Jessie drove through the dark, windows open, singing along to Loreena McKennitt's "All Souls Night". Jorge had mowed his meadow recently, and the warm, grassy smell sifted into the truck as she passed his property. The monsoon rains had not only made the vegetation spring up overnight, but had brought out the frogs, too, and the truck was filled with the peeping calls, starting out shrill, then getting lower and lower as she passed a knot of them, somewhere in the darkness, then fading away. Then she would drive up on another batch, and the sound cycle repeated itself.
She turned the truck into her driveway, got out, opened the gate, drove through, got out and closed it again. It was a well-worn ritual that she did without thinking. Except, of course, when it was raining like hell. Or in the winter, when one of the big snows came, and she'd have to yank and tug and haul at the wide metal frame, groaning and cursing, pulling it through the drifts, until the way was clear enough for the truck to get through.
Her neighborhood hoot owl was nearby and calling out. She smiled, sent good thoughts his way. He kept the rabbit and mouse population down.
She got back in the truck again, drove slowly up the drive. Gravel popped beneath the tires as she pulled up near the house.
She was about to get out, walk up between the yarrow and basil and echinacea and other plants that lined the path to her front porch, when she realized there were two men sitting on the porch railing near her door. She couldn't make out many details, but one was extremely tall. They were dressed like normal folk, blue jeans, plaid shirts over tees, but she couldn't see their faces, which were shadowed. They emanated coiled energy.
She reached back, unracked her old shotgun, quickly loaded it, and got out of the truck. She stood there by the truck door, looked up the pathway at them, and called out, "Howdy, boys."
They started, then stood up. They didn't say anything. The silence made her glad she had her gun.
"Now, you boys gonna tell me what you're doin' hangin' around my porch and not respondin' politely when I call out?" She cocked the shotgun, pointed it at them.
The shorter one raised his hands at the sound. "Whoa. Whoa. Ms. Barnes?" His voice was deep, rough.
"Yeah, that's me. Who're you boys?" She kept the gun aimed their way.
"We just want to talk with you."
She snorted. "I've got a phone, y'know. Call, leave a message. Ask politely. You don't just show up, hang around someone's front door in the dark."
The taller one tossed something at her. "Is this yours?" he asked. It was a simple question, but the voice was hard. She shifted the gun quickly, caught the object in one hand, looked down at it in the dim light. She didn't have to look, though; she knew what it was. Hex bag.
She tossed it back. "Ain't mine. That's Martha's."
"How can you tell?" the tall one asked suspiciously. "You barely looked at it."
She snorted again. "Boy. I know when it's my work and I know when it ain't. Felt like Martha Grining."
The two exchanged looks. "This Martha Grining...know where we can find her?" the shorter one asked.
She let the shotgun barrel dip down, groundwards, and walked up the pathway. "You gonna show up at her house, hang around in the dark like thieves? She's a friend of mine, I ain't gonna send you two to her unless you tell me what this is all about." The two men moved back as she climbed the steps. She lifted the shotgun barrel again. "Now. Why don't y'all have a seat and talk?" She gestured to the wickerwork porch seats behind them with the shotgun.
They looked back, then backed up and sat down on the chairs. She flipped on the extra porch lights, eyed them suspiciously.
Pretty boys. Tall guy had long reddish-brown hair, the kind that would blow in the wind, like a romance novel cover, and long legs, long arms, long face. Shorter guy had short dark brown hair, blond highlights. They both had that damn stupid stubble that the young folk thought was sexy. She always thought it just looked lazy.
She uncocked the gun, emptied out the shell, laid it down by a chair, sat down, crossed her legs. She tossed the shell in her hand. "Just lettin' y'all know I can load and aim that shotgun mighty damn fast. So don't get frisky. I can see you're all wound up, ready to pounce. Whyn't you relax and tell me what's up?"
