Dead Quiet: A Dakota Mystery

By M.K. Coker

The ties that bind—can kill.

All’s quiet in Reunion, South Dakota, until word comes via horse and buggy: a killer is loose in the peaceful German Anabaptist community of Eder.

Outsiders call them the Mock Brethren, who only wish to be left alone. Sheriff Karen Mehaffey wants to do just that—they shunned her mother. But when the patriarch, Elder Abraham Mock, is killed, she reluctantly answers the call, more afraid to find kin than a killer.

Except, that is, for the daughter she gave up two decades before.

DEAD QUIET is a character-driven police procedural of a rural bent. Fourth in series. Word Count: 101,000. Occasional profanity. Minimal gore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.K. Coker
• Release date: Mar 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311869272

M.K. Coker

M.K. Coker grew up on a river bluff in southeastern South Dakota. Part of the Dakota diaspora, the author has lived in half a dozen states, including New Mexico, but returns to the prairie at every opportunity.

Book preview

DEAD QUIET

A Dakota Mystery

M.K. Coker

Copyright © M.K. Coker. All Rights Reserved.

Cover Art by Glendon S. Haddix of Streetlight Graphics.

Smashwords Edition: March 2015

If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use or under an authorized lending program, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The Dakota Mystery Series:

Dead White

Dead Dreams

Dead Wrong

Dead Quiet

To Those Who Yearn for Reunion

If this graphic does not display correctly on your device, you can see it on my website at www.mkcoker.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Snowberger-Mock-Yoder Family Tree

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Author’s Note

About the Author

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1

Outrunning the threatening skies, the horse and buggy ran hell-bent for leather toward the Fink Fill-er-Up Gas and Diner. The startled waitress—taking a smoke at the lazy morning hour of a quarter past nine—watched slack-jawed as the buggy pulled to a stop by the lone gas pump. The lathered horse blew so hard that, even in the mild air of an early May morning, its breath coalesced into a long, fluffy white beard.

Snuffing out her cigarette on the crumbling concrete beneath her feet, the waitress waited for the driver to emerge from the buggy. Behind her, the door to the diner opened. Harlan Pederson, the only diner still lingering over his coffee long after his fellows had returned to their farms, moseyed out. Who is it, Danielle?

She shrugged. Dunno. He hasn’t got out yet. Kinda creepy, if you ask me. I’ve seen them black buggies down the road sometimes but never here in Fink.

Pulling on his seed cap, Harlan moved slowly on his rickety knees toward the horse. I used to see buggies here all the time. I went to school with some of them Eder kids when I was a lad. The grown-ups would come get groceries at Ernie’s store, and they’d trade him some of their crafts and furniture.

Danielle looked from the buggy to the three buildings that still remained standing in the once-prosperous little town: the Fill-er-Up, an antiques store that appeared to be an antique in its own right, and a faded Lutheran church. Two other buildings had collapsed in on themselves, but no one had bothered to give them a proper burial. When was that? In the Dark Ages?

Unruffled, the retired farmer just nodded. Just after the last Ice Age. Talking to the horse in low tones, Harlan snagged the reins then turned to look into the buggy. No one at home.

That’s too weird. Danielle shivered.

Harlan lashed the reins to the pump then retrieved an empty bucket from the back of his pickup. He filled it with water and placed it in front of the thirsty horse.

Danielle zipped up her hoodie. The weather may have been mild, but they were still in the Dakotas. What do you think happened to the driver?

Horse must’ve gotten away from him before he got in. Spooked, maybe. Leastways we know who to return it to.

The young waitress had moved to the safe side of the pump, shying away from the horse even though it was tethered. The Amish don’t have phones, right?

They aren’t Amish. They’re Brethren.

Whatever. I’m not going out there. She tapped her nose stud. They’d hang me as a witch or something.

Harlan shook his head as he stroked the horse. Peace-loving folk. Don’t believe in violence. Frowning, he pulled his hand away. He held his fingers up toward the weak morning sun poking out from breaking clouds, remnants of massive thunderheads that had barreled across the plains with much fanfare but little precipitation.

All the color ran out of Danielle’s face. "My God, Harlan, is that blood?"

