Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(26)

At first I think she’s not going to acknowledge me. But then her own hand lifts to press against the glass. She keeps it there as I roll away.

TWELVE

Jane Doe

now

Dr. Alwood’s black sedan chugs along the bustling main street of Sisters.

My new hometown.

It’s only twenty-one miles northwest of Bend, but it already feels like a lifetime away from the only other place in the world that I remember.

Dr. Alwood sighs, coming to a dead stop in front of a hair salon as someone up ahead waits to make a left turn. The sight makes me reach up and touch my own hair, now colored a nice golden blond and cut to my shoulders. We just left the stylist in Bend. She showed me how to set the part so the patch where they had to shave my head is covered.

“If the town would just build a bypass for the highway, we could avoid this daily traffic jam,” Dr. Alwood murmurs.

“I don’t mind the traffic.” With the sun beating down on us and the windows rolled open, the warm spring air carries with it the hum of life. My eyes skim the pedestrians and the storefronts along both sides, many of which appear to be galleries. “A lot of people like art around here, don’t they?”

Dr. Alwood nods. “The town has become something of a tourist destination. That’s the intention, anyway. They did some major restorations, trying to bring the old frontier-town feel back to it.”

“Frontier. Yes . . .” The boxy buildings with angular faces do remind me of an old black-and-white western movie I watched the other night in my hospital room, when entertainment options were slim. While western films don’t seem to be my thing, I like the feel of this place. It seems small.

Safe.

“How many people live here?”

“About two thousand. Just the way Gabe and I like it. After a stressful day at work, it’s nice to come back to something more simple.”

I press up against the window to see the top of a tall, narrow tree on the corner, its needled branches like pipe cleaners.

“That’s called a ponderosa pine,” Dr. Alwood explains. “We’re known in these parts for them. You’ll see them all over Ginny’s ranch. Our place, too.”

“Dr. Alwood—”

“Please, call me Meredith,” she interrupts me. “You’re no longer in the hospital. Same with Gabe. I’d like to think we know each other well enough to use first names now.”

I nod and try it out for the first time. “Meredith—I want to get a job and earn money. What is there to do around here?”

Her brow pinches together. “We’ll think of something. Gabe’s family has lived in these parts for generations. I’m sure someone would be willing to help us out if we ask. Maybe a small retail store.” She points to one with a scrawling sign hanging at the front of it. A quilt dangles in the window, with swirls of blue and white in the background and the black skeleton of a tree standing prominently in the center. “That’s actually one of only a few original buildings that didn’t get burned down in the ’twenties. Still, Sisters has survived and thrived.”

Surviving and thriving. Maybe this town is perfect for a person like me. I have the first part down pat.

We continue the ride in relaxed silence, leaving the bustling town behind for a series of side roads, each one bumpier and more remote. Soon the houses disappear altogether. Ahead of us is nothing but wide-open straw-colored fields, peppered with those ponderosa pines. And looming like a curtained backdrop, three mountain peaks ahead.

“Those are the Three Sisters,” Meredith explains, noticing my riveted attention. “They’re actually volcanic peaks. Low risk, though.”

“They’re really high,” I murmur, taking in the white caps they still wear, even when everything below is a lush green.

“Yes. Over ten thousand feet.”

We make a left down a slightly narrower dirt road. “That’s our house, back in there.” We pass a long drive that disappears into a screen of tall trees. About a hundred yards over sits a rusted and dented blue mailbox that reads “Fitzgerald,” its flag raised. Meredith pulls the car up and empties it of a thick stack of flyers and envelopes. She hands them to me. “Can you sort these for me? Remove anything not addressed directly to Ginny or we’ll have to listen to a ten-minute rant about a government conspiracy.”

I filter through the pile, wondering yet again what I’ve gotten myself into. It took me a night of contemplation, lying in my dark, lonely hospital room, to realize that this is actually a great thing. One cranky old lady with a bucket of issues and my own space to live in is definitely preferable to a shelter full of nosy strangers and no privacy. Besides, the Welleses live next door, and they’re as close to family as I have right now.

Meredith’s car dips and bumps as we slowly make our way over the potholes. “As you can guess, getting trash to the curb on collection day can be a real pain. We’re about a quarter of a mile off the road. She has an old truck that she uses to take out the bags, but it’s still tough. Doing that and getting the mail are some things that you can do to help Ginny out, as long as you feel up to it physically. But you’ll just have to start doing it. She won’t ask. She’s stubborn like that.”

We round a bend of trees and I get my first look at the Fitzgerald ranch, complete with three mismatched buildings—a small white clapboard house to the far left, a brown two-door garage ahead, and a sturdy-looking red barn to the right. Wooden fences trail along the property as far as my eye can see, creating a maze of corrals. Some sit faded and falling apart, while others stand secure, lighter beams of wood telling me that they’ve seen some repair.