A Valley to Die For Read Free Page A

stop progress, now, can we?”
    Progress! Well, it depended on how you defined the word. At that moment, Carrie McCrite almost forgot herself. She’d wanted to reach across the desk and shake the man. If only she’d had the courage. Remembering, she smiled at the thought of it and wondered what that big man would have done if a pudgy, five-foot-two, grey-haired female grabbed his fleshy shoulders and shook him ‘til his head bobbed.
    He’d see. He was young. He didn’t understand anything about tough women. He didn’t know JoAnne Harrington or... or... the rest of them.
    That County Judge had something to learn.
    Carrie shoved her chair back with a bang, went to spoon more instant coffee into her mug, poured hot water, then returned to her place at the kitchen table. She leaned forward and stared out the window again, trying to re-capture the feeling of peace and well-being that early morning in Blackberry Hollow brought to her.
    Day came late to the hollow, especially when there was fog. Sun was just now edging down through the trees, but her bird feeders had been busy for some time. Cardinals, indigo buntings, woodpeckers, chickadees—a colorful bunch. The “tink tink” of the cardinals always cheered her.
    Even if the stone quarry came, she’d still have her own twenty-five acres of protected forest. But every time she drove down to the Booths’ farm, she’d see not a valley but rock piles, dust, blasting, heavy machinery, and an army of growling trucks.
    Thinking about it, Carrie, who never swore, murmured, “Just like hell,” into her coffee mug.
    A sharp crack from over the hill punctuated the words, and she winced.
    Deer rifle! Close. Too close.
    It was like this every November.
    CRACK.
    Sounds were funny in the woods. Maybe it wasn’t that close after all.
    Carrie knew hunting thinned out a deer population that could be too plentiful, but during hunting season her woods were a new and dangerous world. Posting didn’t always stop those who came into the area with guns; some hunters ignored the markings.
    When she walked through the forest during hunting season, she wore her old orange ski jacket and a hunter’s hat and sometimes even sang aloud or carried her portable radio tuned to a music station. But why should she have to be afraid on her own land any time of year?
    Because she knew all too well how far a shot from a deer rifle could carry. One had carried far enough to kill Amos.
    She’d found the bloody remains of a butchered deer in the woods last November and, for a time, that brought back the nightmares.
    Now they were out there again, hidden among the trees, shooting.
    Until that awful November five years ago, the woods had always been a sanctuary for her—a cozy, welcoming place.
    Amos, on the other hand, had loved these rocky, tree-covered hills because they made him feel masculine and strong. He’d never said anything to her, but she’d understood. She’d known exactly why he was planning to move here when he retired from his law practice in Tulsa, and why he agreed so quickly when she urged him to buy this land early so they could visit it on weekends. She’d won him over completely when she mentioned, very casually, that he could cut their firewood here, and, in November, he could hunt.
    If only she hadn’t mentioned hunting.
    Amos had almost swaggered that morning as he and his friend, Evan Walters, headed out to harvest deer. The two men had talked about the opening weekend of hunting season for months. They’d built the deer stand in late summer and begun putting out dried corn in the fall.
    Since the weather that weekend was warm for November, Carrie offered to come along and serve a picnic. She didn’t mind waiting, sitting in a lawn chair reading or poking about in the woods near the road.
    But, only minutes after they left her, there had been a shot, a cry from Evan. She could still hear that cry.
    Then he had crashed back wildly, faced her, and...
    It all felt like a bad