Story Sandy Shoals

Chapter Nineteen

With less time having to be spent on the outfitter complex, Blake had picked up an old hobby he occasionally revisited: collecting recipes. Not just any recipes, but copycat versions of restaurant dishes he loved. He would find a promising one online, then tweak the ingredients and techniques until it tasted exactly like the original. He did this for protection. Blake loved to eat, and he enjoyed a wide variety of foods. Too many times he had fallen in love with a dish only for the restaurant—whether a local mom-and-pop or a national chain—to close its doors forever. Once it was gone, it was gone.

He kept binders full of perfected recipes, ready for whenever a craving struck. Lately, though, he hadn’t come across any new restaurant entrées worth copying. That changed when the urge for beef enchiladas hit him hard. Blake pulled a roast from the freezer and moved it to the pantry fridge to thaw.

He could have bought corn tortillas at Walmart, but he preferred making his own. He opened a fresh bag of harina de maíz, set out the bucket of lard and his six-inch tortilla press, and got to work. He stacked the finished tortillas on the counter, separating them with parchment paper. After pressing and cooking forty-eight of them, he heated a skillet with just a thin film of lard. Each tortilla spent only a few seconds in the hot fat on each side—just long enough to make them pliable—before draining in fresh stacks separated by paper towels. They were now ready to roll around the beef filling once the roast was cooked.

With the meat still frozen solid, it would be at least three days before the enchiladas could come together. That evening, before bed, Blake changed his mind about waiting. He placed the roast in the slow cooker, added water, beef bouillon cubes in the right proportion, plenty of minced garlic, and chopped onions. He set it on low and let it cook gently through the night.

When Blake and Brooke went to bed, Brooke sat on the edge for a moment. “I feel sorry for Vivian’s mother. She never got the chance to get her life straight. It’s a shame she didn’t get a second chance.”

Blake rolled over toward her. “Sometimes life doesn’t give you time for second chances. The second time she let drugs into her body was her second chance. She gave all her chances away for a few hours of feeling good, and karma eventually bit her in the ass. I know it sounds hard, but by continuing down that path, she actually gave Vivian a second chance—at a life with happiness. That’s the hard truth.”



Zippy met them near the courthouse steps the morning of the hearing and walked in with them. When it was time, Blake and Brooke flanked Vivian, the three of them holding hands as they entered the courtroom. It was in recess. The bailiff spoke quietly with Zippy, then turned to Brooke.

“The judge would like to speak with Vivian alone in chambers. Everything’s fine—she just wants a few minutes with the child.”

Reluctantly, Blake and Brooke released Vivian’s hands. Zippy followed the bailiff and Vivian through a side doorway. Blake and Brooke took seats in the front row and waited in uneasy silence.

When Vivian and Zippy returned, the little girl showed no strong emotion. She simply slipped back between her foster parents and took Brooke’s hand again.

Once the judge returned and the bailiff called the court to order, Vivian’s case was announced. They moved forward to the table in front of the bench. Zippy handed the judge a file folder. The judge reviewed several pages, then asked the DSS representative, Brenda Baucom, for the Department’s position.

Brenda stated that the Department had no objection to Vivian remaining with the Alexanders until adoption proceedings could begin. The judge studied more documents, made a few notes, and announced her ruling: Vivian would stay with Blake and Brooke Alexander, with coordinated DCFS visits, for a period not less than one year.

Blake and Brooke exhaled in relief as the next case was called.

On the way down the courthouse steps, Blake turned to Zippy. “You earned your fee, Counselor.”

Zippy grinned. “And a barbecue!”

“You’re definitely getting that,” Brooke said.

Blake treated them all to Mamoo’s Creamery for ice cream. Vivian ordered a banana split.



Now that Vivian was officially (if temporarily) part of the family in the eyes of the court, Brooke wasted no time taking her new daughter on shopping trips. Nothing flashy—just more everyday clothes for school and play, plus three nice dresses for more formal occasions. Blake took her to Little Rock and had her fitted for a quality Gore-Tex rain suit at Bass Pro. He also put together a small utility vest for her, complete with a Garmin GPSMAP 67i that included inReach satellite messaging and tracking. Over time he added common survival items and taught her how to use each one. Brooke wasn’t entirely thrilled about the survival training, but Vivian was a curious girl who loved exploring the woods.

