INDIGO BY KAREN HULENE BARTELL

CHAPTER 1 

A raspy shriek shattered my bravado. 

Was that human? Screech owl? Cougar? The peach 

fuzz on my neck crawled as I lugged the last of my 

suitcases into the cabin. 

Another scream sawed the starless night like a 

serrated knife. 

Stupid I-90 construction, or I’d have been here 

before dark. Adrenaline flooded my veins as I kicked the 

front door shut, rammed the coffee table against it, then 

barricaded the back door with a kitchen chair. Switching 

off the lights, I peeked through the window. New 

moon…pitch black. 

Then two tawny eyes blinked. 

My neck hair mustering to attention, I jerked back. 

What am I doing in Birch Lake, Wisconsin? 

**** 

I lay wide awake in the dark, flinching as the insects 

buzzed the porch light and tiny feet scuttled across the 

roof. Or is that the attic? I lurched at each hoot and 

squeal outside the log cabin unable to doze until first 

light. 

Then too soon, sunlight poured through the 

window’s thin curtains, blinding me. I stumbled into the 

pantry and found instant coffee. Heating a mug in the 

microwave, I caught my reflection in the dark glass. 

Shoulder-length, sandy-brown hair, high cheekbones, a 

slightly large nose—and dark-ringed eyes met my gaze. 

I grimaced as I set the timer. 

After pulling on shorts and a tee shirt, I tugged the 

coffee table away from the door, stepped outside, and 

took a deep breath. How pine-fresh the air smelled—

earthy, clean. 

The sun dipped behind a cumulus cloud, casting a 

muted glow over the landscape. To my right, stately 

pines stood like guardian sentinels, and to my left, the 

clear blue waters of Birch Lake lapped the sandy shore. 

Welcoming. Inviting. So different from last night’s slant. 

Sniffing at my phantom fears, I punched in the lock’s 

code. 

“You moved in last night, didn’t you?”  

I spun toward the startling voice. “I did…drove up 

from Chicago.” 

“Welcome to the lake. We’re staying next door.” 

The thirty-something woman gestured to a rustic cabin 

and smiled. “I’m Heather, and this is my daughter, 

Brianna.” 

“Call me Bree.” The teen gave a friendly wave. 

“I’m Raluca.” 

The girl rolled the name over her tongue. “What’s it 

mean?” 

“Ray of light.” 

As if on cue, the sun broke through the clouds. 

“Impressive.” Heather’s mouth parted in a grin. 

“Can’t say that’s ever happened before.” I couldn’t 

hold back a chuckle. 

“We’ve been here a week, and this morning’s the 

first time the sky’s cleared.” Heather nodded toward the 

road. “We’re headed to town for breakfast. Want to join

us?” 

“Sure, I was just going for a walk—getting a lay of 

the land.” Breathing in the air’s woodsy scent, I fell in 

beside them.  

Fragrant Norway pines filled the landscape. In front 

of the evergreens, tangles of wild canes sported delicate 

white buds. Raspberry blossoms? 

Heather interrupted the silence. “Are you staying 

through August?” 

“No…maybe.” I shrugged. “Depends on how soon I 

can flip the cabin.” 

“So you’re not renting?” 

“No, I—” 

“See the hanging tree?” Bree grabbed my arm, 

turning me toward a gnarled oak. A massive, dead 

branch stretched across the road like a once muscular but 

now atrophied arm. “They strung up a man on that tree, 

then buried him there.” She flicked her thumb toward a 

bare patch in the cemetery across the street. 

“He was one of the Marchands.” Heather nodded to 

a swinging metal sign above the double gates: Marchand 

Cemetery. “The story goes that his brother lynched him 

after catching him in bed with his bride.” She pointed to 

a small stone, the size of a brick, with the inscription 

1892. “Apparently, a footstone was all he deserved.” 

A strong gust of wind wailed through the oak tree. 

The rusty sign over the cemetery’s entrance squeaked as 

it rocked back and forth. Then a series of quick knocks 

sounded—like rapping at a door.  

“What was that?” I stopped so fast, my feet slid on 

the pebbles. 

“Ghosts?” Bree gave a mischievous snort. 

A swaying pine bough above a shelter caught my

attention. “That or pinecones dropping on a metal roof.” 

