Home Fires (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 4)

by Jackson, Melanie

  “Hey, Ray. Glad you were home. As I was saying, I’m gonna be comin’ in hot on a single engine. Any chance you can run out and hit the lights for me?”

  Wings listened to the response and started to smile.

  “Same to you, ol’ buddy,” he said with a chuckle. “Better buckle your seatbelt back there, Chuck. We’re only about a mile out and should be landing soon.”

  “You mean we’re not going to die?” Horace asked in shock.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” the Wings replied.

  “Thank the Lord,” Horace moaned.

  “Pop, what’s come over you?” Chuck asked with concern. “I’ve never seen you act this way before.”

  “I’ve never been this close to death before, you moron,” Horace snapped.

  “I can see the landing lights,” the Wings informed them.

  “But surely during the war.…”

  The rest of Chuck’s statement was interrupted by a loud crash coming from just outside the airplane.

  “What was that?” Horace hollered.

  “I think it was a tree,” the Wings replied.

  “So, Pop, what gives?” Chuck prompted.

  “During the war,” his father began.

  “Hold onto your panties, we’re coming in too fast,” the Wings warned.

  The moment the wheels touched down a horrible rumbling sound roared through the interior of the cabin. It sounded like a stampede by several hundred head of cattle. Meanwhile, the plane groaned and squeaked as it bounced and rocked wildly. All the while the Wings fought to maintain control.

  “Ground crew,” Horace screamed over the terrible sound.

  “What’s that?” Chuck called back.

  “Ground crew,” Horace repeated. “I was a member of the ground crew. I’ve never flown a plane in my life.”

  The rumbling steadily subsided until it disappeared entirely as the plane came to a rolling halt.

  “But what was all that talk over the years of being a squadron leader?” Chuck challenged.

  “I like to feel that I led by example,” Horace replied haughtily, having regained some of his dignity now that they were safely on the ground.

  “Hey, dudes. We’ve landed,” the Wings announced, removing his headphones. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Let me out of this plane,” Chuck demanded impatiently.

  “Son, don’t you think we should talk?”

  “Oh, we’ll have a long talk alright,” Chuck assured him in a brusk voice. “But later. Right now, I have an important phone call to make.”

  In response to Chuck’s insistent nudging, the Wings opened his door, allowing Chuck to climb from the plane into the storm. Once he was down, he immediately turned and walked away.

  “Wow, he’s in kind of a rush, isn’t he?” the Wings noted.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “So, how about it, Mr. Goodhead? Ever had to land a plane like that before?”

  “Not that I recall,” Horace replied as he sadly watched his son march away into the darkness.

  The first thing Chuck encountered on his trek was the dogs that were happy to greet him. He ignored them and continued to march purposely toward the bright lights attached to the front of a large building he recognized as the general store.

  “Quite a landing,” a solitary man commented as Chuck approached.

  “Do you have a phone?” Chuck asked, not caring that he was being short with the man.

  “Ayah, right inside there,” the man said, pointing a thumb back over his shoulder toward the building behind him. “That Wings, he’s quite a pilot.”

  Chuck entered the building without caring that he was tracking snow across the roughhewn floor. He found an old rotary dial phone sitting on a desk in the corner. Lifting the handset, he dialed the number from memory.

  “Lonesome Moose, this is Big John talking,” a voice said after the fifth ring.

  “Big John, this is Officer Goodhead of the RCMP,” Chuck announced, realizing that he was being far too formal only after he spoke.

  “Mountie, where are you? Butterscotch has been expecting you all day.”

  “I’m in Seven Forks,” Chuck replied.

  “Oh, that doesn’t sound good.”

  “May I speak with Butterscotch?”

  “Hold on while I go and find her.”

  The wait seemed an eternity but was well worth it. Chuck felt the tension begin to drain from his body the moment he heard her voice. He was surprised to realize that tears of frustration were streaming down his cheeks.

