Story Sandy Shoals

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ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Sandy Shoals​


Edited June 2026

Chapter One


Arkansas held little appeal for most people. Once nicknamed the “Bear State” for its large population of Louisiana black bears, the animals now drifted through only once in a blue moon. The hill country and the Ouachita Mountains (pronounced “WAH-shi-tah”) were beautiful in spring and fall, hot and muggy in the summer though, and that beauty was one reason Blake Alexander had come home, to the land his ancestors settled in the 1850s.

His grandfather had been one of the last of the true “old-timers,” passing down the family history and the hard-learned methods of surviving in this remote corner of the state. Modern roads, cars, trains, and planes had shrunk the distance, but the land still felt apart from the world. Blake’s great-grandfathers had once owned hundreds of acres of rich bottomland along the Ouachita River. Most of it now lay beneath fifty to four hundred and six feet of water. All that was left was a peninsula they called Sandy Shoals from the time the area was just river bottoms. In the early 1950s the government dammed the river and created Lake Ouachita. The family made decent money leasing waterfront parcels for marinas and did so, for over a decade. Then Grandpa sold several hundred acres to a holding company on the condition they build an all-weather road to the home place and run electricity out to it. Until 1963 the Alexanders had still been using outhouses and oil lamps.

Blake had been born too late to remember any of that. Ten years in the military—most of it under Democrat administrations—had taught him how to make do with less. He grew sick of training exercises where men shouted “Bang, bang!” in the woods for lack of training ammunition and fired their rifles for real only once a year while waiting months for basic replacement parts. He could have stayed in and finished his twenty, but he didn’t think he could stomach it any longer. So, when it was time to reenlist going into his tenth year of service, he came home to Sandy Shoals wearing better clothes than when he left, driving a well-built pickup he had souped up in the on-base auto shop. The only real money he had spent was on that truck and an occasional new rifle or pistol from the Rod and Gun Club. It may sound like he returned with little in his pockets but what he carried was quality—plus an aluminum briefcase packed with rows of gold coins. As the old song said, you couldn’t get rich in the Army, but if you didn’t party away every paycheck or trade cars every other year, you could do all right.

The Alexander family had been a fixture on the Ouachita River since the 1850s. Their only real troubles had come from government—state and federal alike. During Prohibition, revenuers had swarmed the hills hunting moonshiners who supplied gangsters in Hot Springs who sold the moonshine to other gangsters in Chicago. No Alexander ever got caught; the family knew too many hidden caves. Later, when the state and feds wanted to dam the river, flood the bottoms, and turn the rest into parks and state and national forests, Blake’s grandfathers fought to keep their higher ground. With help from Third District Congressman John C. Floyd (D-Arkansas), they held onto the land their family had owned for more than a century. They tore down and rebuilt the log cabin that had sheltered nine people just up from a place once called Sandy Shoals beyond the high water mark of the new lake. Grandpa eventually placed most of the land under a conservation easement that required “responsible management.” The family had been doing exactly that for generations, yet the Arkansas Forestry Division still sent a clipboard-carrying, booger-picking inspector with an IQ barely three points more than a fork out a couple of times a year to make sure they were “Managing Responsibly.”

One of Grandpa’s proudest endeavors had been driving all the way the Appalachians and past Asheville to trade three pounds of heirloom Moon and Stars watermelon seed for fifty blight-resistant chestnut saplings. Those trees now grew along Possum Ridge, dropping dozens of fat nuts yearly from each tree. When the forestry inspector heard about them, he stared at Grandpa like a hog eyeing a wristwatch; strangely, he had never even heard the history of the American chestnut. Blake fondly remembered the smell of chestnuts roasting in the hand-forged roaster, balanced on an andiron. That roaster still hung beside the fireplace as an honored piece of his family’s history. If you wanted to take a feral hog, that chestnut grove was as likely place as any to get one during nut season.

Blake sat on the porch gazing out over the lake, the trellis for the moon flowers partially blocking the late autumn wind. He needed to run into town, fill his fuel cans for customers caught short, and pick up another can of lard so he could make fresh tortillas and refried beans. He usually mashed leftover pintos, but he wanted burritos tonight. He pulled out his notepad and added: lard, flour, sea salt, shredded Colby, lettuce, sour cream, and cans of refried beans. After a moment he scribbled Dr. Scholl’s foot powder and a tube of triple-antibiotic ointment.

He checked the truck’s fuel gauge—enough to reach town and loaded five 5-gallon metal Jerry cans into the truck bed, secured them with a cable, and drove down to Harps in Piney. At Harps, he shopped first. Blake took his time. Feeling lazy, he started at the first aisle and slowly worked his way through the store, occasionally adding something he hadn’t planned to buy. The store’s heat slowly replentishing his body heat lost to the winds outside. A bottle of Secret Aardvark Drunken Garlic Black Bean Sauce went into the basket for the burritos. He grabbed a few cans of sardines in mustard, twelve cans of smoked Vienna sausages, a wedge of hoop cheese, Zesta saltines, and single-serving cans of Bush’s Baked Beans. Two eight-packs of 12-ounce Mountain Dew bottles joined the pile. He paid cash, pulled the truck to the pumps, filled the diesel tank, then climbed into the bed to top off the gas cans. Afterward, he stopped next door at the auto-parts store for a case of 10W-30, a case of TC-W3, a case of 15W-40 oils. The Jerry cans and oils would be added to their combustibles locker at the slip.

His thoughts kept drifting to the coming weekend visit to the VA Hospital.

Jim Alexander had served in Vietnam where he lost a foot and part of the left lower leg to shrapnel from a 122 mm rocket during the 1968 Tet Offensive. His health had never recovered fully. After the death of his wife 18 months ago, his health gradually got worse. Now he lay under hospice care at the McClellan Memorial Veterans Hospital in Little Rock, battling a host of problems that included dementia. Blake visited his father every Saturday morning. Some days his father recognized him, some days he didn’t, but he always seemed glad for the company. It tore Blake up to watch the man who had once been a tower of strength—limping these same hills on one good leg, never missing a coon hunt—fade away. When the body decides it’s had enough, you just ride the train to the last station.

Saturday morning, before leaving for town, Blake called Will Smith to check the schedule. The Emersons were being dropped off that afternoon at Little Fir Landing. They could reach the place by road, but water was faster. They usually brought a couple of Polaris Rangers to haul groceries and gear from the ramp to their cottage. The Johnson brothers would deliver enough firewood to the slip for the weekend.

Blake was in the transportation business, in a manner of speaking. Three years earlier he had bought a custom Wolf Marine landing craft from an outfitter near Naval Air Station Whidbey Island and had it shipped to Arkansas. He used it to deliver building materials to owners of lakefront camps with no road access. When those folks came out for weekends or vacations, Blake hauled their supplies and recreation vehicles. The business looked legitimate enough IRS wanted their pound of flesh, and in truth it was turning a solid profit. Plenty of people genuinely wanted to disappear for a few days. They kept their cell phones for emergencies but otherwise left no electronic footprint until they were ready to head home. The work also opened another door: when emergencies arose on the lake, local first responders called Blake if they needed water transportation assistance. His landing craft had served as a fireboat more than once.

