A banker looking for second chances navigates the treacherous social currents of a small town in Montana in Petersen’s soulful novel.

Returning to his boyhood home of Harlowton, Montana, after alcoholism, womanizing, and an occasionally violent temper demolished his career and marriage in Bozeman, Chet Norem takes a job as president of the Harlo International National Bank and starts rebuilding his life. That’s not easy, given the numerous oddballs and schemers among the townsfolk. First among them is his boyhood pal Charlie Shinola, a loose-cannon cowboy whom Chet is always rescuing from scrapes, including a two-day bender that concluded with Charlie driving Chet’s truck into a deer (which left Charlie with a ticket from the game warden and a major repair bill). Further complicating Chet’s life are the bank’s majority stockholder, who constantly questions Chet’s decisions, and Chet’s lawyer, who secretly spreads malicious rumors about the deer crash to besmirch his client’s reputation. Chet’s also fighting a cold war with his cruel ex-wife, Jess (“You look...smaller than I remember,” she jibes), and trying to repair his relationship with his estranged son, Noel, a gay theater major and drug addict who believes that Chet is not his father—and is under the spell of a sinister artist. On the plus side is Lacey Dey-Lux, the multifaceted daughter of a wealthy rancher—she’s a southern belle, assertive businesswoman, and painter—who borrows money from the bank to build a riding arena; she and Chet begin a torrid affair, with Chet only somewhat perturbed by the fact that she’s married. Chet continues trying to shore up his family, friends, and business, but his moral compromises increasingly destabilize his situation and put his reputation as a steady financial pillar at risk, until tensions come to a head in a shocking eruption of bloodshed.

Petersen’s yarn feels like a sagebrush-flavored John Updike novel. It evokes the vast landscape of Montana cattle country, where even a banker must contend with winds and hailstorms, glittering but treacherous trout streams, and corrals knee-deep in manure. The labyrinthine narrative loops back and forth across generations of Harlo’s secret loves, vendettas, and hidden parentages, knotting the characters into intricate skeins of resentment and obligation. Chet is a tarnished but decent hero, a careful numbers guy with a yen for art and poetry stuck in mid-life, still grasping at sex and happiness but rueful and ruminative about his failings. (“He hadn’t hugged his daughter in several weeks, and he hadn’t spoken to his son in months. At some point, it dawns on a man that he just may never love again.”) Petersen’s prose luxuriates in pungent, pitch-perfect dialogue that banters obliquely around his characters’ conflicts—until it comes harshly to the point. (Confronted in flagrante by a jealous, knife-wielding boyfriend, Chet hears “the morning-after hacksaw voice of his lovebird waitress, the perfect tone and texture to convey her considerable wrath: ‘Lousy fucking chickenshit showing up here like this now…You stand back or I’ll blow you in half before you so much as nick a hair offa his ever-lovin’ ass.’”) The result is a superb modern Western, full of evocative detail and hard-bitten wisdom.

A rich portrait of a man and a town hanging by a thread, beautifully written and deeply felt.