It looked like any other homestead upon the grasslands: simple and efficient. Jake was still getting the lay of the land, the people who had migrated to it, who they all were and where they had come from. As town marshal, he didn’t have much reason to call on many of them who didn’t live right in Sweet Sorrow. Unless, of course, there was a problem, some sort of trouble, like now. The sun stood straight up and glaring off the snow. Warmer than you might think, the snow growing to slush in some places along the road. Jake loosened the buttons on his coat. He dismounted in front of the cabin and knocked on the door. “Are you Marybeth Joseph?” he asked when the door opened a crack and a face peered out. “Who’s asking?” the woman said. “If you’re a drummer, keep moving. Got no need of anything and got no money.” Jake told her who he was, why he’d come: to speak to Marybeth Joseph. She looked him up and down. “What’s she done the law wants her?” “Nothing,” Jake said, “I’d just like to talk to her.”
