Tara should’ve turned back when she saw the blood on the apron.

The small mountain butchery was nestled in a quiet clearing off the highway. There were no signs, no hours posted. Just a rust-colored wooden building that smelled of smoke, iron, and meat. She was there to pick up a “special delivery” of elk cuts for her family’s mountain-side lodge. Her dad had called ahead. Told her the butcher was a loner. Quiet. Old-school.

He didn’t say the butcher looked like that.

Tara stepped ...