dead-on. Once again, a sense that he was being judged relentlessly tapped Sean’s body the same way the weather was buffeting him. However, the events that had taken place since their first meeting had placed Sean into a state that was anything but humbling.
“Get out of here!” he snarled before launching his body forward and kicking a large granite stone from the ground.
The rock slammed into the broadside of a thick, nearby aspen, sailing just a few inches above the rabbit’s head. The frightened creature quickly high-tailed it into the darkness, leaving behind a recognizable thumping sound with each stride.
Sean had nearly knocked his shoe from his foot when he kicked the stone. With his shoulders low and the ache in his ankle now worse, he swore beneath his breath and lowered down to one knee. After setting his flashlight down on the ground, he latched onto his shoestrings, but his fingers quickly came to a halt, as did all movement from his body.
Just inches ahead on the ground, a flat white object lay directly in the Mag’s light path. Its contrast with the earthy tones below, it was standing out like a burning bush.
He snatched the flashlight as he scrambled forward on his knees. He aimed it downward and lit up the small patch of ground that had been previously covered by the large stone he had sent flying with his foot.
His temper had unearthed the torn-off front page of a newspaper. He immediately recognized the title up top— The Lakeland Tribune .
The town of Lakeland sat about seven miles north of Winston. Years ago, the towns mirrored each other in population, culture, and seclusion. But today, Lakeland and Winston were polar opposites. Copper mining had put Lakeland on the map back in the late 1800s, but the town hadn’t enjoyed any form of prosperity in decades. Its historical significance wasn’t enough to keep a twentieth century economy sustainable. Thus, in the late 1990s, Lakeland found itself, with a handful of other small Colorado towns, on a petition to the state that requested the self-preservation measure of legalized gambling. Voters statewide eagerly made that request a reality, despite much opposition from many of the resident townsfolk—a handful of whom had actually ended up moving to Winston because of the decision.
Considering the trademark strong winds that routinely visited the region, it wasn’t odd to find such an item in the woods outside of Winston: merely a piece of light trash carried through the air and eventually coming to rest. Only, it hadn’t simply come to a rest. It had been lying directly underneath that rock, among freshly disheveled dirt. When Sean flattened out the paper, he noticed that the printed date was from only two days ago. He knew the find had some significance. With raindrops snapping against the newsprint and round water imprints forming, he quickly shoved the page into the front pocket of his parka for protection.
Lowering his gaze back to the loose, disordered earth in front of him, a tight knot formed in his stomach. There had to be something buried there. As his knees sank deeper into the cold, drenched mud beneath him, his hopes rose.
As if a starter pistol had just been fired off, he found his hands quickly sifting through the soil, probing for anything that could bolster the basis for him being in the middle of the forest by himself, in the midst of a frigid, late night rainstorm. If the trees had eyes, they’d witness a man desperately searching for his own vindication.
It didn’t take long to find something. Sean’s fingers hooked an object that felt at first to be a thick, smooth cord. He used his opposite hand to train the flashlight on what was quickly revealed to be a leather strap, each end still buried.
Like a pirate hoisting up buried treasure from below, he uprooted the attached object with a stern tug. It was some sort of rectangular satchel, about a foot and a half wide and three inches thick. The clearing of the filth
“Get out of here!” he snarled before launching his body forward and kicking a large granite stone from the ground.
The rock slammed into the broadside of a thick, nearby aspen, sailing just a few inches above the rabbit’s head. The frightened creature quickly high-tailed it into the darkness, leaving behind a recognizable thumping sound with each stride.
Sean had nearly knocked his shoe from his foot when he kicked the stone. With his shoulders low and the ache in his ankle now worse, he swore beneath his breath and lowered down to one knee. After setting his flashlight down on the ground, he latched onto his shoestrings, but his fingers quickly came to a halt, as did all movement from his body.
Just inches ahead on the ground, a flat white object lay directly in the Mag’s light path. Its contrast with the earthy tones below, it was standing out like a burning bush.
He snatched the flashlight as he scrambled forward on his knees. He aimed it downward and lit up the small patch of ground that had been previously covered by the large stone he had sent flying with his foot.
His temper had unearthed the torn-off front page of a newspaper. He immediately recognized the title up top— The Lakeland Tribune .
The town of Lakeland sat about seven miles north of Winston. Years ago, the towns mirrored each other in population, culture, and seclusion. But today, Lakeland and Winston were polar opposites. Copper mining had put Lakeland on the map back in the late 1800s, but the town hadn’t enjoyed any form of prosperity in decades. Its historical significance wasn’t enough to keep a twentieth century economy sustainable. Thus, in the late 1990s, Lakeland found itself, with a handful of other small Colorado towns, on a petition to the state that requested the self-preservation measure of legalized gambling. Voters statewide eagerly made that request a reality, despite much opposition from many of the resident townsfolk—a handful of whom had actually ended up moving to Winston because of the decision.
Considering the trademark strong winds that routinely visited the region, it wasn’t odd to find such an item in the woods outside of Winston: merely a piece of light trash carried through the air and eventually coming to rest. Only, it hadn’t simply come to a rest. It had been lying directly underneath that rock, among freshly disheveled dirt. When Sean flattened out the paper, he noticed that the printed date was from only two days ago. He knew the find had some significance. With raindrops snapping against the newsprint and round water imprints forming, he quickly shoved the page into the front pocket of his parka for protection.
Lowering his gaze back to the loose, disordered earth in front of him, a tight knot formed in his stomach. There had to be something buried there. As his knees sank deeper into the cold, drenched mud beneath him, his hopes rose.
As if a starter pistol had just been fired off, he found his hands quickly sifting through the soil, probing for anything that could bolster the basis for him being in the middle of the forest by himself, in the midst of a frigid, late night rainstorm. If the trees had eyes, they’d witness a man desperately searching for his own vindication.
It didn’t take long to find something. Sean’s fingers hooked an object that felt at first to be a thick, smooth cord. He used his opposite hand to train the flashlight on what was quickly revealed to be a leather strap, each end still buried.
Like a pirate hoisting up buried treasure from below, he uprooted the attached object with a stern tug. It was some sort of rectangular satchel, about a foot and a half wide and three inches thick. The clearing of the filth
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