Fletcher stood knee-deep in the river, about fifteen feet from shore. He turned slightly, acknowledging his presence. Trevor waved. Even from a distance, Fletcher most likely knew it was him; few local anglers wore an old fedora fishing.
With a tight constriction in his chest, Trevor adjusted his hat just right over his eyes and scanned the riverbank. Fifty yards upriver, Mae sat on a large boulder, re-rigging. As he drew closer, he saw that she was tying on a Super Duper wobbler.
He stopped two yards away; his shadow loomed over the space on the rock beside her. Neither said hello. He filled his lungs with the crisp morning air.
“I thought it was you.” She peered up at him from behind a pair of new sunglasses that she’d probably bought at Doris’s Boutique. He’d seen similar pairs displayed in the front window. He wondered if the sunglasses meant that her estate money had come through.
“No fishing perfume today?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Who’s watching the store?”
“My dad and Ron.” The problem with the sunglasses was he couldn’t see her eyes. “I forgot to ask the name of your perfume the other day.” He took a seat on the same rock, a foot or so, downstream from her. “Thought I might order a few bottles and label them as fish attractant.”
“It wasn’t mine; it was Ruby’s. Chanel Number Five. Expensive fish attractant.” She inhaled deeply, her gaze on the river. “Did Beth show up again last night, after we left?”
“No.” He took the plaid Thermos out of his satchel. “I even brought three mugs.”
“You’re almost acting like this is a date.” She moistened the knot briefly in her mouth and then pulled it tight.
“No, if this were a date, I would have brought flowers and maybe worn a tie.” This time, he’d taken it off and left it in the truck. He handed her a cup of coffee.
“Thank you.” She said, gripping the handle.
“You know, I’m taking your dad fishing tomorrow?”
“Yes, the cat’s out of the bag now, and it’s all he can talk about. Getting out on the river will be good for him. Plus, it will give them a new story to tell.” She looked downstream. Off in the distance, Fletcher appeared about an inch tall.
“Speaking of fishing stories, have I ever told you how Bob Hawkins and I first met?”
“No.” She crossed one rubber boot over the other. He supposed she knew him well enough to hear his fishing story tone come into play.
“I’d heard about Bob Hawkins from several customers, but never met him.” Trevor took a sip of coffee. “Even though he lives in Scotts Mills, he used to only shop at Miller and Nelson.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yep.” He nodded. “My dad and I were drift fishing for winter steelhead a few holes down from here.” He nodded downstream toward the bridge. “Bob was in Ed Hoyde’s boat at the time.”
“Fletcher’s mentioned Ed, too.”
Trevor nodded. “He’s a regular customer of mine. So, I rowed over next to Ed’s boat, we shared some coffee and talked for a good ten minutes. Ed reeled in, and Bob was casually holding his rod over the other side of the boat. My dad and I finally noticed that we were asking the majority of the questions, and Ed and Bob weren’t saying much. Bob finally said, ‘I’m gonna reel in now. I’ve had this steelhead on since before you two came around the corner, and he’s tired.’”
Mae laughed.
“You see, Bob was trying to hide the fact that he had a fish on, because he was in one of his favorite holes, and he didn’t want us to know.”
She smiled.
He loved sitting on the riverbank with Mae.
He loved Mae.
“Take off your glasses. I miss seeing your eyes.”
With a small intake of air, she glanced upstream for a moment and then slid off the amber-colored lenses. Her eyes appeared moist as if she’d been crying.
Even though Fletcher was fifty yards downstream, Trevor leaned forward and did something he’d been thinking about for far too long. He gently cradled Mae’s cheek in one hand, studied her gray-blue eyes and kissed her. As he’d hoped, perhaps sensed all along, she returned his kiss.
“Why have you been crying?” He leaned his forehead against hers and closing his eyes, tried to tune out the lull of the river, and just listen to whatever was on Mae’s heart.
“Because . . .” She inhaled softly. “I was afraid that was never going to happen.”
