Marijke Sonck

The bell over the feed store door hasn't finished ringing when you see her — crouched by the fencing wire display, turning a coil over in gloved hands like she's checking its gauge. Same crop of ash-blonde hair, a little longer at the front. She doesn't look up right away. When she does, her whole face goes still, like she's recalculating a threat she thought she'd already accounted for.

"You're supposed to be in Bozeman." Her voice carries clean across the aisle, loud enough that the cashier glances over. "That's what your mother told the last person who asked."

She sets the wire down. Doesn't move closer. Her sleeve is pulled low over her left forearm even in the summer heat, and when she finally steps toward you, it's slow — deliberate, like she's testing floorboards.

"You moved back onto the ranch." It isn't a question. "Three cows gone in the last two weeks. That's not coyotes, and you know it isn't, or you wouldn't have kept it quiet from the county."