Making Waves

by Lorna Seilstad

  “I can’t be distracted right now with the race coming up. I’m supposed to see her tomorrow, but I’m going to send word in the morning that I can’t make it. You saw what just happened. I almost got you knocked off the boat.”

  “It’s your choice.” Harry stood up. “Just remember you don’t have to lose one to win the other. Your father’s voice is in that head of yours so bad you don’t even realize that you deserve to win both.”

  Deserve Marguerite? He could take that either way. Maybe God was smiling on him, or maybe He was having a good laugh at his expense. Whichever it was, finding out would have to wait until after the regatta – if even then.

  Right now, the regatta was everything, and he refused to let his father down. Not this time.

  After locking up the club, Trip tried to sleep. Juggling thoughts of Marguerite and the regatta, he attempted to lay them at the Lord’s feet, but somehow he kept picking them back up. Marguerite had gotten to him like a bad case of poison ivy. And the rash was spreading. He could feel the itch creeping into his heart. This morning, when he’d told Marguerite about her father’s gambling, she’d looked so devastated that he ached for her. How well he remembered the desire to do something to stop Harry from his downward spiral, but being paralyzed to do so. Was she sleeping any better tonight than he was?

  Suddenly he shot out of bed. What if …

  He scrambled back into his clothes and jammed his feet into his boots. Not bothering with a hat, he hurried outside. On the dirt road behind the boat shop, he perched on an enormous log in a grove of trees and waited. Bats circled above him, screeching eerily, searching for their nightly dinner. A bright, moonlit night made it easy to recognize the men who passed on their way to the gambling den, including her father, but thankfully there was no sign of Marguerite.

  Maybe he’d been wrong. She was a smart woman. He’d made it clear just how dangerous Clyde Stone’s gambling parlor was. Besides, what could she accomplish by following her father?

  Just as he was about to return home, he spotted her. Dressed in a dark shirtwaist and skirt, she’d obviously planned this little venture. She kept to the side, probably hoping the trees would hide her.

  He shook his head in disbelief. She actually planned to go exactly where he’d told her she shouldn’t. What if he hadn’t come out tonight and spotted her? Fear gripped him with a raw terror that turbulent lake waters never produced.

  His emotions somersaulting from fear to anger, he crossed his arms over his chest. When she neared, he’d grab her.

  It would scare her senseless, but she deserved it.

  18

  Shifting shadows made Marguerite’s nerves tingle. Moonbeams bathed the path. Cicadas whirred and crickets chirped. She stifled a shriek when a raccoon darted across the road in front of her. Maybe she should return home. Now that she knew where her father was headed, the drive to solve the mystery was gone.

  Still, loyalty drew her down the lane. If she could just reach him, talk to him, he would stop this insanity.

  As she glanced at the boat shop, guilt washed over her. Even though she hadn’t promised Trip to stay away from the gambling hall, she felt deceitful all the same. She dismissed the thought. Trip had no claims on her. He’d been kind enough to help her keep her mind off this ordeal, but it didn’t mean he had any intentions toward her personally. The decision to follow her father was between her and God.

  She jumped at a cracking branch and placed her hand to her heaving chest. Her heart thundered beneath it. She took a deep breath and whispered, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

  A hand shot out from a clump of trees and clamped over her mouth. Pulled against a solid chest, she fought and kicked. One of her blows landed solidly on her capturer’s shin. The man grunted but didn’t release her.

  “Marguerite, it’s me,” he hissed in her ear. “Trip.”

  He held her until he felt her relax, then let her go. She whirled to face him and fired a booted foot at the other shin.

  Yelping, he grabbed the injured leg. “What was that for?”

  “For scaring the wits out of me.”

  “You? How do you think I felt when I saw you walking up the road, going to the place where I specifically warned you not to go? What do you think you’re doing?”

  His anger, laced with concern, warmed her in a strange way. “Why are you here?”