Close by was an imposing grave with an ornate 

headstone: Jacques Marchand 1803-1849. Large stone 

blocks marked the fenced-in plot’s four corners, and 

seven surrounding tombstones bore the same surname. 

“Wild guess…Marchand is a big name here?” 

Heather nodded. “One of the area’s founding 

families…a few descendants still live nearby.” Pointing 

at the wide swathes of burned rubber on the asphalt, she 

lowered her voice. “Supposedly, a certain family 

member never left…” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Some say a ghost appears along this road at dusk. 

Others describe it as a hellhound. The driver swerves to 

avoid it, and the ghost / hound vanishes.” 

“Some say…” I dipped my chin to mask my 

skepticism. “Urban legends?” 

“Un-uh.” Shaking her head, Bree grinned. “Olivia 

made those marks. She’s my bestie, and no ghost or dog 

was involved—just a squirrel with a death wish—but 

that…” Bree pointed to a stone chair. “That’s the devil’s 

chair, and it’s legit.” 

“Chair? You mean throne.” I gaped at the elaborate 

carving. “But since it faces the headstone, it’s probably 

for the family to sit and reflect.” 

Heather agreed with a nod. “A mourning chair.” 

“Maybe originally.” Bree shrugged. “But now, it’s 

where kids test their courage…especially at midnight.” 

Her mother pursed her lips. “It’s there to pay your 

respects, not be an invitation to an initiation.” 

“It’s legend tripping.” An impish gleam lit Bree’s 

eyes. 

“Don’t get any ideas about nighttime dares, young 

lady.” 

“Oh, mother…” What began as a disgusted groan 

blossomed into a delighted squeal as a four-by-four truck 

rumbled into view. Waving her arms, Bree flagged it to 

a stop. “Dylan!”  

The pickup slowed as the driver lowered the 

passenger window. “Hello Bree, Heather.” He ducked, 

so the walkers could see his face, then with a slight nod, 

caught my gaze. “Headed into town?” 

“Yeah, can you give us a ride?” Bree had already 

opened the cab door and claimed the front seat. “You 

coming, Mom?” 

Heather started to speak, sighed, then turned toward 

me. “Want to join us for breakfast?” 

“No, thanks, I’m just a coffee person.” I shook my 

head, not wanting to intrude. “Next time.” 

“Have you met our property manager yet?” 

Climbing in the back, Heather addressed the driver. 

“Dylan, this is Raluca. She just moved into—” 

“Winny Nelson’s cabin. I’ve been expecting you.” 

Nodding, he handed Bree a business card and motioning 

to pass it on. “Let me know if you need anything or have 

any questions.” 

The girl brushed against his shoulder before handing 

me his card. 

Dylan McCoombs…Pretending to skim his info, I 

surveyed the person. Thick, curly hair, square jaw, full 

lips, and gunmetal-blue-gray eyes. No wonder Bree’s 

crushing. “Will do. Thanks.” 

With a wave, he signaled and pulled on the road. 

Questions, huh? I scanned the card. What can you 

tell me about Winny Nelson? 

**** 

I followed the road as it dipped and twisted through 

the wetlands, rose again between bordering alfalfa fields 

speckled with blue gypsyweed stalks, then dead ended at 

a railroad track. About-facing, I backtracked.  

Though the sun shone brightly, a cold shiver ran 

down my spine when I passed the cemetery. The hair 

rose on the back of my neck, and I turned, looking behind 

me. Instinct told me I was being watched. No cars or 

other hikers on the road…no houses nearby. I surveyed 

the wooded graveyard, peering through the trees’ long 

shadows until a pair of glowering eyes met mine. 

Sitting on the stone chair was a man with a lean, 

lupine face, heavy beard, slanted, almond-shaped eyes, 

and a thick head of hair.  

Fight or flight? My thoughts spiraling, I tensed as I 

played out one stressful scenario after another. My 

mouth dry, I swallowed hard, checking the country road 

for traffic. Nothing. No cars and no one except this 

skulker lurking in the cemetery.  

But he stayed motionless, not waving or 

acknowledging me in any way. He just stared through 

hooded eyes. 

Creepy…no wonder kids test their courage here. I 

kept him in my peripheral vision as I strode past, then 

sprinted to the cabin, checking behind me before 

punching in the entry code. Not until I slammed the door 

did I breathe deeply. What a weirdo. 

