf was half empty, but I gratefully swept up two loaves of bread as a defense against the approaching snowstorm and the isolation it can bring with it in the country. My shopping list wasn't very long. I needed some candles and fresh batteries in case the power failed. Then, some eggs, milk and a ten-pound bag of Sam's favorite brand of dog food completed my list.

"Say, I guess there was some excitement down by your place last night," said Maud Clemments, as she wheeled her shopping cart next to mine beside the dairy case.

"Hi, Maud," I answered, as I turned to face the small, elderly woman. "Yes, Troublesome Creek claimed another victim last night, I'm afraid."

"I heard it was Joel Stebbins." Her thin, wizened face cast me knowing look. "I heard he'd been in town yesterday to ask his mother for money and that she turned him down."

"Is that right?" I struggled to keep my voice even. Although I'd lived in Pleasant Fields long enough to understand it, I still wasn't comfortable with the familiarity of small-town life.

"Oh, yes. It's true all right. They had a fight--a big one, from what I hear. Angie Wilkins…Do you know Angie?" I nodded, and she continued. "Anyway, she cleans for Mrs. Stebbins, and Angie called me this morning when she heard that Joel was dead." Maud reached out and plucked a half-gallon milk carton from the cooler, giving me a self-satisfied grin.

I knew Ethyl Stebbins. She was one of those grand old women, widowed, fiercely independent, and descended from a prominent local family. We volunteered together at the public library. As I stood there, I remembered the many times she'd talked about her son, her only son, whom I'd never met.

"Joel couldn't have been a very young man," I said. "And he didn't live here?" Maud shook her head. "Then, what was he doing driving on that back road by my house? There's nothing along there but my place and Ted Jenning's feed lot."

"Oh, who knows why anyone does anything. There's no explaining people, Kate. You should know that by now. You take care, now," she said, backing her cart away from the dairy case and turning it toward the store's produce section.