Granny Wine & the Refugee: Episode 3 - Pressure Building
Don’t be gettin ahead of yourself, you should start at the beginnin with Episode I
Up the long drive to Granny Wine’s place, the road narrowed until it felt like it was trying to disappear into the trees.
Ben spotted the pull-off around the bend—just a dark notch in the woods, easy to miss if you weren’t trained to look for hiding places. He eased the truck into it and killed the engine.
The ridge air was already turning sharp. The sun was still up, but you could feel the cold getting ready behind it, waiting for the light to slip off the maples.
Rourke stepped out first, stretching like he owned the weather. “That’ll do.”
Ken had his tablet out before his boots hit the ground. “We’ve got daylight. Let’s get eyes up.”
They moved the way men moved when they’d done the same thing too many times: tailgate down, cases out, gear laid in order. Ben unfolded a paper map and weighted the corners with stones. He didn’t need a screen to tell him where he was, but he liked having something he could point at when other people needed convincing.
Ken launched the drone while there was still enough light to see the lines of the ridge.
On the screen, the land opened up—folds and hollows, the ravine line, the narrow road, the cabin tucked into the trees. Outbuildings. A garden patch. Rows of tobacco laid neat.
Ken zoomed. “House.”
Rourke leaned closer, squinting. “Ah, shit.”
Ben kept his eyes on the real trees. The ridge went quiet in a way that wasn’t empty.
Rourke nodded at the screen. “Local’s a problem. Either we turn her into a witness we control… or we turn her into bait.”
Ken shrugged, like people were just another variable. “It’s information.”
They finished the flyaround before the sun went down. Marked the cabin. Marked the sheds. Marked the open spots where a drone could see.
By dusk, the ridge cooled fast. Wind slid through the branches in thin knives. Fog began to gather low in the hollows.
Ben stood for a second with his hands in his pockets and looked uphill. The ridge was beautiful in that hard, quiet way mountains got when they weren’t trying to impress anybody.
It reminded him of home more than he liked.
Ken swapped batteries. “Night flight next. Beacon stays red.”
Rourke smiled like night was his favorite tool. “Let’s go see what moves when folks aren’t lookin’.”
Ben didn’t argue. Night was safer. Less chance of being seen. Less chance of somebody walking up the drive and asking questions.
Ken launched the drone again.
The red light blinked faintly as it rose into the trees and turned into a moving picture on the screen. The ridge became trunks and gaps and fog, black-on-black with just enough detail to read.
Ken guided it toward the hollow they’d tagged earlier.
The cave mouth came into view.
Then a figure stepped out.
An old woman. Plaid. Overalls. Shawl drawn tight against the cold. She moved like she knew the ground under her feet without needing to look.
She bent and picked up a cane leaning near the stone.
Rourke’s voice softened. “Well look at that.”
Ken zoomed in. “That’ll be the local.”
On the screen, the woman tilted her head and looked straight up.
Right at the drone.
Then she planted her feet, put her hands on her hips, and shook her cane at it like she was scolding a stray dog.
Ken’s mouth curved. “Good thing we can’t hear what she’s screamin’,” he said, amused. “She looks pissed.”
Rourke laughed under his breath, like it delighted him.
The woman shook the cane once more, then turned and disappeared into the trees like the conversation was over.
Ken started to follow her line—and then his screen flashed a warning.
His face tightened. “Battery’s dropping.”
It dropped fast. Too fast.
Rourke snapped, suddenly sharp. “Bring it back.”
Ken pulled it around and threaded it back through the timber. The drone dipped once, corrected, dipped again, and made it back to camp with a wobble.
Ken landed it and popped the battery.
They tried the charger.
Nothing.
Tried another.
Nothing.
Ken stared at the dead charge like it offended him. “It won’t take.”
Rourke waved it off. “We already got the lay of the land.”
Ken’s jaw flexed. “We lost the night eye.”
Rourke’s grin returned anyway. “Then we do it old-school. First light, Ben scouts solo. Finds sign. Finds corridors.”
Ben nodded once. “First light.”
Rourke’s gaze stayed bright. “And after that, we go meet the local.”
Ben didn’t like the word in Rourke’s mouth.
Morning came thin and cold.
Fog still hung in the trees, but it wasn’t pressing the same way it had at night. The air moved again. Ben could breathe without feeling like he was pushing against something.
