by Diana Ryan
The Carrier
Diana Ryan
Text Copyright © 2015 Diana Riechers
Cover Image Copyright © 2015 Hannah Christian Hess
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission of the publisher or author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To my wonderful parents who instilled in me the virtues of hard work, pursuing your dreams, and believing in yourself.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Arthur Gardner sat with his newlywed wife at the round kitchen table in their modest cabin. She was pregnant with their first child and was beginning to show a baby bump under her light blue kitchen apron. A large man in every extent of the word, Arthur spent his days tending cattle and growing corn on his thirty acres, but also caring deeply for his wife.
“Pass the corn please, Edna, dear.” Arthur reached out for the bowl, but just as Edna was about to pass it, a strange sound rang out and a loud boom shook the house. Edna dropped the bowl of corn and the china smashed on the wooden table.
“What in the Sam Hill was that?” Arthur craned his neck to look out the kitchen window, his eyes widening when he saw a bright blue glow coming from the cornfield.
“Holy Mary. The sky is falling,” Edna whispered under her breath as she quickly made the sign of the cross.
Arthur sprang up, grabbed the rifle from the nail by the door, and instructed his wife to take cover under the stairs. Edna rushed over to the tiny space, squeezing herself in. He dashed out the back door and walked briskly toward the glow in the field. It couldn’t be fire—he didn’t see any smoke, and besides, the glimmer was blue.
Arthur pulled his gun up to his shoulder, cocked it, and cautiously approached the curious light. But when he got close enough to really see the source, he let his rifle fall to the ground and knelt down in the field. A large divot had been scooped out of the dirt, and inside the soil bowl was a luminous blue rock. It wasn’t on fire. It was simply glowing, and although it was odd, it seemed to be no threat to Arthur or his wife.
The blue rock was the size of a small cat coiled up. Curiously, Arthur looked up and saw nothing but a dark black sky and a few shining stars scattered about. He walked to the barn and returned to the object with a brown woolen blanket. Arthur thoughtfully covered the rock and then returned inside to tend to his wife.
Arthur slept little that night and dreamt of strange beings descending from the sky. In the morning he went out to the site of the glowing blue rock and carefully lifted the blanket to peek underneath. The rock was still sitting safely in its dirt nest, but the rock’s light had diminished considerably and now simply looked like a shiny, very smooth blue gem. Arthur put on his barn gloves and picked up the rock. As he turned it in his hand, he decided it was extraordinarily beautiful and Arthur was sure it must be very valuable.
Edna was waiting quietly at the kitchen table for her husband to return from the field. She was immediately enthralled by the blue orb and insisted that Arthur build a glass box to display the object on the pie safe in the dining room.
There it sat for many years until it was passed down through the generations of the Gardner family. It became an object of wonder to some, and a possession of value to others, but everyone who handled it knew it contained the mysteries of faraway places.
Chapter One
The sound of my amplified voice bounced off tall stone walls and echoed down the swift river channel. I stood on the roof platform of the tour boat, facing a crowd of forty people, many of whom were not paying any attention to me.
“The Kilbourn Dam was a source of controversy when it was built in 1908,” I announced. “Henry Hamilton Bennett, known for his innovative photography of Wisconsin Dells, knew that constructing the dam on the Wisconsin River would raise the water level twenty feet. This would drastically cover much of the gorgeous, rocky scenery, and it would be forever lost to the deep, dark, swirling waters.”
As the tour boat turned with the bend in the river, my cheek felt the soft light of the sun rising over the pine trees to the east.
The first tour of the day was always my favorite. Nature was waking up all around me, and there were usually only the most pleasant of tourists on my tour boat: elderly couples, nature hippies, and inquisitive, middle-aged people with very well behaved children. These were the kind of tourists that wore fanny packs and took detailed notes on little yellow legal pads throughout the tour.
As the day went on, the quality of tourists usually took a considerable and steep dive, right up to the last boat of the day (lovingly called “The Owl” by boat employees), which was populated with obnoxious, out-of-control children, tourists who didn’t speak a lick of English, and families who had spent the entire day at Noah’s Ark Waterpark and were crabby, tired, and burnt to a crisp. None of the people from this dysfunctional group seemed to listen to a word I said.
“H.H. Bennett opposed the building of the power dam and he fought his battle until 1908 when he died. The dam was completed in 1909, and just as Bennett predicted, miles upon miles of the most beautiful rock formations you’ve ever seen were flooded and still remain underwater today.”
Wisconsin Dells, located forty-five minutes north of the capital of Wisconsin, has been a tourist town for more than one hundred and fifty years. With an off-season population of just over seven thousand people, every summer the town comes to life with visitors, brimming the tiny city’s capacity to almost ten times that in three months.
