Chapter 3

<Copyright © 2025 by Deana J Holmes. Shared by Bad Unicorn Press. All rights reserved. Not for AI. If AI bots attempt to scrape this, those responsible will be cursed with papercuts between their fingers and one tenacious bald spot in an inconvenient place.>

Jack Goodnight

I’ve dealt with my fair share of crazies. But none have left me as shaken as one pretend witch in a dirty gown—or as singularly pissed off. Since when do I just hand off unhinged cosplayers to so-called relations? Oh, I guess Since a pair of moss-green eyes nearly had me yanking open a cell and begging forgiveness. 

Which is insane. 

I don’t know this woman.  

I’m not responsible for whatever drove her to take drugs in the desert. 

A frustrated huff escapes me and I shove through the door of my apartment. A practiced flick of the wrist sends my keys into a dish and my hat follows, landing on its hook above. Normally, I put my gun in my safe. Today, I leave it holstered on my hip, letting the weight ground me as I rifle through my fridge in search of dinner. 

It’s been a long day. I missed lunch. And I know it will be even longer before sleep. 

Beyond all reason, that woman is under my skin. 

The way she looked at me…

I flinch. 

“Dammit.” I yanked out a takeout container and give the contents a wary glance. That’s a hard no. I toss it into the bin, followed by the greens that died in the crisper—that drawer is such a liar—and half-eaten tuna sandwich. I have no idea how many days that sandwich has been there, and I don’t mess with tuna. Though if it would banish the memory of the pain in Mayweather’s eyes, I’d eat the thing in one bite.

And now she’d got me thinking about her as Mayweather. 

Shaking my head, I slam a jar of pickles on the counter and glare at the contents. A nice, safe green—not the dusty hue of early morning heather, draped in soft mist and swirling with misery. 

I brace my palms on the counter. 

It doesn’t make any sense. 

I ended things with my ex-fiance three weeks before our wedding and she never once looked at me with that level of devastation. Not even close! If I’m honest, she was relieved—and so was I. It had been…easy. No pain or drama, just a collegial separation with a side of shared remorse over nonrefundable deposits. 

But this woman who claims to be Mayweather McCreedy? 

I don’t know her and guilt is squeezing my heart. 

Somehow, by not being my ancestor, I ripped out her heart in the middle of town square and stopped my boot heel into the center of the organ. When I told her who I was? The sheer devastation in those moss-green eyes of hers sliced through me. In all the time I’ve picked up wayward fangirls from the plains, I’ve been spat at, punched, clawed, screamed at, hit on and one time a bearded witch grabbed my crotch and called me Teddy. 

Yet, I’ve never before felt like I’ve simultaneously murdered someone’s puppy and crushed their every dream. 

It doesn’t sit right with me. 

She’s the one who’s lying. So how am I the one feeling guilty?

Clenching my jaw, I abandon the fridge for the freezer and retrieve my favorite emergency meal: homemade lasagna, courtesy of my mother. I chuck it in in the microwave and rub my palm across the knot in my heart. I don’t want to have the answer to that question, but I can’t avoid it: I hurt her. 

Even if it doesn’t make a lick of sense, I hurt her. W

hy the hell my name or a healthy serving of reality could hurt her, I can’t imagine. But I can’t shake the feeling. And until now, I’ve been careful to never hurt a woman. 

My ex would say too careful. 

I never let feelings cloud my judgement. I always keep a safe distance. 

And then this lunatic stranger with dirt under her fingernails and a gown that belongs in a museum goes and shreds that distance with a single glance. Sure, she’s the type of beauty who could be drooling in a sack and still be the most striking woman in the room. Shit, she could have emerged from a Pre-Raphaelite painting, with waves of midnight hair framing a tragically beautiful face faintly kissed with freckles. 

And now she’s got me referencing the one art history class I took in college.

I took that class to spite my father, not feel responsible for crazy women who think they’re old time witches. 

“Fuck it.” I pull the lasagna out of the microwave, cursing the hot dish as I put it on the counter. It’s way too hot to eat, but damned if I don’t grab a fork and consider the welcome distraction of scalding my tongue. 

I drop onto the lone stool at my kitchen counter and drag a hand through my hair. 

What the hell am I doing? 

I don’t let fine looking women throw me off my game. Except right now, it seems. And the strangest part of it?

I do feel like I know her. 

Which probably makes me crazier than she is. 

Still, there’s something about her—a sheer conviction to her lunatic narrative than none of the other witchy fans possess. I have not seen her before—so why is she so hauntingly familiar? The other ones who dress up, take drugs and wander around in the wilds are crying for creature comforts by the time they come down from the high. But not this woman. She might have been talking nonsense about my ancestor and demons, yet she had an unnerving level of self possession.