He slipped out while Ken muttered over cables and chargers, still trying to bully a battery into life. Behind them, Rourke snored loudly in the tent like the ridge had done nothing worth waking up for.
Ben moved the way you moved when you’d grown up outside—quiet because you belonged to the woods, not because you were trying to sneak past them.
The ground was wet with leaf-fall. Ben crouched, brushed the leaves aside, and found a print pressed deep—longer than a dog’s, heavier than it ought to be.
He didn’t linger. Ground sign blurred easy.
He followed the line of travel a few steps—then lifted his eyes to the trunks.
Dogmen left their sign up where most things didn’t—rub and scrape and scent-post habits he’d been reading since Humboldt. He scanned trunks at shoulder and head height as he walked, not just the dirt.
He caught it quick on a pine: a fresh dogman mark, clean and recent—the kind that said they’d passed through not long ago.
Ben stepped in closer to read it.
Then his eyes dropped.
Fresh bear claws scored the bark lower down.
Same tree.
Ben’s stomach tightened.
If the dogmen were pushing the bear out, this wouldn’t be here. The bear would’ve shifted his post, or the sign would’ve stopped.
Same trunk meant overlap on purpose.
Ben backed away and kept moving.
A little later he saw the outbuilding shape through fog and trees.
The drying shed sat back in the woods, dark inside, quiet outside. No movement. The door shut.
Ben walked up slow anyway, letting his eyes do the first work.
Then the smell hit him.
Tobacco had a curing smell—sharp, earthy, bitter-sweet. Honest.
This wasn’t that.
This was greener. Richer. A funk that sat in the back of the throat.
Ben’s gut tightened.
Rourke would use this in a bad way.
He backed away and kept moving down the path toward the cabin line.
A faint scrape carried through the fog—metal on bark.
Ben eased forward and saw her at the base of a pine.
Granny Wine had a tin cup in one hand and a small knife in the other, scraping resin into the cup with patient, practiced care. A basket sat at her feet, full of pine needles and tools.
She heard him without turning at first.
When his boot scuffed a leaf, her head came around and her eyes landed on him like a hand on a collar.
“Mornin’,” she said.
Ben’s pulse jumped in spite of himself.
She looked him over—boots, posture, the way he stood like the ground wasn’t his enemy.
Then she said, calm as daybreak, “You lost… or you trespassin’?”
Ben exhaled slow. “Maybe both?” he answered, and it came out like a question because he wasn’t proud of it.
Her mouth twitched. “At least you ain’t lyin’ to my face.”
Ben nodded toward her hands. “You’re out early.”
“Winter don’t care if you slept in,” she said, going back to scraping.
Ben’s gaze flicked to the basket. “Pine needles.”
“For breath,” Granny said. “When lungs get stubborn.”
Ben swallowed. “You saw the drone last night.”
Granny’s knife paused a beat. “I did.”
“We didn’t know anybody lived up here,” Ben said.
“Now you do,” she replied.
Ben hesitated under that steady stare—the kind his own granny used to give him when she wanted the truth.
He said it. “Me and my friends… we’re huntin’.”
Granny didn’t blink. “Huntin’ what.”
Ben chose his words. “Somethin’ folks been chasin’ a while.”
Granny scraped another chunk free, put it in the cup, and wiped her fingers on a cloth. “You got two more men with you.”
Ben didn’t deny it.
“You best tell ’em to turn around,” she said.
“They won’t,” Ben admitted.
Granny nodded once like she’d already known that.
Her cane was leaning against the pine.
As she shifted, it slipped and tipped.
Ben caught it before it hit the ground and held it out. “Here you go, ma’am.”
Granny took it slow.
Their fingers brushed the wood at the same time, and for a second Ben felt like he’d just been measured without a word.
“You were raised right,” she said quietly.
Ben almost smiled. “My granny had opinions.”
Granny’s mouth twitched. “Mine too.”
She nodded at the basket. “Mind carryin’ that for me? Easier with the cane.”
Ben knew she didn’t need the help. But he also knew what it meant to be asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and lifted the basket.
They walked back toward the drying shed. The work table outside it sat under a lean-to—jars and cloth and twine laid ready. Granny set her tin cup down and started arranging what she gathered. She was building medicine out of simple things.