The two looked at each other again. Tall guy shrugged. Shorter guy looked at her, ran his hand over his annoying stubble, and said, "I'm Dean Winchester; this is my brother Sam." Sam dipped his head at her; she politely nodded back. "There've been some suspicious deaths lately that we're looking into. We found that-" he nodded to the hex bag in his brother's hands, "-tucked away in Joe Farmer's office. Where he died. Unpleasantly."
She fiddled with her long greying braid, let it flip back down on her embroidered shirt. She rested her arm on the arm of the chair, held her head with her outstretched thumb, forefinger lying across her mouth, hooking it over her nose. She thought, pursed her lips, shook her head. "Don't know a Joe Farmer," she said, frowning.
Sam squinted at her suspiciously. It made his forehead amazingly wrinkly; she stared in awe. "He's a partner of Alec Chavez..."
She drew in a breath. "Ahhhh!"
"You know him?" Dean asked, leaning forward.
"Alec Chavez is a sleazy, slimy, good-for-nothing bastard," Jessie answered promptly, acid dripping in her voice.
"He's dead, too. And we found another hex bag where he died."
"Good riddance," she snorted. "Couldn't happen to a better guy."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Now why is that, Ms. Barnes?"
"Call me Jessie," she said absently, twirling the end of her braid around a finger. She looked out into the darkness. "Old Man Chavez, he was a good guy. One of the best. And his younger kids-they're good kids. But Alex. Ugh. Couldn't be bothered to help on the ranch, wouldn't lift a hand to help with fencing or herding or doing the books. His ma-Chavez's first wife-she thought he was the bomb. Let him know it, too. He'd visit the ranch after they were divorced...sneered at everything. City boy." Her voice trailed off, as she looked back through the years.
She came back with a jerk, looked at the boys. "So. Anyway. Old Man Chavez died last year. Damn shame, good man. And somehow, he had made a will, years and years ago, and never changed it. Ranch went to Alex."
She paused. Dean grunted, said, "And..."
"Well." She blew out her breath. "Alex partnered up with one other guy from the city-I'm guessin' that would be this Joe Farmer you mentioned." She tilted a questioning eyebrow. Dean nodded. "We're close enough to the city that folks from the Air Force base, folks from the lab, they like having property out here, drive into town for their jobs, come back out here to the mountains where it's cooler and y'can see the stars at night. Alex decided he was gonna develop the ranch into a buncha two-acre lots, put up fancy schmamcy fake pueblo houses, make hisself a fortune...he just didn't bother to tell us folks out here. Now, Bobbie Jo Bass-"
Sam shifted impatiently. Jessie glared at him. "You settle down, there, boy. Let me tell the tale." He bit his lip, looked down, made an apologetic sound. "That's better. Anyway. Bobbi Jo, she's a sweetie. Single mom. Rented ten acres of pasturage for her horses from Old Man Chavez. Ran four, five horses. She'n her kids loved those horses. So one day, she goes down to stock 'em, ride 'em, and there's this guy in a suit, tells her she has a day to get the horses off his property, and if they weren't gone in a day, he'd shoot 'em all."
Dean and Sam jerked at that. "What the hell?" Dean commented.
She nodded grimly. "Yeah. Now, I don't know if you boys know, but it's mighty damn hard to find a place for five horses in one day..."
"I'll bet," muttered Sam.
"So. Anyway. Bobbi Jo shows up the next day, and all her horses are dead. And the guy in the suit, he's there with a shotgun. An' he just laughs at her, tells her to git off the property, points the gun at her. Alex was there, too. He laughed, too. Nasty sons of bitches. Bobbie Jo and her kids were...well, they weren't happy. I was at the bakery in Cedar Springs that afternoon, and she told a bunch of us what'd happened. Damn shame. Now, my friends and me, we're all for returning actions threefold. So whatever happened to those bastards is what I'd call justice."
They were all quiet for a few moments. The hoot owl had moved closer to the house; she could hear it calling quietly.