He kept the boat and a custom barge fitted with a high-pressure firefighting pump at his dock near Brady Mountain Boat Ramp. With 1,110 miles of shoreline and 66,324 acres of water, Lake Ouachita was a fine place to lose yourself for a weekend or an extended stay.

On the drive home his thoughts returned to his father, and the helpless feeling settled in again. There was nothing he—or anyone—could do except watch the old man waste away. His mind then drifted to the Johnson brothers, second cousins who desperately needed steady work. The area had suffered wave after wave of plant closings as companies chased cheaper labor overseas. Day jobs could be found but during the winter things got bleak and sometimes meals were skipped. After a recent pig-picking, Blake sat down with them and steered the conversation toward opportunity. The weekend money flowing back to the lake was one obvious target. They already knew firewood. With Blake’s help they formed a small company, and he fronted the money for equipment—including a 2.5-ton truck and a trailer, both with a dump beds. The Forest Service issued permits for deadfall and thinning, and sales at the marinas were picking up. By fall they were turning a healthy profit.
 
Chapter Two

Blake stopped at the marina before heading home and found Will rolling cargo straps and stacking them neatly in the utility box on the front of the cabin wall.

“How’d it go?” Blake asked.

“Normal. They bought a couple bundles of firewood from Ted and showed up with new side-by-side quads and trailers. Couldn’t back them onto the ferry worth a damn, so I had to do it. As soon as I dropped the ramp at Little Fir, they were gone—scooting up the trail to their cabin. How’s your dad?”

“The same. Kept mumbling ‘nineteen, forty-five, seventy-eight’ the whole visit.”

“Yeah, Uncle Ed, moms brother, was like that near the end,” Will said. “Mind would lock onto something and just keep repeating it. Different thing every time I saw him.”

“You see Dee or Ted?”

“They were stocking the woodsheds at the marinas. Filled the one here and headed over to Echo Canyon.”

Ted and Daniel Johnson had built attractive wood-storage buildings at the marinas for customers who cared about service. The marina manager’s office held the keys; weekend boaters loved grabbing ready-cut bundles for beach campfires. The sheds usually sold out every weekend.

Ted had firewood bundling down to a science. He’d built a special table with a long roll of pallet wrap at one end. Wood, tinder, and kindling were laid out after being passed through a test hole on a board attached to the table to guarantee uniform size and weight. Anything that didn’t fit got trimmed with a hatchet and maul; the scraps became kindling. Each finished bundle weighed sixteen to eighteen pounds, was tightly wrapped, and stacked on three-sided pallets for easy loading. The boys earned pocket money per bundle, and everyone stayed motivated—the more they sold, the more they made.

Blake helped Will finish cleaning the boat, then headed home. He unloaded the groceries, stowed the fuel cans in the bunker, and set the compost pile sprinklers on timers. Inside, he washed up and started making tortillas—flour, lard, salt, and water. He formed balls for ten- and twelve-inch tortillas, heated his fourteen-inch cast-iron skillet, and rolled each one paper-thin. One minute per side was all they needed. He stacked the finished tortillas under a dish towel to stay warm.

Next he browned two pounds of ground round with garlic and onions, then stirred in his homemade seasoning blend: cumin, paprika, garlic powder, hot chili powder, dried oregano, sea salt, and black pepper. Once it was fragrant, he mixed in two cans of refried beans. He smeared a tortilla with sour cream, loaded it with the beef-and-bean mixture, and topped it with shredded lettuce, shredded Colby, and pico de gallo. A cold beer washed down the first burrito. He didn’t quite come out even, so he built a second one and opened another beer.

After cleaning the kitchen, Blake stepped onto the porch to enjoy the evening. The crunch of gravel made him peek around the corner of the house from the porch. Brooke’s truck rolled into the parking area.

“I’m on the porch!” he called.

Brooke Winslow owned a popular wedding venue on a backwater slough of the Ouachita River near Piney. She had arrived as a seasonal visitor, bought a lot, removed a double-wide, and built a handsome log-sided home. Within a couple of years she’d acquired two adjoining lots and turned reclaimed barn wood into a charming wedding chapel. She averaged two or three ceremonies a month.

Brooke came around the house carrying a blue five-gallon Lowe’s bucket, rock pick still clipped to her belt.

“Look what I found!” she said, eyes sparkling.

She reached into the bucket and lifted out a huge smoky quartz crystal.

“That’s a beauty,” Blake said. “Magnet Cove?”

“Nah. Magnet Cove’s picked over. This came from Fisher Mountain out of a fresh load of wet clay they dumped while I was there.” She grinned, showing red clay caked on her boots, jeans, and around the knees where her kneepads had been.

“I couldn’t wait to show you. Got any Mountain Dew?”

“Coming right up. Sit and rest.”

While Blake fetched the drink, Brooke tried to slap the dried clay off her pants. She took the cold bottle, drained half of it in one go, and sighed.

“God, I got hot today. Found four collector-grade clear clusters, three big single points, and three medium clusters. I didn’t even know how good they were until I cleaned them at the trough.”

“You’ve had a full day. Hungry? I’ve got burrito fixings.”

“No, thanks. Just needed something to drink.” She finished the Dew. “Water would be even better—another Dew and I’ll be up all night.”

Blake brought her a large Yeti cup filled with ice water. Brooke took a long sip and moaned with pleasure.

“You should take a jug with you,” he said.

“I usually do, but I forgot. They charge tourist prices at the mine site.”

After a few minutes she stood, carefully placing the big crystal back in the bucket. “I’ll bring your cup back tomorrow.

If you want to clean up, Cassie probably has jeans and T-shirts in the guest room closet.

These clothes need a hose-down before they hit the washer.” She paused at the top of the steps, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Besides, you’re not ready for me running around naked in your house.”

The words hung in the air as she rounded the corner. Blake watched her truck leave, Brooke’s teasing comment echoing in his head—and hers, too. She was very fond of Blake, but she wasn’t peeling off clothes around him until there was a ring on her finger.

The next morning Blake ran his usual ridge route. The air was already humid and the air still, until he crested the hill. He slowed to a walk, looked down over the lake toward the dam and Piney, and caught himself thinking again about Brooke running around naked. He shook the image away and picked up his pace for the mostly downhill return.

Back at the house he stripped off his tank top and stood under the cold outdoor shower until his skin cooled. He squeegeed the water off with his hands, then sat on the porch bench to remove his shoes and set them on the metal shoe lasts bolted to the railing. A light breeze raised goosebumps, but he stayed put until his body temperature normalized.

He heard Cassie arrive and stirring in the kitchen.

