Broken Fences

Chapter One
 Seneca shifted the pack. The shoulder straps were padded, but after hours of walking, even the plush straps of her Bushcraft were apt to chafe. She’d walked nearly clean across the state of Idaho before coming into the small town. It wasn’t on her main route to Seattle. Hell, it wasn’t on any main route as far as she could tell. There had been a scenic little state highway crossing I-90 and disappearing between two mountains. Something about the sight had called to her. Maybe it was the huckleberry bushes with their ripe, dark fruits. Maybe it was the way the red cedars creaked beneath the shade of the mountains. Maybe it was that she had eaten the last of her nutrition bars.
 The little square was pleasant and the small businesses around the courthouse seemed aimed at basic needs. Speaking of needs, her stomach rumbled cavernously. The last place she’d landed had afforded her the fortune of working as a custodian for a few weeks. Once she’d padded her wallet and supplies, the road called to her once again and, dutifully, she took up her pack. It seemed it was time to settle in and roll up her sleeves once more because her wallet was near-empty.
 Shading her eyes against the sun, she squinted at the apothecary sign, then slid her gaze to the advertisement for small engine repair. Seneca stepped across the quiet street and struck out toward the other side of a gas station advertising a discount on Marlboros. Surely there was a vending machine, or something, somewhere nearby. As she approached the northern side of the square, a smell hit her, and her steps faltered. Barbeque. There was no mistaking it.
 Seneca’s slightly accelerated pace belied her excitement. She crossed another street, and the establishment came into view. Jack’s, the simple sign read. The aroma coming from the bar and grill was anything but simple. It smelled like home. Seneca let herself in.
 As she entered, anticipation bubbling in her stomach at the prospect of a good meal, she checked the time. When she looked up again, it was to find the entire assemblage of patrons regarding her curiously. The glances were not unkind, but neither were they polite. Seeming to realize this, the customers collectively turned back to one another and continued their conversations as though nothing had happened.
 Seneca mentally shook her head. Some things would always be the same—like summer rain, slow-paced Sundays, and small-town curiosity. She made her way to the bar as though she’d walked the worn boards a hundred times. She sat and the bartender set a glass of whisky in front of her.
 She frowned. “I haven’t ordered yet.”
 He tilted his head. “You weren’t going to order whisky?”
 She looked into his dark eyes. “Well, since you’ve poured it.” She took the tumbler, swirling its contents before bringing it under her nose. “Nice.”
 “Maker’s.” He placed a coaster and napkin near her glass. “I’m Earl.”
 She flashed a smile. “Well, Earl, I came in because I smelled the barbeque.”
 “Ah,” he said, nodding. “Great choice. What would you like with it?”
 “Whatever the cook likes.” She shrugged. If it was food, she didn’t care.
 Earl raised his thick black brows but made no comment. “I’ll get that order in for you.” Earl made his way to the back, presumably in the direction of the kitchen.
 As Seneca waited, she casually studied the bar. Wooden shelves were mounted in front of a mirror and stocked with more whisky than vodka. The top and bottom shelves needed dusting, but the mid-level scotch and whisky saw a lot of action. While reviewing the popular choices, she unhappily noticed in the bar mirror’s reflection that she still attracted a considerable amount of attention.
 Seneca knew how she looked. Dusty from the road, a large pack at her feet, a stranger to all. She forced away the tension already accumulated in her shoulders. No matter how many towns she hiked into, this initial experience put her on edge. The familiarity of being a stranger. Her eyes flicked back to the mirror. Seneca didn’t blame them for staring, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it.
 There was a creaking sound as the door opened and two dusty men came into the establishment. They must have been regulars because many a patron raised a hand in greeting and several people called to them. After a very social path to the bar, the two men—one short and one tall—claimed barstools.
 Earl poured them each a beer. “How’s ranching, friends?”
 The taller of the two men, who’d answered to the name of Win, said, “Same as always.” He had a bit of a whistle in his speech and his mustache seemed to flutter with the sound.
 “Getting ready for our big drive soon,” the one called JD said. He was well-built, if aging, and his white hair still held a touch of gold.
 “Oh, that’s right. It’s about time to round ’em up and bring ’em back in.” Earl leaned on the counter. “How’re those new hands you hired?”
 Win and JD exchanged a look. Seneca avoided Win’s glance along the bar at her; she quickly busied herself squinting at the menu. “Well, they seem to know what they’re doing, but they need a lot of supervision.”
 “They’re lazy?”
 JD nodded. “That’s one way of saying it, I suppose,” he said. “I’ve not been impressed so far. They’re fancy cowboys and I need working cowboys.”
 “We need ranch hands with some get-up-and-go. Folks that can get a job done well without me or JD having to explain every step. It’s gotten to where you can’t find help with that skill set, anymore.”
 “I hear you, friend.” Earl traveled the bar to check on Seneca, who patiently sipped the last of her liquor. “How are you doing over here?”
 Seneca’s interest was piqued. She’d done ranch work before and made a mental note to check out