»»»
“With that big fat yarn trick you told me about, it didn’t take me but a couple of minutes to get the feel for it again.” James Bucknell cast an Orange Comet steelhead fly off the bow of Trevor’s sixteen-foot wooden drift boat.
Today wasn’t only James’s first time fishing in eight years; it was his first time using the new sinking fly line. “Strip it most of the way in before you try to lift it out of the water to cast. Otherwise, it will drag too much,” Trevor said. The new sinking fly line would prove a learning curve for James, but he was insistent on fly fishing for steelhead; and they were bottom dwellers.
“You can always swap out rods,” Fletcher said.
“Nope. I want to catch a steelhead on a fly.”
Trevor chuckled. If he hadn’t fished for eight years, he’d probably feel the same way. All the same, he also had a fly rod rigged with floating line, should James change his mind.
“Have you been sore at all?” Trevor asked James and leaned to the left as the fly line snapped the air behind him. Fletcher was in a safer spot, seated on the bow off to the left of James’s casting area. Fly fishing wasn’t the easiest method to pull off with three men in a boat, but circumstances were what they were.
“I was sore for a couple of days, like anything.”
James was seated in an old green-and-white lawn chair they’d positioned over the wooden bench seat. Fletcher had woven a leather belt through the slats and notched it around James’s chest in front so he wouldn’t fall forward. Because he was paralyzed from the sternum down, staying upright was a constant battle for him.
In a slow stretch of emerald green about a mile into the drift, James had his first strike. He drove his fist skyward, setting the hook, and a bright steelhead jumped a foot out of the water.
“That’s my buddy!” Fletcher yelled to the otherwise empty stretch of river. “James Bucknell. The best darn angler on the river.”
“Be quiet and get the net. And don’t go messing up like you did that one time,” James said, cranking the reel handle with his right hand.
“You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?” Fletcher chuckled as he reached for the large aluminum-framed net.
“Only time you beat me fishing.”
Trevor rested his forearms on top of the oars, grinning. James had successfully hooked his first steelhead in eight years. The day could already be deemed a success.
Ten minutes passed before the acrobatic fish was finally tired. James got it close enough to the boat for Fletcher to net… which he did. Then, he bonked it on the head and delivered it to the ice chest beneath the bow.
“It’s good to be out here again,” James said.
Trevor was glad that the Lord had worked things out the way He had, with the phone call, the driftboat, the clear sky with no sign of rain in sight.
A couple river miles later, James took a break from fishing so Fletcher could have a turn. Fletcher opened his rusty Old Pal tackle box on the bow, pulled out his hook file and sharpened the points of a brown Rooster Tail’s treble hook. Then he cast to a nice little riffle off to their right.
Another river mile passed, before Trevor passed around tuna sandwiches and a Thermos of hot coffee and Enamelware cups. He was one bite into the second half of his sandwich, when he spotted the massive, dirt-laden root system of a Douglas fir on the left bank. They were on the cusp of a long rapid, and the downed tree blocked the width of the river, laying four inches above the water. They were too close, too caught up in the swift current to row to shore. They had no
choice but to ride the rapid, hit the tree straight-on, and hope to be lifted over the top of it.
“This is going to be fun.” James gripped the arms of the lawn chair.
“You’re going to have to hit it head-on, or we’re in a heap of hurt,” Fletcher yelled, tucking his rod inside the boat.
He had to hit it head-on or risk losing the boat to the bottom of the river.
Dear, Lord, God. Dear, Lord . . .
To avoid an exposed rock on the right, Trevor shoved the oars deep and rowed toward the left bank.
“Stop your fiddly-fartin’ around, and straighten this baby out!” Fletcher yelled.
Past the rock, he punched the oars, bringing the bow of the drift boat in line with the lower, limbless section of the tree. The current teamed with a second hard push on the oars brought the boat to a sudden halt on top of the log, six feet past the bow.
Wide-eyed, both men turned to look back at him.