If she hadn’t been talking crazy, I’d never have known…

I slap my hand on the counter, making the steaming dish rattle.

“Fuck!” I assumed she was high. I’ve had ample experiences with wannabe witches getting stoned on the plains, and this so-called Mayweather McCreedy acted like none of them. If I strip away the costume and the wild assertions? 

Then I have a woman in an exceptional costume who’s done her homework on my family’s history. Now the question becomes: Why? That question is a hell of a lot more palatable than some unreasonable guilt. 

What are you up to, Mayweather? 

Pondering, I shove hot noodles into my face. 

“Shit!” I rapidly inhale cool air around the angry pasta. 

Dinner needs more time. Abandoning the steaming container on the counter, I stalk into my apartment’s tiny den and search the bookshelf behind my desk. My fingers trail across spines ranging from history to criminal law. Until I reach it. The photo album my mom made for me when I graduated, packed with images from our family’s illustrious history in law enforcement. It’s leather-bound and painstakingly arranged with a level of skill that would probably make scrapbookers weep. I don’t appreciate her work nearly as much as I should—and I’m not about to start now. 

Sorry, Mom.

I flip straight to the picture of Marshal John William Goodnight and his crew, the infamous Midnight Marshals. 

Jaw tight, I study the Marshal’s face. 

He does look like me—rather, I look like him. My whole family commented on it while I was growing up. My father and grandfather seemed to take pride in the resemblance, but my grandmother had been oddly reserved on the subject. Once, when I was ten, I asked her why she seemed sad about the resemblance. 

In a quiet tone, she’d said that John William’s smile always appeared cold, and she didn’t want her grandson losing his warmth. That comment stuck with me, a burr in the back of my mind. I’ve done what I can to stay warm, even if I’ve always known the Goodnight men have a cold streak wider than a flooded spring river. 

You push us into a corner and that ruthless streak will become lethal. Yet today’s witch pushed me into a corner, and instead of slapping her with all the charges she likely deserved, I’d brought her a goddamn coffee. 

What is it about her that makes me want to stand between her and danger, and did Marshal Goodnight feel the same about his Mayweather before it all went wrong? 

I study my great-great-great grandfather. 

Is that too many greats? 

I can never keep track. 

I shrug. Doesn’t matter—the marshal was a cold blooded bastard, too long dead to tell me whether a witch once turned his head. 

Though I bet she did. 

I gather up the album and take it back to the  counter. 

Hunkering beside my pasta, grateful to discover it cool enough to shovel in my face, I stare at the picture. At the marshal. The moustache. The steely glare. The long duster with his hat at a rakish angle. He was the picture of the Wild West American hero and I’m the spitting image of him. And yet, I’ve never much cared for this picture. He and three of the Midnight Marshals flank a corpse hung from a tree branch. 

Samuel Longshot. Jesse Wilk. 

And Henry Mooncrow

I lean close to the picture and narrow my eyes. 

It’s hard to tell with the old pictures, harder yet as my mother had taken a picture of the framed original in my father’s office. Samuel and Jesse appear as tough as always, though their posture suggests they’re marking a major victory. And while with them, I swear Henry Mooncrow—in honor of whose memory I gained my middle name—is looking away from the rest, as if talking to someone out of frame. 

Was someone else there? And which famous bounty was this? I realize I’ve never asked who was hanging from the tree. 

I debate calling my grandfather to find out. 

He’d know—there’s not a thing about John William Goodnight that John Samuel Goodnight doesn’t know. But I’d better not—it’s probably too late. He might be in bed, and if he’s not, he’ll be deep in the darker memories. 

My dinner vanishes as I flip through more of the pages. All the historical photos are fascinating in their own way, yet I keep coming back to the first one. I have the oddest sensation, like I'm missing something obvious. Something important. But since lasagna hasn’t solved it, I close the book. 

Hopefully, a night’s rest will give me the answer. 

If nothing else, I’ll be checking in on the so-called Mayweather tomorrow. 

For now, I send a text to my mom with a picture of the half eaten lasagna. You’re a true goddess, I type, knowing it will make her titter happily when she reads it in the morning. I follow that with a wall of praise-hand emojis for the same reason—because she’s inordinately proud of mastering the art of the emoji.

Besides, without her mercy meals I’d live off instant noodles and probably get scurvy. And we both know it.

My phone rings and I grin, expecting to find my mom’s number displayed. 

I blink in surprise when I realize it’s my grandfather. 

“Hey, Gramps,” I greet him, careful to pitch my voice a little louder than normal, as he sometimes forgets to turn on his hearing aids. “Never say you’re now moonlighting as a psychic?”

“Don’t joke, boy,” my grandfather snaps. “The weird is nothing to mess with.”

Well, damn. He’s in a mood. 

