After a failed career and marriage in California, Hugh Davoren is back in Helena, Montana, as a construction hand at the old Pettyjohn Ranch, home of many childhood memories—including the seemingly accidental death of his teenaged first love, Celia. Hugh is just trying to get through another long workday on the ranch when he discovers two dead stallions. A further probe into the matter only pushes Hugh into dangerous corners, as he finds that the ranch's slick new owner, his beautiful wife, and even old Mr. Pettyjohn have terrible secrets to keep. “Neil McMahon is ... one of our finest fast-action storytellers. Lone Creek will keep you up and dodging through the night, and send you to sleep with a sense of relief and pleasure. ” - William Kittredge, author of HOLE IN THE SKY and THE WILLOW FIELD “McMahon is a writer and a half…. his words carry for miles.” - New York Times Book Review “McMahon . . . delivers his finest achievement to date with this beautifully written stand-alone set in contemporary Montana.” - Publishers Weekly “McMahon has now found his true voice with this splendid and suspenseful novel . . . It is the poignant and knowing prose that elevates this novel to literature.” - Otto Penzler, New York Sun Lone Creek is post-modern contemporary western noir ... a good hard ride through real Montana, punctuated by heinous crimes and dry good humor. Neil McMahon has written a winner.” - C.J. Box, author of In Plain Sight. “Lone Creek is more than a page turner. A vivid sense of place and strong narrative voice make it as big and beautiful as the Montana sky.” - James Grippando, national bestselling author of GOT THE LOOK “Crisp and fast-moving. . . . McMahon is a skillful writer.” - Washington Post “A wild plot....Satisfying....Reads like a cross between Raymond Chandler and Thomas Harris. More...please, Mr. McMahon .” - Chicago Tribune After a failed career and marriage in California, Hugh Davoren is back in Helena, Montana, as a construction hand at the old Pettyjohn Ranch, home of many childhood memories—including the seemingly accidental death of his teenaged first love, Celia. Hugh is just trying to get through another long workday on the ranch when he discovers two dead stallions. A further probe into the matter only pushes Hugh into dangerous corners, as he finds that the ranch's slick new owner, his beautiful wife, and even old Mr. Pettyjohn have terrible secrets to keep. Neil McMahon holds a degree in psychology from Stanford and was a Stegner fellow. He has published ten novels, in addition to the bestselling thriller Toys, coauthored with James Patterson. He lives in Missoula, Montana, where his wife directs the annual Montana Festival of the Book. Lone Creek By Neil McMahon Harper Paperbacks Copyright © 2008 Neil McMahon All right reserved. ISBN: 9780060792220 Chapter One I'd only ever seen Laurie Balcomb a few times, usually glimpses while I was working and she was passing by on her way to someplace else. I'd never met her or spoken with her. She and her husband were the new owners of the Pettyjohn Ranch, and they didn't socialize with the help. But when she came into sight on this afternoon, riding horseback across a hay field, there was no mistaking her even from a quarter mile away. Her hair was auburn shot through with gold, she was wearing a brindle chamois shirt, and the way the sunlight caught her, she looked like a living flame. I hadn't paid much attention to Laurie before this, other than to notice that she was a nice-looking woman. The sense I'd gotten from her was subdued, distant. Even her hair had seemed darker. But now, for just a second, something slipped in my head-the kind of jolt you got when you were walking down a staircase in the dark and thought there was one more step at the bottom. I shook it off and slowed my pickup truck to a stop. This was September, a warm afternoon at the end of a dry Montana summer, and I'd been raising a dust cloud the size of a tornado. I figured I'd let it settle so Laurie wouldn't have to ride through it. But instead of passing, she rode toward me and reined up. The horse was one of the thoroughbreds she'd brought out here from Virginia, a reddish chestnut gelding that looked like he'd been chosen to fit her color scheme. Like her, he was fine-boned, classy, high-strung. A couple hundred thousand bucks, easy. "Are you in a fix ?" she called. She had just enough accent to add a touch of charm. In a fix, I remembered, was Southern for having trouble . I pointed out the window toward the thinning dust storm. "Trying not to suffocate you," I said. "Oh. How thoughtful." She seemed surprised, and maybe amused, to hear that from a man in sweaty work clothes, hauling trash in a vehicle older than she was. She walked the restless horse closer, stroking his neck to soothe him. She handled him well, and she knew it. "So you men are-what's the term-'gutting' the old house?" she said. The