Heart hammering in his chest, Trevor peered over the side of the hull at the boiling water. The boat sat several inches out of the water in back and level with the river in the front. They were stuck.
“Fletcher, we’re going to have to get out and shimmy it. Get a life vest on.” Trevor tossed him two, orange AK1-style vests.
Fletcher handed one off to James. Trevor quickly tugged his own over his head and tied the three sets of cloth tabs down the front. He didn’t want to tell Mae that the one time he’d taken her father fishing, things had gone seriously wrong.
“Fletcher, wait until I’m even with you.” Trevor nodded toward the bow. “Then we’ll get out at the same time.” He pulled the blades of the oars inside the boat, leaving the handles inside the locks.
“Yep, I’m usually sitting on the porch drinking my afternoon cup of coffee round about this time,” James said.
“And you’ll be doing the same tomorrow.” Trevor gripped his shoulder as he made his way toward the bow.
In unison, Fletcher and Trevor eased themselves over the opposite sides of the boat, onto the log. The icy cold water soaked through Trevor’s hiking boots. In unison, they lifted the gunnel, inching it forward. The drift boat alone was a couple hundred pounds, not including James’ 160-pound frame. They lifted and shimmied, lifted and shimmied, and were just beginning to make headway when the force of the current ripped the boat out of their grips.
Arms flailing, Fletcher fell backward into the water.
Trevor teetered back and forth on the log.
And, James, alone in the boat, shot out of reach downstream, with two hundred feet of rapids ahead of him.
Waist-deep in the river, Fletcher struggled against the current, making his way back to the tree, where Trevor held out a hand.
The two men watched helplessly as the drift boat, with James strapped to the lawn chair, hit the first batch of rapids, broadside. Fletcher’s Old Pay tackle box slid off the bow into the river as the boat came dangerously close to flipping over on itself.
The boat righted itself for a moment before the next wave.
The lawn chair was empty.
Trevor’s heart stopped.
“He unstrapped himself!” Fletcher curled his fists. “He’s in the bottom of the boat.”
Even if they jumped in, swam to shore, and raced downriver, they’d never reach him in time.
He’s always been my hero. Mae’s sweet voice haunted him.
“See him? He’s pulling himself backward.” Fletcher’s voice was a roaring whisper above the current.
James wriggled over the bench seat and then disappeared again. The boat changed direction in the current, and there was no sign of its occupant. He had to be somewhere on the floor between the bench seat and the rowing seat.
“He got an oar! He got an oar!” Fletcher yelled, wrapping his arms over the top of his head. “He’s always been a stud!”
One at a time, James got both oars positioned in the water.
Please, Lord, God. Please . . .
“Look at him!” Fletcher threw a fist into the air.
All they could see was fists and forearms as James maneuvered the blades of the oars into the water. The blades swiped at the water and sometimes just air, but his efforts were enough that he took the next rapid bow first. Sluggish water followed the tail-out.
James was in the clear.
He’d made it.
Eyes dry and unblinking, Trevor reminded himself to breathe.
“Wow! That’s my buddy, Jimmy Bucknell!” Fletcher’s voice gathered volume. “The best darn boatman on the Molalla!”
While James slowly rowed toward the left side of the river, Trevor and Fletcher walked the fallen tree to shore.
“My tackle, two new Flatfish, a new Eddie Poe Hot Shot, everything I own w-was in that box.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ll have to w-work for you another month, m-maybe two.”
“That’s fine with me. What about your license?”
“It’s in my p-pocket.”
“Good.”
They climbed down the massive root system, before dropping to the rock-lined bank below. Downstream, the drift boat was grounded in the shallow water, at least temporarily.
Fletcher’s lips were blue, and his teeth chattered.
“We need to get you warm,” Trevor said.
“The w-w-water must be a whopping f-forty degrees.” Fletcher gripped his arms in front of him.
As they scrambled across the rocks, Trevor’s mind raced. He needed to build a fire or find a farmhouse so Fletcher could sit by a woodstove for a while before he got hypothermia. Thomas’s family owned the yellow farmhouse a tenth of a mile downstream. That’s what he’d do. It was time to finally meet the parents of his eleven-year-old fishing buddy.
