Bitterroot Lake, Alicia Beckman [good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT] 📗

So had George, or so her younger self had thought. Now, as the truck slowed and the man behind the wheel rolled down the window, she guessed him to be north of eighty.

“Sarah McCaskill,” he said. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“George, you need glasses.” She leaned in the open window and kissed the grizzled cheek. “What are you doing out so early? And what brings you down here?”

“Early? You’ve gone soft in your city ways. When you were a kid, you and your sister would have ridden those horses of yours up to the ridge or out to Granite Chapel and be halfway back to the barn by now. That blood on your cheek?”

She touched her face, then glanced at her palm and held it up. “Splinter. Roof shake.” A black-and-white dog sat on the seat next to the old man. “Hey, Shep. Good dog. It is Shep, isn’t it?”

“I forget whether he’s Shep the eighth or Shep the ninth, but at least I never forget his name.” George grinned, then his well-lined face turned somber. “I heard about your husband. Stinks. You gotta wonder sometimes what the Big Guy upstairs is thinking.”

“Thanks. My nephew thinks God needed a technical consultant, to keep track of everyone’s good deeds and bad.”

George snorted. “Then your man’s got his work cut out for him. That was some storm last night. Gusts up to forty, I heard. How’d the old girl fare?”

Took her a moment to realize he meant the lodge, not her. “Not so good. Crunched gable on the carriage house, and you can see that spruce tore the balcony off the east end. I haven’t been upstairs yet to check for damage inside.”

He got out and together they surveyed the damaged balcony, Shep beside them.

“Looks bad,” the old man said.

“I’ve got to call the insurance agent, and my mother. But cell service is iffy down here, and the landline’s disconnected. Guess I’ll be going into town later.”

“You be careful who you hire,” George cautioned. “Lotsa builders think they can do anything. Throw up trophy homes, sell ’em to rich fools who pat themselves on the back for being eco-friendly while they drive them big SUVs and race their speedboats up and down the lake. Folks who don’t know a thing about the history of this town and don’t care. Spend two mill building a place you visit six weeks a year? It ain’t right. A house wants to be lived in.”

“It’s not for us to judge, is it, George? Their lives, their money. Besides, wealthy families have always built their retreats and vacation homes. The lodge started out as a summer camp for a railroad executive and his family, before my great-grandparents bought it.” Why it had been sold, she’d never known. Financial trouble, or the original owners discovered that keeping a summer home was more work than they wanted. Their loss; her family’s gain.

“You be careful,” George said as if she hadn’t spoken. “Not just anybody can work on a jewel like this.”

“Thanks. Long as I’m outside, I guess I’ll hike up and see how much blowdown we have in the woods.”

“Hop in. Shep and I’ll help.”

In her pajamas and a borrowed jacket. Her city friends would be appalled. She followed George back to the truck. The passenger door stuck and she reached across the seat to open it from the inside. She grabbed the roof strap and pulled herself in.

George shifted to make room for the dog between them, and his worn denim jacket slipped open, revealing the holstered gun on his hip. Another sight she’d gotten out of the habit of seeing. Without a word, he tugged his jacket over the gun and continued down the narrow lane to the cabins. Small branches littered the ground, and a tree had bent the edge of one metal roof, but the cabins appeared otherwise unharmed.

Then they drove the property, George squeezing the pickup down narrow lanes and up half-abandoned logging roads on both sides of the highway. Several times, Sarah hopped down to drag branches out of their way. Twice, they had to back up, the road blocked. No storm damage at the horse barn, thank goodness, although barn was a fancy word for the two-stall shed her father and grandfather had built when she and Holly got serious about riding. In the distance, she could make out the roofs of the larger Hoyt horse barn and the ice house.

“Looks like you’ve got some merchantable timber down on your place, too. Call my brother to clean it up for you.”

George grunted. “Wouldn’t want to trouble a busy man like him for a few sticks.”

“He’s gonna bring a crew out here anyway. He’d be happy to help.”

The old man pressed his lips together. “I’ll manage.”

Pride? A reluctance to admit he wasn’t as young, or capable, as he used to be?

Back at the lodge, George stopped the truck to let her out.

“Appreciate you coming over to check on us,” she said as she climbed out.

“Shoulda stopped to see you Sunday when you got here. I thought I saw headlights.”

“Monday. I took the train and rented a car in Whitefish.”

“No,” he said. “Sunday. When I came back from town. I been taking my granddaughter to the Blue Spruce for Sunday supper since she was ten years old. Now she brings her own daughter. White SUV, but smaller. Not one of them monsters the summer folk drive.”

Sarah’s rented SUV was smallish and charcoal gray. Janine’s van was white, a popular color right now. Was George mistaken? Had he seen someone else down here?

Had her childhood friend lied?

 10

The cat was sitting on the front porch.

“Ohhh, fudge. I forgot to ask George about you.” She rubbed the magic spot on the top of the cat’s forehead with her thumb, and heard a satisfied purr in response. “Or have you decided you’re mine now, since I fed you?”

First, she checked Grandpa Tom’s office, at the southeast corner of the house, off the main room. No broken