Dance with the Devil

found she was losing two feet of ground for every one that she surged forward. Again and again, she would gain a hundred yards on the slope, only to lose it in bits and pieces as the car slid inexorably backwards toward the village.
        If she had been superstitious, she would have said that this was an omen, a sign that she was not meant to reach Owlsden house.
        At last, wearier than she had realized, she let the Ford drift to the very bottom of the slope and backed it onto a widening in the berm where a picnic table rested under a huge willow. There was nothing left but to walk the last leg of the journey. Perhaps someone up at the house could bring her back, in a heavier car with chains around its tires, to collect her suitcases.
        She turned off the lights, shut off the engine, took the key from the ignition, and opened the door.
        Cold…
        The air seemed twice as bitter here as it had on top of the mountain where she had found and buried the cat. The wind howled down the long, narrow, steep-walled valley just as water gushed through the natural contour of the land. It whipped the pine boughs around until they seemed like the arms of some unearthly dancers going through a frantic routine. Clouds of cold, grainy snowflakes snapped about her, stinging, seeking open cuffs, a crack at the collar, a gap between the buttons.
        She turned toward Owlsden which lay a mile or better up the road from there and had taken only a dozen steps when she knew that she could never walk it. The steep grade would have her on her knees or sprawled full-length as much as she would be permitted to stand upright-while the wind, scouring the valley walls, would lift the hem of her coat like the cloth of an umbrella. She turned around and faced towards the town again, held her hand over her eyes to keep the snow out of them. It was nearly as far to the square in town as to Owlsden, but on level land where she would find sure footing. Tucking her chin down and squinting her eyes, she started to walk.
        By the time she reached the square, it was just after six in the evening. The stores were closed, except for a grocery-newsstand combination and a cafe. She chose the cafe, crossed the tiny, bench-dotted park, and went inside, brushing the snow from her coatsleeves and shoulders as she did.
        The cafe contained three men in lumberjack clothes: heavy plaid hunting jackets, sweaters beneath those, heavy jeans with legs that laced at the bottom and fitted neatly into heavy-duty, unpolished black boots. An old, white-haired man in a tattered sweater sat at a corner table, by a large window that gave a view of the square, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. The waitress behind the counter and the man at the short-order grill were both plump, middle-aged, ruddy-complexioned and pleasant-looking.
        She sat on a stool at the counter and said, “A cup of coffee, please.”
        “Cream and sugar?”
        “Both, yes.”
        The waitress fetched the coffee and put it down. “New in Roxburgh?” she asked, smiling pleasantly. Her teeth were even, white and broad.
        “Yes,” she said, unbuttoning her coat and shaking her damp, yellow hair away from her face. “I'm going to be Lydia Boland's secretary.”
        “Really!” the waitress said, obviously charmed at that.
        The man at the grill looked up and nodded, smiled. Evidently, Lydia Boland was a pleasant topic of conversation so far as these people were concerned.
        “Yes,” Katherine said. “But I'm having some trouble getting up the highway to Owlsden.”
        “It'll be locked in for days!” the waitress said, shaking her head knowingly. “The Roxburghs bought the town two plows and a cindering truck so we wouldn't have to depend on the State to clear our roads. It takes the State two weeks to get into places like this after a major snowstorm. But even with the local plows, the way the wind whistles through here and drifts the snow, it takes a few days to get things back to normal.”
        “I'd imagine so,” Katherine said. She sipped her coffee. It was hot, burning a path down her throat, breaking up the cold in her stomach. “That's why I thought I really ought to get up to the house before things get even worse than they are. Could I use your telephone to call Mrs. Boland and see if they'll send someone down for me and my luggage? My own car's much too light to make that steep