“I’m frying ham!” Cassie yelled through the kitchen window. “How many eggs?”

“Two!” Blake shouted back.

“Over easy or are you drinking them raw again?”

“Over easy!”

He went inside to shave and shower. By the time he reached the kitchen, breakfast was on the table—ham, eggs, crispy pan fried potatoes, toast, juice, and coffee.

“Ran into Macie Edwards at the store,” Cassie said. “She mentioned seeing Brooke leave here after dark last night.”

“Macie needs to worry about her own big wide ass instead of everybody else’s business,” Blake muttered, buttering his toast.

Cassie snickered and returned the coffee pot to the stove.

After breakfast Blake went down to the marina and opened his boathouse office. He was scanning the ferry schedule when the door opened.

“Kész van,” (It’s finished) the man said.

Blake looked up. “Roland, you know I don’t speak Hungarian. We’re in America—I only speak American now. Is he gone?”

“Yes. I dropped him offshore from a Boy Scout camp. America’s finest youth will probably find him tomorrow during canoe practice and earn themselves a medal. Not a lifesaving one, though. Nothing left to save after a fifteen-hundred-meter drop from a helicopter. Just DNA.”

“Did he say anything?”

“His mouth was taped. I didn’t want him disturbing the waterfowl.” Roland’s grin was thin. “The splash probably did, though.”

“You’re a saint. Where’s the helicopter?”

“On its way back to Site 23 for an oil change and new paint job.”

“What are your plans?”

“Thought I’d stay a few days. Enjoy the fishing and your cousin’s cooking. A float plane is picking me up Thursday.”

“Just keep your hands off Cassie.”

“Perish the thought! You got dibs on her?”

“Roland, this is Arkansas, not Kentucky or Bács-Kiskun County. We don’t swap spit with our cousins—genetic issues, you know.”

“Pity.” Roland shrugged. “I’ll head up to the house, then.”

“See you at supper. Cassie’s leaving a pot roast in the oven.”
 
Chapter Three


Blake sat for a minute, wondering how Jeremy had enticed Roland into working with him. It didn’t really matter. Roland was one of the cold-bloodiest men he had ever met, and Blake wanted him at his back the moment things went sideways. He could have easily worked for Jeremy himself, but his father’s health was failing and the thing with Claire was all shot to hell. Filial duty had pulled him home. Still, Jeremy’s idea of cleaning up some of the rot in the country had appealed to him, so Blake did favors for Colonel Cassidy when he could. In return, Jeremy supplied the kind of hard-to-get arms and equipment that were neat to have.

At first Blake had been reluctant. His family had voted Democrat, or something close to it, since before the Civil War. But it had been made clear to him that the Democrats weren’t for the working man anymore. Their priorities lay elsewhere—gender politics, open borders, stacking voter rolls to hold power. Washington was rotten at the core, and while maybe ten percent of the Republicans were part of the problem, most of them simply went along with it.

Blake finished adding the scheduled tasks to the desk calendar tacked to the wall and locked up. He had a fuel delivery between one and four and wanted to be at the house when it arrived.

He didn’t see Brooke for the next three days. Her real-estate work kept her running. She specialized in leasing Corps of Engineers land for vacation cottages—nothing permanent allowed. No concrete slabs, no flagstone patios, only pier-supported structures that could be removed if the Corps demanded it. The rules were strict, but she was good at them. She had also sent several new cottage owners Blake’s way, adding solid names to his client list.

He missed her more than he wanted to admit. He wondered if she was being coy or just enjoying the chase. Blake shook his head. Men always lost the battle of the sexes; most just didn’t realize it until they were the ones left bleeding on the field.

He grabbed his tackle box and lightweight rod. Time to see if the crappie were biting.



“Sue, what are you doing Thursday?” Jeremy asked.

“Nothing on the schedule.”

“Can you take the Cessna 208 down to Ouachita, pick up Roland, and drop a case at Choctaw Marina on the way back?”

“Sure. I’m on the flight schedule anyway. Does Roland have his Spot-X with him?”

“He’d better. Message him. If you don’t get an answer, I’ll call Blake.”



Blake backed the two-man Caiman away from the underwater brush pile and headed for the dock. Eight solid crappie—enough for supper and some to freeze. A pint of coleslaw from Jones’ would round it out nicely with pan-fried potatoes.

He tied off the boat, draped the cover over the 3.5-hp Evinrude, and secured it with the Velcro straps. Took the fish from the live well, placed them in a bucket and carried the fish to the cleaning station. A big turtle surfaced immediately, head raised, waiting for scraps. Blake scaled and gutted the crappie quickly, slipped them into a ZipLock bag, then headed up the gravel path with his rod and tackle box.

When he topped the rise, Brooke’s truck sat in the yard. He scraped his boots, climbed the steps, and found her coming out the door with a glass of tea.

“Feel like some fresh fish?” he asked.

“Sure. What’d you catch?”

“Crappie. Nice ones.”

“Great! I’ll start the potatoes.”

“Can you run down to Jones’ for a pint of coleslaw? I’ll peel the potatoes.”

“Okay. Be right back!”

Blake rinsed the fish, set four aside for supper, patted them dry, and vacuum-sealed the rest. He peeled and diced two large russets, then coated the fish in a mix of cornmeal, flour, salt, pepper, onion powder, and garlic powder. As the first fish hit the hot lard, Brooke returned.

“You already finished the potatoes?”

“I was counting on that lead foot of yours,” he said, grinning. “Guess you decided to obey the speed limit today.”

“I do not have a lead foot. Sometimes I just need to be where I’m going.”

Blake rolled his eyes, flipped the fish with a spatula and tongs, and pointed at the cabinet. “Grab a platter and line it with paper towels.”

Brooke selected the stoneware platter with the hand-carved salmon motif he’d bought in Oregon. She laid out three sheets of towel and set it beside the stove. Blake transferred the first fish to drain and dropped the next one into the grease.

“While you finish, mind if I clean up in your bathroom? I feel gross.”

“Go ahead. Fresh towels in the linen closet.”

She stepped outside to grab a bag from her truck. Blake finished the fish, then fried the potatoes in the same lard until they were golden and crisp. He saved the grease for later, drained the potatoes, and set the table. Blake took two bottles of ice-cold Hefeweizen came out of the fridge. He had just taken a long pull from one when Brooke returned, hair damp and pulled into a loose ponytail.

“I’ll have one of those,” she said, eyeing the bottle.

“Glass?”

She gave him an exasperated look and took the bottle from his hand.

“Dig in.”

The meal was perfect—crispy fish, seasoned potatoes, cool slaw. Brooke polished off the last few potato cubes, then they cleared the table together.

“I’ve got this,” Blake said, scrubbing the cast-iron skillet with the chainmail pad.

“I need to finish some paperwork on the Russell lease anyway.” She dried her hands on a dish towel. “Thanks for supper. It was delicious.”

She set the towel down, rose on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was out the door.

