Class of 2024
Professional Writing
Mary Timmons shadowed my doorstep two hours before noon. She knocked hard and unmannerly, like a lawman come to collect, and rattled the front door hard enough to make the hinges creak. If my father, Leigh McCoy, had been home, he would’ve praised her for her fortitude. He’d always liked that about her. When we were kids, he had hoped that her bold temperament would rub off on me.
“Sheriff McCoy!” Mary shouted. “Sheriff McCoy, I need a word with you!”
I yanked the door open. Mary’s left hand, red with dried blood, hovered in the empty air. Her narrow face was paler than her blouse, whiter than snow, and her riding skirt was caked with mud. The grip of a Cattlemen revolver sat snugly in her right palm.
Oh, Lord!
I gasped, hand over mouth, and clutched the fabric of my shirt. I’d known Mary for fifteen years, but I’d never once seen her in such a state.
“What—Mary, what happened to you?”
“Oh, Isabelle.” Mary grasped at me with her clammy, bloodstained palm and leaned in for a hug. “I’ve had the—I’ve just had the worst, most terrible experience. Is your daddy here?”
“No,” I said, “he and Eli went out a few hours ago.”
I held onto her for a good, long moment. When Mary finally relaxed, I put my hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her away.
“Will you tell me about what happened?” I asked.
Mary raised the Cattleman, barrel pointed down, and let the sun glare off the metal. A smattering of red dappled its muzzle.
“See that blood?” she said. “Shot some wolves.”
“Is why you want to see my old man?”
“Something like that. Me and Strawberry were taking a ride outside of town. Then these wolves came outta nowhere, the biggest I’ve ever seen. They took a bite out of him. I thought they only hunted down south, by that old silver mine, Wolf’s Fang, but here I am. Right by Angel Valley, and they’re picking fights.”
“How bad’s the bite?”
“Bad enough to need witchin’.”
Mary gestured over her shoulder. She’d hitched Strawberry to an overgrown tree and wrapped his reins around a branch. He was the prettiest Morgan I’d ever seen, palomino and well-groomed, marred only by the dark bloody gash that crossed from his hip to his thigh. He stood with ears pricked and waiting. My heart panged at the sight of him.
“Can you fix him up?”
I nodded.
Witching ran strong in the McCoy line. It passed from the paternal side, down from my grandpa. The citizens of Angel Valley hailed us as miraclemakers. We were their best-kept secret, a family who could pray away pain and transform old objects into new ones. Alchemy and medicine were our pride and joy.