Dale Hudson’s employee-of-the-month program had turned into a spirited competition. Workers were scored on helpfulness to customers, demeanor, and how well they integrated into the growing business. The monthly winner received a bonus, and for the next two days the rest of the staff wore store T-shirts printed with “I’m proud to know” followed by the winner’s name. What started as a joke quickly became a point of pride. Positive Yelp reviews and customer satisfaction scores climbed noticeably.

With another mouth to feed, Blake updated his long-term storage spreadsheet. He adjusted quantities from two adults and one child to three adults—after all, Vivian would grow. Working with his financial advisor and accountant, he established trusts and increased his personal insurance coverage to better protect Brooke and Vivian.

They were still waiting for the post-Labor Day slowdown, but business remained steady. Early mornings brought café traffic—people grabbing coffee and quick bites before work. Camilia’s senior lunch specials had become popular, drawing locals who often browsed the shops afterward.

The Arkansas Game and Fish Commission approached Doug about sponsoring hunter safety classes. Blake had a classroom walled off in the north corner of the warehouse, with a new exterior door added. Students could park in the parking lot behind the loading docks. Doug arranged for a PA from a local clinic to teach advanced field medical emergency courses. That evolved into the PA assembling a prototype hunter’s first-aid kit. Dale reached out to the Department of the Interior’s Office of Indian Economic Development to have the kits manufactured on a Native American reservation. The components were readily available “Made in America” items; the tribe would handle assembly with government-provided technical assistance, training, and startup funding.

Fall was prime time for building new cabins. Will and Blake stayed busy hauling supplies to leased sites, sometimes accompanied by a park ranger for inspections. No heavy equipment was allowed on the sites, so everything had to be offloaded by hand. Will kept a crew of day laborers ready near the boat slip to ride out with them and help unload. Most days the workers took their cash straight to the café and loaded up on Camilia’s hand fruit pies.
 
Freebirde said:
Blake and a couple of deputies need to go to Vivian's old house to pick up favorite toys, clothes, and papers.
Click to expand...
Been in some of those places after a child (or children) were taken into care; in most cases, it was best to rake everything into a pile, drop it into a burn barrel & start fresh.

In 7 or 8 such cases/scenes I attended, toys were not much in evidence and the kids were always skinny & dirty.

Same story when I ran my ambulance service but then it was more usually booze related neglect. Same results though; unhealthy kids, under weight and always dirty.

And yet Social Services almost always supported the court returning the children to the so-called 'parents'.

Still winds me up . . . .
 
Chapter Twenty


Through Dale’s contacts, he arranged a meeting with the Chairman of the Caddo Nation of Oklahoma and a representative from the Bureau of Indian Affairs Division of Economic Development. The tribe would assemble the first aid kits, leveraging their growing economic development initiatives. Dale hoped the conversation would lead to a partnership producing basic, advanced, and specialized kits tailored for hunters and outdoor enthusiasts. His vision included a hunter’s vest packed with everything needed to survive a traumatic injury in the field.

For now, Dale had a basic Individual First Aid Kit (IFAK) on the drawing board: a camo hunter-orange pouch designed to ride on a belt. It held a tourniquet, hemostatic gauze or QuikClot, pressure bandage, chest seal, nitrile gloves, trauma shears, sterile gauze pads, roller gauze, medical tape, moleskin or blister pads, antiseptic wipes, pain and inflammation medication, antihistamine, and an emergency space blanket. A modular build-out kit would supplement it with assorted adhesive bandages, butterfly closures or Steri-Strips, antibiotic ointment, liquid bandage or super glue, tweezers, a 10 mL syringe with 16-gauge needle, Ace or triangular bandage, SAM splint, anti-diarrheal, antacid, electrolyte tabs, hydrocortisone cream, eye wash, a small flashlight or headlamp, whistle, notepad and Sharpie, fire starter, water purification tabs, sunscreen, lip balm, and insect repellent wipes. The IFAK and build-out could combine in a larger pouch that slipped easily into a day pack.

Topping the lineup was the “Ouachita Hunter Pro” vest. It incorporated both the IFAK and build-out kit, with additional pockets for extra gear suited to extended backcountry trips—including space for a satellite messaging device. Dale had shouldered a heavy load, but the enthusiasm carried him forward. He planned to stock all individual components in the store for replacements, along with Garmin inReach communicators.

