by Ruth Reid
“Yes, I see your point,” the judge said.
Doubt it. The man was another politician. He would say anything to appeal to a potential voter. “The percentage of repeat offenders is astronomical. It’s somewhere around—”
“If you’ll excuse us.” His mother clasped Bo’s arm. “We should greet some of our other guests.”
Our? These weren’t people he would have invited.
She swept him across the room, chin up and smiling for the benefit of the guests.
Bo leaned closer. “I’m not a politician, Mom. I don’t sugarcoat anything. Not when it comes to a child’s safety.”
“And you shouldn’t.” She patted his arm. “Now, come with me. I want you to meet Senator Delanie’s daughter.”
He’d met the senator two summers ago after one of his campaign speeches at the urging of his mother, but Bo didn’t remember a daughter. And if the tall brunette standing with him, wearing the open-back emerald gown, was his daughter, Bo would have remembered her.
“Erica,” his mother said as they approached. She didn’t have to finish the introductions, for the moment the brunette turned, Bo recognized her.
“Lambright?” A warm smile overtook Davis’s face.
His mother’s puzzled look darted between them. “You two know each other?”
“We work together,” Davis explained. She turned to the man standing beside her. “This is my father, Lionel Delanie. And, Dad, this is Bo Lambright.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bo.” Senator Delanie extended his hand.
“Same here,” he said, firming his grasp.
A waiter stopped and offered a tray of bite-sized meatballs. Erica, her father, and his mother all declined, but Bo was hungry. He stabbed one of the meatballs with the toothpick and thanked the waiter when he handed him a small napkin.
“I think now is a perfect time to make the announcement, don’t you think, Senator?”
Before Bo had a chance to swallow the hickory-smoked meatball, his mother and Erica’s father had walked away. He dabbed the napkin over the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t realize you were the senator’s daughter, Davis.”
She lifted her wine glass as if toasting. “You didn’t say anything about having deep connections with the court either. Judge Nettleton?”
“My mother kept her maiden name. She’s retired.” He motioned to her almost empty glass. “What are you drinking?”
“Chardonnay.”
“I’ll be right back.” Bo tracked down a waiter who was mingling through the crowd with a tray of wine glasses and stopped him. He removed a glass for her, then made his way over to the bar and ordered a ginger ale for himself. He glanced over his shoulder at Davis. She sure didn’t look like the same woman who pinned her hair into a bun for work and went head-to-head with him over the Diener case. He made his way toward her again. Wow, that evening gown was lethal.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the glass. “I never pictured you as a tux guy. You always peel off your tie and shove it into a drawer the moment you sit down at your desk. Although, I must admit, the suspenders you wear are charming.”
“Surprised you noticed.”
She shrugged, then turned her gaze out the window and sipped her drink.
He eyed her formfitting dress. She definitely didn’t fit into the social worker’s world tonight.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “A man doesn’t stare at a woman’s figure that long without saying something.”
His gaze met her green eyes. Bright. Confident. Bewitching. “Beautiful.”
“Hmm . . .” She arched her brow. No doubt the compliment was one she’d heard many times. She didn’t even blush.
“You don’t seem the type to work for CPS,” he said.
“True.” She circled the rim of her glass with her finger. “I want field experience.”
He reassessed her with hiked brows. Too spoiled—too naïve—too beautiful for the field. “You like Dumpster diving? Because sometimes that’s what it feels like. You might leave a place with roaches crawling on you.”
“I’m not that worried.”
“You should be. I’ve been shot at before.”
The air of confidence swarming her was that of a newbie. Then again, perhaps her confidence came from having Norton in her daddy’s back pocket. After all, Bo had taken most of the woman’s calls since she started. He wasn’t even sure she’d been out in the field yet.
She shrugged. “The job’s temporary.”
“How so?”
“In the fall I leave for Harvard Law.”
“As Davis or Delanie?”
The corners of her lips curled into what appeared to be a calculated smile. Her eyes assessed him with just enough pause to send a tingling sensation down his spine.
“I plan to build my reputation under Davis, but if, or I should say, when I need a political boost, I’ll use it.”
“I’m sure.”
The piano music stopped and dinner was announced. The guests moved toward the dining room. Bo held out his arm. “I think you’re sitting next to me.”
Davis managed to manipulate the conversation during dinner. Bo didn’t mind. She spared him from Tulips and Penelope. Davis was engaging, strong-minded, and dangerous. She could milk the venom from a snake and charm someone into taking a sip. A true Delanie. Even her crimson lipstick reminded him of bureaucrats’ tape.
“I’d like to get some air,” Davis said, weaving her hand around his arm. “Care to step outside?”
He steeled himself from the electrified jolt of her touch. “Sure.” Bo glanced at her glass. Full. “Do you need your coat?”
“I hope not.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
Sweat moistened the back of his neck and the tight-collared shirt irritated him. He loosened his tie and unfastened the top button.
She smiled, and when her lips landed in a resting position, they were slightly parted. She could easily be a lipstick model; her glossy candy-apple lipstick had an alluring glimmer. The woman was in complete control.
