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“Because she’s told me — not that I’m surprised — that it’s much harder to track the women associated with them. That’s what history often does. But you should ask her directly.”
And stop bothering me.
That was implicit, but the fact that she didn’t say it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
Not for long.
She spotted the clock again and this time I was booted out for real.
Was Ivy right about Keefe’s interest focusing on Oscar and Pearl as people? That meshed with what Brenda said about his belief they could be his ancestors. And that could explain the DNA test.
On the other hand, it could have been meant as a distraction once he had a rival treasure-hunter in Sam McCracken.
Or could it be both? Would being a descendent give him an advantage in the treasure hunt? A secret map left only for the descendant maybe, but how...?
Too many questions.
What I needed were answers.
Not from Sam McCracken. Not yet. I needed a lot more background.
Besides, he lived in a part of the county that would take me in the opposite direction from the Circle B.
If I wanted to have dinner with Tom and Tamantha tonight...
Yeah, I’d gather more background before I tried Sam McCracken. Later.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I was on my way to see Mrs. P.
Not unannounced.
Even though she didn’t drive, one did not presume that Mrs. P was at home and at your beck and call. One did not presume with Mrs. P at all.
So, I called as soon as I left the museum.
She said to come on up... or words to that effect.
Up because she lives north of Sherman. I took the highway that paralleled the Absaroka Range, passed the entrance road to Tom’s Circle B — our ranch — and on to O’Hara Hill, the second-largest town in Cottonwood County.
I can never resist mentioning that because most people looking at the one primary street and a handful of cross-street nubs would not consider it a town at all.
Also up because Cottonwood County is popularly divided into the High Side toward the west and the Low Side toward the east, with Sherman in the middle.
I used to half-joke that in the neighborhood where I grew up in Illinois, a waterfall was the flow from a hose left on the curb that dropped onto the street. If Cottonwood County’s Low Side suddenly added curbs for some unfathomable reason to its shades of winter dun, rust, and drab, the same would apply.
The High Side rose toward and into the mountains, imparting what counted as lushness around here, but didn’t impress someone who’d wiggled childhood toes in the rich, black soil of Northern Illinois.
I left the highway, which continued to and past the Montana border not many miles away, and took a jog west, where O’Hara Hill’s single main street ran through a valley.
Did I mention it’s small?
On the other hand, it deserves renown for being home to two of the stronger personalities I’ve encountered in this county or elsewhere — Gisella Decker and Emmaline Parens.
Otherwise known as Mike’s Aunt Gee, the sheriff’s department senior dispatcher and in charge of the O’Hara Hill substation, and Mrs. P, retired teacher and principal.
You’d think there’d be some sort of disruption to the universe’s power system with the two of them living next door to each other. Like the pull of their personalities in tandem could be seen from space.