Vivian had signed up for a spelling bee at the end of the month. Each evening, Brooke and Blake took turns drilling her from a four-page list of recommended words. The competition included second-, third-, and fourth-graders, so the stakes felt high. They worked for an hour, then broke for cookies and milk or popcorn and lemonade, before returning to the list. Blake occasionally slipped in an off-list word. Vivian sounded it out; if she missed it, she added the word to her personal study list.

On the day of the bee, Blake took the afternoon off and met Brooke at the school. The event dragged at times, but watching Vivian’s focus and progress made it worthwhile. In the end, she placed second, edged out by a sharp Indian girl—the dot kind, not the woo-woo kind. Blake and Brooke beamed with pride anyway. They celebrated with bowls of Camilia’s banana pudding at the café.

Afterward, they strolled down to the country store. Mr. Wilson stood behind the counter in period attire—black pants, white long-sleeve shirt with sleeve garters, suspenders, and black vest—looking every bit the 1800s general store proprietor. He let Vivian pick a stick of hard candy and slipped it into a small paper poke. She chose pineapple.

Dale had just received a Garmin kiosk for the store, showcasing the GPSMAP 67i (the same model Blake had given Vivian and Brooke), the inReach Mini 2, and the inReach Messenger Plus with smartphone integration. Sales averaged at least two units a day, often beating Amazon prices even with Prime shipping. The devices, along with Garmin tracking collars for pets, quickly became favorites among visitors and locals alike.⁠

Dale also consulted local hunting and fishing guides about unmet needs. Bulk shipments of first aid supplies began arriving to support future kit assembly, though he held off on displaying loose components until the full kits launched. The Caddo Nation promised three dozen basic kits, a dozen build-out kits, and a dozen vests before Thanksgiving. Dale had already received a dozen prototype vests, which he turned over to the physician’s assistant for the medical emergency segment of the Hunter Safety Course.

Brooke reserved a birthday party package at Funtrackers Family Fun Park in Hot Springs for Vivian’s eighth birthday on the 23rd. The park offered go-karts, bumper cars, mini-golf, arcade games, ziplines (including a kiddie course), and more. Reservations filled quickly on weekends, so booking early had been essential.

Blake received the final deposit into the offshore transactional account for the diamonds from the New York buyers. They must have recovered more jewelry-grade stones from the casks than expected. A few days later, an insured package arrived containing two identical necklaces—small platinum stars, each set with three tiny diamonds.

In the shop, Blake continued work on Vivian’s cedar memory box. Before installing the hardware, he melted cedar pitch in a double boiler, cut it with a touch of linseed oil, and applied a light coat to the wood. He cured each layer under a heat lamp, building gloss gradually until the finish looked rich and waxed. Using a Dremel, he precisely inset the lock, then added final coats. He installed the brass hardware, threaded the key onto a delicate gold chain, and placed it inside the box along with a 3x5 copy of their family portrait. He wrapped the finished box in brown paper to protect it from dust and set it on a high shelf. A brass plate was already at the engraver.

The inscription read:

To Vivian:

May you always be happy and your dreams come true. This box is to keep memories of moments you cherish, and to remember our love that will never perish.

Mom and Dad

Vivian had thrown herself into drawing landscape scenes. Brooke bought her a Canon PowerShot SX620 digital camera with 25x optical zoom—compact enough, once unpacked, to nestle inside the memory box. It would give her reference photos when drawing from life. Blake added a laptop and printer for schoolwork and photo downloads.

Vivian invited twelve school friends; every one RSVP’d. The weather cooperated perfectly. They raced go-karts, bumped cars, and played mini-golf. Blake and Brooke gave Vivian her presents that morning so she could use the camera all day. She snapped photos nonstop until Blake had to recharge the battery in the truck that afternoon. She burned through plenty of printing paper the following week before learning to be more selective with the images she saved from the camera to her computer.
 
