Stealing Thunder (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage)

by Mary Casanova

  Libby blew her nose, then took a deep breath.

  A fever.

  If only it were that simple.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Water swirled behind the River Queen paddleboat, a double-decker blue and white vessel, as it chugged away from its dock into the wider Mississippi. A sailboat, two fishing boats, and three speedboats dotted the sun-diamonded water. Seagulls lifted from sandbars, following. Libby wished she had something to toss to them.

  She leaned against the stern rail, the noon sun pressing down on her bare shoulders. The floral sundress was her mother’s idea. After the eleven o’clock church service, they’d driven through LaCrescent to the landing. The paddleboat cruise was a surprise. Her dad’s idea.

  “Something’s been bothering you,” Dad said, resting against the white rail and glancing at her sideways. “I can sense it.”

  Libby patted his arm the way he often touched hers. “I’m fine, really.”

  Downstream in the distance, cars glinted as they crossed the bridge between Minnesota and Wisconsin. It was hard to believe that the river flowed on, on beyond the bridge, on and on, all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

  Libby scanned the shoreline, over pieces of wood … spare tires … things the river deposited on its banks. She took a deep breath of fish-scented air, relieved. Glad to not spot a burlap bag anywhere.

  “Maybe it’s boy trouble,” her dad continued.

  “Daaaad,” Libby turned to meet his eyes. She laughed. “You mean Griff?”

  “Well, sure,” he said. “Seemed nice enough. A little jumpy, but otherwise … ”

  “Oh, don’t worry about him, Dad. He’s just a friend. I mean, we’re not going out or anything.” She smiled to herself, remembering last year when she’d told her parents that Ryan Reeves had asked her out and she’d said yes. They’d gone into a panic. “You mean dating?” her dad said. “You’ve gotta be kidding. Not till you’re sixteen.” Libby had to explain that “going out” meant that she and Ryan had told friends that they liked each other, who then spread the word. Their “going out” lasted eight days. She’d grown sick of Ryan following her around the playground like a puppy.

  Puppy dog. Griff’s comment.

  “So it’s still the horse, then,” Dad said, arching his right eyebrow.

  Libby pushed a loose strand of hair back toward her ponytail. She looked up at sandstone bluffs, bluffs that rose to rolling green hills and valleys—and orchards. “Well, yeah. Sure. If you could slap down five thousand, I’d be pretty happy.”

  Libby felt a hand on her shoulder. “Time to be seated,” Mom said. “They want to start serving.”

  “It’s so nice out here,” Dad pleaded, using his imitation little-boy voice, “I don’t wanna go inside.”

  “C’mon,” Mom said, tugging at his arm. “This was your idea, remember?” She caught Libby’s eye. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “Hmm,” Libby said. “Throw him overboard?”

  Her parents smiled and she followed them through the white-and-blue door to the boat’s sunny dining room.

  Seated at a window table with white linens, Libby worked on cracking the red shell of a crab leg. With a tiny fork, she pulled out the white meat, then dipped it in a silver dish of melted butter, which a candle beneath kept warm. “I feel like I’m tagging along,” she said. “I mean, this is your anniversary.”

  Her mom shook her head. “We wanted you along. Besides, tonight I’m stealing your father away to spend the night at a bed and breakfast. That’s my surprise to him.”

  Dad shot her a blank look, which soon changed to a smile. “Is that so?”

  “It’s hard to get him to leave the orchard,” Mom continued, her eyes still on her husband. “But I finally managed. Ruby agreed to stay overnight with you.” She glanced at Libby.

  “Sure, that’s fine,” said Libby. It made her feel secure somehow to know her parents were doing something romantic. Only last year, Emily’s parents had divorced, and it wasn’t easy on her. It suddenly struck Libby. Maybe that’s why Emily was so big on teasing Griff. First about his red ears, but then she’d teased about his worn boots. And how he’d wear the same jeans day after day. Maybe she was taking her hurt out on someone else.

  Her parents began talking about the orchard. Libby’s thoughts drifted. What was Griff doing today? He’d asked her to call, but she hadn’t. Three times, she’d picked up the phone, then chickened out. She gazed out the window. A red canoe with two paddlers hugged the shoreline, likely bracing themselves for the paddleboat’s huge wake.

