Chapter Text
Fog hovered thickly over Gus and Curtis’s farm, the shaggy lawn wet with the dew of a humid late-summer morning, when Waverly slowly eased the front door shut. The wood stuck, creaked a bit, and she had to tug until she felt the latch click into place. She stood there on the porch, head cocked and listening, but the house was silent. Through the window, she could see her tea mug and plate stacked neatly on the drying rack, and the envelope addressed to Aunt Gus waiting on the round kitchen table.
Even though she soon wouldn’t have any use for it, Waverly nicked Wynonna’s old bike from the shed, knowing no one would miss the rusty green Schwinn. Wynonna had been gone for years--in Greece, last Waverly had heard. She swung her leg over the bike and bumped the kickstand out of the way with her heel. The bike would surely be too small now for Wynonna, who used it as a teenager after she got her driver’s license taken away, but it fit Waverly’s petite frame nicely, and the tires felt solid still from when Waverly added air to them earlier in the week.
Mist dampened her hair, curling the honey-brown tendrils that had fallen loose from her ponytail. Waverly biked as quickly as she could, her tires skidding on the loose gravel as she rounded the end of the driveway onto the long empty road that would lead her into Purgatory. Though it was much earlier than Waverly was used to waking up, what with her late shifts at Shorty’s, she felt clear-headed and bright, and a wave of fondness rolled over her as the town came into view through the fog. She passed the high school, Shorty’s Saloon, the sheriff’s station. She pedaled faster, the straps of her hiking backpack burning into her shoulders, and her thighs beginning to ache.
The backpack held more than she really needed, but Waverly liked to be prepared. Contingencies upon contingencies. Because if she couldn’t work the flint and steel she’d need the matches, and if she ran out of matches she’d need the mylar blanket, and on and on.
She reached the end of Main Street, then the end of the residential streets, then the end of the junkyard and the abandoned trailer park and the hulking water treatment plant. Her shoulders stopped burning and simply went numb.
At the foothills of the Ghost River Mountains where the hiking trails began, there was a small parking lot with only six stalls--they didn’t get many tourists in Purgatory. Waverly slowly braked to a stop and climbed off, careful of her balance with all her gear. She leaned the bike against the post of an information board, and unscrewed the top of her canteen, taking a long drink of the icy cold water as she studied a warning notice about bears that was tacked to the board. The number-one tip was to never enter the mountains in groups of fewer than six. But Waverly was, of course, prepared with bear bells and bear spray hooked on the outer loops of her pack.
Waverly studied the laminated map on the information board, following the line of the Ghost River. On the Eastern side of the map was a blank area, noted simply as pine forest. But it was there that Waverly knew she would find her family’s homestead, built by her great-great-granddaddy, Wyatt Earp.
***
Nicole Haught was sitting at the reception desk of the sheriff’s office, barely staying awake over her paperwork and gas-station cappuccino, when Waverly Earp biked past. That girl would catch Nicole’s eye any day, but on this morning in particular, Nicole was intrigued enough to stand up and hurry to the large window that overlooked Main Street. Waverly was biking fast, her jaw set and eyes narrowed against the mist. That in itself wasn’t unusual--Nicole didn’t know Waverly well, but the determined look on her face was one Nicole was already familiar with. But what caught Nicole’s attention, what had her stepping out onto the sidewalk and watching Waverly’s back until she faded from view, was the insanely oversized backpack she carried. It looked almost comical on Waverly’s small frame; a large water bottle and what looked like a can of bug spray dangling from the straps on carabiners, a rolled blanket strapped to the top. And was that--Nicole squinted--an axe? Nicole shook her head fondly and went back inside to her desk, the bells on the door jingling lightly behind her.
Nicole took another gulp of her cappuccino, making a face at the brown liquid that glistened with syrup and had begun to go cold. Sheriff Nedley kept a stash of Folgers Instant in the station’s small kitchen, but the cappuccinos Nicole got at the TravelMart were better. Marginally.
