by Mary Davis
Copyright
ISBN 1-59310-785-4
Copyright © 2005 by Mary Davis. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truoy Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. niv®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
One
Haley Tindale sucked in a quick breath through clenched teeth and pushed her shoulder into the hackney horse’s shoulder until he removed his hoof from her foot. She let out her breath and wiggled her toes; nothing seemed broken.
Thunder blinked his big brown eyes at her as if knowing he’d done something wrong.
She stroked his nose. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
Horses weren’t like people; they didn’t intentionally hurt a person. Her bruised foot would heal with far less difficulty than her heart had from betrayal. She still wasn’t ready to deal with that whole mess. And fortunately she wouldn’t have to for at least six more weeks. It was amazing how free and uninhibited she felt away from her family. No expectations. No pressure. So until she left Mackinac Island in mid October, she would enjoy her time here and not think about her other life off the island.
Harry, the stable master, stepped around from behind her. “Over there. Sit. Take off your boot.”
“What?”
He pointed to a wooden barrel set against the wall. “I saw what happened. I need to check that foot.”
“It’s fine, really. I’ve been stepped on by horses before. I know what a broken bone feels like.”
Harry just stared at her from under his bushy brown eyebrows. He was a large, stocky fellow in his fifties.
She sighed as she sat, then tugged up the pant leg of her jeans and unlaced her work boot. Her foot smarted when she pulled off her boot. “He didn’t even put his full weight on it.” Thunder hadn’t meant to do it. Not like Kennith, who knew exactly what he had been doing.
“The sock, too.”
She complied.
Harry checked the bones on the top of her foot with a gentle touch that contrasted with his beefy hands. “Nothing broken, but you’ll probably have a doozy of a bruise. You want the morning off to ice it?”
She shook her head and pulled on her sock. “I’ll be fine. What do I do all day? Sit on a carriage seat. I can prop up my foot on the front edge of the carriage if I need to.”
“Let me know if it gives you any trouble.”
“I will.” She tried not to show the pain of replacing her boot. This would heal in no time. She didn’t need or want people fussing over her. She just wanted to do her job in a place where she was nothing special and no one cared to use her.
After double-knotting her boot, she went over and stroked Thunder’s nose again. “I’d take you stepping on my foot over certain people any day.” She pulled an apple and her pocketknife out of her jacket. She cut the apple down the middle, holding half in each flattened hand, one for Thunder and the other for his pulling mate for the day, Thor.
“You’re going to spoil those horses,” Harry called from the tack room.
She smiled. Nothing got by Harry. Besides, the horses were worth spoiling.
❧
Brent Walker stood at the bow on the top level of the passenger ferry with the wind blowing hard in his face. Maybe the wind would cleanse him of his apprehensions. He drank in deeply of the northern Michigan air. He still didn’t like this case.
He’d become a private investigator because he thought he might like the job, but he didn’t. Sooner or later in his life, he had to find something that fit. He couldn’t keep drifting from one job to another, could he?
He’d asked the Lord to give him a case right away, and the Lord had been faithful. But as soon as he had agreed to take it and received the retainer, he saw a side of Mr. Jackson he didn’t like—pushy and self-serving. He would have given the money back if not for the sad, helpless look on the face of the man’s daughter. Something inside him wanted to help the young, pregnant Kristeen Jackson, so he hadn’t returned the money. But he knew one thing: This would be his first and last case—searching far and wide for someone was not his gig. And working for a person like Mr. Jackson was not what he wanted to do ever again.
He watched Mackinac Island grow larger as the ferry raced toward it. The island sat between the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan on the Lake Huron side of the Straits of Mackinac. He didn’t know much about Mackinac, only that it was a popular vacation spot famous for the Grand Hotel—which he could see even now, white stretched against the green background—and that motor vehicles weren’t allowed—just horses and bicycles. This ought to be interesting. It sounded like a place a person could hide if he wanted to.
He pulled out the picture of the blond-haired, blue-eyed youth and shook his head. How was he supposed to find this Justin Mikkelson, working on a vacation island during the height of tourist season, if he couldn’t show his picture around or ask about him? Not only was the task like looking for a needle in a haystack, but he was expected to do so blindfolded.
Mr. Jackson had told him implicitly not to show the picture or ask about the boy. His reasoning? He said the minute this kid knew someone was looking for him, he would run again. So that was the requirement of the job—find Justin on sight alone. Did Mr. Jackson know how ridiculous his request was? If he did find Justin this way, nothing would stop him from running anyway. Brent had no authority to hold the boy or take him back. But maybe he could talk to him and get him to cooperate.
He shook his head and returned the small copy of the picture to his pocket. His best friend, Dalton, said it was going to be like bobbing for apples in Lake Michigan. This was definitely his last case.
❧
“Whoa.” Haley pulled back on the worn leather reins in her hands. Thor and Thunder stopped where the next group of fudgies waited to board her twenty-passenger tour carriage. Thor shook his head, causing the traces to jingle.
Most tourists didn’t even know the locals here on Mackinac Island, and those who worked the summer season referred to tourists as fudgies. With the thousands of pounds of island fudge bought and consumed each summer, how could they not have earned the name by association?