***

Sheriff Karen Okerlund Mehaffey hurried out of her father’s bungalow on Okerlund Road, knowing she was late to the office. An accident in the wee hours on Interstate 29 had kept her up far too long, and the images kept her awake even longer. Lost sleep was harder to recover from now that she was in her forties. How her father had managed to work the job as long as he had, she didn’t know.

Well, actually, she did. You just kept going until something stopped you. In his case, it had been a stroke, though he’d mostly recovered.

Karen halted before she reached her vehicle as an unusual bit of color caught her eye. The crabapples were starting to bud, just here and there, dark pink in their green-cradled beds.

Mother’s Day was around the corner, she thought with a pang. Traditionally, that was when the crabapples bloomed at 22 Okerlund Road, along with the abandoned apple orchard behind their place, where her grandmother had died in a freak accident. All of her feelings of loss about her grandmother, her mother, and her own motherhood stabbed her with an intensity that always surprised her, more so as she got older.

As she usually did when she got maudlin, she forced herself to keep going—with her life, with her job. It was the only way to shrug off the bittersweet coming of life, knowing it meant the eventual pain of death.

Five minutes later, Karen walked into the first floor of the Eda County courthouse where her small department was housed to find the office empty except for the part-time secretary, Josephine Lindstrom.

We had a silo accident out near Aleford, Josephine explained. I would have called, but I assumed you’d be sleeping in after that pileup last night on I-29. The little girl pulled through, by the way.

And the little boy hadn’t. Good to know.

Josephine saw through Karen’s pathetic attempt at a smile. You have to rein in the bad, hold to the good, or you’ll never survive this job.

The door down to the jail flung open, and Tammy Nylander maneuvered her bulk through with practiced ease. Oh, good, you’re here, Karen. I was going to ask Josephine to handle this one if you weren’t around.

Tammy’s odd expression alerted Karen that this callout wasn’t going to be the usual. Ready to banish the thought of children lost, Karen just hoped the situation wasn’t as heart-stopping as the last. What is it?

With a deep, theatrical voice, Tammy said, It’s a buggy.

Buggy? It’s too early for bugs. Though with a mild winter, perhaps they’d gotten a jump on the season.

No, not bugs. A buggy. You know, from those Mennonites down near Fink.

Her heart stopped. They’re Brethren.

The Mock Brethren, as outsiders called them, were direct descendants of the Anabaptist founder, Alexander Mack, who’d fled the inhospitable climate of his native Schwarzenau, Germany. Over the two hundred fifty-plus years the group had been in America, the name had been Anglicized to the same-sounding if differently spelled Mock.

Tammy tugged at the battalion’s worth of khaki she wore over her generous figure. Whatever. The men with black hats and women with white bonnets who keep themselves to themselves. The gal at the diner wants you to find the driver, make sure he’s okay, and return the dang thing to its owner. It’s hogging the single gas pump.

Josephine snapped her fingers away from her keyboard. A buggy doesn’t go anywhere without a horse.

As a champion barrel racer, Josephine competed in the senior category, reaping belt buckles and notches on her belt from her many cowboy admirers.

Karen’s heart started beating again. Josephine knew horses. Problem solved. Avoidance, that was the key. You want to take this?

Not alone, I don’t. You’re the sheriff.

Maybe with a little finesse, Karen could sidestep actually going into the small Anabaptist community. But a quarter hour later, when they arrived at the dinky gas station on the southern edge of her county, her hopes were dashed.

The waitress, after a surprised twitch of her nose stud—which was likely from the discovery that the sheriff sported a ponytail—went into the diner to deal with a stray motorist who’d decided to have breakfast while waiting to fill up his near-empty tank.

Josephine nodded at Harlan Pederson, who held the reins of a stocky chestnut horse with a cream-colored mane. That’s a Haflinger, she said.

Karen blinked. A half what?

The old farmer laughed, furrowing the wrinkles on his sun-spotted face. A draft horse. Haflingers are on the small side, so they can be used both on the farm and for pulling a buggy. Popular with the Eder folk. But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one. His laughter faded. And this boy here’s got some blood on him.

That waitress— Karen began.

Danielle.

