"Justin Stanchfield - Bone Lake" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stanchfield Justin)

The bartender said nothing, but Mick was certain she agreed, her cheeks sucked in, looking steadfastly
away. He turned back to the kid. "You wouldnтАЩt have an address for her, would you? They told me in
Butte she might have moved out here." The kid swung his head, the movement exaggerated and slow.
Mick sighed and took a business card out of his case and laid it on the bar. He finished the pop and
stood up. "Well, thanks anyhow. Mind if I leave the picture here? My cell numberтАЩs on the back if
anyone recognizes her."
"AinтАЩt no coverage out here," the kid slurred, turning back to the television, the encounter already
forgotten. The bartender smiled apologetically as Mick shut his briefcase. He swept up his change,
leaving a couple dollars on the bar, and walked back outside. The air was cool, tinged by the scent of
sagebrush and diesel fuel, the mountains ringing the deep valley framed by slate gray clouds. A gust of
wind sent a plastic cup skipping across the road. He stood a moment, wondering if he should try the post
office or the other tavern next, or just say to hell with it all and drive on. The screen-door banged open
behind him.

The bartender walked toward him, her limp more pronounced on the uneven gravel, the photo in hand.
She gave it back to him. "Look, mister..."

"Saurbier. Mick Saurbier."

"Okay, Mr. Saurbier. I didnтАЩt want to say nothing around Donny. He canтАЩt keep his mouth shut." She
took a deep breath. "I know that girl. тАШCept she goes by the name Janey Hall, now."

"Know where I can find her?"

She stared at Mick, holding his eye. "You really working for her folks?"

"Yes, I am."

"SheтАЩs living with a guy named Timmy Garr up by Bone Lake. She isnтАЩt quite right in the head, if you ask
me." She waited while Mick scribbled the information down. "And, Mr. Saurbier?"

"Yeah?" Something in her voice made him edgy.

"Be careful. Tim Garr is an asshole. But heтАЩs a tough asshole." She hobbled away while. Mick waited
until she was gone, then turned the ignition, rolling up the windows, suddenly cold for no reason.

***

Montana Territory, 1883

The wind was stronger, shifting to the North, the warm, damp Chinook finished. The rain was turning to
snow, tiny flakes stinging AnnieтАЩs cheeks as she heaved against the sagging corral gate. The horses inside
ran past her, tails high, smelling the storm, kicking up wet clumps of crap-stained snow. Annie ducked,
avoiding the dangerous hooves. She didnтАЩt like horses. They frightened her, the sheer power in their sleek
bodies a force untamed. Around her they ran, finally settling down to sniff the grain bucket in her hand.
She wrapped a soft rope around a dun mareтАЩs neck and led her out of the muddy corral. Her feet
already cold, Annie saddled the mare, fumbling with the cinch, dreading what lay ahead.

Snow fell heavier, the wind rising, trees swaying as she stepped into the saddle, settling uncomfortably
into the stiff leather. The mare danced, pawing the ground with her front feet, angry at being cut away