Then heavy footsteps hit the brush on the far side, and a voice carried through the trees.
“Ben! BEN—where the hell are you?”
Ben’s shoulders tightened. He called back, “Over here.”
Granny didn’t move. She just listened, head angled slightly like she was hearing more than the words.
Rourke came stomping in like the ridge owed him space.
He stopped short when he saw Granny, and his smile snapped on fast and smooth.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said, polite as Sunday.
Granny looked at him the way you look at a man selling something you didn’t ask for.
“Mornin’,” she said.
Rourke kept his voice friendly. “We didn’t realize anybody lived up here until we saw your place yesterday.”
“Now you know,” Granny replied.
Rourke nodded. “We’re on a hunt. We’ll be in and out. No trouble meant.”
“You’re trespassin’,” Granny said, plain as a posted sign.
Rourke’s smile twitched. “We mean no harm.”
“Private land’s private whether you mean harm or not,” Granny said.
Rourke’s eyes slid toward the shed like he couldn’t help himself. “You’ve got quite a setup.”
Granny didn’t answer.
Rourke’s politeness thinned. “And that shed… carries an interesting smell.”
Ben felt heat crawl up his neck.
Granny’s cheeks warmed a touch—anger held in a jar.
“That so,” she said.
Rourke pulled out a folded stack of cash. “We don’t want trouble. Figured we could make it worth your while to look the other way for a couple days.”
Granny stared at the money like it was something dead on her table.
Then she said, soft and deadly polite, “Honey… I know what a bribe looks like.”
Rourke chuckled. “Just neighborly.”
Granny’s eyes stayed on his. “I know all my neighbors… and you ain’t one of ’em.”
Rourke’s smile got thinner. “Ma’am, we’re doin’ important work. Dangerous work. We’re keepin’ people safe.”
Granny reached under the table and brought out a mason jar.
“Shine, anyone?” she said, pleasant as porch weather.
Rourke’s voice stayed polite. “No thank you, ma’am.”
Ben cleared his throat. “Not right now, ma’am. Maybe later.”
Granny’s gaze slid to Ben for half a second.
Recognition.
She nodded once, took a swig, capped the jar, and set it down real careful on the table.
The clink sounded louder than it should’ve.
Rourke’s eyes hardened. “Would be a shame if folks got curious about what you’re drying. Sheriff types. County types.”
Granny’s voice stayed calm. “Your thin little threats don’t stick up here.”
Rourke’s jaw worked. “We’re not threatenin’ you. We’re just sayin’—”
“You’re sayin’ you think you can scare me,” Granny cut in. “And I’m sayin’ you’re wrong.”
She looked him dead on. “You can leave my property now.”
Rourke blinked. “Ma’am—”
“You can walk off polite,” Granny said, “or I’ll be gettin’ word down the mountain.”
Rourke’s hand shot out and clamped around Ben’s arm, hard enough to steer.
“We’re leavin’,” he said through his teeth, still smiling at Granny. “Yes ma’am. We’ll leave.”
Ben let himself be turned, but his mouth tightened. He looked back over his shoulder.
“Good day, ma’am,” he said.
Rourke’s grip tightened.
They walked into the trees.
Rourke leaned in close, voice dropping to a low growl right in Ben’s ear.
“We ain’t goin’ fuckin’ nowhere,” he said. “Fuck this bitch.”
Ben’s jaw clenched until it hurt.
Behind them, Granny Wine stood at her table and watched them go without moving an inch.
Granny waited until the woods swallowed their footsteps.
Then she gathered what she’d been working on—pine needles bundled in cloth, resin in the tin cup, the herbs she’d been chopping and sorting. No hurry. No shaking hands. Just the steady motions of a woman who didn’t waste energy on panic.
She carried it back to the cabin.
Inside, she set the bundle down and crossed to the hearth.
The green-veined stone sat where it always sat—quiet, heavy, familiar.
Granny laid her palm against it.
A slow, steady glow woke under her hand.
She spoke softly.
“There is cruelty on Whiskey Ridge.”
The glow held for a long beat.
Then the stone went dark.
Granny’s mouth tightened.
“Alright then,” she murmured.
And she turned back toward her shelves to gather what came next.
End Episode 3
You’ll have to hold your horses, episode 4 is coming soon
Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.
