Chapter 3 Jennie
I'd kept to myself at the ranch for two and a half days since I’d talked to Lacette, but the drone disaster had forced my hand.
I needed a PO Box for the replacement, somewhere official enough to satisfy a shipper but off the books for anyone who might be checking shipped boxes at the main house.
Even in the age of instant delivery and two-day air, the post office was the only place in Hollow Ridge where I could send something no one else would see.
Assuming small-town postmasters didn't gossip. Which, I'd been here four days. I had no illusions.
The Hollow Ridge Post Office sat on the north end of the town’s only real street, wedged between a faded general store and a feed outlet whose signage advertised something called Red Chain in five-foot letters.
The building was low and squat, a limestone block, with a front step grooved by a century of boots and the names of three former postmasters etched into the transom window.
The only upgrades were a box fan in the window and a metal sign listing the hours, both clearly installed during the Carter administration.
I parked the Ford out front, double-checked my pockets for my fake ID, and took a minute to compose my face.
Inside, it was only about ten degrees cooler than outside.
The air conditioning was probably as old as the woman behind the counter, whose age could be measured only by counting tree rings or carbon dating.
Her shirt was government blue, ironed within an inch of its life, and her belt buckle was a filigree of brass, big enough to stop a bullet.
She wore her eyeshadow thick, and her smile was easy.
When she saw me, she greeted me with a nod that managed to say both “welcome” and “I don’t know your mother’s maiden name and that’s odd. ”
“Afternoon, miss,” she said. “I don’t reckon we’ve met. You passing through, or fixing to stick around?”
So much for me trying to blend in. I gave her the smile I reserved for customs officials and nosy notaries. “A little of both. I’m doing some work out at the Coleman place. I need a box for business deliveries. Name’s Jennie Cardin.”
"Cardin, sure," she said, and I watched as she tucked that into the portion of her brain reserved for names and cattle brands and who owed whom a favor.
"I'm Dottie Crane. Been here since Eisenhower was president, or so my husband claims." She extended a hand over the counter, her grip both gentle and firm.
The handshake was the first test. I passed.
She smiled again, even wider. “We can set you up,” Dottie said. “Only got the one box left, but it’s a good one. On the end, easy in, easy out. You got any papers on you?”
I produced the license. Dottie inspected it, then set it on the scanner with a flourish. “Welcome to Hollow Ridge, Ms. Cardin. How long you stayin’?”
I shrugged, which wasn’t a lie. “However long the survey takes. It may go quick, if the weather cooperates.”
Dottie nodded. “The rain’s coming in patches this year. Good for the hay, not so good for the cattle. You working cattle, or just dirt?”
“I’m all rock,” I said. “Soil sampling. Doing some digging around for an oil company on behalf of the owners.”
Dottie made a noise in her throat, a sound that might’ve been agreement or a warning shot.
“Those east pastures have a stubbornness to them. You be careful out there,” she said, filling out the rental form in a slow, deliberate hand.
She slid the paperwork across and handed me a pen so worn the logo was just a rumor.
“You’ll need to sign here, here, and here.
That last bit is in case of emergency, or you skip town with a stack of undelivered mail. ”
I signed, hoping my cover name was spelled the same way every time. “How often does that happen?” I asked.
Dottie grinned, showing teeth that came only from a lifetime of strong coffee and stronger opinions.
“Not since ’87, and that was mostly a misunderstanding.
” She leaned in. “We keep close tabs on strangers, Ms. Cardin, but not to worry. If you mind your business, so will we.” She folded the form and then held up the tiny, stamped PO Box key.
“Box seventy-one. Out that way.” She pointed to a row of metal boxes so old they had thumb dents in the brass. “Mail comes in before noon, except Sundays and days when the county fair’s on. If you need to send, just leave it in the slot, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks,” I said, slipping the key into my pocket. “Do you need payment upfront?”
“First month’s free for new folks. We’re not so hard up that we can’t extend a little neighborliness.” She said it with a kind of flourish, but it felt genuine, which only made me more suspicious.
Dottie squared the papers, then eyed me with a level, kindly stare.
“I expect you’ll be riding the property some, with the work you’re doing.