I eyed my laptop on the kitchen table, debating 

whether to finish editing the latest manuscript but was 

too keyed up to concentrate. Instead, I unpacked one of 

the moving boxes stacked against the breakfast bar. Who 

knows how long it’ll take to flip this place? 

I glanced about the cabin. A collection of fly-fishing 

lures and vintage fishing signs decorated the knotty pine 

paneling: Cast away your troubles. Support your local 

hookers. Wake and lake. Even the dinnerware featured a 

rainbow-trout motif. 

Bordered by two windows, a fieldstone fireplace 

filled the front wall, floor to ceiling. Flanked by rustic 

end tables, a fold-out sofa lined the adjoining wall. The 

backdoor led to a covered porch, overlooking the lake. 

The kitchenette filled the back wall and part of the fourth 

wall, which opened to the bedroom and bath. 

As I found homes for my clothes, books, and 

personal effects, I debated whether to redecorate or flip 

the cabin as is. Then the change of pace hit me.  

How did I end up here? My thoughts slipped back 

to two weeks before, when I was in Chicago, ticking 

details off my wedding checklist. And why would 

Winifred Nelson leave me this place? 

****  

The gentle patter on the roof and windows woke me 

from a nap. Lulled by the rain’s muffled hush, I flinched 

at the jarring sight: pine paneling and wooden-slat blinds 

over windows. Where am I? I took in the cabin’s décor. 

Gradually, the memories returned along with the tension. 

I’m in Birch Lake, Wisconsin, 350 miles north of 

Chicago…in the boonies…alone. 

Bill slipped in my thoughts, but I dismissed him, 

refusing to rehash our breakup. 

Shivering, I heated more coffee in the microwave. 

For August, it’s chilly, or do 350 miles north make that 

big a difference? I checked the thermostat. Fifty-five 

degrees? Yikes!  

I pulled on a sweater, then sat at my computer, 

determined to make up for lost time. By two-thirty, I’d 

pounded out the edits and sent the revised manuscript to 

the author for rewrites. Stretching, I opened the blinds, 

blinked at the sunshine, and checked the thermostat. 

Seventy-two. That’s more like it. After the rain, the 

plants looked greener, and the pine trees glistened. 

Enticed, I tied the sweater around my waist—just in 

case—stepped outside and locked the door. The air was 

crisp, and I breathed in the earthy scents as I absorbed 

the scenery. Purple loosestrife bloomed along the road, 

while red rosehips offered a bright counterpoint, and 

wood violets dotted the asphalt road’s sandy shoulder. 

Maybe this move wasn’t adding insult to injury. Maybe 

it’s a fresh start. Would Bill agree? 

Exasperated that he crossed my mind again, I 

huffed. Who cares what he thinks? 

I rushed past the cemetery, wanting to avoid any 

replay of this morning’s encounter with the skulker. The 

rain had softened the sandy loam alongside the road, and 

my sneakers made prints in the damp sand. Though still 

summer, the scent of wet pine needles reminded me of 

Christmas, soothing any lingering qualms. I’d caught up 

with my workload, the day was still young, and so was 

I—relatively speaking. 

Turning at the railroad track, I jogged back, 

enjoying the exertion. I hadn’t exercised in weeks. I 

thought of the stares a jogger would elicit in the Loop 

and chuckled. Who’s she running from? On a runner’s 

high, I raced past the cemetery. 

A crash sounded inches away as something or 

someone barreled into its fence. 

Heather’s ghost / hound stories came to mind. Or 

what if it’s the skulker? I sprinted as adrenaline kicked 

me into high gear. Then several steps later, either due to 

morbid curiosity or common sense, I slowed to see what 

had caused the collision. 

A quail wobbled on its feet, apparently stunned by 

its impact with the chain-link fence, while a dragonfly 

merrily sailed through the metal’s open weave. 

Relieved, I laughed off my dark fantasies and 

resumed the walk. 

When a high-pitched whine stopped me, I listened 

for its source. The devil’s chair.  

I mentally corrected my word choice: mourning 

chair. Once an editor, always an editor. 

Again, a penetrating whimper pierced the air. 

A wounded animal? I backtracked to the gate and let 

myself in the overgrown cemetery. Though wary of 

snakes in the tall grass, I followed the whine to the family 

plot.  

Across from the central headstone, a clump of straw 

moved. 

My muscles froze. 