Chapter Twenty-One


Brooke had a conniption the day Blake came home with a Youth Polaris Ranger 150 EFI on a trailer for Vivian. She was absolutely not going to let her drive the thing. Blake got her to calm down a bit and showed her all the safety features, the Ranger was neon safety green for easy visibility, daylight driving lights, a safety flag and there was a smartphone app they could govern her speed and a GPS locator so they knew where the vehicle was at all times. They could set her speed and monitor her driving habits according to her skills. Brooke checked out the safety belts and nets and finally agreed to let Vivian try it out. Blake downloaded the apps to both their phones and put the settings in novice mode. Blake walked Vivian through pre-operations things she had to check, like gas, oil, and tire pressure and told her if they were low to let him know and he would fill them. Brooke set her max speed to 10 mph on the app and Blake got in with Vivian, had her put on her helmet, and they headed to the marina. It was a two kilometer drive and the road was good so she started off relatively slow and picked up speed as she became accustomed to driving. Blake had her practice pulling over and stopping if she ever encountered vehicles coming from the other way. They drove to the marina, then up to the Complex, then went home.

Brooke was waiting for them like a nervous hen, but smiled and asked Vivian how she liked it.

“It’s awesome Mom! You should come with me!”

“I’ll let you get a little more practice before I try it out. Besides, I don’t have a helmet.”

“You could wear Dad’s!”

“I’ll get you a helmet tomorrow, Sweetheart.”

Brooke gave Blake a nasty sneer and announced supper was ready.

The next day Blake got Brooke a helmet and installed Bluetooth communications sets in each of their helmets, then built a shelf in the garage to charge the devices.

The following day he came home with a Polaris Expedition Northstar on his trailer. Blake suggested to Brooke if she was uneasy riding with Vivian, she could drive the Expedition and follow her. She would still be able to talk with Vivian given the range on the helmet communications.

Brooke grumbled but they put on their helmets and drove the Expedition up to the Complex. Brooke drove back to the house in time to go pick Vivian up.

On Friday, Brooke came home with four yellow diamond road signs printed with “SLOW Student Driver” and insisted Blake install them ASAP along their driveway to warn visitors. Blake had no problem and bought 4”x4”x8’ posts to attach them to.

The driveway to Sandy Shoals crossed an intermittent stream that was fairly deep about a third of a mile from the house. The bridge over it had been last rebuilt back in the Fifties. Blake checked the logs and the Sides of the bridge you could pull off handfuls of rotting wood and the stringers were soft. Blake decided since he had the money, to have the bridge rebuilt but instead of using logs this time, he would use steel I-beam stringers. They could still use wood for the deck of the bridge and to protect that, he would go ahead and have it covered, like the old timey bridges. He found a company in Russellville that could build it and contacted them. They sent a rep down and he took measurements and said they would get back to him with a timeline on construction. In the meantime, Blake contacted a local land clearing company to cut a temporary road above the deepest part of the stream in a shallower area and put in a culvert. They ended up using the temporary cut for three months. It was almost a switchback at the stream but if you took it slow, there was no problem. The architects designed a 30 ton rated bridge and Blake approved. That was enough to carry any freight carriers they had ever had down there. The covered bridge would also handle a two and a half ton box truck. The bridge would have two lanes for two-way traffic. Road bed would be eighteen feet wide and the opening in the structure would be sixteen feet. Total length of the bridge was 110 feet to include the approach bridge slabs. They would be out the week after Thanksgiving to began building the abutments. The steel had already been ordered from Nucor-Yamato Steel in Blytheville.

After watching the construction team excavating and building forms for the abutments, Blake had nothing else to do so he got his saws and axe and headed for what was known by the family as the “Rail Grove”. It was an area that had been cleared years ago and planted in neat rows of empress trees, a common name for Paulownia, to make split rails and fence posts. They had first been used for fence posts because the wood was lightweight, fast-growing, dried quickly, and water and decay-resistant. The grove had originally been started to sell fence posts to the CO-OP and later landscapers started using the wood to build decorative rail fencing. They sold them for years then people quit farming and rail fences went out of style, which was sort of a relief to Blake because he had spent many hours with a maul and wedges splitting those logs. Nowadays, the wood is moderately expensive because most of it is grown commercially in Asia and had to be shipped in. The wood was used for making Musical instruments, cabinets, paneling, trim, moldings, lightweight furniture, surfboards, kayaks, boats, yachts, wakeboards, skis, snowboards, plywood, veneers, and composites. The good thing about the Paulownia is that when you cut a tree down, shoots would grow out of the stump for the next tree. All you had to do the next year was go back and cut off the undesirable shoots and a new tree would grow. A tree would grow three feet a year and grow up to 60 feet tall. It was considered an invasive plant now but it could be controlled. Blake didn’t have much use for it now, but he kept the grove groomed to keep it from getting out of control. One of the cons against the wood was it didn’t make good firewood. Oh, it would burn, but not very hot like other hardwoods. You had to add a lot more kindling to it to get it started burning.