  From the table behind her, a woman exclaimed, “I still can’t believe it. I got the promotion. It’s what I needed if I ever hope to get ahead. And God knows I need the money.”

  “Yeah, that stuff comes in handy,” came the voice of another woman.

  The first woman lowered her voice. “But you know who’s going to be long-faced over this, don’t you?”

  “Ah … let me guess. God’s gift to women?”

  “You got it. Porter’s really put on the shine the last month—working overtime, bringing in chocolates, being Mr. Upbeat. I thought for sure he’d get it—not me. Anyway, I’m sure glad Leiderstrom called people today. I mean, Sunday. Most employers would wait until Monday, but he said he wanted candidates to have a day to adjust to the news before returning to work tomorrow.”

  “That’s pretty thoughtful.”

  “Yeah, a small-town touch. I’m glad for myself, but it sure would be tough to be passed over.”

  “A toast.” Glass tinked against glass.

  “To your promotion!”

  “To my promotion.”

  Libby dipped another piece of crab, swirled it in hot butter, and popped it in her mouth. Then a chill hit her. In the stable. One of the Porters’ last arguments was over money. When he learned that he didn’t get the promotion, he’d be angry. Maybe desperate. And he might take it out on Thunder again.

  Libby drew a deep breath. He didn’t get the promotion. She shivered involuntarily.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” Mom asked. “You look a bit pale.” She leaned across the table and whispered. “Maybe it’s—you know—getting close to that time of the month. Some girls get moody before … ”

  With a scolding look, Libby stopped her mother midsentence. In front of Dad? “Mom, please.”

  She sighed, unable to avoid her parents’ eyes. They waited.

  “Okay,” she said, “it’s this. I was just wondering, what would you do if you thought someone was”—her voice faltered—“hurting someone you loved?”

  Dad leveled his gaze at Libby. “Tell someone, of course. Why? Are you …?”

  Libby shook her head. “No, it’s not about me. I heard something on the radio last night. Made me wonder, that’s all.”

  Her parents glanced at one another. The paddle-boat’s motor hummed as the boat gently swayed.

  “And is abuse the same thing—whether it’s about people or animals?”

  Her parents leveled their gaze on her.

  “Porter drowned the kittens,” Libby said.

  Her mother sighed. “Oh … how sad.”

  “Sad,” her father said, “but probably legal. You know I couldn’t do that, but I suppose with barn cats sometimes people have to make hard decisions. Too many, and then there’s the risk of rabies and … ”

  As her father talked on, Libby felt her meal turn in her stomach. Sweat broke out under her bangs and on the back of her neck. She suddenly pushed back her chair, hurried past the other diners and through the narrow door. She stepped to the boat’s stern. Needed air. In the sun, she gulped a deep breath—once, twice—gazed down at the boat’s swirling wake, then lost her dinner over the back rail.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After hugging her parents through the car windows, Libby waved and watched them drive down the gravel driveway, then zip south on the road. She turned, stepped into the quiet house, and heard the phone. She kicked her tennis shoes off on the plastic
doormat, then bounded to the kitchen, and picked up the phone. Griff, she thought, let it be Griff.

  “Running late,” came Ruby’s voice. She was breathing hard. “Left my checkbook at home, and now I have to run back to the grocery store before I can get out there. But you’ll be okay for a few minutes, won’t you?”

  What a question. Did Ruby think she was five? “Oh, sure,” Libby said.

  “My mind was somewhere else, down some other road, I guess. But I’ll be there in a jiff, honey.”

  Libby said good-bye and hung up the phone. She wandered into the living room and turned slow circles in front of the coffee table. Even when it wasn’t lit, the tall vanilla candle Libby had bought on Mother’s Day smelled good. Closing her eyes, she turned slowly, something she loved doing when she was little. Not too fast as to fall down, just slowly, in place, with the house to herself. She tried to calm herself, collect her thoughts. But all she could think of was that she needed to talk to Griff. Had to call him.

  At the thought, her heart picked up its pace, shifted from low gear to top speed. Her hands turned clammy. She stopped turning, opened her eyes, edged toward the couch, then flopped back into its oatmeal-colored fabric. A phone call, just a phone call, and it sent her into a panic. She needed to tell him what she’d overheard at dinner. They needed to formulate a plan. They? Why did she think she needed him?

