"Calliope! Calliope!" Callie Dalton turned sharply, her brow furrowed equally in anger and concern. The old man halted in his tracks, his mostly-bald head hanging a little, a healthy crop of whiskers covering most of his jaw, sunken from the lack of a good majority of his teeth. "Sorry, Callie. I just got a little riled. Tanner's headed into town, and I thought you oughta know."

She sighed, her full lips pressed tightly together for a moment. "It's okay, Griz. Just please try to remember. Now just go back to what you were doing, I'll handle Mr. Tanner." Her eyes softened as she looked back at his hangdog expression. "Go on, it'll be all right, Griz." He hesitated for a second, then his head bobbed in agreement and he limped his way back to the kitchen.

Callie looked into the mirrored back bar and sighed, then straightened her shoulders. She tucked a stray strand of russet hair back in place, her long-lashed blue eyes gazing back at her from the murky depths of the mirror. She turned and took the books she had been working on to a nearby table, spreading them out and preparing to look busy when the inevitable invasion happened.

She didn't have to wait long. Charles Tanner Jr. walked through the swinging doors, his barrel chest leading the way as usual, his nose in the air as if he were sniffing for clues like a hound. His grey eyes scanned the room quickly until they came to rest on her, and she could almost feel them slide over the smooth skin of her shoulders and across the modest amount of cleavage showing at her bodice. She stifled a shudder, and looked up nonchalantly, one eyebrow raised as she greeted him.

"Evening, Chuck," she drawled casually, her eyes back on the ledgers in front of her.

"Callie," he answered, reaching her table in two long strides and pulling out a chair across from her. "I see you're wrestlin' with figures again. Why's a pretty little thing like you want to waste her time doin' that kind of thing? You'll get frown lines between those pretty blue eyes."

"Well, Chuck, I have to run my business, don't I? Strutting around with a fan and having the vapors doesn't pay the bills."

"Now, honey..." he trailed off as her icy gaze took him full on. "Callie. We've had this talk many times. You know Matthew and I were good friends, and you know he'd want me to do all I could to help you. If you'd just give in and sell to me, I could make a real go of it here. You know a woman can't run a place like this. It ain't proper, and a woman just ain't cut out for the kind of things that have to be done. You've worked hard, I know that. But a woman as beautiful as you should be a rich man's wife, have people takin' care of her, livin' the good life." His huge paw covered her hand for a moment before she pulled it back, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms.

"I really don't feel like having this discussion with you again, Chuck. This place is not for sale. I make a decent living here. And I do a damn good job of running this place."

"Oh, the hell. If I took over, those girls of yours would be making ten times the money for me as they are now for you, and I wouldn't be carrying people like old Smitty over there when you know damn well he'll never pay. You ain't running this place with no common sense, girl. Why don't you just sell, get yourself a a nice husband," he looked pointedly at her, "and stop working yourself to death."

Callie's jaw was clenched as she spoke, standing to gather the books together. "First of all - those girls don't make me a red cent. They work for me in the bar, and part of their pay is their room and board. That's it. They're good girls, and they don't need some whoremonger coming in here to pawn them off to some old diseased perverts just to make extra money for him. And a little kindness goes a long way in this world, Chuck. Smitty is a sweet old man who's had a rough life, and if he can't always afford to pay for his whiskey, then I'm happy to help out a little. None of your damn business how I run mine."

She swept the books off the table into her arms and turned, her skirts swishing around behind her, but she stopped halfway back to the bar, turning around again. "And since you were a 'good friend' of Matthew's, you know I had a damn good husband. A good man. It would take one hell of a man to take his place in my life, Chuck. You are not that man."

Chuck calmly stared back at her, his arms folded across his chest. "Someday you'll change your tune, Callie. But in the meantime, what's for dinner today?"

She rolled her eyes and continued on her way behind the bar. "Griz whipped up some beef stew. I'll send Emily out to get your order."

She placed the ledgers on their shelf behind the bar and swept out of the room into the hallway leading to the kitchen. She could hear her hired girl, Emily, talking excitedly to Griz as he worked slicing a loaf of fresh made bread. "Oh, Griz, you should see him! He's so tall, and handsome, and when he smiled at me I near fainted!"

"You're too young to be goin' on about a full-growed man like that, Miss Emily. He's probably old enough to be your papa."

"Who's old enough to be her papa?" Callie asked as she entered the room, and Emily blushed to the roots of her hair.

"Hi, Miss Callie. I was just tellin' Griz, I saw the new sheriff. He's just the most handsome man I ever laid eyes on." The sixteen-year-old closed her eyes and sighed, and Callie laughed.

"Don't you let your daddy hear you talking like that. He'll lock you up and throw away the key." Callie's smile softened her words, and Emily giggled softly as she continued to help Griz with the cooking. "Mr. Tanner would like to order some dinner. Please run out and take care of him, Emily." The girl nodded, wiping her hands on her apron, and went to fetch a cup of coffee to take along before heading out to the bar.

A few minutes later she rushed in, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. "Miss Callie! He's out there. The sheriff!" she whispered, and Callie raised an eyebrow.

"Well, did you see if he wanted to order?" The girl's face went blank, and Callie shook her head. "Get Mr. Tanner's order, I'll take care of the sheriff," she said, rolling her eyes a little at the teenage hormones.

