The place was a dump. The dark-stained wood paneling and knotty pine bar showed their age, and almost no light entered save for a couple tiny windows near the door. The place smelled like mold and stale tobacco, too. The mirror behind the bar looked like it was stolen from someone’s apartment bathroom, and four cracks marred the glass at various points. The sole bright spot was a polished jukebox that had everything from Credence to Hank Williams. The owners, who’d been in trouble a few times with local ordinances, claimed Bayside Tavern had a capacity of seventy people, a Goddamned lie. Still, he came because of Anneli and the occasional other pretty Yooper-somethings that made the mistake of wandering in. A lion’s got to go to the watering hole to find the gazelle’s, eh?

What he didn’t come her for were the meatheads, and L’ander had its fair share. Some might toss him in the category of meathead, but he had certain refined tastes and sensibilities not always apparent from his appearance.

Sanders slipped off his Miller Genuine Draft wool hat and wiped his brow. He kicked his boots on the bottom of his stool, freeing them of clinging snow. Then he unzipped his jacket, relishing the release of warm air.

Sanders drank and looked around the joint. Jan Erickson sat at the back of the bar and gave him a lazy wave. Sanders nodded and tipped his mug. He checked for more familiar faces. Patty Zorich sat with her husband Tom in one of the booths, both of them poking at their shit fries and shit burgers. As Sanders finished his look-see, he frowned. The last face he saw was that of Hoss Ratigan.

Not what he was expecting to see.

Ratigan locked eyes with Sanders as a creeping smile appeared, his eyes electric, all-knowing.

“Shit,” Sanders mumbled into his beer, inching his shoulders together and turning away.

A couple weeks back at Finn’s Market, he’d made a pass at Ratigan’s twenty-year-old daughter. A real looker, the kind that could make a white-tailed buck stop and stare, ‘cause all animals respect beauty. She’d recoiled and replied with a snotty eeeeew. Unfortunately that wasn’t the only thing Ratigan might be pissed about. Ratigan owned several thousand acres along the lower portion of Silver Road, and he’d caught Sanders trespassing numerous times. The last time Sanders had seen Ratigan’s gigantic ugly mug was in the tiny rearview mirror on his four-wheeler. How could he forget Ratigan’s bloated, red face shouting at him?

Sanders grumbled.

He didn’t like having to leave his traps behind, and he was sure Ratigan had found them and taken them.