Blake stood stunned for a second before returning to the skillet. After loading the dishwasher, he walked through the quiet house. In the bathroom, the air still smelled of her soap and shampoo. He flipped on the vent fan and headed to his office-gun room.

He pulled the Wilson Combat Recon Tactical in 6.5 Creedmoor from the safe and checked the chamber. He had seen fresh hog sign in the chestnut grove. No season on feral hogs—they were a nuisance. Time to thin the herd and smoke some pork. He checked the magazine and loaded it, not chambering a round. Placing the rifle back into the cabinet, he returned to the bathroom and picked up Brooke’s bag with the clothes she had worn that day and carried it to the laundry room. He washed her jeans and denim shirt and saved her bra and panties for a load of his underwear. When the first load finished, he dried the shirt in the dryer and used the pant stretchers on the jeans. Once he adjusted the stretchers inside the legs, he hung the jeans up to air dry.

He loaded her underwear in with his clothes and washed those next.
 
Chapter Four


Sunday arrived misty and cool, the kind of raw, dreary day that begged for nothing more than staying indoors. Blake had planned nothing. Brooke showed up just after one o’clock, complaining about the humdrum weather and declaring she felt like cocooning. She had already decided Blake would make the perfect partner for it.

He didn’t argue. The feeling hit him suddenly too. They assembled a tray of snacks and drinks, retreated to the great room, and spent most of the day curled together on the big sectional, watching movies. They took turns choosing. Blake made her sit through several Kubrick films from his DVD collection; she retaliated with a string of heartfelt Hallmark romances.

Several times that afternoon Blake sensed her watching him. When he turned, she would look away, but the charged silence lingered. They both felt it—the IT they still couldn’t talk about. Not yet.



Monday morning Blake woke to a world of primeval gloom. Thick fog pressed against the windows, humid and still, with no breeze at all. Nevertheless, he pulled on his running gear and headed up the ridge. His body sweated more than usual in the damp chill.

At the top he paused, breathing hard. A faint breeze stirred, but the lake and valley on the far side lay completely hidden beneath a blanket of fog, like looking down at clouds from an airplane. He almost missed the arrowhead. Only a peripheral glint caught his eye. He bent and picked it up.

He had found one like it before near the raised garden beds. Brooke had dated that one between 2,500 and 1,500 years B.P. and attributed it to the Mound Builders—Adena, Hopewell, or Mississippian cultures. Blake turned the stone over in his palm, then slipped it into his pocket. She would appreciate it more than he would. Unless he could shoot it from a bow, ancient artifacts held limited interest for him.

He studied the ridge a minute longer, then started back down.

Near the bottom he slowed to a trot and veered toward the gas storage tank to check the pressure gauge. Another gift from his great-grandfather. As a young man, Grandpa had worked briefly for Choctaw Oil and Gas during the development of the Mansfield Pool. When the company wanted to drill on family land, Grandpa agreed. They struck gas. The well never produced enough for commercial use, so the lease was abandoned in the sixties, but it still supplied more than enough to heat the house, cook meals, fuel the grill, and feed the fire pit. Blake had even converted the rebuilt smokers to gas. The tank’s pressure had remained rock-steady for as long as he could remember.

Next he checked the concrete-block building that housed the battery bank and control equipment. No warning lights, batteries at full charge. This had been the biggest and most expensive part of the property upgrade, but also the most satisfying. Entergy Arkansas kept pushing him to expand their right-of-way and hiking rates—now up to 12.66–12.84¢ per kWh with another increase pending. After running the numbers, Blake had chosen independence.

He was especially pleased with the two bladeless wind generators on three-meter masts up on the ridge. Wind passing around the masts created vortexes that produced vortex-induced vibration.

Tuned to the right frequencies, the oscillation generated power through magnets, carbon rods, harmonic oscillators, and what Blake still considered a bit of black magic. No spinning blades, no annoying whine like the old sailboat-style turbines most cabin owners used. The solar company checked the system monthly and collected data; Blake was happy to be their guinea pig.

Satisfied, he headed for the house, pausing only to pry a rock from one of his truck tires. After a shower and a quick breakfast of oatmeal and toast, he poured the last of the coffee into his travel mug and left for the marina.


Davis James was waiting for him. “Got time to move a bunk of treated two-by-sixes up to North Shores Marina?”

Blake checked the calendar—nothing scheduled. “Bring ’em down to the ramp.”

He untied the work boat, backed it out, and positioned it at the ramp. Once the heavy bundle was chained and loaded, he adjusted the cargo ramp, sealed it, and headed up the channel. He radioed Will with his destination, then enjoyed the quiet run across the lake.

North Shores had no forklift, so he waited while the crew cut the bands and carried the boards off by hand. A stripped dock nearby confirmed they were replacing decking.

When Blake returned to the home marina, Will lay on his stomach replacing old dock bumpers. The original owner had gone cheap; the sun had baked them brittle. Blake had ordered better ones at his own expense—thicker, with stainless hardware.

He tied up, then eased the boat against the opposite dock so Will could finish the one he was on.

“Any problems?” Blake asked.

“Yeah,” Will grunted. “Galvanized screws. Half of them rusted solid and snapped off. These new bumpers have slotted holes and come with stainless screws.”

“You get what you pay for,” Blake said.

He gathered the discarded metal bands from the lumber, carried them to the dumpster, then returned to help. They finished the first dock, repositioned the boat, and tackled the second. Blake unpacked the new bumpers and hardware while Will, still on his belly, screwed them down. Two hours later they were done.

Blake hauled the last bag of packaging to the dumpster.

“Now I’ve got nothing to do tomorrow,” Will said, standing and stretching.

“Then take the day off,” Blake told him. “We’re clear until Thursday. The Harrisons and Gilberts have a four-day weekend booked. Nothing again until Sunday afternoon. I can pick them up and still have time to go visit my father.”

“I thought you visited him on Saturdays.”

“Normally I do, but I feel like smoking some ribs this weekend. If I wait until Sunday, I won’t have time to do them right.”

Will grinned. “I was thinking about heading down to the Frontier Club Friday night.”

Blake raised an eyebrow. “Just keep your ass out of the casino.”

“What? You win at blackjack every time you go in.”

“Because I don’t go often, and I know what I’m doing when I do. I’m not distracted by some hot tail across the street.”

“A man’s gotta have his pleasures,” Will said with a shrug.

“As long as you don’t mix them,” Blake fired back. “You need to be focused at Oaklawn.”

“Maybe so… Maybe so.”
 
Chapter Five

Blake made the supply runs for the Harrisons and the Gilberts. They had brought their own quads with trail trailers already packed with groceries for the weekend. Blake had no idea what kind of weekend they’d have. As he returned to the marina after dropping the Gilberts off, a slow, steady rain began to fall. The forecast called for three straight days of it.

