“Lanice!” Whenever Ernie Trevine used that particular tone of voice, it meant trouble.
“Yeah?” I called out from where I worked on the ranch books in the back office. My ranch foreman of five years clomped across the faded rugs toward my desk, his heavy stride no doubt tracking in mud behind him. He didn’t look happy.
“Jonah’s gone missing again,” Ernie said as he took off his hat and slapped it against his leg. The dust was plentiful, and his brow was sweaty. As weird as it may sound, it was a good look on him.
“Did you check all the usual places?”
Jonah Willett was sixty-nine years old and had been the foreman here for almost forty years before he retired. Ernie had made it a habit to check on Jonah’s whereabouts daily because the man loved his alcohol. When he tied one on, he wander