She took tickets, and several groups of passengers piled on board. She waited until they settled, then counted heads. Seventeen. Two vacancies toward the back and one up front. “I have room for three more.”
The man at the front of the line said, “We have five.”
She looked past the first five to the next in line, an older couple in their late sixties, she would guess.
“There are just two of us.” The man stepped forward and handed her a pair of tickets. Then they climbed into the next to the last row.
It looked as if it would be a group of only nineteen this time, but she announced anyway, “I have room for one more.” She scanned the line. Behind the next group of four, a ruggedly handsome man who looked to be in his early thirties, wearing khaki walking shorts and a five o’clock shadow, stepped forward with his index finger raised. She looked at the people near him, but no one seemed to be telling him they would catch up with him later. His brown hair was bleached
on the ends and tousled on top.
He climbed into the seat behind her and flashed his ticket. Interesting. She couldn’t recall ever having someone ride by himself. Everyone traveled in pairs and groups.
She took down her microphone and pressed the button as she turned in her seat. “Welcome aboard. I’m Haley. We’ll travel up Main Street, past the Grand Hotel, and up to Surrey Hills for the middle part of the tour.” She hung up her microphone, waited for a horse-drawn freight wagon to pass, then gave a click with her tongue and a small snap of the reins. Thor and Thunder heaved the carriage forward among the bicycle and foot traffic. On the island, horses had the right-of-way. Pedestrians and bicyclists, beware.
Her foot was aching where Thunder had stepped on it earlier that morning, so she propped it up on the front edge of the carriage. She maneuvered down Main Street and turned on Mahoney Avenue. She reached for her microphone and caught a glimpse of the last man to board, the Lone Ranger. He had a strong jawline and eyes that searched like a hawk after its prey. She pressed the button on her mike. “There are hundreds of lilac bushes on the island. The middle of June, when all the lilacs are in bloom, is the only time when you don’t smell the road apples.”
The older woman in the front seat asked, “What are road apples?”
Right on cue. Someone usually asked. If no one did, she let them draw their own conclusions. “Someone wants to know what road apples are. If you look out on the left”—she pointed to some horse droppings as they passed—“those are road apples.” A few chuckles rippled through the carriage. They did give Mackinac a unique pungent aroma, but it was better than car exhaust.
As they headed up Cadotte Avenue, Thor settled into a lazy walk while Thunder heaved the full weight of the carriage. “Thor, gid-up.” She tapped his hind end with her buggy whip. He twitched his ears and tail and grunted at her for being caught, but he picked up his share of the weight.
“The redbrick building on the left is the public school where the children of the five hundred year-round residents attend a K–12 program. On the right is the Little Stone Church. If you look up on the hill, you can see the governor’s summer home. When the Michigan state flag is being flown, as it is today, the governor is in residence. The grassy area to the left of the stone church is the Grand Hotel golf course. And on the left are some of the grounds of the Grand Hotel.” At the small median where West Bluff Road branched off to the left, she pulled on the reins, causing Thor and Thunder to come to a stop.
“The Grand Hotel was built in 1887. It was started in April after the spring thaw and was completed three months later. The hotel opened on July 10. It seems amazing to build such a large structure in so short a time. But earlier this summer, I had a group of Amish riding in my carriage. One of them said, ‘Well, I wouldn’t think so. If we can put up a barn in a day, it shouldn’t be any trouble to build a hotel in three months.’ ” She hung up the microphone and stole another glimpse at the Lone Ranger in khaki shorts. He quickly diverted his gaze and brought his camera up to his face. Had he been watching her, rather than looking at the hotel?
She put her team into motion. Well, of course, Haley, everyone was looking at you. You were the one talking. Duh.
She tapped Thor’s rump with the buggy whip. “Gid-up, Thor.”
“Why do you keep telling Thor to giddy up?” someone in the second row asked.
She turned in her seat to answer without the mike and caught the Lone Ranger’s gaze skipping to the passing scenery. “Thor gets lazy and lets Thunder do all the work, especially when they’re pulling uphill. He thinks I don’t notice and he can get away with it, while poor Thunder is huffing and puffing away. It’s much easier to walk than to pull.”
The Lone Ranger snapped a picture, of what, she wasn’t sure. The trees? He rested the camera in his lap.
Why was he alone? It wasn’t as if he had a third eye in the middle of his forehead or snarled at people. Despite his serious demeanor, he was pleasant to look at. He looked more like a man on a mission than a man on vacation. Tense. Didn’t he know vacations were supposed to be fun and relaxing? Even though she was working, she was more relaxed and stress free than she had been in years. She had no big responsibilities, no one needing something from her, and no family pulling her in five directions wanting something—no one using her. She was free here.
She pulled her team to a halt. She had passed up one site and was about to pass up another. Distracted by a handsome stranger, just like a schoolgirl. She spoke into her mike and pointed out the two sites, then continued.
“We’re approaching Surrey Hills. A museum and working blacksmith shop are there. Also gift and snack shops. At the far end of the building, you can catch the thirty-five-passenger carriage for the middle part of the tour. It will take you past the post cemetery, Arch Rock, the skull cave, and the fort.” She pulled her team to a halt in front of the buildings. “You can also visit the Wings of Mackinac butterfly conservatory. You are welcome to stay as long as you like and catch the next available carriage. Have a good time, and enjoy your visit.”