Tour guides were one of the most sought-after summer jobs by the local kids because in a few months you could easily make enough dough to pay tuition at a state college and didn’t have to work your butt off doing it. The Dells Boat Tours hired fifteen or so female tour guides and just as many male drivers each summer. They were paired up in teams to work as a crew upon a boat assigned to them for three months.
Sometimes that got pretty interesting. My first driver, Justin, was amazingly hot and had just turned twenty-one. I was fifteen. We had nothing in common, so I spent most of the summer staring at his perfectly curved ass while he drove the boat in silence.
Actually, it wasn’t interesting at all.
Now I worked with Jack, who was once my middle school health teacher. A bit weird, perhaps, but since I became a college student, we got along comfortably, and I truly enjoyed working as a team with him.
Jack, a guy of average height and slightly over
weight build, had buttery-blonde hair cut short and a kind, round face. He was in his mid-thirties and recently divorced, and although he didn’t talk too much about it, I could tell he was genuinely hurt from whatever had happened. His bright green eyes always seemed so lonely. I tried to be a good friend to him and, thankfully, our difference in age didn’t seem to stand in the way too much. Luckily he could carry on a conversation, because his ass wasn’t something to stare at.
I climbed down the ladder built into the front of the General Bailey, our trusty tour boat. The Bailey was one out of four in a fleet of very large and very blue tour boats housed at the docks on the Lower Dells of the Wisconsin River. To Jack and me, the Bailey was our favorite, although we never could quite put our finger on why.
I paused for a second, standing on the bow of the boat to take in a few lungfuls of the warm summer breeze and to gaze at the inexplicably beautiful scenery that surrounded me. I happily exhaled—five summers and I still couldn’t get enough.
I left the bow and took the next four broad stairs into the lower level of the boat. Jack had placed a bendable pirate figure on my chair and had formed its hands and legs into a pose only Michael Jackson would make.
“Nice,” I said, and moved the pirate to a place of honor on the dash above the dials and steering wheel. I turned to the black iPod on the counter and switched on the background music for my next song. I sang out “Following the River,” a gentle ballad written specifically for the boat tours. My voice filled the empty shorelines and bounced off the rocky walls.
I used to be a non-singing Upper Dells guide for a few years until my boss, Darren, came to see his family friend perform in the Dells High School spring musical, and guess who was also singing her heart out? He came up to me after the curtain closed and offered me a job as a singing tour guide on the Lower Dells for the next summer.
My pretty song ended and I switched off the iPod as the tourists applauded their gratitude for me. I continued with my tour commentary: “One hundred years ago people flocked by the trainful to take a spectacular two-decked, paddle wheel tour boat upriver and view scenery more beautiful than anything from their wildest dreams.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Jack using the bendable pirate to try to make me laugh. It was clinging for life to the spokes of the steering wheel, dancing around the dashboard, and then hiding behind the throttles. It was Jack’s mission each day to try to make me laugh so hard that I couldn’t continue with my tour. So far, he had not succeeded.
Continuing with my commentary, I pointed out the window with the classic two-finger tour guide point. “Tens of thousands of years ago, glacial meltwater swiftly charged through this area, creating the river channel and carving some really interesting rock formations.” One of the kids in the front row gave an awfully loud yawn. Not typical for the coveted first-tour passenger group. His mother nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.
Jack decided to wake that kid up and get some wind blowing through his hair, so he shoved the throttles forward and cruised through the brown river channel into the Rocky Island Region—a part of the river where sandstone islands, literally the size of houses, were sporadically deposited in the channel by Mother Nature herself. Pilots were trained to maneuver the boats between the islands to impress the tourists by traveling within inches of the huge rock islands.
Once last season Jack had been still hungover from a night at the bar, and I had feared a scene from Titanic might be in our near future. I held my eyes closed tight as we made it through the channel, just barely, and then Jack turned to me and said, “I think I’m still drunk.” Grumpy and not impressed, I was able to steer the boat back to the docks, and then I forced him to down a large cup of coffee and nap it off on the back deck of the Bailey between trips.
I glanced behind me and saw that the bendable pirate was now doing the splits on Jack’s head. I wondered what the tourists on the bottom deck were thinking about their comedic captain. One look around, however, revealed that the passengers inhabiting the chairs on the bottom deck were all busy in their own worlds: a middle-aged couple looking out the window, teenagers staring into each other’s eyes, and a young couple trying to calm a crying baby.
I went on with my tour while observing my distracted audience. “Native Americans who lived in this area many years ago played a part in naming the river. They called the river ‘Meskousing,’ which translates roughly into ‘river of rock.’ Over time, the name transformed into the French word, ‘Ouisconsin,’ most likely influenced by French traders and explorers. These explorers also coined the term ‘Dalles,’ which means flat layers of rock. The two words appropriately merged together to eventually form the American spelling of Wisconsin Dells.”