He tied up the boat and hung extra bumpers over the side in case a squall blew through. Inside the office, he peeled off his rainsuit, shook the water from it outside the door, and hung it up. After locking the building, he headed to Smokin’ in Style BBQ for a split family pack of catfish and fried chicken wings with all the fixings. He had already finished the last of the ribs in his freezer. On the way home he planned to stop at BJ’s Wholesale and grab more twin packs of pork ribs if the special was still running. It looked like the perfect weekend for smoked ribs. He’d need to check the smoker tomorrow to make sure no spiders had moved in.

BJ’s still had the twin packs of baby back ribs, so he loaded eight into his cart and added a twenty-five-pound bag of Idaho potatoes. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right. While strolling down the spice aisle, he nearly collided carts with Brooke.

“Well, Miss Brooke Winslow. What a nice surprise. I trust you’re doing well?”

“I am, Mr. Alexander,” she said, smiling. “Though I’m saddened by your declining social situation—slumming it in a wholesale club on a Thursday evening.”

“Just picking up essentials.” Blake stopped to grab a couple of cans of coffee.

“Meat, potatoes, and coffee?” Brooke peered into his cart.

“It’s a man thing. Weekend meal prep: smoked ribs, brined French fries, coleslaw, and cold ale to ease the transition from plate to stomach.”

“Where are you getting the coleslaw?”

“I’ll make it myself. I’ll pick up a head of cabbage, carrots, and a bell pepper at the farmer’s market tomorrow.”

“Are you cooking for an army?”

“No, ma’am. Just for my lonesome self—unless you’d care to join the feast.”

“When are you cooking?”

“Saturday afternoon. It takes six hours to do the ribs right, so dinner around five.”

“I can clear my schedule. What’s the dress code?”

“I use a dry rub, but there’s honey in the finish, so casual clothes will do. Or nothing at all.”

“MR. ALEXANDER! We are in a public establishment!”

“Please accept my apology. Sometimes good ideas escape my mouth at the worst possible moments.”

“Apology accepted.” Brooke smiled as she maneuvered her cart around him. “I’ll see you Saturday, Mr. Alexander.”

Blake added another can of coffee to his cart, doubled back to the meat section, and grabbed one more pack of ribs. He wouldn’t have to repackage anything for the freezer now. He could finish a whole rack himself, and he knew Brooke could too.

Back at Sandy Shoals, he built a tray of food, settled onto the couch, and picked up where he’d left off on disc three of Band of Brothers.

The next morning, Blake finished breakfast, started the dishwasher, and drove to the farmer’s market. He selected the largest head of cabbage he could find, a bunch of carrots, and a crisp bell pepper. His coleslaw recipe was a copycat of KFC’s and called for all three vegetables. Since he already had the rest of the ingredients at home, he didn’t linger. The rain had paused for the moment, so he went straight to the smoker.

It had taken him nearly two months to build the thing. He had studied airflow and designed what he believed was the perfect offset smoker—vents, baffles, and all. The cast-iron firebox came from an old coal furnace, and the heavy doors guarding the salvaged refrigerator racks had once belonged to a 1920s bakery. He scrubbed rust stains around the hinges and latch with soap, water, and a nylon brush, washed the river rock base, dried the cast iron, and gave everything a coat of stove polish until it gleamed.

While the weather held, Blake split a rick of mixed oak and hickory and filled the smoker’s wood cubby. The rest he stacked inside a repurposed shipping container with side-opening doors. He built a small fire to smoke out any lingering spiders, then went inside.

He measured water into a stock pot, set it on the stove to warm, and stepped out to his raised herb bed to cut fresh basil for the potatoes. Once the water was warm, he stirred in sea salt and onion powder until they dissolved. He peeled six large potatoes, ran them through the French-fry cutter, and submerged the sticks in the brine in a large bowl. After covering the bowl tightly, he slid it into the pantry refrigerator to chill overnight. His mouth watered just thinking about them—crispy outside, fluffy inside, finished with sea salt, black pepper, onion powder, and chopped basil.

With the prep work done, Blake nuked the leftover chicken wings, tossed them in Buffalo sauce, grabbed a beer and a stack of paper towels, and settled in to watch the Auburn-Alabama game. Despite the hype, it was a snooze. He woke up on the couch at six o’clock with a stiff neck. Great. Now I’ll have to bore myself back to sleep tonight.

He carried his tray to the kitchen, then wandered slowly toward his home office, gun room, and man cave. When he’d renovated the old family house, he had added features the original structure never had. The place was plenty big—room enough for a family of seven—but he had wrapped the porch on three sides, added a covered back porch and patio for the smoker, and dug two hidden storage rooms into the slope behind the house. He and Will had spent weekends excavating, pouring concrete, laying double block walls, and shoring up forms for the concrete roofs. The memory of wrestling pond liner and painting on basement waterproofing sealant was still fresh. The effort had paid off; the rooms stayed bone-dry, and the cardboard boxes inside never went limp with moisture.

The house was Blake’s sanctuary, a place to hide from the world. Brooke had figured that out not long after they met. She had tried every gentle way she knew to draw him out, but eventually accepted that he was content with the life he had built. Their relationship had settled into a comfortable, teasing rhythm that hadn’t yet moved to the next stage—yet.

Blake had met Brooke during one of her real estate deals. She and her clients needed transport to a possible lease site, and he happened to be at the dock. One thing that sometimes irked him was her relentlessly sunny outlook—the “the world is perfect and nothing can go wrong” attitude. He supposed she had to maintain it for the wedding business. Another quirk was the way she talked to her crystals and gemstones while cleaning them, as if they were finicky relatives. He tried to ignore it, but every so often it sent a chill between his shoulder blades.

After the rain returned, Blake went back inside. He finely chopped the cabbage in the food processor along with half a carrot and half the green pepper. He mixed in mayonnaise, buttermilk, and spices, covered the bowl, and returned it to the refrigerator so the flavors could meld.

With the coleslaw done, he laid out his pistols for a quick cleaning and light coat of oil. As he worked the silicon cloth over the metal, his thoughts drifted back to Brooke. Maybe it was time to tell her about the kimberlite pipe. It was mostly played out now, but it had been mined over the years for garnets, ilmenite (for titanium dioxide used in paints, plastics, and paper), and, of course, diamonds. His grandfather and father had quietly extracted most of the better stones back in the fifties and sixties, becoming trusted suppliers of garnets and small, jewelry-grade diamonds to Hasidic and other ultra-Orthodox merchants in New York’s Diamond District, traveling once every three months by train to the big city. The industrial grades went into drill bits and abrasives. Because the family had never registered a formal mining operation and kept everything on the QT, few locals ever suspected a kimberlite pipe lay partially covered under the waters of Lake Ouachita’s shoreline.
 
