August 3, Saturday

I APPROACHED the chicken coop with trepidation, wearing rubber gloves, my sturdy boots, and a kitchen towel tied around my nose and mouth like a bandanna. I pushed a wheelbarrow full of straw I'd found in the barn and was armed with a pitchfork. Here is where I should say that until now, I'd only seen these items in pictures and on television, but I was coming around to how useful they could be.

I opened the side door of the chicken coop and recoiled from the unholy odor that pierced my makeshift filter. The two hens that had been nesting squawked and flew the coop. (I now realized where the idiom I'd been using in my books for years came from). Then as instructed in various YouTube videos, I systematically removed the filthy top layer of straw on the nests and on the floor and replaced it with fragrant new straw, then stood back and surveyed my work with a strange sense of accomplishment I hadn't felt in a while.

I wheeled the soiled straw to the tree line and to my delight, found evidence of previous batches of the straw being scattered on the ground. I added my contribution and spread it out, as if I knew what I was doing.

I was feeling smug when I walked back to the barn, but the angry bleating of Satan the penned goat brought me back to reality. The container of goat food pellets was empty and he'd eaten the grass in the pen practically down to the dirt. I stopped and stared at him through the wire fencing. "What am I going to do with you?"

He bleated at me, pawing at the fencing.

I angled my head. He was kind of cute… when he wasn't devouring everything in sight.

Then a crazy thought slid into my head. I turned back to study the tall grass around the house, then turned back to look at Satan.

"You're hungry, and the grass needs to be mowed. I wonder…"

I returned the wheelbarrow to the barn and rummaged through tables of piled up tools and materials until I found a metal stake, a hammer, and a coiled length of rope. Then I waded to the center of the grass, pounded the stake into the ground (harder than it sounds). I backtracked to the pen, opened the gate, and approached the goat warily. But he loped up to me and nudged my hand, seemingly in search of attention. It occurred to me that he had been Rose's goat and probably had run away when she died.

I gave his long white ears a scratch, then looped the rope around his neck and tied it off. He followed me out of the pen willingly enough and I secured the other end of the rope to the stake. I stepped back, gratified to see him already munching on the grass. If my scheme worked, Satan would graze in the circle around the stake, then I'd move the stake.

Goats were nature's lawnmower.

A rumbling noise sounded from the road. I looked up to see a familiar black pickup rolling toward me. I waved, and the truck slowed. I walked over, feeling self-conscious about my getup—and the stench I'd acquired—then decided it was what it was.

"Hi," Sawyer said with an amused smile. "You're starting to look like a local."

I smirked. "The groundskeeper quit."

"Kelly quit? That doesn't sound like her. Did something happen?"

I tucked away the information that Kelly was a "she," then pressed my lips together. "Well, now that you mention it, something happened in the graveyard."

He frowned. "What?"

"It's probably better if I show you."

He leaned over and opened the passenger door. "Get in."

I accepted his hand and awkwardly climbed up onto the bench seat of the old truck. I scanned the dated interior from the rollup window handles to the vintage radio.

He smiled. "She's old, but she runs like a teenager."

I smiled back. "This is the first time I've been in a truck."

"No kidding? You probably drive something nice in the city."

"I don't have a car… or a driver's license."

"Ah, a city girl, through and through. Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes," I admitted with a laugh, lifting my soiled rubber gloves. "But it's been a nice break from…" I coughed. "It's been a nice break."

"Are you making progress on your novel?"

"Mm-hm." Thankfully our arrival at the cemetery prevented me from expounding. I climbed out of the truck, then led the way into the cemetery and over to the grave of Nell Benson with the displaced slab of granite.

He grunted. "Ah, that explains why Kelly was spooked. Do you know about the folklore?"

"That the granite is there to keep the spirit in the grave? Yeah, a woman brought a tour group here and that was one of her stories. She insinuated the woman was a witch." I studied Sawyer for his reaction, but he seemed more concerned with the condition of the stone.

"I don't see any cracks, thank goodness. Did you see who did this?"

I hesitated. "There was a group of people here a few nights ago having some kind of ceremony. They were… wearing robes."

His mouth turned down. "Did you recognize anyone?"

"Tilda Benson. I met her in the library."

He nodded. "I've heard the rumors. This piece of rock probably weighs half a ton, so it would take several people or some kind of tool to move it. I'll put it back with the wench."

"Should I report it to the authorities?"

He shook his head. "No need. I'll talk to Tilda when I see her. This witch nonsense has to stop." His gaze flickered over me. "Before someone else gets hurt."

He stood and stalked back to his truck to unload his equipment while my mind scrolled back to the warning the old woman Muriel had murmured about the witches coming together to mend an ages-old feud.

They will need a sacrifice.