As Blake trimmed overgrown shoots from some of the stumps, he began to envision putting a split rail fence around the yard and maybe up the edges of the driveway. He already had just about enough dried logs on the log racks next to the entrance of the grove. They had used some of the logs from the racks to build a split rail fence along one side of the parking lot for aesthetics. He had cut logs to replace those they’d used and whose stumps he was trimming.

He had only about twenty stumps to clean up so he was soon done. He carried his equipment and his thoughts back to the house. He’d talk to Brooke about his idea.
 
Chapter Twenty-Two


The bridge crew finished the pilings, piers, and pier caps for the center support while the weather held. Large rubber washers went in at the girder connections to let the structure flex during earth tremors—remnants of the New Madrid Seismic Zone that still rattled the region from time to time. They laid the girders a week before Christmas and bolted them down tight. Work would pause until after New Year’s.

For the first time in years, a real Christmas tree stood in the Alexander house. Blake usually grabbed one of those quick-erect artificial trees with lights already strung from Walmart and tossed it in January. Not this year. Along with the steady stream of gifts Brooke and Vivian hauled in came boxes of ornaments, lights, and garland for the tree, the house, and the outside eaves. They made a family outing of picking the tree, with Vivian casting the deciding vote. Blake hadn’t even tried to argue—whatever his wife and daughter wanted was fine by him.

Brooke put Blake to work dusting and waxing the huge dining-room table for their Christmas Eve gathering. They had invited Will Smith and his girlfriend Chely, Joe and Martha Johnson with their sons Ted and Daniel, plus Camilia Tyson and Bernice Watson. Blake stocked up on beer and spirits while Vivian added a new homemade ornament to the tree each day. Brooke had discovered a specialty shop in Little Rock that created crystal-clear ornaments with 3D images suspended inside; she ordered one of just Vivian and another of the three of them together. Those would go on the tree Christmas Eve.

Blake smoked and glazed a ham, then smoked a seventeen-pound turkey. Brooke found a twenty-pound bird from Patriot Farms to roast. The night before Christmas Eve, Camilia and Bernice came over to help with the final sides. The Complex would stay open until two o’clock on Christmas Eve, then shut down until January third.

Once the last guest left, Brooke got Vivian bathed and into bed as early as possible. The little girl had been excited all evening and had eaten enough to worry Brooke about a stomachache, but a warm bath and a Christmas movie did the trick. Vivian was asleep before the credits rolled.

As soon as they slipped upstairs, Blake headed to his shop and started ferrying presents inside. The biggest job was filling the stockings. Brooke had bought bags of treats and trinkets to stuff into the personalized ones they’d ordered online.

He slipped a small red velvet box into each girl’s stocking first—diamond earrings he’d bought through the son of a New York merchant he knew. Vivian’s held dainty diamond studs; Brooke’s had elegant dangling ones. Then came candy, small bottles of facial and hair products, a different perfume for each, and a few novelty items Blake had picked out himself. By the time Brooke came back downstairs, the stockings were plump and ready.

Together they quietly retrieved the rest of the gifts Brooke had stashed in the attic, accessed through the door in their bedroom. They kicked off their shoes and boots to muffle footsteps. The pile surprised them both—most of it destined for Vivian, with plenty for Brooke too.

“What all did you buy Vivian?” Brooke whispered, eyes wide.

Blake grinned. “The real question is what you bought for Vivian—and yourself.”

“I didn’t get that much!”

“We’ll find out when Santa shows up, I guess.”

Brooke already knew about one surprise she hadn’t bought. She had debated getting Vivian a smartphone for when the girl was out on adventures, then worried she was still too young. Blake had gone to MJ Communications in Little Rock and picked up three BK One radios—rugged units favored by emergency managers and event crews. Each had built-in GPS tracking, and he’d programmed a private three-person channel. He’d also mounted a repeater up on the ridge near the Vortex wind generators to extend their range significantly.

They finally arranged everything to Brooke’s satisfaction and climbed into bed, only to be jolted awake at five a.m. by Vivian’s shout: “Merry Christmas! Santa came!”

