Chapter 2 Talking to Strangers

She decided to play along, find out what the deputy knew. She furrowed her brow. "Evidence?"

He shrugged. "That’s what she called it. Always trying to get me to look into things. She believed there was something amiss along Obsidian Creek, always suspicious that the mining company was up to something sinister. I looked into it a time or two, but never found anything amiss. He paused, his gaze hardening. "She wasn't one to back down. I guess living up here alone had that effect on her."

“Did she ever say precisely what she thought was going on?" Clara asked, a new sense of purpose stirring within her.

Deputy Miller’s eyes met hers, deep and steady. "Nothing specific, but she had a way of drawing people into her orbit, whether they wanted to be in it or not." He gestured vaguely at the mountains around them. "This place... it gets under your skin."

“The air does seem to settle heavy here,” she admitted.

“Well, I'd better get back out to doin’ what needs doin'. Let me know if you need anything,” Deputy Miller said. Another of his slight grins settled on his lips. “Number is in the book under the Sheriff’s Office.”

The book? Clara thought. Who uses the book? Suddenly, she remembered the gas. “Actually, you can help me with something.”

“Sure, what’s that?”

“Could you tell me who I should contact to get my gas turned back on?”

“Gas turned on?” He was puzzled by the request for a moment. “Did you check to see if the valve on the tank was open?”

“The valve on the tank?”

“LP gas tank around back. Here, let me show you.”

Deputy Miller led her around to the back of the cabin. There were two tall LP gas tanks in a rack made of angle iron; the tube from one of them ran between two of the cabin’s logs where a hole had been drilled in the chinking. He checked the valve on the one that was connected to the tube.

“It’s open,” he observed. “Guess the tank is empty.”

“Probably just have to switch to the other tank.” He moved to the second tank and checked its valve, opening it tentatively. “It’s empty too.”

“How do I get them filled?” Clara asked.

“Since you’re Bea’s niece,” he grinned. “I’ll just do it for you.” He wrestled one of the tanks out of the rack and carried it around to his SUV, opening the back to place it inside.

“How much does it cost?” she asked, turning to go back into the cabin for some cash.

“I’ll bring a receipt when I return with the full tank,” Miller said.

“I really appreciate you doing this for me,” she smiled.

“Think of it as a little welcome gift,” he responded, allowing his grin to grow slightly.

Later that afternoon, Deputy Miller returned with the full LP tank, wrestled it into the angle iron rack behind the cabin, connected the tube, and opened the valve. “You should have gas, now.”

“I really appreciate you helping me with that.”

“Most folks around here keep their spare tank full as well,” he advised. “Never know when you’ll run out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She followed him out to his SUV. “I really appreciate your help.”

“Not a problem,” he answered. “I’ll be around to check on you every few days.”

“Thanks for that too,” she smiled. “This isolation is a little unnerving, but I promised myself I’d give it two weeks. That should be enough to do an inventory and get the cabin ready to sell.”

“You’re not staying, then?” His puzzled expression was genuine. He couldn’t conceive of anyone wanting to live anywhere else.

“No. This was good for Aunt Bea, but it really isn’t for me.”

“Understood,” he responded, starting the engine on the SUV. “If you give it a chance, you might like it here.”

Each of the next few days was full of new discoveries, not just about Beatrice’s work, but about herself. She learned to embrace the quiet, the solitude, the rhythm of the mountain. The cabin, once a source of unease, now felt like a refuge. She began to find peace in the rustle of the leaves, the distant call of an owl, the steady flow of Obsidian Creek.

The silence, when it finally settled, was not the comforting quiet Clara Vance knew from her Denver apartment. It was a vast, echoing hush, occasionally punctuated by the shriek of a hawk or the rustle of unseen creatures in the dense pine forest. This was the Rocky Mountains, a world away from her meticulously organized spreadsheets and predictable schedules, and it was, in a word, overwhelming.

The first few days were a blur of sweeping, dusting, and discovering bizarre artifacts. The cabin groaned and creaked with every gust of wind, and the sounds of the wilderness outside were a constant, low hum. One evening, a particularly loud thump on the porch had sent her heart racing, only to discover a large, startled elk staring at her through the screen door. She’d shrieked, it had bolted, and Clara had spent the rest of the night jumpy, questioning her own sanity.

On the third afternoon, desperate for a change of scenery, Clara decided to take a short walk down what looked like an old, overgrown logging trail behind the cabin. The sun was warm on her face, but the air retained a cool bite. She walked slowly, marveling at the towering trees, her sensible hiking boots crunching on fallen pine needles. For a moment, the meticulous planning faded, replaced by a quiet appreciation for the sheer scale of the landscape.

Then she saw him.

He was a silhouette against the dappled light filtering through the trees, crouched low, a large camera with an impossibly long lens pointed towards a thicket of scrub oak. He was clad in rough, earth-toned clothing, blending so seamlessly with the environment that she almost missed him. Her heart leaped into her throat. Trespasser. Had he been watching her, sending that creepy feeling up her spine? Given her aunt’s remote property, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

"Excuse me!" she called out, her voice cracking slightly, betraying her nervousness. "Can I help you?"