She presses her lips together, as if wincing from the memory of hunger pains. And I realize that the massive meals she cooks that fill the table might stem from a long-ago desperate desire to be able to feed the people she loved with as much delicious food as they could stomach.

“I left school in the tenth grade, and I got a job. I was working as a waitress at a roadside bar. I wasn’t supposed to be serving drinks—I wasn’t anything close to twenty-one. But the owners knew my situation, and they needed the help.

“It was rough. I know things look rugged around here now, but it’s nothing to how it was thirty years ago. Silver Run was the kind of place where people didn’t stick their noses in other people’s business. Which is why nobody did anything about the fact that my parents were too high to feed or clothe their kids, or make sure any of us attended school. And if something did happen that crossed a line—people were more likely to take the law into their own hands than to call the sheriff.”

I nod slowly. I know exactly how that works. In the Irish Mafia, it’s the same—each family runs their own affairs. And when there’s a conflict, you take it to one of the head bosses. Never to the police or to any other outsider.

“So,” Celia continues, “I served drinks and food to all types. Ranchers and truck-drivers, farmers and line-workers. Most of the men were local, and reasonably respectful to me. They’d flirt or tease or maybe give me a little slap on the ass now and then. But I was relatively safe and making enough money that my next two siblings down the line could stay in school, and hopefully, graduate. Then one night, somebody I’d never seen before came in to eat.”

A shiver runs down her frame, like a cold breeze just blew on the back of her neck.

“He was about forty years old, tall and handsome. He wasn’t dressed like the men I usually saw. He had on a proper suit, and his hair was freshly cut. What I noticed most of all was how clean he was. Not a speck of dirt on his shoes or trousers. And his fingernails were spotless. I’d hardly ever seen a grown man look like that. He wasn’t tanned, either. His face and neck and hands were pale like they’d never seen the sun. So he caught my eye at once.

“I went over to his table. He was sitting with two other men I didn’t recognize, though they had on the usual Wranglers and button-ups. And they were normal-looking men. They didn’t draw the eye the way Ellis did.

“That was his name—he introduced himself as soon as I came to take his order. He had a soft, cultured voice. A northern accent, which made him sound exotic to me then. He said, ‘I’m Ellis Burr. What’s your name?’ so politely, and with such genuine interest.