Roxanne Rustand - Murder At Granite Falls

And then, in the evening, she’d happened to look down from her apartment window to find Logan sitting on the open tailgate of the company pickup with his head bowed, one arm draped around the dog sitting at his side. Penny was there, too, her hand on his shoulder and her own head bowed.

Carrie had no delusions about the fact that even the worst of sinners might pray for forgiveness. And should. Yet the closeness of that scene, and the obvious love Penny had for her brother, touched Carrie’s heart in a way all of the logical thinking in the world had not.

If Logan had been shunned by this town for something he hadn’t done, how could she do the same?

She jerked her attention back to her classroom, hit the off button on the TV remote, and popped the DVD out of the player. It was her favorite—a depiction of the American cowboy as portrayed in paintings and sculpture by Remington.

“So,” she said with a smile, “how did Remington’s subjects differ from the ranches and cowboys we see today?”

Seven pairs of eyes stared blankly at her, quiet and obedient, while in one corner of the room, Noah Colwell silently stared down at the top of his desk, his thin shoulders hunched. In the other back corner, the Nelson twins looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

“Austin?”

That earned a guilty glance from the twin who seemed quieter, and snickers from his brother—who was her most likely candidate as creator of the violent drawings left on her desk on Monday, and again today.

“Dylan?”

His snickers died as Dylan silently lifted his chin in subtle defiance.

“Does anyone here live on a ranch?” She scanned the room. Two girls raised tentative hands. There were at least four others, out of the twelve students in her class, but no one else volunteered a hand. “Well, I’ll bet all of you have seen ranchers and cowhands come into town. Are their hats just the same now as they were back in the days of the Wild West? How about their chaps, and their saddles?”

The students seemed to collectively slide down in their chairs and avoid meeting her eyes. Not unexpected, she realized with an inward smile. Middle school was such a tender time for being easily mortified by unwanted attention or, worse, saying something that might make classmates scoff.

“Well, our next project will be creating either a watercolor or acrylic painting in the style of Remington, but with the cowboys wearing modern-day apparel and using present-day equipment. So think hard on it overnight, and we’ll see you here tomorrow.” All twelve students scrambled to their feet and bolted for freedom.

One, a beautiful Latina with shimmering hair that swung down her back to her waist, hesitated when she reached the door. “I won’t be in class the rest of the week,” she said with a shy duck of her head. “Can I do a makeup assignment for anything I miss?”

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