  “It’s not that I need him,” she said aloud, “but it would be easier … ” She hadn’t needed Griff that night when she’d taken Thunder for a ride alone—she was brave enough for that—but that was before she’d angered Porter. Calling Griff, actually picking up the phone and calling him felt so … so direct. Bold. Her heart raced again. No matter. It was Thunder she needed to be most concerned about, not her stupid fears. She swallowed, rubbed her damp palms together, then pushed herself off the couch and forced her legs toward the kitchen.

  Her hands trembled as she thumbed through the slim phone book, found the number, and without pausing to lose her courage, dialed. On the first ring, Griff answered. “Hello? Uh, I mean, Wheelers’, Griff speaking.”

  Libby pressed her back against the wall, phone to her ear. “Griff?” she asked, catching herself. Of course it was him. He’d said so.

  “Yeah? Libby?”

  Her heart raced, but she tried to keep her voice steady. “Uh-huh. Anyway, here’s the thing,” she said, “I wouldn’t have called you, but—”

  “Why wouldn’t you call me? Am I that bad?”

  “Noooo … it’s just … just … ”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just listen, okay?”

  “Okay. You have my undivided attention.”

  She told him what she’d learned about Porter at dinner. About her fears of what might happen.

  “If he didn’t get that promotion,” Griff said over the phone, voice muffled, “then the fireworks could begin. If he drinks heavy, then no doubt about it.”

  Libby tried to remember if she’d ever seen Porter drink. “I’ve seen him with a beer a few times, like after a horse show, but nothing too serious.” Libby’s stomach tensed. Porter didn’t need to be drunk to be mean-spirited.

  Over the phone, they formulated a simple plan: first, Griff would join Ruby and her for a bonfire, then return later to go over to the stable. They wouldn’t actually steal Thunder, but they’d get him to a place of safety.

  “Hello? Anybody home?” Ruby called from the front door.

  “Gotta go,” Libby whispered, hung up the phone, and felt heat rise to her cheeks.

  “Look like you swallowed a canary,” Ruby said. She picked up the green teakettle, filled it at the faucet, returned it to the stove, then cranked the gas burner beneath it. From her shoulder bag, Ruby pulled out a lemon mist tea bag. She never went anywhere without them. “Stood there at the checkout, all my bags loaded up, and couldn’t find my checkbook. Gosh, it was embarrassing.”

  Libby sat across from Ruby at the counter and pretended to listen; inwardly, part of her smiled. She reviewed her conversation with Griff. They had a plan.

  The bonfire, built in the stone fire pit a few yards from the back deck, blazed up toward emerging stars. In the flames, birch logs sizzled. Smoke curled and danced, weaving and snaking, up to the canopy of midnight blue. The moon, low and glowing like a round white platter, inched higher on the horizon.

  Libby sat between Ruby and Griff, each on their own log around the fire, roasting marshmallows for s’mores.

  “Life is so easy when you’re a kid, huh?” Ruby said, her pink sweatshirt reading SIXTY SOMETHING.

  “Oh, yeah,” Libby said, shooting Griff a glance. “It’s a breeze.”

  “So,” Ruby said to Griff, “I hear you’re living with Beth and Jerod. How’s that working out?”

  Knowing Ruby, she’d probably spent the last day making phone calls, finding out Griff’s entire life history. Libby turned her marshmallow slowly above red coals until it was golden. Without warning, it burst into flames. She blew on it frantically, putting out the tongues of fire, but then the black charred marshmallow drooped from the stick and fell to the ground. She groaned.

  “Oh, they’re strict,” Griff said, sliding his golden marshmallow off a sharpened stick between two graham cracker halves. “Perfect,” he said to Libby. Chocolate melted at its edges. Then he continued talking to Ruby. “You’d think I was asking for a Hummer or a Corvette when I asked to stay here until ten-thirty. It’s usually a nine o’clock curfew.”

  “They called me to double-check,” Ruby said. “They’re good folks. Take in lots of foster kids. I used to get to know a few through school. Some would say troubled kids, but I figure it’s usually good kids in some troubled situations. That’s how I always tried to see it.”