They reached the boat and peered over the side. With his back against the base of the rowing seat, James sat looking skyward like he’d been having a long talk with God.
“What took you guys so long? I’d hate to think if I were really in trouble…” Despite his words, the man grinned.
Chapter 19
At two minutes past eight on Monday morning, Mae’s old Ford rolled into a parking space in front of his store. Fletcher was behind the wheel. At the take-out last night, Trevor had given him a couple of lures from his tackle box as an incentive for him to take the morning off. He’d purchased a little alone-time with Mae. After she exited the cab, Fletcher was quick about setting the truck into reverse and driving east, past the front windows.
The river could make a diehard angler feel antsy.
Trevor wanted to appear natural like he wasn’t waiting for her, so he grabbed the spin rod from behind the front counter and cast down the middle of the lure aisle. His aim was off. The rubber sinker bounced before and then past the circle scored into the gray linoleum. While he reeled in, he watched the front windows. His next cast, the bell above the door announced Mae. The sinker landed in the top peg of the Flatfish lures, knocking several packages to the floor.
Mae strolled toward him, beaming. Beaming like he’d never seen Mae Bucknell beam. Yep, take a gal’s dad fishing and win her heart.
“Morning.” He grinned.
“You’re rearranging lures, I see.”
“I’ll pick them up.”
“My dad wants you to call him. Said he wants to start planning the next fishing trip. Get it on the calendar.”
“I take it that he had a good time.”
“Yes.” She smiled, setting her purse behind the counter. “Dad said next time he wants you to do all the rowing. Whatever that means. And that he wants to get more fishing time in, too.” She laughed softly.
Hadn’t they told her all that had happened? She had to know. Fletcher had worn home a different set of clothes loaned to him by Thomas’s dad.
“Thanks again for taking him. I haven’t seen that light in his eyes for years.”
Was she playing him?
“Did you hear about Fletcher’s tackle box?” He reeled slow, testing the
waters.
“Yes!” Wide-eyed, she shook her head. “He knew better than to leave it on the bow during rapids.”
Those two old coots hadn’t told her. Hadn’t told her one of the best fishing stories since . . . Hmm … he studied the hanging lights. He couldn’t come up with a better one. Why hadn’t they told her? Maybe she’d be a worried mother hen about the next time they went or . . .
“I sure hope you get Walt’s Place. You’ll catch more fish there before the store opens.” She smiled as she walked past him on her way to the coffee counter.
Twenty mugs needed to be washed. He’d forgotten about it on Saturday. After his first kiss in over four years, he’d forgotten about a lot of things. He reeled in slowly.
“When I get Walt’s Place, a lot could change in my life.”
“Oh . . .”
“A man can’t be considered away from home if he’s in his own back yard, can he?”
Flushed cheeked, she picked up the tray of mugs. “No, you’re home if you’re in your own backyard.” She paused near the lure aisle. “Why the shift in sayings?”
“I want kids, Mae. I’ve always wanted kids of my own to take fishing, and teach them about the great outdoors and about God.”
“Oh, I see.”
Had he ever told her that before?
She carried the tray toward the backroom.
“I believe that the love of fishing is an inheritable trait,” he said loudly after her.
He chuckled and then for a moment he allowed himself a brief remembrance of the little boy with Blue Dunn eyes. He’d been beautiful.
His dad’s gray Chevy truck rolled into one of the front spaces, ending his reverie. Courting Mae between Fletcher and customers was becoming tricky and unpredictable. What he needed was several full days, maybe Sundays. That wasn’t a bad idea; he’d take her fishing from Wagon Wheel to Goodes Bridge, after the tree was cleared, of course.
“Morning, Trevor.” Ron and his dad strode past him on their way to the coffee counter.
“You don’t have your waders on,” Trevor noted.
A Wife and a River - A Christian romance Page 19