Brooke groaned and tried to burrow deeper into her pillow. Blake pulled on a T-shirt and pajama pants, then shuffled downstairs to make coffee. Vivian was already circling the tree, pawing at tags. He let her open one gift while they waited for Momma. She chose a big box and tore into it—a puffy winter jacket that made her look three times her size. She immediately put it on with the matching hat and gloves and dashed out onto the deck, French door left wide open behind her.

Blake started breakfast: a huge country ham steak fried and chopped, folded into fluffy omelets with eggs, white cheddar, and tomatoes, served alongside cinnamon toast. Brooke soon drifted downstairs, drawn by the aromas. She poured juice and milk while Vivian set the breakfast-nook table.

This was the kind of morning Blake lived for—both his girls happy, smiling, all three of them together. Then came the rapid tapping on the roof. Sleet. No matter. They finished breakfast, and Brooke declared the dishes could wait. They moved into the great room with coffee and juice, and Vivian began handing out gifts. Blake grabbed a contractor’s bag to collect wrapping paper and packaging before anything got lost beneath the mess—he’d seen it happen too many times at family gatherings.

When the last present was opened, Vivian took down the stockings. She emptied hers methodically, sorting items into neat piles. When she reached the little red box, her eyes lit up. Brooke had promised pierced ears soon. Brooke felt the toe of her own stocking, dumped the contents onto the couch, and opened hers. She slipped the dangling diamonds on immediately and admired them in the hall mirror, turning her head this way and that.

“When in the world am I going to wear these?” she asked, laughing.

“I’ll just have to take you someplace fancy,” Blake said. “And you can wear them at our wedding.”

Brooke sniffled, leaned in, and kissed his cheek.

Blake pulled on his Wellingtons, coat, and hat, then hauled three contractor bags out to the incinerator. No sense risking a chimney fire with all that paper. The sleet hissed and evaporated on the cherry-red barrel as he fed the bags in a little at a time. When he came back inside, Vivian was carrying armloads to her room while Brooke helped find storage space.

Blake washed up and started prepping a rib roast for their afternoon meal. Brooke returned downstairs, pulled canned vegetables from the pantry, and began yeast-roll dough. Once the roast was in the oven and the timer set, Blake slipped out to the shop.

He hadn’t found chains that fit Vivian’s smaller Polaris exactly, so he’d bought a set for the adult model along with repair links and cut them down. They rarely got heavy snow here—the last decent accumulation had been four inches back in 2017—but the studded chains would handle mud and ice just fine. The Farmer’s Almanac called for a wet winter; he hoped it stayed mostly rain.

He brought Vivian out to the shop, showed her how to install the chains, then had her practice a couple of times on her own. They stowed the chains back in their heavy-duty Cordura bag inside the Polaris’s storage compartment. Blake brushed metal filings off his clothes from the grinder work, and they headed inside for eggnog.
 
Chapter Twenty-Three

The sleet continued, temperatures plunging faster than the forecasts had predicted. Low enough for ice to skin over the calmer coves of the lake—something that didn’t happen often in this part of Arkansas. Blake kept one eye on the weather apps, but no snow was in the cards, just ice in one stubborn form or another. Freezing rain was the real threat he was watching for. Within a couple of hours the rural power grid started dropping sections like dominoes. House lights winked out one after another down the shoreline, and even the marina went dark.

The Complex stayed lit thanks to its off-grid setup. Blake had already staged covered bins of sand-and-salt mix so the store owners could spread it in front of their doors. One of his employees was on standby with the tracked skid steer to keep the parking lot manageable. During the worst of the weather, the café became the warmest gathering spot on the property. People lingered over coffee and hot food, reluctant to head back out into the bite.

The sleet finally tapered off after the second day, leaving only a faint dusting of white across the ground. A few cold, bright days followed, but the sun offered little real warmth and a steady wind kept the wind chill sharp. Most folks stayed indoors when they could. Vivian, however, didn’t seem to notice the cold. She roared around on her Polaris every spare minute she wasn’t doing homework. To keep her reading habit alive, Brooke had started taking her to the library once a week. Vivian picked out books she wanted; Brooke added a few she thought the girl might enjoy. They read a chapter at a time, then sat together and talked it over. Blake loved watching the two of them curled up on the couch, heads bent over the same page.

