The Iron Tolerances of a Sun-Baked Frontier Where the Fences Never Blink
CHAPTER 1: THE ACCUMULATION OF SURFACE RUST The yellow paper didn’t tear; it pulled right through the head of the rusted roofing nail Brenda had driven into the bark of his pin oak. Arthur Vance didn’t look across the driveway toward her porch. He didn’t have to. The sun was at three o’clock, baking the…