It reminded Nicole of the first time she’d spoken to Waverly, about a month ago. She had stopped at Shorty’s on a whim, thinking there was a chance they might have cappuccinos a step up from the gas station’s, since the only diner in town was closed for renovations. Well, okay, it was mostly an excuse to introduce herself to Waverly, whom she’d seen a few times outside the station, chatting with Sheriff Nedley’s daughter, and another time at Shorty’s when Nicole had made her very first arrest, dragging a man out for drunk and disorderly conduct, and Waverly was working at the bar. Waverly was pretty--all right, Nicole thought, as she doodled absently on a manila folder, only the prettiest girl she’d ever seen in her life--but what Nicole really couldn’t stop thinking about was her smile, the way it lit up her entire face; the way her eyes sparkled...
Nicole sat up with a start when Sheriff Nedley burst through the door, dragging behind him a disheveled man who was keeping up a steady stream of swearing and insults. The man’s greasy, dirty hair hung ragged over his eyes, and his head was bowed as he struggled to right himself and stop Nedley from dragging him across the floor.
“Is that--” at the sound of Nicole’s voice, Nedley stopped in his tracks, as if surprised to find her already at the station. “Is that Carl?”
Carl, or “Stupid Carl,” as Nicole often referred to him under her breath, had been in and out of trouble over the past few weeks, brought into the station for petty theft and drunk & disorderly on a few occasions, and pulled over twice by Nicole herself for traffic violations.
“Sure is,” Nedley said gruffly. “Trespassing. That’s a new one, eh Carl?”
“I weren’t trespassing,” protested Carl, “I was just goin’ to see Bobo.” He twisted himself with a grunt, trying to pull his beefy, handcuffed arms free from the grips of the sheriff. Nicole flinched slightly, glad to have the big reception desk in front of her. She wasn’t scared of most of the men in this town--they were generally good guys who just had too much to drink now and then--but something about Carl unsettled her.
“Tellin’ me you’re gonna see Bobo ain’t a point in your favor, son,” Nedley muttered. “C’mon now.” Nicole saw that they were heading for the holding cell, and rushed over to hold the door. Carl’s dark eyes met hers for a moment, and she looked away. “Bitch,” he spat out, as they passed her.
***
“Well, what the shit?” Waverly said out loud in exasperation, dropping her pack in the weeds beside her feet with a heavy thud. A gray jay tittered cheerfully in response from a nearby pine. She should have found the old logging road by now; she remembered it running parallel and close to the Ghost River. She reached up to redo her ponytail, turning in a slow circle as she did so. Breathing out slowly, she tried to ignore the swell of anxiety for a moment and appreciate her surroundings. The Ghost Mountains were thick with tall trees, with berry brambles and wildflowers carpeting the ground beneath them. Waverly closed her eyes, inhaling the fresh, piney scent, and tried to mentally retrace her steps from fifteen years ago, playing in these woods with Wynonna.
She remembered riding her bike across an old wooden bridge on the logging road, yelling for Wynonna to wait for her, her training wheels making a satisfying thump-thump-thump over the boards, and it hit her--the road must be on the other side of the river from where she’d guessed.
Heaving her pack onto her shoulders again, Waverly walked back toward the river, reaching behind her to pull a bag of trail mix from a side pocket and pop a small handful into her mouth, not wanting to stop to rummage through her stuff for a more filling lunch. She made a mental note of the blackberry bushes she saw in the undergrowth of the trees. Maybe she could come back later and pick some, assuming she could get to them before the bears did.
The Ghost River was hardly formidable on this part of the mountain, but it was still too wide for Waverly to hop across. It was shallow, though, and rocky, so Waverly kicked off her shoes and tied the laces onto her backpack, then rolled up her jeans so she could wade across. The mountain-spring water was shockingly cold, and Waverly shivered as she quickly picked her way across, her feet slipping slightly on the smooth, algaed rocks.
Once she’d crossed the river, it didn’t take Waverly long to find the abandoned logging road. It had always been made of gravel, never paved, and now had thistles and brambles growing all over. Logging had long since stopped in this area, even before Waverly was a kid here. But despite the overgrowth, the hiking was easier here than on the muddy trails.