  “I had a sneaking suspicion you’d try to do exactly what you’re doing. And now you’re going back to where you came from.” He grabbed her arm and pushed her forward.

  She dug her heels into the earth. “No, I’m not! I’m going to stop my father.”

  “Don’t you understand?” His voice softened, but he didn’t release his hold. “You can’t stop him. He has to do that for himself. And Marguerite, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and haul you home before I let you go there.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “You think so?”

  She didn’t have to see his face to know he was glaring at her. He would do exactly what he’d said, and he’d enjoy humiliating her the entire way. How could she make him see that her father needed her?

  She blinked back the burning tears in her eyes and twisted her arm free. “What difference does it make to you what I do? Why do you care?”

  “I just do.” He took a step closer. “I don’t want to care, but I do.”

  Heart flapping like the wings of a bird, Marguerite tipped her face up to him. “But he’s my father.”

  “And you don’t want to see him hurt.” He cupped her cheek. “I know.”

  A single tear slid down her cheek onto his callused hand.

  He nudged her chin up with the pad of his thumb. “But Marguerite, I don’t want to see you hurt either.”

  He bent, so close they seemed to breathe together.

  Time froze. Then he brushed her lips with a feather-soft kiss.

  Chaste, quick, but oh so sweet.

  He pulled back but still held her face. “So now will you let me take you back to your camp?”

  Before she could answer, he yanked her into the cover of the trees and pulled her down into the brush. Trip touched his lips to her ear. “Shhh, someone’s coming.”

  The approaching form ran past them in seconds, pumping his spindly arms hard and covering the distance in remarkable time.

  Marguerite grabbed Trip’s arm. “That was Mark!”

  “The boy’s fast.” Trip paused. “You’re going to want to follow him now, aren’t you?”

  She could hear the scowl in his voice. “If you let me go with you, I promise to do exactly what you say.” She felt Trip stiffen. “Please, don’t make me go back to camp. You know I can’t. I’d just have to lie and promise to stay put, then sneak off after you left.”

  Releasing a long breath, he studied her face. “Why is it so hard for me to tell you no?”

  She nibbled on her lower lip. “I’ve heard I have that effect on people.”

  “I know I may regret this, but if we’re going to catch him, we’d better hurry.”

  Clyde Stone’s Gambling Den, the three-story log cabin mansion, sat on a small hill about a mile from the lake. Lights filled all of the windows on the first floor and a few on the second.

  “What’s that smell?” Marguerite wrinkled her nose at the rank ammonia scent filling the air.

  “Hogs,” Trip whispered. “This is a working farm too.”

  The outbuildings came into view, and Marguerite saw the shape of a barn rise against the starlit backdrop.

  Trip captured her hand in his and pulled her around the outskirts of the farm. Reaching the barn, he eased the door open and pressed a hand to her back. Marguerite slipped inside and he followed. The barn was dark as tar, so she waited until her eyes adjusted before moving.

  Questions pummeled her mind, but she dared not ask them. Trip hadn’t made a sound since they’d reached the buildings. He tugged her hand, and she followed him to th
e ladder leading to the loft. With her skirt gathered in one hand, she made her ascent with Trip close behind. When she slipped, he caught her waist.

  “Careful,” he whispered.

  Up top, she fell into the sweet-scented hay and waited for him to join her. He dropped down beside her. “See that window over there? We can probably see the gambling parlor’s front door from there.”

  They moved to the window and poked their heads out. Beneath them, a group of five men stood outside the door – and one boy.

  “There’s Mark!”

  Trip put a restraining arm around her. She elbowed his side. Did he think she’d jump out the window to get her brother?

  A tall, heavily bearded man stepped out of the house, and the others parted.

  “That’s Clyde Stone,” Trip said.

  “Why’s he talking to Mark?”

  Trip held a finger to his lips. In the stillness of the night, a few words carried to their ears: “footrace,” “bets,” “make us a fortune.” Mark shook Stone’s hand and ran back down the road toward camp.