  “Chuck, are you alright?”

  “Butterscotch, I’m fine, but I have some bad news.”

  Chapter 5

  Christmas Eve—4 p.m.

  Prepared for disaster, I was not shocked when a solemn Big John called me to his office and handed me the phone. It helped my disappointment a little that Chuck sounded crushed, but only a little. I hadn’t realized that under all the worry I had actually really been looking forward to seeing Chuck and meeting his father.

  “He’s not coming?” the Flowers guessed as I wandered back to the kitchen. She handed me two aspirin and a cup of tea. I took them both.

  “No. It sounds like they barely made it to Seven Forks. The Wings lost an engine.”

  “At least he’s safe,” the Flowers said, trying to rally me. “And the boys will make him comfortable. They’ll be able to get through in a day or two. If the snow stops.”

  By “the boys” she meant the former Russian mafiosos who owed Chuck a favor for not turning them in after their psychotic, and now dead, leader had tried to take McIntyre’s Gulch hostage.

  I nodded though I was pretty sure that Chuck wouldn’t seek them out if he had any other option.

  “I think I better go home and let Max out. I’ll be back later to help you with the lasagna or goose or whatever.”

  “Okay,” the Flowers said. “It’s going to take me a while to clean up the kitchen anyway.”

  I looked at the ceiling and shuddered.

  Max was happy to see me and that made me feel better. Not a lot better, but you take your mercies where you find them.

  It isn’t often that I feel nostalgic. That isn’t something encouraged in the Gulch and there isn’t that much in my life to get sentimental about. Besides, I don’t have many photos or mementos of my family anyway. Just what I had in my wallet when I crossed the border. But there is one picture of me and my mom in the garden that I love, though it always makes me ache to see the life I left behind when she died.

  Because I’m an idiot sometimes, I got out the faded picture and tried to remember Christmas with my mother.

  But I couldn’t remember. Not a single one. I was appalled to find that my mom had faded in memory until she was this photograph, a barely remembered voice and gardenia perfume.

  I sniffed hard. A part of me was tempted to hide in my cabin and nurse my headache and wallow in my miserable aloneness.

  “But that wouldn’t be wise, Max.”

  Max barked agreement.

  “And since I don’t need all these cookies now, and there is no one to bake for Wendell and Old Thunder, maybe we should drop by their cabin and share them. Maybe take some to Doc too. You know that Linda can’t bake fruitcake to save her life.”

  Max barked again and jumped up from the wool sweater he’d been sleeping on. It was one I had made the mistake of washing in hot water and the wool was now so stiff that it could rub holes in my bra. Max loved it.

  My string of battery operated lights turned on and a soft red and gold radiance lit up my one small window. I liked seeing those lights shining in the icy glass, burning like a home fire when I came back to the cabin after dark. In spite of myself, I smiled.

  “Okay. Let’s make a couple calls. Then we’ll go help the Flowers clean up that kitchen.” I went to fetch my snowshoes, which I would need when I got out of town. It was also dark so I gathered up my flashlight and stuck it in my pocket while I slipped a cookie
tin and a fruitcake into my backpack. It was a nice knapsack made of the softest caribou hide. Wendell had made it for me my first Christmas in the Gulch.

  “I do have a family, Max. It’s just a different one,” I said softly and pulled on my gloves and picked up my rifle. We hadn’t seen a bear in weeks, but Wendell lived out a ways and even on Christmas Eve, you didn’t take chances.

  Chapter 6

  Chuck sat alone on a hard wooden chair in the corner of the general store, nursing a cup of hot tea and watching the snow accumulate outside the window. It was Christmas Day and one of the worst he’d ever spent. He thought of calling Butterscotch to wish her a merry Christmas, but didn’t want his current mood to rub off on her and ruin her holiday. Instead he sat by himself and brooded.