She didn’t tell the dispatcher about any blood. Though Tammy had said something about making sure the owner wasn’t injured.

Danielle’s squeamish. Can’t be in the kitchen when the meat’s still red.

Josephine said, Any farm girl should be used to it.

She’s a city girl. A runa— He pursed his lips. Forget I said that.

Karen would rather deal with a runaway girl than a runaway horse. Is she legal?

But the old man was saved by the bell—or Josephine. Sheriff, I think you need to see this.

She beckoned Karen to come around the other side of the horse. As the sun emerged fully from the clouds, the shoulder and part of the mane lit up like magic reagent on invisible ink.

That’s blood spray. Karen blew out a breath. We need to find the driver. Josephine, you can drive this thing, can’t you? I’ll go ahead of you and see if I can find any evidence of an accident on the road to Eder. With that kind of high-impact spray, she’d expect to see a body, though. Hit and run? She started toward the Suburban, not so affectionately known as the Sub after it had survived a flood. Um… which road is it?

Harlan looked at her curiously. Haven’t you ever been to Eder?

No sheriff, which in Eda County meant no Okerlund, had been on that road in more than forty years.

They’re not people who come to the attention of the law very often.

And when they did, her senior deputy or the coroner took care of it. That arrangement went back to, oh, about nine months more than her life on this earth.

Harlan pointed to one of two gravel roads leading away from Fink. "Die Stille im Lande."

Karen paused by the Sub as the phrase registered. It wasn’t a direction but a description of the Anabaptist communities that dotted the rural landscape of America. The Quiet in the Land.

Harlan’s grizzled brows rose. You know German? Thought you were Scandinavian, like me, being an Okerlund and all.

I learned some German in school, she said, truthfully enough. Now I’d better go look for the buggy’s owner. Josephine?

Seated in the buggy, Josephine clucked at the horse, who obligingly pulled away from the gas pump. Karen wished she could get away with following the buggy, but if someone was hurt, she needed to get to them as soon as possible.

Reminding herself that she was sworn to protect and serve everyone in her large rural county, Karen drove down the gravel road as fast as she dared. She scanned the ditches, looking for signs of a body, blood, or a disturbance on the road. She saw nothing but the greening prairie grasses. Finally, she reached the outskirts of a series of small farms reaching into a huddle of buildings sitting farther west—the erstwhile town of Eder. And despite her growing dread, she felt a tug of curiosity. But as she approached the outermost farm, she spotted a congregation of buggies.

One of them was starting to pull out from the farm, but on seeing her vehicle, its driver reined in. Even though the day was not that bright, Karen put on her sunglasses before rolling down the window. Trouble here? she asked the barely bearded young man as he jumped down and hurried over to her. Was there an accident? Do you need an ambulance?

The young man’s large Adam’s apple bobbed before he could get the words out. It’s too late.

Well, that settled her involvement. I’m sorry to hear that. If there’s anything I can do— she began, sure he’d decline.

I was on my way to call you.

Me? Her voice cracked.

The sheriff. You work for him, yes?

She was tempted to place the blame for that assumption on his rigidly patriarchal society, but she’d gotten the same in spades when she’d attended a sheriffs’ meeting the previous month in Pierre. I am the sheriff. She failed to give her name. What do you need me for?

Another black-hatted man approached, curiously beardless. When he got close enough, she could see an old burn on the left side of his face. He put one hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Samuel, return home and be with your mother.

As if sprung from an unbearable coil, the young man leapt into the buggy and drove off in a puff of gravel dust. The older man, in his early to mid-sixties, about her father’s age, turned back to her. Come with me.

Karen got out of the Sub, glanced down the road to see that Josephine was still a good way off, then followed the man down the drive and into the thick of the black-hatted men gathered in front of the barn.

Tight-lipped men parted as if she—or her companion—were Moses and they were the Red Sea. Though the Black Sea would have been more apt, as they wore all black, except for white shirt collars poking out from their coats. They reached a huddle of old men bent over a body, where a sea of red stained the ground. As she approached, heads rose, dipped, and turned like crows, giving her the strange impression that if she drew any closer, the men would all fly away, leaving her with the carrion.

Instead, the man beside her said, a bit too loudly, The sheriff is here.