Thirty minutes later we arrived back at the huge blue metal dock, and I jumped the four-foot gap like a riverboat ninja with the stern line in my hands. I pulled the back end of the boat with all my might until it matched up with the cleat on the dock. This looks more impressive than it really is, and I usually make a big show of pulling in the boat, especially if there are passengers sitting on the stern bench watching my every move. I quickly whipped out my half-loop knot over the cleat, and Jack switched off the engine. “All ashore who’s going ashore!” I yelled at the tourists—they loved hearing all that boat lingo. These, the loveliest of passengers, stepped off one at a time, some handing me tips, and almost all giving me compliments on my singing.
Once all the passengers had disembarked, Jack and I hung out on the back deck. It was one of the first days we’d worked together this summer, so we spent most of the time chatting about the last school year. I had recently finished up my first year studying to be a teacher at the University of Wisconsin–Stevens Point and had many stories to share of my first college experience. The truth was that last year was a little rough academically, but I wasn’t ready to get into all that quite yet. It would come out in time, I was sure. Jack listened and said a little about his past year teaching health to hormonal middle schoolers.
Soon enough, our break was over, and it was time for our next tour. Crews on the Lower Dells give an average of seven tours a day, and we had only knocked out one so far. I prepared to load up our next group of passengers when I spied Darren walking down the dock several hundred feet away with someone by his side. His mysterious guest also wore the boat uniform—navy blue cargo shorts and a white short-sleeved button-down shirt with epaulets on the shoulders. It was not the best apparel for a summer tan. My co-worker Rachel, who had the body of a Hawaiian Tropic’s model, would regularly wear a bright orange bikini under her boat uniform and strip down to her swim wear, lounge out of the back deck of her tour boat, and catch some rays between trips. We all knew why she made more money in tips than the rest of us, but we didn’t dare use her skin-baring technique.
As they got closer, I noticed that the young man walking next to Darren looked about my age, and the minute I looked at his face, I felt my chest constrict, like someone was squeezing my lungs with their bare hands. I took a sharp intake of breath and stared at the dock, trying to pull myself together, but I was well aware that the guy was getting closer.
I dared to look up again. Most of his face had soft, handsome features, but his nose had an adorable sharp edge to it. Gelled, dark hair with trendy sideburns capped off his slim, average-height figure. He had a cute, broad smile on his face, complete with dreamy dimples, and he was staring right at me. I tried to look away but couldn’t peel my eyes off the spot where he was walking. He was one of the most gorgeous men I had ever seen.
Darren finally approached the end of the dock where Jack and I were loading our passengers. “Good morning, Ava, Jack. We’ve hired a new ticket agent, Nolan Hill, and I want him to ride along with you for a trip. You’ve gotta know the product you’re selling, right?” Darren barked out a laugh that only a big burly boss would give. Jack gave a laugh, too, which I was sure was purely politeness.
Wait! This handsome guy is riding along with us this tri
p?
Suddenly the job that I had had no problem performing a million times before seemed impossible to complete. I panicked inside as those hands on my lungs squeezed tighter. I couldn’t find a word to reply to my boss or his guest. Jack caught my eye, spied my terror, and, like a good friend, jumped in to cover for me.
Jack stuck out his hand to give a hearty handshake. “Hey, Nolan. Welcome to DBT, and aboard the General Bailey. You can sit up front with us. Follow me.” He turned off the dock, entered the back deck, and then descended the stairs to the bottom area.
Nolan’s delightful face lit up and he said, “Hi, Ava. It’s really nice to meet you.” He paused and smiled a bright, flirty smile, and then leaned in closer so that only I could hear his quiet voice. He raised his eyebrows somewhat suggestively. “Are you really going to sing? Darren told me there are singing tour guides on the Lower Dells.”
I opened my mouth to acknowledge him, but nothing came out, so he smiled one more time and then turned and followed the same path Jack took.
I let out the breath I had been holding. What did he just do to me?
Come back! I’ll coax some words out somehow!
But he didn’t hear my thoughts, of course, and I saw him take a seat in the front row.
Right up front!
My heart raced as I felt my mouth drying out. How would I be able to sing on this tour?
Darren wished me a great tour and then walked down the dock and up the stairs to talk to the dispatcher, Rob, at street level. I loaded the rest of the passengers, and when I got the “okay” wave from Rob, I untied the bow and stern, closed the gate on the back deck with shaking hands, and cautiously walked down the four steps to the bottom deck of the boat. There were two families seated by the windows, but it was mostly empty.
Nolan sat alone in the very first row of chairs. I walked up the aisle right past him and took my seat on my high stool upfront. Nolan eagerly looked up at Jack and me, and I thought the butterflies in my stomach were going to fly up my esophagus and spew out of my mouth. What would Jack do if I threw up right there at his feet as he was welcoming the passengers onto our boat?