A/N: To be frank, I'm debating whether I should pull the plug on this story. It doesn't seem to be generating a great deal of reader interest. Any thoughts?

Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.

As they disembarked, a smiling woman in dirty gray overalls came out of the front door of the nearby two-story house to greet them.

Jade was surprised at her relative youth. The deputy with whom Trina was so hopelessly infatuated had called her "the widow Coldstream," and Jade had formed a mental picture of a crotchety old lady who walked with a cane and a stoop while snapping things like "Wipe your dang feet before you set foot in my house!" But Susan Coldstream could not be more than fifty, and was as buoyant and energetic as someone half her age. Her strawberry-blonde hair hung loose about her shoulders, and she wore no shoes, so that the dust swirled about her toes as she bounced through the farmyard on the balls of her feet. Neither did she wear any makeup, and her only jewelry was a diamond engagement ring and golden wedding band on her left hand.

"Good morning, good morning!" she called when she was still some ways off. "You must be my three happy helpers from Los Angeles!"

"Helpers, yes," said Jade. "As for happy…"

"Jade?" said Beck with a distinct tone of warning. "Don't…"

Susan raised a hand to cut him off. "Not a problem. City folks often feel a bit out of sorts when they get their first taste of the rural life – and I understand you three aren't exactly here voluntarily, anyway."

"Well, it was this or the gulag…"

"JADE!"

"Hmm. You, missy, are going to be a challenge, I can tell that right now. What might your name be?"

"It might be Wilhelmina Q. Fenderbender, but it actually is Jade West."

"Got your sarcasm armor on already, I see. No sweat. I've broken colts a lot more ornery than you in my time. Y'all want to come on in? I've got lemonade ready."

In the little parlor, Jade tossed her heavy black jacket aside – there was no A/C, and the heat was sweltering – and took a deep swig from one of the glasses of lemonade set out upon a plate. It was deliciously tart, and made her mouth pucker.

"Well," she said after draining the entire glass in two more gulps, "at least there's one thing here that doesn't stink."

As Beck and Trina seated themselves, Jade wandered over to a flight of stone steps that led down to what was clearly the basement. She was surprised to see that the heavy oak door down below was locked with half a dozen padlocks.

"Geez, you keeping a horde of monsters down there, or what?"

Susan chuckled – a bit uneasily, it seemed to Jade. "Nothing so spectacular. That's just…well, think of it as the 'family vault'. It's where the most precious Coldstream treasures are stored, you see."

"Ah. I don't suppose I could have a look?"

"Why?" Was that anger in the woman's voice?

"Just curious, is all." Jade would never admit the truth, even to herself – that coming from a broken family, she was fascinated by the idea of actually being connected to one's ancestors, and wanted, even if only by proxy, to have a taste of that sort of strong familial heritage.

"Might be better for you to bury that curiosity." The jocularity had returned to Susan's voice, but there was still a hint of ice in her gaze. "Anyway, other than the basement, you three have got the run of the house. I've already changed the sheets in the guest bedroom – although I'm afraid there's only the one bed."

Jade and Beck exchanged uneasy looks. "Why don't the girls take the bedroom," Beck finally said, "and I'll stick to the RV? I'm used to it, after all."

"All righty. Be sure to turn in early this evening – chores start at 6:00 every morning."

Jade groaned.

"Oh, hush. You've got no reason to complain; I'm giving you the best job of all. Carlos – he's one of the ranch hands – is going to take our prize stallion Thunderheart out for a ride, and you can accompany him."

Inwardly Jade was thrilled at the idea – she loved horses, always had – but she was careful to maintain her mask of indifference. "Fine, whatever. As long as it means no pitching hay."

/

In the depths of the night, as the three teenagers slept soundly, Susan Coldstream took Jade's forgotten jacket from the chair where she had flung it and descended the basement stairs. At their foot she drew a massive key-ring from her pocket and opened the padlocks one by one, with a swiftness born of long practice. The door swung open with a groan, to reveal an impromptu laboratory. Green and yellow liquids bubbled ominously in great bell-shaped flasks; a DNA centrifuge and a deep freezer hummed with electricity, while a computer against the far wall silently analyzed data and extrapolated results.

The only sign that the room might have a deeper purpose than simple research was a small photograph in a pink frame propped up against the computer monitor. A middle-aged man with cheery eyes hugged an eight-year-old girl whose strawberry-blonde pigtails waved in the breeze.

Susan set the jacket down on her workbench and picked up the photo. A single tear rolled from her eye onto the glass as she kissed first the man, then the girl.

"Soon," she whispered. "Soon they'll all pay for taking you away from me."

A voice whispered to her from the darkness behind her: "Don't do this, sweetheart. Please. This isn't the answer. Vengeance won't bring us back – it'll just leave you empty."

She had heard this voice many times since she began the project, and while she had never managed to silence it entirely, it no longer held the bitter sting for her that it had when it first appeared.

"We've been over this, Tom," she said aloud. "There's no other way. You have to trust me that this is what's best."

He did not answer, but now, for the first time, another voice spoke: high-pitched, quavering – a child's.

"Mommy? Are you going to hurt somebody again?"

It had been ten years since she last heard that voice. Her heart began to pound madly; her hands shook. "Hannah?"

"Mommy, it makes me sad when you hurt people."

"Oh, baby," she sobbed. "I don't want to make you sad, but – oh, how can I make you understand why I'm doing this? You're so young…"

The male voice returned: "Let the pain go, Susan. Let us rest."

"I…I want to…"

The image of Gordon Chance's mauled body flashed before her mind's eye.

Steely resolve entered her voice. "I'm sorry, Tom, I truly am. But I've already got blood on my hands. The die has been cast."

"No, Mommy…" cried the unseen child.

"Be quiet now, Hannah," she replied, slowly, calmly. "Mommy has to work."

The room was silent once again.

Susan poured part of the contents of one of the flasks into a spray bottle and spritzed it freely over Jade's jacket. The sulfurous odor would have given anyone else nausea, but she was inured to it by now.

She checked her watch. 1:17 A.M. By the time the West girl was up and about at 6:00, the stench would have diminished enough that neither she nor her friends would notice it.

But a horse's sense of smell is far keener than any human's. And the moment the last remnants of the scent reached Thunderheart's olfactory nerves, he would be driven utterly mad. Even an experienced horseman would never be able to control him in that state – the West girl, a total neophyte, would surely be killed in seconds.

Susan bore no personal enmity toward Jade – in fact, she rather liked the girl's snarky attitude; it reminded her of herself when she was a teenager. But she couldn't take any chances that Jade's curiosity might lead her to interfere with the final stage of the project. A decade of ceaseless work and planning must not be allowed to go to waste.

She had to succeed. And she would succeed. The animals would rise up to exterminate the pestilence of man, and the rivers would run red with the blood of the slain.

It was only a matter of time.