  “Great. Just great.” Trip fell back against the barn wall and slid down the rough boards.

  Marguerite turned to him and stared. “What did that mean? What is Mark doing? I don’t understand.”

  “The gambling hall is only one form of gambling Stone has his hand in.” He met her gaze. “There’s also horse and footraces.”

  “Footraces. They gamble on the runners?” The realization made her dizzy, and she slid to the hay beside him. “Mark is going to be in one of their footraces.”

  “Apparently.”

  She buried her face in her hands, grateful for the darkness. Her voice hitched. “What am I going to do now?”

  Trip draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him. “I promise, we’ll think of something.”

  Shouts from below made her jerk away from him.

  “Stay down!” He moved toward the window and peeked out.

  “What is it?”

  “A raid.”

  She inched beside him and he didn’t stop her. From their view, she witnessed the sheriff and his deputies pouring inside the gambling hall.

  “Get to the other side, Mr. Westing,” Trip breathed. “Get to the other side.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The gambling den straddles the Mills County– Pottawattamie County line. Most of the regulars know to go through this special set of doors to the opposite side of the place when there’s a raid. These are Pott County authorities. If your dad goes to the Mills side, they can’t arrest him.”

  She held her breath and prayed. Did God hear prayers for a sinner to not get caught in the act?

  After what seemed like an eternity, the deputies escorted a handful of men out of the building. Marguerite scanned their faces, but the height of the window prevented any recognition. A rooster crowed, and one man lifted his face and looked directly at the barn. He spotted her in the window, and she locked eyes with him.

  Her father.

  Shock and guilt showed on his face as he was bound and arrested. Marguerite watched in horror, unable to come to his aid.

  They loaded the prisoners into a horse-drawn paneled wagon.

  She turned to Trip. “Where are they taking him?”

  “Jail.” His voice, soft and kind, didn’t ease the harshness of the word.

  “He can’t stay there.”

  “He’ll have to unless someone posts his bail.”

  She spun, ready to scramble down the ladder and find a way to get to the jail, but Trip caught her arm.

  “Marguerite, I know what you’re thinking, but you can’t go there.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Trip held up his hand. “Your father would be mortified. I’ll go bail him out after I take you home.” When she didn’t immediately agree, he added, “You can talk to Mark and see what’s going on there.”

  Her heart felt as heavy as an anchor. What had happened to her family? All these lies consumed them.

  She blinked back tears. “You’ll bring him home?”

  “Before breakfast.” He kissed her forehead. “I promise.”

  19

  It was 2:00 in the morning before Trip could get to the jail across the lake. After gathering up all the cash they kept at the boat shop, he took the little skiff across the choppy waters since no steamers traveled at this time of night, and walked the remaining distance to the jail.

  “Trip, I didn’t expect to see you.” Mel, who served as a part-time deputy, ambled to his feet when Trip walked in the jail.

  “Got the night shift?”

  “Yeah, but at least we had us a little excitement. We raided Stone’s place, but you already know that, don’t you? Harry isn’t here, if that’s why you came.”

  “I know. He’s at home sleeping.” Trip reached in his pocket and drew out his wallet. “I’m here to bail out Edward Westing. How much is it?”

  “No bail, just a hundred-dollar fine. So we were right about you and Miss Westing sparking. Trying to get on the old man’s good side?”

  Too tired to argue, Trip shot his crewman a glare and forked over the cash. He hoped Marguerite’s father still had enough money on him to pay him back. He certainly didn’t relish the idea of having to explain the missing funds to his father. “Listen, Mel, it’s late and I’m tired.” He raked his hand through his hair. “You mind getting him before it’s time for the sun to come up?”

  Mel chuckled and exited the room. Through the door, Trip could see him unlock one of the four cells and heard him call for Westing, who gathered his jacket and followed the deputy out.