  He’d spent the night in this chair waiting for the Wings to appear with good news, not catching a wink of sleep. Now he was dog tired and grumpy. His father had gone off the previous night to find a place to lay his head, being wise enough to not approach his son given his poisonous frame of mind. Chuck tried not to think about his father, though he knew they were going to have to talk things out eventually. He feared the coming conversation might be their last.

  Just then he saw a man in a red Michelin Man snowsuit trudging through the drifts toward the general store and considered hiding. Instead, he sat his ground awaiting whatever would come.

  His father stepped into the store raining soggy snowflakes from his clothes onto the floor. He was still breathing steam from his exertions. He pushed his hood back from his face, looked around, and spotted Chuck in the corner. He tried a smile but sensed that it wouldn’t be appreciated and dropped any pretense of happiness. He walked to the corner and stood beside Chuck’s chair waiting to be recognized. His son refused to acknowledge his presence.

  “I just met the most interesting character by the name of Hickory Jones,” his father told him.

  “Please, Pop, not one of your stories. Not now. Believe me when I tell you that it wouldn’t be appreciated.”

  “Oh, but you’re going to love this story,” Horace assured him.

  Chuck looked up to confront his father with a weary expression on his face.

  “Mr. Hickory Jones is a musher,” Horace began.

  “You mean he runs a dog sled?” Chuck asked, showing little interest.

  “That’s right.”

  “So?”

  “He was about to head out for McIntyre’s Gulch this morning. Seems he lives there.”

  “And?” Chuck replied, beginning to perk up.

  “I just bought us passage on his sled,” Horace concluded with a proud smile.

  “He’s willing to let us ride on his sled all the way to the Gulch?” Chuck asked in dismay.

  “For the two hundred bucks I just paid him, I think he’d be willing to take us all the way to Los Angeles.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Never more.”

  Chuck felt a lump well up in his throat. He was at a genuine loss for words. Digging down deep, he eventually found the right words to say.

  “Thanks, Pop. When do we leave?”

  “Right now if we want to arrive in McIntyre’s Gulch before sundown.”

  Chuck vaulted from his chair and ran to collect their luggage, which was piled in one of the aisles of the store near the register.

  “Wait here while I go find Hickory. I’ll have him pull the sled up front.”

  So, Chuck waited, this time with a grin on his face. He considered calling Butterscotch to warn her of his imminent arrival but chose to surprise her instead. He also felt like giving his pop a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek, but then he remembered all the lies he’d been told over the years about his father’s time during the war. And all those years, his mother had said nothing. These thoughts ate away at his good cheer until his heart had once more turned icy by the time his father returned.

  “Ready?” Horace asked as he stepped through the door.

  “I’m ready,” Chuck grumbled as he lifted his pack and headed for the door.

  “What about my cases?” Horace asked as Chuck stomped past.

  “You better bring them along,” Chuck advised before leaving.

  Chuck stepped out front to be greeted by the sight of a long wooden sled pulled by eleven boisterous huskies. There was some kind of perch on the back. A man was standing beside the sled rechecking the bindings holding a mountain of supplies in place. As he turned, Chuck recognized him as the one he’d been short with the previous night. The man was wearing several dead animal pelts that made him look like a true mountain man. Chuck stopped before him, unsure of what to do.

  “Hickory, this is my son, Chuck,” Horace announced as he dragged his heaviest suitcase out the door.

  “Ayah, we’ve met before,” Hickory replied, sounding disinterested.

  “Here, Pop. Let me get that or we’ll never get underway,” Chuck said, dropping his pack and stepping back to the door to haul Horace’s case down the stairs.

  After he’d deposited Horace’s heavy suitcase in the snow, Chuck went back inside after his father’s other bags. By the time he returned, Hickory had already lashed the previous two bags to the top of a precarious mound of goods already on the sled. Chuck noticed that there was barely enough room at the front of the long sled for two men to ride bobsled style, with the man in back placing his legs to either side of the one in front.