This room was hot. He opened the French doors off the library, and she moved gracefully out onto the stone-covered terrace. Gas lanterns illuminated her form.
“This is breathtaking.” She sipped her drink.
“I spend most of my time on the dock.” He gazed at the full moon reflecting off the water. Inside the house, a storm of handclapping and cheers erupted. His mother must have announced the dollar amount raised for the children’s wing at the hospital. “Maybe we should go back inside,” he suggested.
“I was thinking we could walk down to the water.”
He glanced at her heels. “Those spikes aren’t exactly Docksiders.”
She reached for his shoulder and used it for support as she removed one shoe, then the other. “Better?”
“Let’s go.” He took a few steps before she tugged his arm, motioning him to stop.
“Why don’t you get something to drink so I don’t look like a lush drinking alone?”
He shook his head. “I’m on call. Something about a family event or was it an emergency?”
“Oh, that’s right.” She cringed. “When I asked you to take my call, I had no idea the charity dinner was your mother’s.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” He smiled. “By the way, I agreed to take your call with hopes I’d have a reason to be excused from the party.”
“You really don’t like to attend social gatherings?”
“Nope.” He guided her down the limestone path. Cricket chirps filled the night air.
“May I check out your boat?” she asked once they reached the dock.
“I think you’re supposed to say, ‘Captain, may I board your boat,’ ” he teased.
She made a short bow. “May I board your boat, Captain?”
“If you’d like. But I reserve the right to toss unruly visitors over the side.”
“Then I should have brought my swimsuit.”
He boarded
the boat, then reached for her hand and helped her across. If it wasn’t so late he would walk back to the house and get the keys, but the party wouldn’t last too much longer. Her father would wonder where she had gone.
Her gaze roamed the Sea Ray. “This is nice.”
“Thank you.”
“Can we take it out?”
“It’s too late.” He caught a glimpse of her pouty lips in the moonlight and for a split second was enticed to change his mind. The boat had navigation lights. He’d gone out this late plenty of times. “Sorry, I’m on call. Maybe another—”
Davis turned away. Before he could warn her about the seat possibly being damp, she plopped down on the cushioned bench. She tapped the cushion beside her, but he took the chair at the helm instead. Safer.
“Why did you make such a fuss about me reopening that case in Badger Creek today?”
“It’ll be a waste of time, and we’re understaffed. So while you chase down information on a case that should be closed, other children remain in danger.”
“Norton gave me the assignment,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’m making a surprise visit tomorrow.” She lifted the glass to her mouth and took a drink.
Bo stood. He reached for her hand, removed the wine glass, and dumped the contents over the side of the boat.
“Hey.” She pouted a half second, then giggling, reached for the lapels on his tux and drew him closer. “I haven’t gotten unruly yet.” Her warm, sweet-smelling breath fanned his face.
He peeled her arms away from roping his neck. “If you’re working tomorrow, you need to make decisions with a clear head.” He stepped back, then offered his hand. “Come on, we should get back to the house.”
“Party pooper.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
The party was in full swing when they reached the house. Well-wishers had surrounded his mother, shaking her hand, pledging their support. She glanced through the crowd as he entered the room and waved him over.
“Bo, you missed my announcement,” she said. “I’ve decided to throw my hat into the ring for the vacant county commissioner seat.”
“We tried talking her into running last term when Donaldson’s seat opened,” Tyler Morse, owner of Morse Sanitation, said. Several other guests agreed with him, and soon the roomful of people was chanting his mother’s name, including the owner of the Colorado-based fracking company whom Senator Delanie had introduced Bo to during the meal. He’d read several controversial articles regarding the manner in which the drilling company obtained oil through a hydraulic fracturing process where high-pressure water, sand, and chemicals are used to create fractures in reservoir rock. The articles had raised concerns about potential groundwater contamination and the increased likelihood of sinkholes.
Davis sidled up beside him. “It looks as though we’ll be traveling in the same political circles.”
Bo tugged his collar away from his neck. “I think I’ll sign up for more on-call time.”
Sometime after midnight, Mattie lit the oil lamp on the kitchen table. The woodstove embers were still hot enough not to require newspaper or matches to start a fire. She added a few pieces of kindling to heat the teakettle. As the water heated, she stared out the window at the blackness.
Restless nights had become her norm despite her recent attempts to convince herself to move on with life. In minuscule ways, she was moving forward. The months immediately following Andy’s death, she’d clung to her pillow, crying until the sun shone through the curtains. At least now, she got out of bed and made a cup of tea when sleep refused to come. That was something. Teetering baby steps, but progress nonetheless. Besides, just because Grace had encouraged her to move forward, it didn’t mean she had to actively look for a husband to replace Andy. Finding someone compatible and willing to become a father to her children would take an act of God in her northern Michigan settlement where the women outnumbered the men three to one.
Narrisch. Mattie shook her head, discarding the crazy notion of remarriage. She was tired, overwhelmed, but not desperate. Her thoughts drifted to Andy. How he had wanted a dozen children and teased her about them all being boys. When she conceived the second time, he named the unborn baby Little Andy and used to pat her belly and talk to his son. But her husband didn’t live long enough to see that the baby was in fact a daughter. Stress of his death and funeral preparations had spawned the early labor pains. While the men were covering the grave with dirt, the womenfolk were urging Mattie to push.