Chapter Six


Blake finished cleaning his pistols and put the equipment away. He moved to the desk, scanned the notes on the legal pad he had left for himself, and powered up the computer. Logging in, he pulled up the website where he ordered his heavy-duty plastic drums with screw-on lids and gaskets. He used them to store grains and other staples in the storeroom, keeping everything safe from dampness. A glance at his weather station showed 50% humidity at 46°F inside the storerooms, while the root cellar read 86% humidity at 45°F. He ordered twenty barrels, along with more Mylar bags, oxygen absorbers, and silica gel packets. After completing the purchase, he visited another site, calculated the floor space needed for a one-year family supply of freeze-dried food, and placed the order. He added supplemental cases of baking supplies, dried fruit, and powdered drink mixes.

He browsed a few smoker recipes, then shut down the computer. In the kitchen, he made himself a drink and settled in to watch the late sports news before heading to bed.

The next morning, Blake rose at his usual time and started the coffee. While it perked, he checked the coleslaw, tasting a forkful. Satisfied, he pulled out a mixing bowl and began preparing his rib rub. He opened a pack of ribs and carefully removed the membrane. Next, he filled a spray bottle with one part avocado oil to five parts water, misted the ribs, and dusted them heavily with the rub in the long wooden bowl he’d had custom-made for the task. He set the ribs aside to reach room temperature, then headed outside to start the fire in the smoker’s firebox.

First, he filled the stainless steel water pan, then started the fire. While the fire caught, he poured himself another cup of coffee and sat beside the smoker, watching the flames build. He retrieved his five-gallon galvanized trash can of wood chips, scooped two double handfuls into a rubber bucket, covered them with water, and added two shots of Jack Daniels, mixing everything up. Some might call it a waste of good whiskey, but it made the ribs taste unforgettable.

Once the coals were ready, Blake adjusted the vents until the smoke chamber held a steady 225°F. He removed the racks and set them on the prep surface, selected one and made sure it was clean, sprayed it with the avocado-oil mixture, and slid it back in on the second tier.

He set a cooking timer for thirty minutes and clipped it to his belt. It was just after 8:00 a.m. Back inside, he checked the pantry fridge to be sure he had plenty of cold brew. Just in case, he put a bottle of Willamette Valley Vineyards Pinot Noir in to chill—Brooke might prefer wine.

Brooke arrived at ten o’clock, bright-eyed and energetic.

“You’re a little early,” Blake said. “I’ve got nothing to feed you yet, unless you want a bowl of coleslaw.”

Brooke stepped closer, inhaling. “Mmm, you smell good enough to eat. I saw some men’s soaps on Amazon last night. Leather and cedar might suit you.”

“No need to spend your money. I can just lift my T-shirt over the smoker stack and get all pretty for you,” Blake replied.

“You can’t take the smoker into the shower,” she teased.

Blake turned quickly, poured her a mug of coffee, and handed it over.

He retrieved the bowl of potatoes from the pantry fridge, along with the colander and salad spinner. After rinsing and draining the potatoes, he spun them in batches, dumping each onto a dish towel on the counter.

“Here, you dry the fries,” he said.

Brooke tossed them in the towel, then transferred them to a dry bowl while Blake finished the rest. She changed towels twice. When they were done, he covered the bowl and returned it to the fridge.

Blake carried the wooden bowl of ribs out to the smoker. Using long tongs, he opened the door and placed the racks on the second tier.

“You said six hours?” Brooke asked.

“Yep, if you want them fall-off-the-bone tender.” He reset the timer.

Back in the kitchen, he mixed a spray bottle of apple juice and Jack Daniels for basting later.

The ribs had been on about ten minutes when the timer buzzed. Blake added wood chips to the firebox, adjusted the vents, and reset the timer for another thirty minutes.

“You didn’t need to open the door and check them?” Brooke asked.

“No. I’d lose heat and smoke. The key is low and slow—steady 225°F.”

Blake pulled out his phone and checked the remote temperature monitor. “This app will alert me if the temperature gets too low or too high. All we have to do now is wait.”

“Let’s grab more coffee and sit on the side porch,” Brooke suggested. “We won’t be too far for the app, right?”

“We’ll be fine.”

“You don’t have any customers this weekend?”

“Two, but they’re not due until three and four tomorrow afternoon.”

“Who are they?”

“The Harrisons and the Gilberts.”

“Can I ride out with you?”

“Sure. Meet me here or at the marina at least fifteen minutes before I leave.”

“What if I stayed overnight and rode down with you in the afternoon?”

Blake stiffened slightly and looked at her. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do that?”

Brooke shrugged, glancing toward the smoker. “I thought it might be fun… for both of us.”

The timer buzzed again. Blake checked the firebox, added a handful of wet chips, confirmed the temperature was holding, and returned to sit beside her.

“If I stayed over, it would give Macie Edwards something new to gossip about,” Brooke said with a grin.

Blake’s eyes snapped to her.

Brooke giggled. “Cassie told me she saw me leaving the other night.”

Blake shook his head. “Gossiping women.”

“It’s not gossip when you’re talking about yourself. That’s bragging.”

“We haven’t done anything yet to brag about.”

“But we will… someday. And I have a feeling I’ll have plenty to brag about.”

“A wise man once said, ‘I find my life is a lot easier the lower I keep my expectations.’”

“You’re such a killjoy sometimes!”

“I prefer to think of it as pragmatic. We bump heads on a few things, but I believe we can work through them. Sometimes I’m just dyed-in-the-wool stubborn.”

“I’ll work on you,” she said.

When the ribs had been in the smoker for two hours, Blake pulled them out and laid each rack on two sheets of foil. He drizzled them with honey, sprayed them generously with the apple-juice-and-Jack mixture, wrapped them tightly, and returned them to the smoker. From here on, he focused more on maintaining steady low heat than on adding smoke for the next three hours. He added more wood to the firebox and reset the timer to three hours.
 
Chapter Seven


Three hours later, Blake carefully lifted the wrapped ribs from the smoker and unwrapped them. The fat had mostly rendered out, and the meat had pulled back slightly from the bones. Some pitmasters would have basted the racks with barbecue sauce at this stage for wet ribs, but Blake preferred his dry. He simply sprinkled on another layer of rub, then used the full length of his tongs to lift the racks back onto the grate. He misted them lightly with apple juice. The liquid would help form a crust while keeping the meat moist. Once the temperature stabilized at 225°F, he added fresh wood chips to the firebox.

He sat nearby, feeding chips every twenty minutes for the next hour. When the ribs were ready, he again used the long tongs to lift them gently—preventing them from breaking apart—then wrapped them first in foil and then in a clean towel. He placed the bundle inside an empty cooler to stay warm. Leaving the firebox door open so the coals could die, Blake headed inside.

He melted lard in the chicken fryer and fried the potatoes to a crisp golden brown, draining them on paper towels. He tossed them in a bowl with sea salt, onion powder, and fresh basil, then set them on the table. Brooke finished setting the places while Blake retrieved the rolls from the warming oven and arranged them in the bread basket.

