Western Stories

PART 1 The first thing Mae Sutton did every year at the Granger Falls Christmas market was set up her table at the far end of the square, by the old fence post that nobody else wanted because the wind came off the canyon straight and cold and didn’t stop for anything. She’d been doing…

PART 1 The train was already pulling out of Dillon Station when Nora Fenn stepped onto the platform. That was the detail the town of Creston Hollow remembered long after they’d stopped caring about the others — not the five women who stepped off first, arranged neatly in the specific way of people who had…

PART 1 The horse broke through the fence while she was still reading the sign above the livery. She had been in the town of Iron Falls, Montana for approximately four minutes, which was barely enough time to find her feet on solid ground after eleven days of rattling stage coach boards, and not enough…

PART 1 She had packed the letter at the bottom of her trunk, underneath everything else. Not because she was ashamed of it. Because she wanted it to be the last thing she found if she arrived and it turned out to be a mistake, some final proof that she had tried and failed to…

PART 1 The flour sack had split on a Wednesday, which meant Nora Briggs would be cleaning up other people’s laughter until Friday. She had been carrying it from the mill at the south end of Harlow Creek’s main street — both arms underneath, the way you carried a load when you understood your own…

PART 1 The bread always told her what kind of day it was going to be. Maren Cole had figured this out at sixteen and had been using it as a barometer ever since. When the loaves came out even and brown and the kitchen smelled right, the day had a chance. When they burned,…

PART 1 She had been staring at the same column for an hour before she heard it. Not the wind — the wind had been at the windows since sundown, pressing itself against the glass the way it did in December in this part of Kansas when it had somewhere to be and the house…

PART 1 She had sewn the pocket herself. The night before the wedding, while her father slept the restless sleep of a man who had decided something terrible and was trying not to revisit the decision, Sera Voss had taken her grandmother’s sewing kit and opened the skirt lining of her mother’s wedding dress —…

PART 1 The auctioneer hadn’t started yet, and Della Morse was already counting the ways this could end. She had been doing this since early morning, when they came to the church basement where she had been sleeping and told her it was time. She had counted the men she could outrun — not many,…

PART 1 The wagon tracks stopped at the tree line, and then there was only snow. Cora Voss found this out by following the tracks backward, on her hands and knees in the January dark, using the last of the warmth in her fingers to trace where the ruts turned and where they did not….