Then it whimpered, and a shaking fluffball of 

tangled fur huddled beneath the stone chair.  

A puppy. “Don’t be afraid.” I approached slowly, 

crouching as I held out my hand for a sniff test. Rather 

than frighten the ragtag pup by dragging it from its 

hiding place, I coaxed it. 

After several hesitant steps, it crawled toward me 

and licked my fingers with a pink, velvety tongue. 

“Hey buddy.” Still at arm’s length, I stroked its 

matted fur. No collar, no tags. “How’d you get here?” I 

glanced around for its mother or owner, but the cemetery 

was deserted. 

The tiny canine crawled closer, whimpering. When 

I petted it, it stood on its hind legs as if begging to be 

picked up.  

Lifting was effortless. “You’re light as a feather, all 

fur and paws, skin and bones.” Guessing at its hard life, 

I grimaced. “But we’ll fix that.” Mentally adding puppy 

chow to my shopping list, I stared into its captivating 

eyes, mesmerized by their deep blue color. “Indigo, 

that’s what I’ll call you…at least, until I find your 

owner.” 

As I carried him home, I passed a gravel driveway. 

Could he belong here? On a hunch, I turned onto the 

rutted road lined with rusting farm machinery and 

dilapidated cars. A derelict house trailer was propped on 

cement blocks. Closer to the house, the overgrown lawn 

was littered with plastic laundry baskets of two-liter 

bottles. 

A hoarder…I did an about-face cradling the puppy 

closer to my chest. I’ll just call the local animal shelters 

when I get home. 

The woman’s cackling voice startled me. “What are 

you doing here?” 

Turning toward the sound, I held up the puppy. 

“Found this little guy near the cemetery…is he yours?” 

“Naa, don’t need no cow dog.” An obese woman 

moved a wad of tobacco from one cheek to the other, 

then spat dark juice off the porch. She pointed toward the 

field of pine trees next door. “Got no cattle.” 

“Windigo.” A raspy voice wheezed. 

“Did you say Indigo?” My neck snapped as I turned 

toward the speaker. 

A hirsute man with a flattened nose and up-tilted 

eyes peered from the wood pile.  

He’s the peeper from the cemetery. Isn’t he? I did a 

double take. He looks different up close. Avoiding eye 

contact, I glanced away. Though he hadn’t waved or 

acknowledged me, his unsettling gaze had followed me 

as I walked past. 

The hairy man’s voice rasped. “Windigo.” 

“Got it, he’s not your dog. Okay, thanks.” I 

tightened my grip on the pup as I backed away, then 

turned and speed-walked to the safety of the open road. 

What’s with him? And who or what is a windigo? 

**** 

Back at the cabin, I placed a bowl of water on the 

floor as I searched online for what to feed a puppy in a 

pinch. A link recommended canned vegetables. Then, 

raiding the nearly empty cupboard, I found a can of 

carrots and peas. “This will have to do until I get to the 

store.” 

I opened the can, poured its contents into another 

bowl, set it before the pup, and noticed his water bowl 

was empty. “You must’ve been dehydrated.” When I 

returned with the refilled water bowl, the vegetables 

were gone. “And starving, you poor thing.” I scratched 

his head. “Don’t worry. You won’t go hungry. I’ll see to 

that.” 

He woofed, and his deep sapphire eyes appealed to 

an…until now…unawakened maternal urge. 

How could anyone abandon this adorable pup? Or 

maybe he got loose? I checked online for local animal 

shelters. The nearest humane society was forty miles 

away, but a local veterinary clinic was listed. “No 

website, but it’s less than a mile away.” I ruffled his fur. 

“Let’s get you scanned for a microchip.” 

**** 

A sign in front of the clinic made me chuckle. 

Accidentally used the dog’s shampoo. Now, I’m feeling 

like such a good girl. 

Inside the office, I glanced at the walls’ signs. Free 

belly rubs with exams. Sorry, pets only! Neutering pets 

makes them less nuts. What do you call a dog magician? 

A Labracadabrador. 

Living up to the décor’s whimsy, the female 

veterinarian met me with an empathetic smile. “What 

have we here?” Beginning the examination by scratching 

behind the puppy’s ears, she gently palpitated its furry 

body. 

“He’s certainly malnourished, but otherwise checks 

out, no broken bones.” 

“I found him in the cemetery.” 