She walked through the kitchen door and down the hall, brushing her hands down over the hunter green silk of her dress to make sure there weren't leftover crumbs from Griz's bread, and her hand reached for the swinging double door that opened into the bar. She caught her breath for a second, watching as the new arrival took off his Stetson, dropping it on the seat of a chair on top of his duster before running his fingers through his hair. His shoulders were about a mile across, and it took her a moment to remember to exhale. He sat down at his table, looking up just as Callie shook herself mentally and entered the room.

He rose to his feet again as she approached, tugging his vest down in place and smiling. "You must be Miss Dalton." He stuck out a hand in greeting, continuing. "Dean Winchester. I'm the new sheriff." His voice was deep and rich, smooth but with a little edge to it that made her pulse jump a little.

"Mrs. Dalton. But you can call me Callie." She smiled back, shaking his hand, hers almost swallowed up in his. "Welcome to Calvage."

"So you and your husband own this place," the sheriff stated, pulling a chair out for Callie to join him. She smiled, shaking her head.

"No, thanks, I just came to see if you'd like some dinner. We've got beef stew today, and Griz is a great cook. And I'm a widow, Sheriff Winchester. For about a year now." Then she felt a beefy arm across her shoulders as Chuck's voice butted into the conversation.

"Yes, our Miss Callie is well taken care of, Sheriff. Her late husband, God rest his soul, and I were good friends, and I see to it that she has her every need met." The sheriff watched as Callie's eyes narrowed and her lips grew tight as the big, blustery man continued talking. "Yes, sir - her every need." His hand was rubbing possessively up and down her arm, and Callie moved smoothly away, making introductions to escape his unwanted attentions.

"Chuck Tanner, this is Sheriff Dean Winchester. Sheriff, about that dinner?"

Dean tilted his head back a little, looking up at her with a knowing look in his green eyes and a slow smile on his face. "I'd love some dinner, and a slice of pie, if you've got some."

"Of course. Is apple okay?"

His smile widened, and Callie felt her stomach do a fast flip. "Apple sounds great."

"All right, then. I'll have Emily bring it right out, Sheriff."

"Dean. Please, call me Dean." His gaze held hers for a second, frank and warm. "It was nice meeting you, Callie. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

She smiled back warmly before turning to go to the kitchen, feeling Chuck's displeased glare as she left the room, the sheriff's eyes watching her the whole way.

Dean tugged back gently on the reins, bringing the bay gelding to a halt outside the cabin. Sam's poor broken-down mount was tied nearby, an old mare that had seen its better days, but they only had so much money to work with. At least until Dean got his first week's pay. He tied the horse to a post and went up the two steps onto the plank porch, his boots announcing his arrival before he even touched the door.

"Sam?" he called out as he entered, hanging his hat on a hook just inside the door.

"Yeah. In here," his brother answered, and Dean shrugged off his duster, then his vest, and headed in the direction of Sam's voice carrying the container of beef stew he had carried home, along with a fork and spoon from the sparsely furnished kitchen. He stopped in his tracks, a poorly stifled laugh escaping as his little brother turned his head to glare balefully back at him. "Shut up." He shifted uncomfortably on the pile of pillows he was perched on, his legs spread out at an awkward angle on top of the bed.

"Horseback just isn't your thing, is it, Sammy?" Dean asked, trying to tone down the amusement just a bit, but he was failing miserably. He handed the stew to Sam with a grin, listening as he complained.

"I can hardly walk. And I don't know what aches more, my balls or my ass." Dean almost choked, then gave in and let out a hoot of laughter. "If we're traveling while we're here, we're getting a damn wagon, Dean. Not everybody is built with your fucking bowlegs."

"Wow. You're cranky when your ass hurts. Fine, we'll get a wagon, just relax." Dean grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the top of the dresser and poured himself a drink, then plopped down on a chair nearby. "So, find anything else in Samuel's journal?"

"Not yet." He ate a few bites, then looked up as he chewed appreciatively. "This is pretty good."

"Yeah. The cook doesn't look like much, but he makes a damn good pie. And the owner of the place... well, you know how I feel about redheads, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah. The same way you feel about blondes and brunettes."

Dean made a face. "Come on. Redheads are special, man."

"Right. Special." Sam sighed, then continued, changing the subject. "So, Samuel wanted us to come back and save his son, right?"

"Right."

"But he didn't say what got him? What did that letter say again?"

"Something about his son being used as a blood sacrifice. Sounds witchy." Dean unbuckled his gun belt and laid it on the dresser. "And it also said Samuel was asleep in bed with his wife, and they never even woke up when the boy was taken. And the doors were all locked up from the inside. When they found him, his throat was cut. They blamed a Shoshone man that lived nearby."

Sam was nodding. "Yeah, that's right. Thought it was some kind of native ritual. Which it could be, but - I agree, Dean. Sounds witchy."

"Well, tomorrow I'm heading out to talk to Samuel - at least I shouldn't have to explain much, he's met us once before. We need to find a way to protect that kid while we figure this out. We've got a week before it happens, according to Samuel's letter." Dean was pulling his boots off as he talked, then stood up and stretched his arms above his head. "After I head in to the Silver Birch for a little breakfast." He wiggled his eyebrows at his brother, who shot him another epic eye roll. "And I'll get us a wagon. Okay, tenderloin?"

"Ha ha. Funny, Dean," Sam retorted as Dean headed out to his own bed.