If you get turned around, the Maddox spread is to the south and west of the Coleman.
You’ll know it by the fences. They keep them high and tight.
Don’t let folks through unless you ask first.” She said it as a warning, but softly.
“The Maddoxes are good people. They just like their privacy.”
“I can respect that,” I said. “Most places I work, the neighbors keep to themselves unless there’s a lawsuit.”
Dottie barked a laugh. “Out here, we’d rather just fix the fence and split a beer.
The other side of the Coleman Ranch is the national park, so no worries about going over there.
” She straightened her shirt and thumbed through some letters.
“You got any other questions? I know just about every inch of this county.”
Pressing for more would look like prying. “Nothing yet,” I said. “But if you hear of any good barbecue spots, I’m always interested.”
She gave me the address of a place two towns over and then, with practiced economy, went back to sorting the day’s incoming letters. I said goodbye and headed out before she decided she needed to know any more about me.
The air outside was even hotter now. I walked back to the truck, turning the box key over in my hand.
I sat in the cab for a while, letting the AC fight the sun, and decided to make one more stop before heading back.
If there was a pecking order to this town, the next spot on the list was the feed store.
Not because I needed anything, but because that’s where people went when they wanted to be seen, or to see who else was in town.
I killed the engine and walked across the sun-bleached gravel. I could’ve just ordered the drone parts to be delivered to the post office and called it a day, but that would have been too easy. Out here, nothing ever was.
Inside the Hollow Ridge Feed Store, the air was thick with sweet feed, mineral blocks, and a faint after-smell of rodenticide.
Floor-to-ceiling shelving divided the room into canyons of product, five-pound bags of starter, salt licks the size of bowling balls, and everywhere, the omnipresent green and yellow of John Deere.
A row of battered chairs sat up front for old-timers to occupy while waiting for their orders, but no one was sitting.
Instead, the two men behind the counter bantered in a local patois I’d need a few more weeks to fully decode, each sentence ending in “ain’t that right? ” or “so they say.”
I grabbed a handcart and did a slow loop, pretending to compare grass seed blends.
I didn’t need anything, but the point was to seem occupied.
After a minute, one of the clerks, tall, red-faced, and so thin he seemed to rattle, asked, “You need a hand, miss?” with the upbeat defeatism of someone who had asked this question every day of his working life.
I smiled. “Just browsing. I’m new on the Coleman ranch, doing some soil work.”
The clerk’s head bobbed, once, exactly. “Sure, the Colemans. We deliver bulk up there every month. Big operation, lot of turnover.”
I asked, “Do you know if there's any difference in hay quality east of the creek? I heard the drought a few years back really knocked the local supply.” I’d researched a lot about being a geologist, and a geologist would be interested in how the hay grew, because that would tell them about the soil.
The clerk considered, then pointed at a man outside, older, with a ponytail of white hair and a Maddox Ranch logo stitched over the heart pocket of his shirt. “You want to ask that fella out there. He knows the land, all of it.”
I strolled out, hands in my pockets, and found the man loading fifty-pound bags of mineral into a battered Silverado with a tailgate painted a different color than the rest of the truck.
Up close, he was every inch the lifer, hands like knotted wood, a nose that had seen every bar fight in two counties, and a confidence of movement that was nearly silent.
I caught his eye and got a faint nod, enough invitation.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I hear you’re the man to ask about hay quality.”
He sized me up in three blinks. “Maybe. Depends who’s asking.”
I introduced myself as “Jennie, with the geology contract for the Colemans,” saying that was getting hella repetitive. I extended a hand, which he considered before shaking. His grip was loose, but not in a weak way. More like he was being polite to a woman and not squishing my hand.
“That’s right,” he said. “Buck. You’re the lady Reid saved from the big bad boar?”
I chuckled. “Yes, he came to the rescue for sure. I’m just mapping, for now. The survey line is a mess out past the east pastures. Seems like each time I check it, the damn thing’s moved.”
He gave a low, throaty laugh. “That’s about right. There’s an old joke around here, if you can see the fence, you’re on the wrong side of it.”
“Guess that explains why I get lost every other day,” I said. There was a pause, just long enough for the temperature to shift between us.