Two men turned. The third didn’t move until one of his fellows jerked on his arm and pointed. They were all, she swore, ninety if they were a day: one bespectacled but straight, one rotund and anything but jolly, and the last bent nearly into a question mark.

At their feet, an equally elderly man lay on the ground, his broad-brimmed hat obscuring his face, his arms neatly folded over his abdomen. His sternum-long beard was a dazzling white except where it was stained red, like a macabre reverse of Santa Claus. The death of Old Man Winter.

All her hopes for a quick exit died. She’d been expecting, if anything, a hit and run—an understandable problem when the present met the past. Buggies rarely won out over cars.

Instead, someone had blown a neat little hole in her escape plan. A bullet hole. Not from a shotgun but from a rifle.

She held out hope, however. Does anyone know what happened? Was it an accident?

The burned man cleared his throat. I found him. He was alone. He died alone. The grief—surely that was what it was—nearly choked him.

Karen wasn’t sure if the man’s death or the manner of his death had shaken the people so much. And while they were probably all kin in one way or another, she didn’t expect them all to feel it so personally. In her experience, distant relatives were often more curious than shocked. But the Mock Brethren were different. In such a close-knit community, any death was likely to have been felt by everyone.

Who was he? she asked.

For a long moment, the only sound was the wind.

Elder Mock, the rotund old man said.

She sucked in a breath then let it out. There must be any number of Mocks in the community by now. How many elders are there?

There are five. Or were, he explained. I am Elder Snowberger. Elder Mock was our ruling elder.

Her voice came out, she knew, too abrupt. His full name?

Abraham Mock.

She stared sightlessly at the notepad she’d pulled out until the bespectacled man stirred. I am Elder Yoder. Now only one Elder Mock remains. His son.

The gaze of the crowd fell like a benediction on the beardless man beside her—the anointed.

She stiffened. Your name? she asked him.

Alexander Mock.

And Sander was his nickname, if he still used it. Growing up, she’d learned to hate that name. She moved away from the crowd, afraid she would suffocate—or kill someone—if she remained hemmed in by the Black Sea of Brethren.

Karen pulled out her phone instead of her gun and was relieved to see she had a signal. She called her half-time detective, who was also her half-uncle. Though for a long time he’d been persona non grata in her family, she was more than happy to claim him as kin.

She couldn’t say the same of the man whose body lay in the dirt behind her.

Her grandfather.

CHAPTER 2

Marek Okerlund was in the doghouse when the call came in.

He bumped his head, cursed, and backed out, his progress hampered by the half-grown spaniel whose luxurious home he was building. He’d been unable to convince his six-year-old daughter that dogs had a coat of fur for a reason and wouldn’t freeze to death if kept outdoors during the day when she was at school. With spring approaching, he’d decided to present her with a fait accompli.

The Lone Ranger theme song ringtone was accompanied by barks that might one day sound vaguely threatening. The puppy Marek had reluctantly acquired last fall had grown into a bouncing bundle of energy who still lived up to his name as Gun Shy, cowering at loud noises, contrary to his breeding as a hunting dog. Like Marek, he’d been a reject until someone had given him a home and a chance.

Your days as a lap dog are numbered, Gunny. Scratching the dog into a wiggling ball of ecstasy with one hand, he took the call with the other. Hi, Karen. What’s up?

You ever been to Eder?

At first, he thought she said Eda, the county of which Reunion was the seat and where they both lived, but then it clicked. Eder. Once, when I was in high school, he admitted. It wasn’t a memory he was proud of.

Get here ASAP. We’ve got a body.

I’m on my way.

When he hung up, he got sad puppy eyes. He knew Gunny would prefer to stay outside. But until Marek could get the doghouse ready, his daughter would likely not speak to him for years if he left the puppy chained up out in the open. Since she’d only started speaking again after the trauma of her mother’s death in a car crash two years ago, he didn’t want to risk it. So he ushered the dog inside the house before heading for Eder.

When Marek drove his pickup down the gravel road past Fink, he passed Josephine in a buggy and waved. Though she was having difficulty with the horse, he knew better than to stop. He continued until the road was clogged by buggies.