  Libby played in the fire with her stick, watching the bits of leftover marshmallow blacken to ash.

  “Yeah,” Griff said quietly, head down. “Some people are good, and some aren’t worth knowing.”

  “Oh, like who?” challenged Ruby. “I can learn to like just about anybody, no matter how much I start off hating them. Just got to get to know a person, that’s all.”

  “You never met my parents,” Griff said. He stared at the fire and half-covered his mouth with his hand, as if to hold in his words. “They say it’s good for me to talk about it.” Hand in place, he explained how he went to counseling and that his parents were both in treatment at Hazelden for alcoholism. Until things got better, the state had placed him in foster care. “I came with a file and a list of warnings.” He laughed to himself.

  “Warnings?” Libby asked. She waited with sudden dread.

  He shrugged and tilted his head. “Oh, stuff. Like—I have to see a counselor every month—they must think I’m going to flip out again, but who wouldn’t, if you woke up and found both parents passed out cold … ” He stopped talking, and stared into the fire, then spoke again. “I mean, it’s not like it happened only once … ”

  Libby couldn’t imagine it. She hoped things worked out for Griff. It had to be tough. She didn’t know what to say.

  “Life deals a lot of screwball cards sometimes,” Ruby said. “It’s our job to do the best we can with the cards we’ve been dealt.”

  Libby thought of Jolene. “Or protest,” she said, “and demand a redeal.”

  Ruby laughed, but Griff was lost somewhere in thought, staring at the embers. The fire died to dull coals as the moon climbed steadily higher.

  Finally, Ruby shifted on her log, yawning. “Better get some sleep. Gotta open up tomorrow morning. Time to call it quits, kids.”

  Libby stretched. “Yeah, I’m pretty tired.”

  Ruby looked at her sideways. “Tired? I thought kids your age were never tired.”

  Libby gave a laugh, but inwardly grimaced. If she weren’t more careful, Ruby’d suspect something. She pretended to yawn.

  Scritch. Scritch. Scratch.

  Libby bolted upright in her sleeping bag, fully dressed in a navy sweatshirt and shorts. The noise�
��a scratching—where was it coming from? She remembered a mouse once, caught in a trap, half-alive, dragging the trap around the kitchen. Skittering, scratching. She struggled to open her eyes.

  “Libby, wake up,” came Griff’s voice.

  She pushed her hair off her face and tried to focus.

  Pressed against the front porch screen was a flattened face, nose, and lips. It was Griff. “C’mon.”

  “Okay,” Libby whispered. “I’m awake—I’m awake.” In an instant, she grabbed the yellow flashlight she’d shoved under the sofa, tied on her tennis shoes, and was out the door, tiptoeing down the cement front steps. She pressed the glow button on her watch: 3:35.

  Pale moonlight—for the second night in a row—lit up the orchard as if it were a stage, lights up, curtains drawn. Without a word, Libby led the way between squat apple trees toward the white pasture fence. They crouched, the dew thick on the grass.

  Hoooo-hooooo-hoo-hoo!

  “What was that?” Griff said, his voice shooting higher.

  “Just an owl.” She hoped this owl wasn’t some sort of bad omen. A good omen. That’s what they needed.

  In the distance, to the right of the stable, a soft light lit the kitchen of the Porters’ house. Though the barn light was off, a path of white moonlight illuminated the field. They had to make their way to the stable without being seen. In and out, that was the plan. Straightforward. Simple.

  Libby’s palms were sweaty and cold. She swallowed hard.

  She scanned the Porters’ property. She missed seeing Jolene’s car. The truck was parked and the house was dark. It was the sign she needed to scramble through the fence boards.

  “Okay,” she whispered, “follow me.” Emboldened, she raced across the pasture; her legs wobbled as they hit uneven ground, then propelled her forward again. Griff was at her side, his hair like a white helmet in the pale light.

  Libby slowed and rounded the barn. She clicked on her flashlight and tried the pasture door. It wouldn’t budge.

  They’d have to go around front, toward the driveway and house. She motioned with her arm for Griff to follow. As she made her way past the water trough, avoiding fresh horse piles, a light breeze whipped up, rushing through the treetops surrounding the house. Shoooosh—shoooosh. Griff’s breath was right behind her.