The teakettle whistled.
Mattie let the tea steep, then poured a cup. As she set her drink on the table, the Bible caught her eye. She flipped open to the page where she had left off earlier that evening, but couldn’t focus on the message. Skimming the page, her eyes stopped on a verse in the twenty-second chapter in Psalms. Be not far from Me, for trouble is near; for there is none to help.
She wasn’t one to believe God spoke through every scripture—not directly to her—not anymore. But something unsettled her spirit when she repeated the verse silently. Perhaps because she was alone, unable to shake her melancholic memories, she dwelled on the none to help part of the verse. Trouble is near. The forlorn words clung, impressing on her to pray. “God, I feel like the psalmist. I have no one to help. If trouble is near, please don’t be far from me. Please.”
Chapter Seven
Bo pressed the throttle forward, and the nineteen-foot Sea Ray broke through the morning fog as it lifted off the water, leaving a spray of white caps in the wake. He breathed in deeply, taking in the dank scent of Lake Superior. Sunrise on the lake was heaven.
Once the shore was no longer in sight, Bo cut the engine. The boat dipped a few inches as though nesting into the lake and coasted to a stop. His mother harped on him for going out alone, especially when he usually left at sunrise and often wouldn’t return before nightfall. But out here, in the midst of the largest of the Great Lakes, he could escape. And more and more something deep within him had been urging him to break free from the trappings of the world.
Bo moved from the captain’s chair to the stern where he lounged his six-foot frame on the foam-covered cushions. Known as the grave of many sailors, Lake Superior was often unpredictable. Bo only stepped away from the helm on calm days like today and usually to fish. He tipped his face toward the sun and closed his eyes. Adrift on the lake with gentle waves lapping the sides of the boat and the caw caw of gulls nearby, he couldn’t think of a more peaceful way to spend the day. This was much better than taking a nap in the hammock, and for once, he wasn’t on call.
He let his mind go blank. Falling into the boat’s lulling rise and roll over the waves, his muscles relaxed.
Moments later, he was walking over hot, dry sand. On a beach? No, he wasn’t that far into sleep. He’d been here . . . before.
A long time ago.
ARID HEAT BURNED HIS LUNGS. Stretched out before him, the field of dry bones went on forever.
A shudder sped down his spine. Why here? Why the scattered bones?
Something hummed. Cadence echoes. Bright light. Clouds of white smoke dispersed, unveiling a comatose body hooked to breathing tubes. It was him.
Out of the darkness a reverberating voice called his name.
His throat was tight, paralyzed. Raspy hisses bleated from the machine, impeding his speech.
“Boaz, My child.”
“Yes,” he answered silently.
“Like a farmer plants seed in the ground, so I’ve planted you.”
Planted?
His chest rose as air was pumped into his body, then fell. The voice was familiar. Why?
“Grow in knowledge. Drink wisdom as if it were a cup of cold water, for a time will come when your vines will be pruned and your roots exposed.”
“When?”
“Sleep now, child. And know that I am near.”
Bo shot up from the boat cushion, holding his neck, gasping for air. Get your bearings. Lake . . . boa
t . . . If he squinted, he could see the wooden lighthouse on the Grand Island East Channel in the distance. He must have fallen asleep.
Beep, beep, beep. He removed his cell phone from his front pocket and glanced at the screen. New voice message.
Amanda’s soft cry woke Mattie from her slumber. Dazed, she lifted her head from the open Bible and straightened her posture in a slow stretch. Mattie blinked at the daylight streaming through the window.
“Mama.” Amanda’s whimper traveled from the bedroom into the kitchen.
Mattie pushed to her feet. No telling how late she’d slept. The children must be starved. As she started down the hallway, someone knocked on her front door. Mattie went to the door. A tall, thin man wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and tie and carrying a leather briefcase stood on her stoop. Sweat dotted his forehead.
“Can I help you?”
He pushed his black-framed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Are you Mrs. Diener?”
“Jah.” She looked beyond the stranger to the dust-coated black car parked in her driveway.
“I’m Patrick Kline, attorney for Great Northern Expeditions.” He handed her a company business card. “I’m here to make you a sizable offer on the mineral rights to your land. I’m sure you’ll find the offer more than fair.”
“I’m nett interested.”
“Mrs. Diener, if I might have a few minutes of your time to explain my client’s proposal. You wouldn’t be selling your land, just the mineral rights. That means you’ll be able to continue to use the property for crops or pasture land.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Or gardens.”
“I read the information packet that came in the mail a few weeks ago and I’m nett interested. Good day, sir.” She started to close the door, but his foot was in the way.
“I’m sure you have questions you would like to ask, and I’ll be more than happy to explain my client’s operational process. I could go over the contract with—”
“The woman said, ‘Good day.’ ” Alvin stood on the bottom porch step, his face flushed from working in the heat. “We’re nett interested in hearing about the drilling company.”