Guess I wasn’t wrong about the dark memories. 

“Just kidding,” I say, keeping my tone easy in an attempt to dispel tension. I forgot he gets twitchy about the occult at night. “I was thinking about calling you, but worried it was too late. Then here you are, calling me.”

His grunt carries over the line. “Let me guess, the nutcase floozy in your cells today has you wondering about John William Goodnight.”

I chuckle. “You heard about that, huh?”

“Course.” He sounds affronted by the suggestion he’d miss that news. 

And in fairness, not much escapes his net. I’m pretty sure he spied for the government during the Cold War… or is still spying for them. Odd bouts of paranoia aside, he’s as canny as they come and has a network of informants that I imagine the dearly departed Homeland Security would have loved.

“Well?” I prompt, knowing it’s what he expects. 

“You escort that weird  hussy out of town?”

There’s an edge to the question, and I debate for a moment what to say. There’s no point in lying to him—his sources are too damn good. But there’s also no value in riling him up before bed. 

Who am I kidding? “You already know,” I say, “don’t you?”

“I know what I heard, but I told Lenny to tell Sal that he’s a dirty liar. There’s no way this side of the Devil’s taint that my grandson would commend a witch into the care of the McCreedys!”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say dryly. “Turns out she’s a relation.”

“That’s a damned lie!” The outburst crackles through the receiver and my phone vibrates toward the edge of the counter. “Those two McCreedy witches are the last of their kind—there’s no more of them. There’s no third! They’re liars. Dangerous, dirty liars, that’s what they are, and you’d best find out why before they cause a heap of trouble.”

I blink at my phone. 

Even for gramps, that’s an intense take. 

“You  know me, Gramps. I always do my job.” I can’t understand how so much of the town—a population of otherwise rational humans—are so convinced the McCreedy’s wield dark magics. “I’ll keep an eye on her—and rest assured I’ll be doing a check in tomorrow, to make sure they’re—”

“You watch yourself around that witch,” he snaps. 

“Sure, Gramps. I’ll be careful.” I reach for the photo album and flip it back open. Time to try a distraction. “Hey, you know the picture of John William and the Midnight Marshals that you gave to Dad? The one in his office? I was wondering who the person is they’ve got strung up between them?”

There’s a pregnant pause. 

“Are you certain?” Gramps whispers. 

I frown at my phone. This is not the reaction I expect, normally he can’t wait to tell me historical details. “Certain of what?”

He clears his throat. “Certain she’s not what she claims?”

“Certain she’s not…” I shake my head as the meaning of his question slowly dawns on me. Has he lost it? Do we need to send him to a care home? There’s no way he believes an old west witch is back from… “Oh, hah! I get it—this is payback for the psychic comment, right? Hilarious, Gramps. You’re a real comedian. And yes, I’m positive this Mayweather isn’t a witch from the 1880s. No one climbed out of any grave.”

I can hear him suck in a breath. “But you watch yourself—”

An incoming call interrupts another ‘beware of McCreedys’ lecture. 

“Sorry, Gramps,” I say, “I’ve got a call coming in from the station. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? And don’t worry, the past is staying buried.”

I hang up before he can argue. 

“Goodnight here,” I say, accepting the call from the station’s evening dispatch. “What’s going on, Les?”

“S-sorry, Sheriff.” Les is stuttering—Les never stutters.

Cold dread curls around my gut. “What happened?”

“We… we need you at the hill, Sheriff. We need you now.” He makes a noise that’s something between a hiccup and a sob. “Oh, God. I wish we still had the FBI, because I’d want them, too.” 

I’m moving while he’s talking, shoving my feet into boots. “Breathe, Les. What hill?”

“Battle Rise,” he says. “Near the top.”

Adrenaline pumping, I pull on my jacket and grab my hat. I never took off my gun, so it stays in place on my hip. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon.” Truck keys in hand, I pause. “Do we need to call anyone else?”

“I expect…” His voice drops to a fractured whisper. “I expect we need the coroner.”

Fuck. I keep my voice level. “Someone died?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yes, Sheriff.”

I stop the curse before it escapes my throat. 

I slam out the door and bolt for my truck. Deaths are rare in Devil’s Reach, and none of my deputies had homicide experience. “You’ll secure the scene. Get the details of any witnesses and keep any onlookers back. We need to keep the body undisturbed until the coroner arrives to confirm the cause of death.”

“Undisturbed… Sir. This scene… I aint seen anything so disturbed. The body looks to be the Keefer’s boy. But I can’t…I can’t see…” Les sounds as if he’s being shaken to his core. I know without being told he’s already lost his dinner. “I can tell you the boy didn’t die of natural causes. Ain’t nothing natural about what happened here. And I’m not sure any coroner is going to get his body off the rockface.”