  The first time Trip had seen Marguerite’s father was when he brought her aboard the Argo. Both of them dressed to the nines, he seemed to take as much pleasure in seeing Marguerite happy as in the trip itself. But today deep, dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes. Lack of sleep lined his skin.

  He looked at Trip and his brows scrunched together. “Mr. Andrews?”

  “Yes, sir. Are you ready to go home?”

  He cocked his head to the side in question, but Trip merely held the door for him, tipped his navy skipper’s hat to Mel, and followed the older man outside. “My boat’s at the dock.”

  When they’d settled in the skiff, Trip pushed off and raised the sail.

  Mr. Westing looked out over the lake. “She saw me tonight, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  After a long silence, Mr. Westing turned toward him, his voice low. “I have only two questions: what was Marguerite doing there, and what were you doing out with my daughter alone, after dark?”

  “Trying to keep her from following you.” Trip laughed at the irony. “I stopped her the first time – ”

  “You should have stopped her this time too.”

  “Me? Why should I have to protect her from her own father?” Trip took a deep breath. Lord, help me say the right thing. “Do you realize how much you’ve hurt her? How disappointed she is in you?”

  Mr. Westing pulled off his hat and drew his hand through his hair. “I know. I know. I’m going to stop.”

  “Sure you are.” Trip sighed. He’d heard that before. “Do you even know that your son is going to be in one of Stone’s footraces?”

  “It’s just one time. He’s helping me out. It’ll cover a debt I owe.”

  Trip shook his head. “Listen to yourself. You’ve broken your daughter’s heart, and you’re sending your son like a lamb to the slaughter. Those races are rough. Who knows what the promoters will do with a boy with Mark’s speed? What if he gets wrapped up with them?”

  “And how is this any business of yours? Last time I looked, you were my son’s sailing instructor, not my family’s guardian angel.”

  “When I paid that fine tonight, this became my business.”

  “And just why did you do that?”

  “I promised Marguerite. You remember her. Beautiful girl. Takes lots of risks. Undying love for her father.”
<
br />   “I know my daughter, but just how well do you know her?”

  Mr. Westing’s tone dared him to say something he shouldn’t.

  “Not as well as I’d prefer. I’d like to court her.”

  Now where did that come from? So much for guarding his heart. Trip shook his head. What a way to ask a girl’s father for permission to see his daughter.

  “Don’t hurt her.”

  “No, you’ve got that covered fine.” Bitterness seeped into his voice.

  Mr. Westing grew quiet. An owl swooped to the lake, scooping a fish in its talons and carrying it away. “You don’t understand. I want to stop, I do, but it’s hard.”

  No sympathy stirred. “A lot of things in life are hard.”

  “Besides, even if I stop today, she could never forgive me.”

  “You’re wrong. I think Marguerite knows a thing or two about needing someone’s forgiveness.” As they neared the shore, he dropped the sail, rolled it, and secured it. They drifted the rest of the way in.

  Trip prayed for the right words. When he spoke this time, the edge in his voice had vanished. “Mr. Westing, you don’t need Marguerite’s forgiveness nearly as much as you need God’s. If you really want to change, only He can give you the strength to do it.”

  “I’ve never been much into looking for God.” He clasped his hands in front of him.

  “That doesn’t make a difference. God has always been trying to get your attention.” Trip looped a rope over the post and quickly tied off the skiff. He assisted Mr. Westing out of the boat, and the older man withdrew his wallet.

  “Mr. Andrews, how much was the fine?”

  “A hundred dollars.”

  “Then I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I have only forty left tonight.” He passed the bills to Trip. “I’ll get you the rest tomorrow.”

  Trip nodded. “Fine. Tell Marguerite good night for me. I’m sure she’s still awake.”

  “You really like her, son, don’t you?”

  “She’s a hard person not to like.”

  “At least we agree on that.” He shook Trip’s hand. “Thank you for coming for me. It won’t happen again.”