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Who has the stolen money? Taken from the thief by a killer, hidden away from him, then lost in the Sierras, where is it now? Convinced that three women have it, he and his men pursue them as they flee through the mountains during a violent storm. He will stop at nothing to regain what he's convinced belongs to him alone. Can one woman and one man stand against the deadly determination of this killer?
“Four is the Indian sacred number,” Marlyn explained.
“That’s not what I meant,” Sara said. “I was thinking there were once four of us.”
An owl hooted three times from somewhere close by.
“I hear you, old hooter,” Elise called. “We know only three coals are left. But, hey, that’s plenty.”
A shiver ran along Marlyn’s spine. “It’s just a story.”
After a moment Elise said, “Enough Indian lore, okay? I’m for turning in. Dibs on cleaning up instead of making breakfast.”
“I’ll make breakfast,” Marlyn said, relieved by the change of subject. If she’d known her friends would read more into the story than was meant, she never would have told it.
As she slipped into her sleeping bag, she heard the coyote again—a single cry high and far off. She knew the Miwok believed Coyote cries out with joy as he did when the people he made came alive from clay. But to Marlyn the coyote’s wail sounded sad and lonesome.
The wind whispered in the tops of the pines, telling stories that only the spirits of the dead could understand. Another Miwok belief. Which reminded her again that she’d told the Creation Story out of season. The hair on her nape prickled and a shiver slithered along her nerves, despite her telling herself once more that this wasn’t her belief, but in the same category as any superstition.