Ditching his Silverado, he walked through the eerie silence punctuated only by the huffs and puffs of horses idling on the road. The gauntlet was similar to the one his football buddies had formed with their cars while a buggy returned to Eder from a neighboring farm. The middle-aged driver had simply looked ahead, coaxing his horse through their verbal abuse. Though Marek hadn’t shouted anything himself, he hadn’t tried to stop his classmates, either.

That hazing had been directed not only at the Brethren but at Marek himself. Huge even as a freshman, he’d been a klutz and only found his own after being switched from defensive end to offensive lineman, protecting the quarterback. Serve and protect, the coach had said with almost as much relief as Marek felt. It’s in the genes.

But Marek felt very small as he made his way to the drive, which he presumed led to the scene.

He saw no women, no children, until a buggy at the periphery pulled up. A woman hopped down, holding her skirts, and ran toward the homestead, the strings of her bonnet flying back like windsocks.

When no one else stopped her, he did, holding her as gently as he could by one thin arm. Wait a minute. Although he’d remembered to put on his detective’s hat, she didn’t appear to see it, probably because she was looking around him, not up at him.

My father-in-law… she began.

He hated dealing with the relatives, more so since he’d been on the other side after his wife’s accidental death, but it was part of the job. I’m sorry. But until we’ve established the scene…

He trailed off as Karen hurried up the drive. She looked tense, pale, and almost as shocked as the woman he’d stopped. It must be nasty. The woman he held appeared to find a female sheriff enough of a distraction to stop trying to pull away. Or perhaps it was the man who trailed behind Karen, beardless and burned just enough along one side of his face that the edges of it gleamed like plastic in the sunlight.

Lena. On the man’s tongue, the name sounded torn between exasperation and grief.

Samuel said I mustn’t come, but I had to. She jerked her arm free of Marek’s grip and cupped the man’s face gently. I must be where my heart is.

A bespectacled, elderly man approached, his mouth turned down around a well-trimmed beard. Magdalena, you should not be here.

"Father, I had to come. Elder Mock is—was—my father nearly as much as you."

The man sighed and doffed his hat, dusted it off, then returned it to sit on his thinning hair. Yes, my old friend is dead. It is a grievous thing. But what can you do here? His gaze hooded. Don’t you see that the police have come? They are worldlings and do not understand our ways. Come, Lena, I will take you home. The shortened form of the woman’s name barely softened the command.

But Sander needs—

Your husband has many burdens now, not only of his heart. As the only remaining Mock, he will be the new ruling elder, and you must see to his comfort at home, not here.

Though the woman looked to be in her fifties, she said meekly, Yes, Father.

As the two went down the road toward her buggy, Marek turned to the woman’s husband. Are you related to—

The deceased, Karen interrupted. That would be his father, Elder Abraham Mock.

Though Marek hadn’t known Karen’s mother, Hannah Mock Okerlund, all that well, he did know her basic story. She’d been shunned by her community for the sin of wanting to go to high school and college. Her father was, or had been, the head honcho here. Arne Okerlund, Marek’s much older half-brother, had rescued Hannah and married her.

And for whatever reason, everyone was going to pretend that Karen wasn’t related to these people. Heeding the warning in Karen’s gaze, Marek nodded. I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Mock. I am—

He’s my detective, Karen interrupted again. Marek. Apparently the name Okerlund wasn’t to be spoken, either. Interesting. Did she really think she could keep it under her hat, especially since that hat must tell them who she was? Or had that already played out and she was keeping the peace by keeping quiet?

Marek got to the job at hand. Have you called in the coroner and DCI?

She nodded. Tish should be here any minute. Larson is on his way from Sioux Falls. I’ve cordoned off the area, but it’s been disturbed.

That wasn’t the only thing disturbed. And what are we dealing with?

Single gunshot. Rifle. Straight on.

The death was unlikely, then, to have been anything but foul play. Who found him?

I did, Sander said. I found my father in the dirt, by the barn. At first, I thought he’d had a heart attack, but the blood, the bullet hole. With a trembling hand, he dashed a tear away. I’m afraid I don’t remember much after that, except running back to Eder, finding my son Samuel, and sending him to Fink.

