The summer of 1995 marks Kate Colter's fifteenth year in the small town of Hayden, Wyoming. She is a woman who is generally happy in her marriage and with her now predictable day-to-day life as wife, mother, and part-time breadwinner. Even though she is a New Englander at heart, Kate has reached a point where rodeos, summer heat, sharp light, and the vast, desolate beauty of the West have become almost second nature to her. She loves her husband and daughter, is fond of her neighbors, and enjoys the company of her mother-in-law. Yet, privately, she longs for the conversations and stories of her past, and she can't help but feel disconnected from the people around her.
In walks Tom Baxter, Kate's mother-in-law's new suitor from "back East."
Kate is immediately drawn to Tom—his gentle charm and engaging conversation spark an unusual companionship. Tom seems like the little piece of home that Kate so misses. She's curious about him and about his story, but finds unexplained gaps and inconsistencies that pique her interest to a new level. Then a series of peculiar and seemingly suspicious events leads Kate to a terrifying conclusion—a conclusion that could forever shatter her life and the lives of those she loves.
In this debut novel, Dorie McCullough Lawson vividly captures a familiar American landscape. Filled with unforgettable characters and written in eloquent yet suspenseful prose, Along Comes a Stranger is a darkly humorous novel that examines the depth of identity and family life.
"You never really know about people," I remember my father saying when I was a little girl. And he was right. You don't. You never really know.
What happened to me and to my family a year ago, during a few weeks of the summer of 1995, was something I never expected. Who could have expected? It seems as unlikely now as it did then. I'm trying to write it all down, then maybe I'll be able to see what's important, what matters to me, and what doesn't. Maybe then I'll be able to explain it to Clara someday in a way that makes sense.
I once knew a boy named Jake who watched his best friend die. The two teenage boys were swinging from a rope into a lake. The friend let go before he was over the water, landed on a rock, and bled to death. All the bleeding was internal, so neither boy knew how serious the injury was. The point is that Jake was there when his best friend died. He was part of the death, and that's one of life's big experiences, one that most of us never have. With my aunt Joanie afterward, I said, "This will change Jake forever."
Without missing a beat, Joanie, who sees to the heart of things quickly, said, "And if it doesn't, he's an idiot!" Well, I'm not going to be an idiot.
I'm forty-one years old and I grew up in the East. My name is Kate Colter, Kathleen Louise Vaile Colter. George Colter is my husband, and our daughter, Clara, is about to turn seven. We've wished for more children, but it just hasn't happened. George is a paleontologist. He teaches at the community college and does fieldwork all over Wyoming. His specialty is the Eocene epoch, and he spends a lot of time in the southwestern corner of Wyoming at Fossil Butte. When people ask what I do, I say, "I'm at home with Clara," but I do have a part-time job; I just keep it quiet because I can tell my boss, Mr. Stanley, prefers it that way. Mr. Stanley is a well-to-do, elderly gentleman who keeps to himself, and I pay his bills and do the payroll for his Rafter T Ranch. As a sideline, I'm available if you have a horse (or a dog, or a sheep—no cows) that needs something extra—a wound needing regular bandaging, medication, and a clean stall, anything really. For this people usually pay me with money, but not always. Barter is alive and well here, and I've traded for almost everything from dental work, to fly-fishing equipment, to a year's worth of oil changes. I wish someone would trade for plane tickets or books, but that hasn't happened, either.
We live in Hayden, Wyoming, George's hometown, in a state so full of fossils it's a suitable home base for paleontological fieldwork. George and I met in New York City fifteen years ago while he was working at the Museum of Natural History and I was visiting a friend in Connecticut during my awkward, confused time right after college. We sat next to each other on the train and started talking. The day had turned from beautiful to cold and raw and I had no coat, and George, the Westerner and gentleman that he is, had a jacket to loan me. The next day I returned it to him at the museum, and the rest, as they say, is history. When he asked me to marry him, I knew I was saying yes to him, and yes to Wyoming. Like so many women, I'm here because of a man. There are girls who came with their families to dude ranches from places like St. Louis and Pittsburgh, fell in love with cowboys, and stayed; women who met their husbands back east at college and then came west with them; and gals who were here visiting for one reason or another, met the right guy, and just couldn't leave. With hardly any effort I can list women from eighty-nine years old on down who stay here for a man, but I can't think of a single man who's here for a woman.
My mother-in-law, Lorraine...
