Oliver’s dog whined and sniffed the body, licking his masters face. An August sun glared down, gluing Selmas blood-splashed dress against her body. She held her husband in her arms, willing him to live. He had attacked Tyrone so suddenly there hadn’t been time to think. But now, every movement seemed in slow motion, Oliver vomiting, eyes pleading, his blood spurting more slowly from his chest.
Tears blinding her eyes, Selma did not see Tyrone race to the lace and wash evidence from the weapon.
Don’t die, Ollie. You don’t have to die.
But he did.
Slowly she slipped her hand from his. If Selma Withypol and Tyrone Zale had buried her husband deeper on that remote farm in Central Minnesota in 1933, if Oliver Withypols best friend hadn’t interfered, if the deputy hadn’t been so canny, they might have escaped the law. But instead, Selma finds herself in a local jail, the ridicule of the community, except for her former lover, Sheriff Ed Zorell, who manipulates the town officials to see the stranger, Zaleor whatever he calls himself, takes the rap, and helps Selma discover which of all her heart throbs really loves her for herself alone.
