Willow branches tickled the back of his neck as the chill, midnight mountain air seeped through the fabric of his prairie grass ghillie suit. Mild discomforts couldn’t drive him from his post.

Dim lights flickered over the crest of the hill in line with the county road. Well-armed with a loaded 12-gauge shot gun, and a .44 Magnum revolver, powerful enough to take down a grizzly bear, he was prepared for any possibility . . . or so he thought. What he wasn’t prepared for was the overwhelming stench of rot that filled the air, followed by a blinding light. A powerful force pulled him from behind, and he was gone.

**********

Long shadows held a feeble grasp on the night while warmth from the morning sun seeped into gravestones interspersed among ancient trees. Stone County Sheriff Peter Elliott stood outside the cemetery gates studying the recently erected statue of a trail-weary cowboy scouting the horizon for stray cattle. He contemplated how much things could change in a century.

Anderson, Montana arose from an outpost for the vast Anderson Ranch. In a wild land with provisions scarce, and towns few and far between, neighboring ranchers, homesteaders, and passers-through took advantage of the outpost store. Ever the businessman, Charles Anderson, owner and patriarch of the family ranch, gladly opened his private store to the public. Soon after, he built a roadhouse and hotel, offering food, lodging, and, of course, libations. Anderson began with cowboys serving a budding settlement. Now, the town served them.

Lacking a pastoral meadow and not wanting to establish a cemetery in the waterlogged Flint Creek valley, early residents of Anderson buried their dead amongst the pine and fir of the Moonlight Mountains overlooking the tiny town. Plots were scattered amid trees and boulders, surrounded by wrought iron fences taking the shape of the terrain.

The raspy chatter of a magpie startled Peter out of his musings. He breathed in fresh morning air mingled with cinnamon and sugar, and remembered why he came. Cinnamon rolls still warm from Dixie’s Diner filled a white bakery bag clutched in his hand.

Typical mornings for Peter included breakfast at the diner. This morning he found Dixie’s usual place at the counter covered by an employee. Dixie, she said, was at the cemetery. Peter glanced at his watch and noted the date. He ordered cinnamon rolls to go, paid his tab, and drove up the mountain.

Toward the front of the cemetery, looking out over the valley, Peter found Dixie swaying on a wooden bench swing placed in front of a polished black-granite headstone. Rays from the morning sun danced off the stone and caught in Dixie’s warm caramel hair. Eyes closed, pixie face tilted toward the sun, she was unaware of Peter’s presence until his German Shepherd, Zack, stepped forward and laid his head in her lap.

“What’s this?” she asked, eyes still closed, hands ruffling Zack’s fur. “A rabbit?”

“No,” laughed Peter.

“A muskrat?”

“Definitely not!”

Dixie opened cornflower blue eyes and smiled at Peter. “I smell cinnamon.”

Stepping around Zack, Peter sat gingerly next to Dixie, worried the rickety swing wouldn’t hold his six-foot five, 200-pound bulk. Aged boards creaked in complaint, but held. Peter opened the bag and retrieved a sweet roll wrapped in wax paper.

“I didn’t think about coffee until I was already halfway up the mountain.”

“S’okay,” said Dixie, stripping the outer ring off her roll, tossing it to Zack, and biting into the middle. “I appreciate this.” She chewed and swallowed. “But, mostly, I appreciate the company. It’s always a rough day for me.”

His birthday and his death day, mused Peter. He studied the granite stone, as solid as the man whose grave it watched over. Dixie’s father, the sheriff before Peter, was taken too young on the way home from his birthday celebration. A hairpin curve, a moonless night, and a moose too big to avoid was all it took.

“Have you heard from your brothers?” asked Peter.

“No, but . . . you know how it is. From the first lure cast to the last elk dressed out, they’re too busy to pay attention to the date on the calendar.”

Peter did know. Dixie’s brothers, well-schooled in the crafts by their father, ran a fishing and hunting guide business. Peter reached to put his arm around Dixie and pull her in for a comforting embrace when his phone pinged. Dang!