Blake brought the ribs in and unwrapped them. A half-rack was all that would fit on a plate at once, so he gave each bone a twist and pulled it cleanly away from the meat, arranging the boneless portions on platters.

Brooke opened two ales, and they sat down to eat.

Her eyes widened at the first bite. “These are delicious—and you didn’t even use sauce!”

Blake nodded. “You don’t need sauce if the rub is right. Sauce just covers up a man’s mistakes. You want some? I’ve got a couple bottles of Heinz in the pantry.”

“Oh no!” she said quickly. “I love them just the way they are.”

Blake finished his full rack and more than half the potatoes. Brooke’s eyes had been bigger than her stomach; she ended up wrapping a third of her ribs and sliding the plate into the fridge.

“How in the world can you eat that much?” she asked.

Blake grinned. “You eat good when you’ve got it. Don’t when you don’t.”

“I’m stuffed!” Brooke declared, opening her arms and letting them flop to her sides.

Blake helped her up from the table, led her to the great room, and settled her on the couch with her feet propped on the ottoman. He returned from the kitchen with a glass of Pinot Noir. She took a few sips, set the glass on the end table, and promptly fell asleep.

Blake rinsed the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, and scrubbed out the chicken fryer. When the kitchen was spotless, he returned to the great room. Brooke was slumped against the back of the couch, snoring softly. Grinning, Blake fetched a crocheted throw from the foyer closet, covered her gently, and used his phone to record a short video of her peaceful, stuttering snores.

He poured himself a glass of Macallan Double Cask 12 Years Old Scotch, settled into his chair with a magazine, and let the soft serenade from the couch drift over him.

An hour later, a loud snort woke Brooke. She sat up, looked around, then grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. The Wolfpack were handing the Tar Heels a thorough stomping—first and goal on the three-yard line. Brooke wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, stood, and padded into the kitchen, returning with a glass of iced tea.

“Feel better?” Blake asked, grinning.

“That meal knocked me out,” she said with a sheepish smile.

“Want to get some fresh air?”

“Yeah, I need to wake up.”

They grabbed their jackets and walked down the gravel path toward an arm of the lake.

“Back when they dammed the Ouachita to make the lake, my great-grandfather dredged this canal using a dragline and a five-horsepower Fairbanks-Morse hit-and-miss engine,” Blake said, pointing. “We still have the engine in that shed over there.”

“Was your grandfather planning to build a marina?” Brooke asked.

“No, they were mining. The lake covers most of it now, but there used to be a kimberlite pipe right here.”

“Did they find anything?”

“Oh yes. They sold quite a few diamonds up in New York, along with garnets, jasper, amethyst, and hematite. Before the lake, there were pits where, the story goes, that Indians dug hematite to color designs on their clothing.”

“Can I come down sometime and screen the beach sand?”

“Sure, anytime. You can keep your equipment here so you don’t have to haul it back and forth.”

“What was the largest diamond they found?”

“Three or four carats, I believe.”

“I can’t wait to start screening!”

“Let me know if you need help moving your gear.” Blake said.

“Do you mind if I keep some changes of clothing here to change into after a day of screening?”

“Not at all. Use the guest bedroom—it has its own bathroom, so you’ll have everything you need if you want to shower.”

They walked slowly back to the house. Blake fixed another drink and poured Brooke more Pinot. They sat in the porch swing as the moon rose, painting the lake in broken silver.

“This has been such a relaxing day,” Brooke said.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Think you’ll be okay to drive home?”

“I was thinking I might make early use of your guest bedroom. I brought a bag just in case.”

“You’re welcome to it. Though I’m not used to slim women spending the night—the rope bed in there was made for stouter frames.”

“Well, if it gets uncomfortable, I’ll come to your room. Is your bed a rope bed too?”

“Nope. Sealy Posturepedic. No big dent to roll into at night.”

“Yeah… right.”

“You can ride up with me tomorrow and meet my father, if you’d like.”

“I’d love to.”



The rope bed must have been comfortable enough, because Blake woke the next morning with no midnight visitor. He showered, shaved, dressed, and headed downstairs to make breakfast: blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, hickory-smoked bacon, juice, and coffee.

While the coffee perked, he mixed the pancake batter, preheated the skillet, and slid the bacon into the oven to broil. A teaspoon of bacon grease went into the hot pan, and he poured the first pancake. The aroma soon drew Brooke downstairs. She had showered quickly and thrown on jeans and a T-shirt. Grabbing a mug, she poured coffee and sat at the island to watch him cook.

“The rope bed must have been comfortable,” Blake said.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, grinning.

“You told me if you didn’t like it, you’d get in my bed.”

“What I said was I’d come to your room,” she corrected. “I guess I should have added that I’d take your bed and you could have the rope bed.”

“Well, you just ruined my dream retroactively.”

“You’ll have to come up with something better than the threat of a rope bed to get me between your sheets.”

“Make me a list and I’ll come through.”

“Let me think about it. I don’t want to make it too easy for you.”

Blake flipped the pancake onto a plate and slid it into the warming drawer. He poured more batter and checked the bacon. He made six pancakes total, then beat four eggs with milk and scrambled them the way Brooke liked. She set places at the island while he divided the food and brought out syrup, butter, and bacon.

“How do you normally cook your eggs?” she asked.

“Over easy if I have time. If I’m in a rush, a couple of raw ones with salt, pepper, and a splash of malt vinegar.”

“No!” Brooke looked like she might gag. “You really drink them?”

“Sure. Makes my hair shiny.”

“They make hair products for that, you know.”

“Yeah, but those make me smell like I’m light in the loafers.”

They ate mostly in comfortable silence at first. Blake got up to refill their coffee.

“Why did they quit mining the pipe?” Brooke asked.

“It just got too difficult for a small operation. The dragline bucket weighed close to a ton by itself. You had to float it out on a raft with jon boats, drop it in, then winch it back using the hit-and-miss engine. Once they dug past the lip of the pipe, they stopped. Most folks around here wouldn’t know it, but they made good money. Grandpa said they’d made enough, so they put the engine away and tore down the derrick. He always said it was a sin to get too greedy.”

“What time do visiting hours start at the VA hospital?”

“The start at one o’clock; I usually stay until four.”

Brooke finished her last pancake and piece of bacon, then refilled her coffee. “You’re spoiling me with all this food,” she sighed.

“Better enticement than the rope bed threat?”

“Several steps above, but still not quite enough,” she said, smiling.

She carried her plate to the sink, rinsed it, and loaded the dishwasher. Blake followed, rinsing his utensils and washing the skillet. He drained the bacon grease into the saver can and cleaned the cast-iron broiler pan and lid. Brooke dried the pans and hung them on the rack beside the stove.

“You have a lot of cast-iron pieces,” she noted.

“Most have been in the family for generations—Griswold, Wagner, Wapak. I just added Lodge’s Ultimate Blacklock set. Those are modeled after the original lightweight Blacklock cookware before they rebranded as Lodge.”