“Marchand Cemetery?”  

“Yes…how’d you guess?” I blinked. 

She shrugged. “I drive past it every day.” Then she 

checked inside the puppy’s mouth. “He still has his milk 

teeth, but his premolars are erupting. I’d say he’s five to 

six weeks old.” She fingered through his thick, double 

coat. “He looks like a Malamute, part angel and part 

demon.” A chuckle sounded in her throat. 

I recalled my mission before following that line of 

thought. “I hope to find his owner. Could you scan him 

for a chip?” 

“Absolutely.” She pulled a wide wand from the 

drawer, ran the device over his neck three times, then 

shook her head. “Sorry, no chip.” 

“And no tags.” I sighed at the dwindling options. 

“It’s a longshot, but I’ll print up some signs and leave 

them around town. Maybe the owner will come 

forward.” 

“You’re welcome to post one on the front bulletin 

board.” Her smile was friendly. “Have you named him?” 

“Indigo.” I ran my hand through his bushy fur, 

already falling in love with him. “With his deep blue 

eyes, I couldn’t resist.” 

She peered into his face. “I can see why.” Then she 

turned toward me. “Are you going to keep him?” 

I blinked at the thought. “I just found him less than 

an hour ago.” I weighed my new-found independence 

against loneliness. I could use the companionship. Still 

absently petting his neck and head, I barked a laugh. “If 

I can’t find his owner, guess I don’t have a choice.” 

“Then he’s due for his first vaccinations. Without 

the antibodies from his mother’s milk, he needs to 

develop his own immunity. Should I go ahead?” 

“Might as well.”  

“I recommend DHLPP and rabies to start, but then 

he’ll need boosters in six weeks, as well as Bordetella, 

Lyme, and leptospirosis vaccines.” The woman called to 

the vet tech as she checked Indigo’s ears. “No mites, and 

I don’t see any sign of fleas, but he needs to start a 

regimen of heartworm, tick, and flea prevention…and he 

needs to be neutered.” 

I winced as I compared the costs of companionship 

to my checking-account balance. 

“If you need help with the neutering expenses, I 

redeem vouchers.” She scribbled a phone number on a 

prescription pad and handed it to me with an encouraging 

wink. “Call them for a voucher.” 

“Thanks.” I nodded my appreciation. “I just moved 

here, and I’m still getting settled.” 

Pausing, she rubbed the back of her neck. “By any 

chance, did you move into Winny Nelson’s cabin.” 

“Yes—” 

“Then you must be Raluca Olson.” 

I choked. “Are you psychic?” 

“No.” A chuckle escaped her lips. “But I suspected 

you were her grandniece when you mentioned the 

cemetery. The cabin’s practically next door.” Her face 

warmed into a smile as if she recalled a fond memory. 

“Winny and I had many enjoyable discussions.” 

“How did you know her?” 

“I’ve treated her cats over the years, and we shared 

a love of history. Winny was a gold mine of local lore.” 

“Really?” Everyone knew her but me. “I never met 

her…never knew of her until recently.” 

“Do you need to weigh the puppy?” Carrying a scale 

and hypodermic needles, the vet tech pushed the door 

with her elbow. 

“Good thinking.” The veterinarian set the scale on 

the counter and lifted Indigo onto it. “Fourteen pounds 

and two ounces.” She turned toward me. “That’s on the 

light side, but once you start feeding him regularly, he’ll 

put on weight.” She pulled five small boxes from the 

cabinet. “In the meantime, here are his heartworm and 

flea / tick meds, as well as several sample supplements.” 

“Thank you.” I squirmed, unsure I could afford the 

costs. 

She handed the boxes to the vet tech. “Add these to 

Ms. Olson’s tab.” As the tech left the room, she 

whispered, “Pay me when you can.” 

I brainstormed how to repay her generosity. Then 

glancing at the computer, I got an idea. “I couldn’t help 

noticing…your clinic doesn’t have much of an Internet 

presence.” 

“No.” Wearing a wry grin, she shook her head. “My 

computer skills are rudimentary, at best.” 

“I’d be happy to make a trade…build your website 

and online presence in exchange for Indigo’s veterinary 

expenses.” Unsure of the outcome, I spread my hands. 

“At least, think about it.” 

“Call me Jessica.” She grasped my right hand to seal 

the deal. “What’s to think about?”

****