"Martha's a bit-what you might call hasty," Jessie mused. "I was gettin' ready with some curses, myself, but I wanted to think about it, take my time, figure out the best kinda curse. Was thinkin', as I drove home tonight, that the best thing would be to make 'em lose all their money, every last red cent. Have the Feds take the ranch for some sort of back taxes or somethin'..."
Sam leaned forward, rested his arms on his thighs. "I can see why people would want to do something...but surely this Bobbi Jo could have these jokers arrested, sue them-you can't just go around killing people like it's the old West!"
"Yeah, well, like I said...Matha's a bit hasty. Acts before she thinks, y'know? Besides. Bobbi Jo ain't rich. Hell, none of us are! Alex Chavez would have had her wrapped up in lawyers and drained of every last penny before you'd know it. Wouldn't give a damn that he was ruining people's lives."
She leaned back, regarded the boys shrewdly. "So that's the story. Now. Y'can go after Martha, sure. But, y'know what? You do that, and you'll have a buncha us goin' after you. Just sayin'."
Dean narrowed his eyes at her. "That sounds like a threat, Ms. Barnes."
She nodded and smiled. "Yup. That's just what it is. There's a few of us witches around here. We mostly do helpin' charms...call the rain when it's dry, send it away when it's too damn wet, keep the cattle away from locoweed and bad grasses, good luck for pregnant women, that kinda thing. We keep to ourselves and don't bother people. And they don't bother us. And you can bet that Jorge down the road, or Dan Jenkins in Cedar Springs, or Dr. Bird at the animal clinic-if they knew what Martha had done-well. They'd just nod, say 'Serves those bastards right,' and go about their business. So why'n't you boys do the same?"
Dean was still looking at her narrowly, his lips compressed. Sam laid a hand on his arm, said, "Dean?", and jerked his head toward the other end of the porch. Dean stood up reluctantly, keeping dangerous eyes on her, then stepped with his brother to the darkness pooled over there. Jessie heard their voices arguing, low enough that she couldn't make out any words.
She sat there placidly, twirling the end of her braid. What would be, would be. She heard a band of coyotes yipping in the distance, and hoped that Jorge had repaired the hole in the fence around his chicken coop by now. The scent of cilantro from her herb garden in the back suddenly washed over the porch; she'd cut the plants back this afternoon.
Dean's voice rose, Sam's voice responded calmly. Then they were silent. She heard them walking back, and turned to look at them.
"Well? What's the verdict, boys?"
They stood shoulder to shoulder by the door. She liked that; they seemed to have a good, strong bond, the way brothers ought.
Dean stepped forward. "Sam here thinks we should leave you and Martha and...the others...alone. Now, I'm not one who likes to let people kill other people without doing something about it. And I really, really don't like witches. But Sam says you and your pals aren't the type to do that without good reason." He stopped, clenched his teeth, then let out a sigh. "So we're gonna leave you all alone."
He and his brother turned to go. Then Dean stopped, turned back to her, raised a warning finger. "But if we ever hear of something like this happening again around here...we'll be back."
She nodded. "Fair 'nough. Good to meetcha, boys. You take care, now. And stop for the green chile cheeseburgers at The Holler, in Madrid. They're damn good."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "Green chile cheeseburgers? Awesome! Where's this Madrid place?"
She snorted a small laugh. "Up 14, about twenty minutes drive. Don't go speeding in Madrid, the sheriff's deputies get bored, and the speed limit is 20 miles an hour there."
He tipped his non-existent hat to her. "We'll be careful, ma'am-Jessie," he said. They went down the steps, turned right toward the shed, and she soon heard the loud motor of their car. So that's where they had hidden it. They backed up, drove around her truck, and then sped up her drive to the road.
She looked after them. Pretty boys, fun to look at. She opened the door to her house, mulling over what kind of charm she should make to pull more customers into Bobbi Jo's hair salon...she'd need the money to get some new horses for the kids...She turned up Loreena McKennitt again, and began dancing to "Santiago".