The Lone Ranger was the first to jump down; then he offered a helping hand to the two women in the front. She took a deep breath and watched as he disappeared inside the building. Since she rarely saw a fudgie more than once, that was probably the last she’d see of him. She talked a moment with the older couple who had boarded just before he did. They thanked her for a pleasant tour. If they only knew how off she was this trip. Then, after a glance toward the building, she clicked her team into motion and headed to the pickup spot.
❧
Brent Walker looked out the Surrey Hills gift shop window at the carriage driver who had just dropped them off. Haley, she had said her name was. She was speaking with an older couple who had been on the carriage and was smiling at them.
He raised his Nikon and pulled Haley into focus. Her hair was drawn back and twisted into one of those claw things that looked like a lethal weapon. The ends of her hair sprayed out the top of it like a happy fountain. What color did they call that? He’d had a girlfriend once with hair about that color who insisted it was blond, dishwater blond. He zoomed in on her face. Her warm and inviting smile tugged at him. He zoomed tighter on her smiling eyes. Not a hint of makeup. He backed off, and her wholesome face filled his lens. Click. Saved forever. As he tucked his camera back into his bag, he watched her pull away.
Brent had allowed himself to be distracted long enough. Time to get back to work. He toured the gift shop, museum, and blacksmith shop, snapping shots of any male who looked remotely as if he could pass for eighteen.
He boarded the larger carriage and took the second part of the tour. Nothing very interesting—and no Justin Mikkelson hiding from his short past. He got off at Fort Mackinac.
He paid his entrance fee. A battle was in progress between what looked like the Americans and the British. He scanned the soldiers with his telephoto lens and snapped several pictures. Numerous young men stood among the lesser ranks, and almost any one of them could be Justin Mikkelson shadowed behind a soldier cap. Justin had been in drama and performed a leading role in his senior play. Playing war could be right up his alley.
While the war ensued, Brent strolled through the fort exhibits, scanning for other young actors. No Justin. He exited to the central war zone as the Americans defeated the British. All was well, and history had not been changed in the last half hour.
He mingled among the soldiers and other actors. No baby-faced, blond-haired, blue-eyed Justin Mikkelson. Where to now? He rubbed the scratchy stubble on his face. Even when he had just shaved, it seemed as if he could use a shave. Winter couldn’t come soon enough so he could forgo shaving altogether.
He should head out to catch the next carriage. He couldn’t accomplish anything more here. He could always trek down the hill, but he would get enough exercise today traipsing up and down the streets and in and out of every shop. Shopping was a necessary evil unless it was at a music or electronics store. He wis
hed he had a female friend along to send into the shops. Then again she could get distracted with all the paraphernalia and not accomplish anything for him. He could walk through all the shops in, let’s say, an hour, then move on to the marina.
He slung his camera bag over his shoulder and headed to the loading area. Soon a carriage pulled up, but Haley was not at the reins. It was one of the larger carriages with three horses. Maybe he could catch her back at Surrey Hills. If he found Justin, he could come back for fun and maybe see Haley again. He hopped aboard and got off at Surrey Hills again. A carriage was pulling up, but no Haley. He buzzed through the butterfly conservatory, but Justin didn’t work there. He stood outside with a small group of tourists. The next departing carriage filled fast, but his special seat behind the beautiful Haley was waiting for him. He flashed his ticket and climbed aboard.
Haley drove the carriage down past the Grand Hotel and turned on what she called Market Street. She pointed out several historical buildings, any one of which Justin could work in.
The microphone clicked, and Haley spoke again. “At the end of Market Street, on the left, is the Beaumont Memorial, a building named for Dr. William Beaumont, an army physician. On June 6, 1822, twenty-eight-year-old Alexis St. Martin, a French-Canadian voyageur, was accidentally shot in the stomach. Dr. Beaumont decided that since the boy wasn’t likely to live, he would perform a harmless experiment on him. He tied small pieces of food to a string and put them in the hole in Alexis St. Martin’s stomach. Dr. Beaumont’s studies furthered scientific understanding of how the digestive system works. The boy outlived Dr. Beaumont by twenty-seven years.” She maneuvered the horses through two consecutive right turns; then she wished them all a pleasant stay on the island.
It’s over already? Brent reluctantly stepped down from the carriage and watched Haley drive up to collect her next group. He walked past the line of tourists waiting to climb aboard her carriage and gave her a quick salute as he passed. She gave him a nod. He stepped into the doorway of a shop two doors down and turned. He focused his camera on Haley and snapped a picture. She turned to her left and spoke to someone in the street. He pulled back the zoom to include the recipient of her attention. A blond male in good shape on a bicycle, who could easily be in his late teens, from what little he could see. The boy had his arm raised in front of his face to shade his eyes. He could be anyone. He snapped a picture anyway but kept the boy in his view. Brent zoomed in, hoping to get a glimpse of his face. But the boy dipped his head, turned his bike around, and pedaled off.