Chapter 4 - The Freeze
The drive out of Boulder felt like descending into a dream spun from ice and asphalt. Edward Collins had moved with an efficiency that felt surreal, setting up an executive private line, issuing a provisional black card against the verified funds, and handing me a sealed certified cashier’s receipt for $6,000,000.00.
I kept the receipt tucked into my inside breast pocket, flat against my chest. Every mile north on Interstate 25, through the wind-scoured flats of northern Colorado and across the Wyoming state line, the paper felt like a burning coal against my ribs.
My phone, resting in the center console, began to vibrate against the plastic.
The screen lit up: *Dad (Incoming Call).*
I stared at it. I didn't answer.
Three seconds later, it cut off, followed immediately by another call: *Eric.*
Then a text message pinged, flashing on the dash display:
*DAN. PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE. Olivia found out the Casper routing number is real. Did you keep your check? Tell me you didn't throw it away. Where are you?*
Another ping:
*Dad: Daniel, this is your father. Marcus Vance is refusing to answer my calls. If you have your draft, do NOT do anything until I speak with our family attorney. Mom is not of sound mind. We are heading to the ranch right now.*
I gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather cracked under my knuckles. Not of sound mind. When she was cooking their meals, scrubbing their grease from her pans, and listening to their endless complaints about traffic and the cost of private schools, she was sound enough. But the second their own arrogance cost them a fortune, she was suddenly incompetent.
The weather deteriorated rapidly north of Casper. The Bighorn Mountains rose in the distance like jagged shards of blue flint against an iron sky. A winter storm advisory flashed across the electronic highway signs: *HIGH WIND WARNING. BLOWING SNOW. GUSTS UP TO 65 MPH.*
My Subaru’s windshield wipers clattered against the accumulating frost. The heater blew tepid air, struggling against the sub-zero chill outside. Every semi-truck that passed in the opposing lane threw up blinding walls of white powder, momentarily plunging me into terrifying, disorienting blindness.
Yet I couldn't slow down. My foot pressed harder on the gas pedal.
I thought about Grandpa Walter. He had been a man of terrifyingly few words. When I was ten, I spent a month at the homestead during summer vacation. I had dropped his favorite fencing pliers into the irrigation ditch, losing them in five feet of muddy runoff. I had cried, terrified he would yell the way my father yelled when anything went wrong.
Grandpa hadn't raised his voice. He had simply walked into the workshop, pulled out an extra pair of boots, handed them to me, and said, *“Don’t waste time crying over what’s sunk, Danny. Get a magnet and start dragging the bottom. We finish what we start.”*
We had dragged that ditch for four hours until the magnet clicked against steel. And when we pulled the rusted tool from the muck, Grandpa had clapped me on the shoulder, handed me an oil rag, and said, *“A tool only works if the hand holding it respects it.”*
Dad had never understood that. To Dad, tools were things you bought on credit and threw in the corner when they broke. People were the same way.
By the time I reached the Sheridan exit, the sun had already slipped behind the Bighorns, leaving the valley submerged in a bruising, violet twilight. The snow was drifting across the secondary county roads, filling the ruts until the highway was indistinguishable from the open pastures.
I turned down the two-lane gravel track that led toward Piney Creek. The trees stood like skeletal sentries under heavy loads of snow.
Through the dancing flakes ahead, I saw red taillights.
Three vehicles were parked haphazardly in Grandma’s narrow driveway, their tires churning up deep trenches of mud and slush.
A black Cadillac Escalade—Dad’s pride and joy.
A sleek BMW sedan—Eric’s leased status symbol.
And a silver Lexus crossover—Aunt Diane’s vehicle.
They had completely blocked the plow lane, leaving their doors ajar in their rush to get inside.
May you like
The cabin’s front porch light was on, cutting a pale yellow triangle into the swirling snow. Through the front picture window, I could see silhouettes moving violently—arms waving, pacing back and forth, shadows cast large and monstrous against the pine-paneled walls.
I killed my headlights, pulled my car onto the snow-packed shoulder, and stepped out into the biting cold.
