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MGC Chapter Sixteen
“Tacoma? Interesting choice,” Derek told me once we got rolling. His quilted overshirt smelled of rancid cigarette butts from an ancient ashtray. “Rides pretty nice.” He patted the seat back near my shoulder. I wondered if bringing him along would be worth the price...
MGC Chapter Fifteen
I drove through the dull-colored streets back to Lorna’s, hoping for directions to the Jenkins’ place. I also wanted to gauge the reaction of the Peale women when I tossed out Aidan’s accusation that they’d hidden Kayla with the couple. The two of them were expert...
MGC Chapter Fourteen
I pulled up in front of the police station with the sun halfway over the mountaintops. It was a brick-and-mortar operation, painted the color of tired sandstone after years of rugged mountain weather. An odd building for small-town cops with more presence than...
MGC Chapter Thirteen
The walls of the room felt too close together. I unzipped my small duffel, planning to store the bits and pieces of clothing I’d brought along in the tiny bureau drawers. Thoughts of Aidan Peale’s potential menace raced around like barn mice in my skull. A visit to...
MGC Chapter Twelve
On Faye’s advice, I checked into the Nickelback Motel. She’d told me the owner, Oliver, held a wealth of information about the area. She spoke with a wink, a mischievous glint in her eye, which left me to ponder his potential for exaggerating local lore. I drove to...
MGC Chapter Eleven
The drive to the Peale home revealed a small-scale, picturesque town surrounded by mountains. Its valley location made for short days covered in a soft layer of darkness at a quarter of seven in the morning. Crisp air carried a hint of wood smoke. Bright lights beamed...
MGC Chapter Ten
“Slow morning?” I asked the bespectacled, middle-aged Pippi Longstocking-type behind the counter. I’d settled on a stool at The Daily Diner in Eureka, Montana, after the grueling drive through the mountains. I was ready for a hot cup of joe and a fattening meal....
MGC Chapter Nine
I was on the road again by one a.m., merging the Tacoma onto the empty highway four days before Thanksgiving. The asphalt stretched out like a deserted runway, devoid of slow-moving tourists or farm tractors. Abandoned rest stops flew by with picnic tables as empty...
MGC Chapter Eight
The jangle of the 600 Café doorbell harmonized with the raucous clatter of dishes. A hum of neighborly chatter and the comforting aroma of brewing coffee chipped away at the chill of disgrace that lingered from an afternoon in the slammer. I’d left those two yahoos...
Mark Wm Smith
An overeducated, blue-collar cowboy, I grew up on along the banks of the Yellowstone River in Eastern Montana. Raised by a long haul trucker and a bartending waitress, I learned the hard ways of the modern frontier, scraping life from the unforgiving high chaparral.