The homestead was well away from the areas that backpackers frequented, so that--well, plus the pesky local rumor of a curse on the Earp family, no big deal--meant it had remained untouched for years. And so when she finally saw the house through a clearing in the forest, looking small, dark, and unassuming with boarded-up windows, Waverly almost felt guilty. It felt like she was intruding somehow, wakening spirits--or at least memories--that were better left undisturbed.
***
Later that day, Nicole was gathering up her things to head out for speed-trap duty when the door jingled and Chrissy Nedley walked in. The brunette barely glanced at Nicole, tossing a “hey” over her shoulder as she marched right into her dad’s office. Nicole just shook her head and went back to arranging her outfit for patrol, clipping her flashlight onto her belt and holstering her gun. Chrissy was friendly enough, and usually said hello to Nicole when she stopped by the station...but never went out of her way to chat. It would’ve been nice, Nicole mused, to have a friend or two her age in town. But Nicole was also comfortable in her own skin, in her own space, and didn’t often feel lonely despite her newness in town. She kept herself busy at the little house she rented, chopping wood and tending a small garden of veggies, and finally making a dent in the tall stack of novels she’d been intending to read ever since she enrolled in the academy, and hadn’t had the time for until now. Still, she wouldn’t mind being asked out for a few drinks and a game of pool every now and then. Especially at Shorty’s, with a certain bartender working the counter…
And speaking of that bartender, Nicole was jerked out of her daydream by the mention of Waverly’s name. In her dad’s office, the door cracked ajar, Chrissy was telling Nedley something about Waverly’s Aunt Gus.
“...so Gus called me to ask if I’d talked to her. Waves took off this morning, I guess--left her a note. Gus said she wasn’t really worried but wondered what had gotten into her.”
Nicole paused for a moment, but decided the open door was an acceptable excuse for her eavesdropping. She knocked gently on Nedley’s doorframe, and the sheriff and his daughter both turned to look at her expectantly.
“Sorry, er...couldn’t help but overhear; are you guys looking for Waverly?” She leaned against the wall, trying to be casual.
Chrissy regarded her for a moment. “Yeah...well, sort of. I was just telling my dad that her aunt said she took off for their old homestead and didn’t want anyone to come after her. It’s just weird.”
Nicole opened her mouth to say that she’d seen Waverly that morning, then stopped herself. “Why didn’t she want anyone to come after her? And where’s their old homestead?”
Chrissy shrugged and perched on the corner of her dad’s desk. Nedley cleared his throat. “The old Earp place is at the edge of the mountains west of town. Nobody’s lived there for years. Probably doesn’t have water or electricity...nothing.”
Nicole frowned. “And...why would Waverly go there? Did she get in a fight with her aunt and uncle or something?” Nicole wasn’t exactly sure why Waverly’s parents weren’t in the picture, but she knew she lived with her aunt and uncle at their farm.
Nedley ran a hand through his hair, took a swig of coffee. Chrissy fiddled with a Scotch tape dispenser. Nicole wondered why they were being so cagey.
“Don’t think so. But Waverly...she’s had an unusual childhood. Lot going on underneath that sunny personality.”
Nicole straightened up. She knew that people whispered about the Earps, but from what she’d gathered so far, it was because Waverly’s estranged older sister used to cause trouble around town all the time. Delinquent-type stuff. She wondered what else there was to that history. “Well...I could go out and do a welfare check?”
Nedley and his daughter glanced at each other. “I dunno, Nicole. I think Waves just needs some space, is all,” Chrissy said.
“So she didn’t call you, Chrissy?” Nedley asked. Chrissy shook her head. “All right then," continued Nedley, “Let’s give her till tomorrow. Sounds like she just wanted to get out from under Gus and Curtis’s thumb for a bit. They watch that girl awful close.”
Nicole fiddled with her ticket pad, uncertain. “Well...if you say so. I’ll head out on patrol, then. Could you...would you radio me if Waverly comes back, though? Just so I don’t worry.”
Chrissy rolled her eyes. “Sure, Haught. Waves can take care of herself, though.”
Nicole nodded. “I know she can.”
***
Waverly definitely could take care of herself. If only she could get this damn door open.