He was going to call the police, Karen said, as if that tidbit were somehow significant. They don’t hold with the law.

What we don’t hold with is the use of force, Sander Mock corrected her. We maintain order by love.

Karen snorted. Good luck with catching a killer with love.

Not quite her height, Sander Mock was much bigger boned, and when he raised his hand to rub his temple, Marek noted the assorted small scars. Though Marek hadn’t worked the trade as long or with the same equipment Sander Mock likely used, he recognized the signs.

You work with wood? he asked the man.

Bloodshot hazel eyes blinked up at him. Yes, I make furniture.

Marek thought of the rocker his father had bought from the Brethren. It sat inside his home by the hearth, waiting for warmer weather before it could go back on the porch. For all he knew, this man had made it.

We need to get a formal statement, Marek began, then a hearse drove up into the drive. He blinked, not sure what to make of that development, until the coroner stepped out. The fact that Tisher was driving a hearse wasn’t a surprise, but that it wasn’t his long-bed pickup with the crepe-shrouded windows—that was.

A transplant from North Dakota, Tish had married into the funeral business in Reunion. In South Dakota, a medical degree wasn’t required for the job of coroner. Because Marek had worked so long for the Albuquerque city police force, he still hadn’t gotten his head around that.

The truly surprising thing wasn’t the sleek black hearse but the sedate pace of its driver. Normally, Tish could give drag racers a run for the finish line.

The coroner nodded to Sander Mock and got a nod in return. Marek supposed that even the Brethren had to have deaths certified by the state, especially if they occurred at home.

Karen, who’d been uncharacteristically silent, said to Tish, Larson will be here soon to do the on-site. He just passed Aleford.

Nodding, Tish walked down the drive to the scene to pronounce final death. Marek, along with the mass of watching men, followed him and Karen. The silence felt oppressive as Tish took care of business. But when he took out his camera, the bent old man exclaimed, No, no, Mr. Tisher. That is sacrilege.

Tish put away his camera. Very well. I will not take pictures.

Marek stared at the coroner. We need to record the scene.

The duly elected coroner of Eda County waved off the comment. DCI can do that. I value my relationships here too much to compromise them. There’s nothing in my job description that requires me to take photographs. I just do it as an extra backup, as I distrust digital.

Marek shared a look with Karen. If Tish wouldn’t record the scene, they would, with their cell phones if nothing else.

What is DCI? Sander asked, carefully enunciating each letter.

Division of Criminal Investigation, Karen said absently. Her gaze had swerved to the road.

Marek understood why when he heard the clomping of hooves on gravel behind him. When he turned his head, his body followed. Josephine had finally made it—with the horse but without the buggy.

She swept into the midst of the black-hatted men like a queen, if said queen was a sixtyish West River woman in a brilliant-red, fringed leather jacket. I had a hell of a time getting this fellow back here, she said, ignoring the disapproving looks at her mild epithet. I finally had to ditch the buggy half a mile back.

Unlike his black-hatted brethren, Sander Mock looked amused, though it was fleeting. He also looked puzzled. That’s my father’s horse. He is well behaved. Placid.

As he lifted a hand to snag the reins, the horse shied away and bucked.

CHAPTER 3

Instinctively, Karen reached out and pulled both of her uncles back out of the way. Just as hurriedly, she dropped her hands from their arms.

Uncles were a touchy subject in her family—but not touchy-feely. Marek was four years younger than she was. To call him uncle not only sounded ridiculous, it would imply a personal relationship they’d never had, despite growing up across the street from each other.

Since he’d returned to Eda County early the past year, she didn’t think she’d ever actually called him uncle. But she would do it before calling Sander Mock the same. As the two men looked askance at her, she nodded at Josephine. The best person to handle the problem is on it.

At a gesture from Sander Mock, the dubious crowd backed away from the plunging horse, its eyes white and mouth a-lather. Josephine held on, turning the horse in ever tighter circles inside of a ring of men waiting to rescue her from her folly. She leaned over to whisper sweet nothings—or perhaps cussed somethings—in its ear. After a tense few minutes, the horse calmed, but only when Josephine directed its head away from the scene—and away from Sander.

You abuse your horses? Marek asked