With the cottages mostly empty during the deep cold, Will and Blake suddenly had breathing room. Blake wandered down to the old Paulownia grove and walked the rows, inspecting the covered drying racks and the shelter that had once housed the antique sawmill. Both structures were still solid. The lumber for the shelters had come straight from the grove—Paulownia logs milled right on site. The roofing deck had been made of 2x8 Paulownia boards back before plywood took over. The overlaid tin had protected everything for decades. The only real fix needed was smoothing out a few erosion trenches where rainwater had run off the roof edges. Nothing a little fill and grading wouldn’t cure.⁠

Grandpa had run a sawmill for more than twenty years at the old place before moving it here. Blake could still picture the big round blade screaming through cedar and oak logs. His mother had never let him linger nearby—“You’ll go deaf,” she’d warn. Grandpa ended up deaf as a post anyway, the price of a lifetime around the mill.

A plan started taking shape in Blake’s mind. The old shelter would make a perfect spot to split fence rails. Later he could bring in a modern portable sawmill to replace the antique that once stood here. The Paulownia grove itself wouldn’t support a full-time lumber business for long, but a portable rig would let the Johnson brothers take it wherever paying work turned up. If he pitched it right, maybe they’d split all those rails for him and save his back in the bargain.

The bridge crew returned as soon as conditions allowed and got back to work. They poured the roadbed pads, framed the cover, and laid the deck with 2x8 oak boards bolted down with six countersunk fasteners each. The holes would later be filled with epoxied wooden plugs for a clean finish. Cross-bracing was decorative lap-jointed 2x6s; the real load rested on the upright posts. Blake had wanted cedar shake siding. Instead of buying western cedar from the big-box stores, he contracted with the Johnson brothers for thirty squares of hand-split eastern cedar. Ted built an automated “froe” rig from parts of an old industrial chop saw and knocked the shakes out in under two weeks. They kiln-dried them, then predrilled every piece after the dry eastern cedar turned brittle.

Blake researched durable exterior paints and settled on Sherwin-Williams Duration Satin in a deep red for the body and bright white for the trim. A standing-seam tin roof would finish it off—nothing beat that distinctive sound of rain on metal. Once the bridge was complete, he planned to treat the interior with Maxxthor EC to discourage wasps and mosquitoes before they ever got started in the spring.

Complaints were starting to build in the café. Winter had pinched the seating; the outdoor tables that worked so well in warmer months were empty now. Only the hardiest crews—construction, road, pipeline—still congregated outside. Blake listened, then walked next door to the Wine and Spirits store. He asked Rowan and Tara Moore what they would change if they ever rebuilt. More display space for the surprise best-sellers was at the top of their list. Blake figured the wine store’s footprint could nearly double the café’s indoor seating. He explained his plan to Rowan and Tara and they were all in. He ran the idea past Camilia. She was immediately on board and saw a chance to expand her prep area too. Blake called the construction firm that built the Complex and asked for someone with decision-making authority and an architect. They set a meeting for the following week. With permitting lead time, they could have the expansion wrapped up by late spring.

With that piece moving forward, Blake walked back to the house, then drifted down to the old shed that once held the winch and dragline for the kimberlite operation. He leaned against a big hickory and tried to picture what his ancestors had faced: surviving the Civil War, Reconstruction, the Great Depression. They had stockpiled and buried supplies so the family could endure when times turned bad again. Things weren’t that dire now, but Blake was using the windfall to build something durable for the generations coming up. He’d seen what sudden money did to people—government checks included. Better to filter it into projects the family could grow with than hand out big sums that might do more harm than good.

His thoughts drifted to the prepper tales he’d read and compared them to his situation—men and women who found unexpected riches and used them to gear up for Armageddon. Some of it felt over-the-top, but the core idea made sense. The family had always canned, smoked, and preserved food for winter. Now they could store meals that would last twenty-five or thirty years with the right preparation. After watching the slow recovery in east Tennessee and western North Carolina, self-reliance looked like simple common sense. Don’t depend on the government to be there to help in a timely and sufficient manner. He didn’t fear the government exactly, just kept a wary eye on it. If things ever went truly sour, the men and women of the Ozarks and Appalachians knew how to make life difficult for outsiders in difficult terrain. Their hunting rifles would do until better weapons were acquired. History showed guerrilla tactics, combined with local knowledge and political will, could wear down even superior forces. Still, Blake’s focus remained on natural disasters—flash floods, tornadoes, the distant rumble of the New Madrid fault. Arkansas building codes accounted for seismic risk in this part of the state, though requirements were lighter than in the northeast. A few tremors over the years had rattled windows but left structures standing.