“You have a history major in cast-iron cookware?” Brooke teased.

“No, just an appreciation for the things my ancestors used. I even tore down and reassembled that hit-and-miss engine. It still runs fine.”
 
Chapter Eight

Blake pulled off the parkway and turned left onto South Cedar Street. He parked in the visitors’ lot, and they made the ten-minute walk to the facility just as visiting hours began. Blake carried a large half-and-half iced tea from Sonic—his dad’s favorite—that the nurses always allowed when he visited. Spotting the weekend nurse supervisor, Mrs. James, at the desk, he walked over.

“Can he still have his iced tea?” Blake asked, holding up the cup.

“Oh! Hello, Mr. Alexander!” Mrs. James said brightly. “Yes, he can. He’s been very lucid this week and has been calling the nurses by name.”

“That’s good to hear. He seemed to be slipping for a while there.”

“Well, sometimes it comes and goes,” she replied with a sympathetic smile.

Blake led Brooke down the hall to his father’s room. Jim Alexander was already dressed and sitting in an armchair, gazing out the window. He turned at the sound of their footsteps.

“Hi, Dad. How are you doing?”

Jim smiled. “Mighty fine… mighty fine!” His eyebrows rose in surprise when he saw Brooke. “My, my! Where’d you get the arm candy?”

“Dad, this is Brooke Winslow, a friend of mine.”

Brooke giggled and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Alexander.”

Jim grinned, took her hand, and gave it a gentle shake. “I’ll shake your hand now, but before you leave, I’m going to want a hug. A pretty young lady like you should get lots of hugs every day.” He looked up at Blake and wagged a finger. “Make sure she gets them!”

Brooke laughed and peeled the paper from the straw, slipped it into the iced tea, and handed the cup to Jim.

“Mrs. James said you’ve been feeling better this week,” Blake said.

“Yeah,” Jim replied, taking a long sip. “It was like stepping out of ground fog onto a clear ridge. I’ve got some things to tell you, and I’d better say them today while I can. Grab some chairs.”

Once Blake and Brooke were seated, Jim leaned forward.

“In the old tool barn, you remember that wooden cubby in the rock wall where we’ve always kept that Silver Eagle pump oil can?”

“Yep, still there,” Blake said.

“Well, if you wiggle that box, it’ll slip out easy—as long as the wood hasn’t swelled from dampness. Behind it is a floor safe mortared into the wall. The combination is nineteen, forty-five, seventy-eight. Don’t forget it. The only other way in is with a torch, and that could destroy what’s inside. There are historical documents, diaries, and ledgers from our trips to New York. None of us ever trusted banks much—especially after Wilson created the Federal Reserve and Roosevelt confiscated everyone’s gold for his Communist New Deal programs. You’ll find information on where some of our proceeds are stored. That’s the last of it, son. I was pretty far gone when they brought me here. I don’t remember much about you redoing the house. I hope I get to see it again before I cross the river.”

“You will,” Blake said. “You’ll be out of here soon, and I’ll give you the grand tour. Not much has changed, except we’re off the grid now. I put in solar and wind.”

“It’s working out well. I can still run the wood-shop equipment and not get a power bill that would pay for a new interstate highway.”

Jim chuckled. “Yeah, Entergy knows how to squeeze a nickel out of every loose dollar.”

“Well, they won’t get any more from me.” Blake smiled. “I also extended the porch down both sides of the house. On the east side, where the fire pit was, I laid pavers and replaced that old tire rim with a proper one. I piped gas from the well straight to it.”

“Sounds mighty nice.” Jim’s eyes went distant as he pictured it.

“I’m building you a new chair for the pit, too. Burt Wilson picked up a load of black locust at an estate sale—sold as ‘just old lumber.’ I bought it from him. Hard as iron, but it’ll make a beautiful outdoor chair and side table.”

Jim nodded. “Good choice. Withstands weather well and it’s naturally resistant to rot. But that’s some tough stuff to work.”

“You’re telling me. I’ve already burned through two saw blades, and nails just bend. I’m pre-drilling and using screws now.”

“Just as well. Regular nails would rust out long before that locust ever rotted.”

Jim turned his attention to Brooke. “So, Missy, what do you do besides looking good on my son’s arm?”

“I own a wedding venue on Chalmers Road and dabble in real estate.”

“Dad, she sends customers my way when they need transport to the leased cabin sites.”

“That’s good. The two of you working together… lot of good things can come from that.”

Jim had Blake and Brooke switch seats so he could talk with her directly. They fell into a long conversation about her family, her plans, and her favorite recipes. Blake slipped out to get them bottles of water. When he returned, they were still deep in discussion.

He twisted the cap off Brooke’s bottle and handed it to her just as Jim asked, “You got any tattoos, Brooke?”

She laughed. “No, sir.”

Jim grinned. “Good. Blake, what was the name of that girl you brought home years ago—the one with the tattoo across the top of her butt?”

Brooke burst out laughing.

“Dad, that was ages ago,” Blake groaned. “She was from over near Blue Springs. Patsy something. Probably has six kids and a pet pig in the house by now.”

Jim chuckled. “At least she raises her own pork.” He looked at Brooke. “After her, he never brought another girl home. For a while I worried he’d turned into a friend of Dorothy.”

Brooke tilted her head. “A friend of Dorothy?”

“Light in the loafers,” Jim explained. “Batting for the other team.”

“My goodness, I hope not!” Brooke said, eyes sparkling.

They talked about everything and nothing until visiting hours ended. Jim had Brooke recount her crystal and gem hunts in detail.

As they stood to leave, Jim asked, “Did you write down that combination?”

“Nineteen, forty-five, seventy-eight,” Blake recited.

“Good.” Jim nodded, satisfied. “Brooke, it was a real pleasure to meet you. Don’t be a stranger.”

“It was wonderful meeting you too,” she replied. “I’ll see you again soon. Now stand up—you promised me a hug!”

Jim braced his hands on the chair arms and pushed himself up. He wrapped Brooke in a warm embrace and whispered near her ear, “I see the way you look at him. He’s a good boy, but he needs a good woman to keep him between the traces. Take care of him. He’s going to need you.”

Brooke pulled back and smiled softly. “I will.”

Before they left, Blake spoke with the head nurse and left money for his dad’s commissary needs. He and Brooke walked back to the truck in thoughtful silence, then stopped at Texas Roadhouse in Hot Springs for an early supper.

“Your dad seemed to be doing really well,” Brooke said.

Blake stared at his plate. “He’ll be gone within a week.”

“What?! What do you mean?!”

“My grandfather did the same thing. Had a stretch of perfect clarity right at the end—happy, sharp, talking to everyone. A few days later, he passed in his sleep.”

“Oh, Blake…” Brooke reached across the table. “Maybe this time it’ll be different. It could be a turning point.”

But it wasn’t.

Wednesday morning at 5:00 a.m., a nurse found Jim Alexander already gone.
 
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