  “I’ll take the back,” Chuck said, dreading the long ride in such close proximity to his father.

  “Right,” his father replied.

  After they’d taken their seats, with his father leaning back into Chuck’s arms, Hickory covered them with a large animal fur that smelled gamey and unpleasant. He then offered each man a set of snow goggles and told them to wrap their scarves around their faces. Bundled up snug as a bug in a rug, Chuck could do nothing but wait as Hickory mounted the sled, lifted anchor, and mushed his dogs ahead.

  They were finally on their way again.

  At first the ride was pleasant and exhilarating. The scenery was beautiful and sometimes spectacular. Over time, Chuck became stiff and cold. He was glad that his father was in the front to take the brunt of the wind. Chuck snuggled down as far as he could behind his father in an attempt to keep warm. Meanwhile, he felt every bump and rock they sledded over through the seat of his pants. He lost all feeling in his legs within the hour and began to fear kidney damage.

  “You must know, I never wanted to lie to you,” Chuck heard his father call back to him.

  “Then why did you?” Chuck replied, pulling his scarf down so he could yell his question into the wind.

  “You think it was easy living up to your expectations?”

  “Expectations? What expectations?”

  “You always had to be so perfect, and organized and doing everything just right. You, who got straight A’s in school. And when you entered Scouts Canada, you were issued the Chief Scout’s Award.”

  “What are you talking about? You never once acknowledged a single one of those achievements.”

  “I didn’t want to give you a fat head. Besides, what value is the opinion of a simple factory worker?”

  Chuck felt so furious with his father that he wanted to dump him overboard into the snow.

  “So, instead you lied to me.”

  “So, instead I embellished my past. You know, we ground pounders worked just as hard as the pilots in support of the war effort. We looked after them, and we bled too every time one of them didn’t come home.”

  “You lied.”

  “Why have you always needed to be so damned judgmental?”

  “I’ve never said a judgmental word against you.”

  “Like now?”

  Chuck went silent. His father had a point. He pulled his scarf back up into place to warm his face. Even a few short minutes had made his face tingle painfully.

  “Besides, you never had to say anything. I could read the judgment in your eyes.”

  “Wha
t about my decision to enter the RCMP?” Chuck barked. “Why didn’t you support me in that?”

  “I supported you in everything you ever did. I only thought you would be wasting your talent in the RCMP. You’re too smart and too dedicated. You should have been a doctor or a physicist instead.”

  A silence fell between them. Chuck suspected that his father was building up to another round of accusations, but nothing came. Meanwhile, the silence ate away at Chuck worse than his father’s harsh words. Had he always been judgmental of his father? Was it his fault that they had never gotten along? Was he being too hard on the old man even now?

  Their sledding adventure continued unabated. Neither man said a word to the other. Chuck would have liked to request a break so he could stretch his legs but could think of no way to communicate the request to Hickory other than waving his arms frantically over his head. He opted to try not to look like an ass in front of the total stranger.

  It was during the early afternoon that they topped a rise and started to pick up speed as they sledded down the far side. Chuck had almost managed to fall asleep when he was shaken awake by the change in speed. Trees were whistling past them as the sled rocked frantically.

  “Chuck, something’s wrong,” Horace called. “I think we’re out of control.”

  Just then the dogs veered right to avoid a particularly large snowdrift and the sled began to tip over onto a single runner.

  “Hold on, we’re going over,” Chuck yelled as he wrapped his arms tightly around Horace.

  And he was right. The sled tipped onto its side and both Chuck and Horace were thrown into the snowdrift, screaming their lungs out until impact drove the air from their lungs. The supplies and their baggage were scattered across the landscape as the dogs continued to pull. Eventually they stopped as the sled snowplowed into the ground and wedged fast.

  Chuck was surprised to find that he was unhurt after he had dug himself out of the snow bank. His next concern was for his father.

  “Pop, are you alright?” he called.