She was kneeling on the front stoop, rummaging through her pack and throwing tools and meal packets haphazardly around her on the porch, swearing at each item that wasn’t the little black pouch she was looking for. “Aha!” finally, triumphantly, her fingers closed around it. “Right at the bottom...frickin’ figures.” Waverly shoved her pack to the side and opened the small pouch. Inside were several long, sharp tools--lockpicking tools. She’d found them in Wynonna’s room once and threatened to tell Curtis, and Wynonna swore her to secrecy and then showed her how to use them. Sometimes having a troublemaker older sister had its advantages.
Once she found the right tool, she got the homestead door open easily. Waverly quickly shoved all her stuff back into her pack, and threw it over her shoulder. She stepped inside hesitantly, pulling the door closed behind her. It was quiet--the homestead was in a clearing, so she was too far out of the trees to hear birds anymore. She was glad it was still the afternoon--this place had been eerie at night even when her family was all together. It was dark inside, though, and smelled of dust and stale air, with a hint of something familiar too. Sunlight filtered through the thin gaps in the window boards, illuminating the kitchen counters and dining table, all bare. No jars of sugar or flour on the counters. No broken crayons and half-filled coloring books on the dining table.
The window just beside the door was broken, the jagged glass still jutting out from the edges of its frame. It had been boarded from the outside. Waverly stood and looked at it for a moment, then turned away. She set her backpack down on a dining chair and tried the kitchen faucet. Nothing. But then, she’d expected that. She’d have to use the old pump out back, assuming that worked. Either that or she’d be hauling buckets down to the river every day. There was an outhouse, too. And she’d brought flashlights and candles. She could handle staying here without electricity or running water. After all, Wyatt had.
Waverly brought her pack over to the living room and set it down on the floor. She laid out her bedroll, and set the axe next to it, knowing she’d sleep with one hand on it in case she heard any strange noises during the night. She pulled out her snack packs and meal kits, stacking them neatly on the old oak coffee table. She’d already decided to stick to the living room tonight--she wasn’t quite ready to explore her old bedroom or those of her parents or sister. Maybe tomorrow, in the morning. She pulled candles out of her pack and lined them up neatly in the empty fireplace. It was too hot for a fire, but the candlelight would be welcome once twilight came. And finally, she pulled from her pack the small leather-bound notebooks that had belonged to her daddy, Ward Earp.
The next few hours were spent re-reading notes she had gone over so many times they were almost memorized. The names of the 77 revenants. Ward’s sketches of Peacemaker and the symbols that were carved on its barrel. There was so much Waverly needed to learn, and to find. She hoped the homestead would be the key to all that. She wrote in her own journal too, about finding the homestead, and made lists of what to do over the next few days. She planned to be there for a while, so in addition to her research, she’d need to make the homestead liveable. She knew she’d need to go back into Purgatory for more supplies, and soon. But she wasn’t quite sure how to do that without a confrontation with Gus and Curtis. She knew they weren’t likely to follow her up here to the homestead, but if they caught wind of her back in town, they’d try to talk her out of her plan.
But for now, she needed to eat. She wondered how Gus and Curtis were doing, back at their farm. Gus was probably making salad with tomatoes fresh from their garden. Or Waverly’s favorite, marinated portobellos on the grill.
She opened up a pouch of seitan jerky along with her trail mix. Realistically, Waverly knew she’d have to start eating meat again eventually if she was going to manage on her own out here--fish from the river, at least, and maybe small game. Her father had taught his girls how to live off the land--surely she’d remember some of his tips despite the years that had passed--and maybe she’d feel less guilty about eating animals if she knew she was treating them humanely and taking only what she needed. Still, she’d hold onto her veganism for at least a few more days if she could.
When she’d finished her small meal, Waverly made a trip to the outhouse, which was in surprisingly good condition despite all the weeds that had grown up around it. Then she dragged a heavy chair from the living room to balance under the front door knob so no one could open it, and retreated back to the living room. Once she’d lit a candle in the fireplace and settled down into her sleeping mat, she stretched her sore muscles and tried to focus on her breathing and relax. She was thankful, now, for all the hiking that day. Thankful that her eyes were already starting to close. She could ignore the ghosts for tonight.