Ben Buttars thundered down the stairs, a bit of dust rising into the air from his boots. Or maybe that was from the wooden stairs that hadn’t been swept in a while. The boss hired a maid service that came in twice a month, but once spring thawed and all the mud dried to dirt, not even a daily cleaning could keep the two-story house dust-free.
“Something smells good,” his oldest brother, Sam, said as he pushed through the back door and into the kitchen, where Ben had just entered. He snatched a pair of oven mitts from the counter and opened the door to a blast of heat.
Ben flinched away lest he get burned. “Soft pretzels. Your afternoon snack.” He grinned, though the memory of his mother always came with the sight and smell of the last snack she’d made for him before she died. Ben had per