He would keep working to make the family less dependent on fragile outside infrastructure, ready to rebuild with their own hands if the world ever forced the issue.
 
Chapter Twenty-Four

Blake stepped into Camila’s café, the smell of fresh coffee and fried dough wrapping around him like an old friend. In the rear corner booth, old Robert sat hunched over a steaming cup, a half-eaten fried hand pie still steaming in its basket. Blake signaled for his own coffee and crossed the room.

“How’s it hanging, Robert?”

“Pointin’ toward my toes, same as always,” Robert replied, eyes sharp despite the casual drawl. “You’re lookin’ mighty pleased with yourself. I never trust happy people at face value—too often it’s just a coat of paint over cracks. I grin along, but I watch. Unless they’re a genuine Emmet Kelly type, all heart and no pretense. So what’s crouching on your shoulders today?”

Blake slid into the booth. “Robert, how have you lived this long carrying such a pessimistic view of the world?”

“Experience and common sense, son—two things in short supply these days. I grew up in the Sixties, during that so-called ‘awakening.’ Watched a generation chase rainbows and chemicals, then hand the country over to the same crowd once they got power. Drugs scramble more than just your short-term memory. Me? I hunker down, keep my powder dry, and let the world do its worst.”

“You doing all right? Got everything you need?”

“Oh yeah,” Robert said, waving his spoon. “Winter’s covered. Just came in for one of Camila’s pies—she makes ’em like my grandma did. What’s got you stirred up?”

“Just plans. Tornadoes, flash flooding, keeping the family safe.”

Robert nodded. “Flooding shouldn’t be your biggest worry up on that ridge. Tornadoes, though—they don’t play by the rules. Can drop in from any direction. Main thing is a solid shelter and enough supplies to ride it out and rebuild.”

“That’s the part I’m chewing on—how much to stock and how long we might have to bunker.”

Robert took a slow bite of pie. “I figured it like this: if a twister leveled my place, how long to rebuild? I keep supplies for that plus a few weeks extra. My cabin’s tucked in a hollow, backed against the mountain. That hollow has its own climate, warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Soil’s too poor to clear to grow anything. That’s the reason nobody’s never settled up in there. Pantry to shelter, batten down, and wait it out. Spring-fed water, food enough to feed the whole valley a Thanksgiving spread. Only regret is not having more room for building materials. After a big storm, lumber and hardware can get scarce fast.”

“Yeah, that takes space. We’ve got enough gear to go to tents if we have to.”

“Rough living in winter,” Robert grunted. “If it was me, I’d dig back into that slope and expand the shelter proper. Bugs in summer, cold in winter—neither one’s forgiving. You’ve got the room for a proper supply bunker.”

Blake considered it. “I’d lose some trees, but they could become support beams.”

Robert nodded, chewing thoughtfully. Blake finished his coffee, clapped the old man on the shoulder, and told him to holler if he needed anything.



When Blake got home, Brooke and Vivian were just pulling in from school. Vivian had no homework, so Blake took her out back for some lessons of his own. He had pre-cut two lengths of rope and walked her through the basics of knot tying: bowline, square knot, two half hitches, clove hitch, sheet bend, and taut-line hitch. He handed her a well-worn copy of The Morrow Guide to Knots and told her to practice every day.

Brooke watched from the porch, smiling at first. But when Vivian insisted on showing off every knot she’d learned, Brooke’s expression turned thoughtful. By the end of the week, Blake had picked up a Victorinox Swiss Army Tinker pocket knife for her at the Outfitter Store, along with a Smith pocket sharpener, an Arkansas stone, and a small bottle of honing oil. He sat with her on the porch steps, demonstrating each blade’s purpose and walking her through proper sharpening technique.

“Most men my age have never sharpened a knife in their lives,” he told her. “They’ve got kitchen drawers full of dull blades that can’t even slice a tomato clean. A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one—it slips. A sharp one does what you tell it.”

Brooke worried he was trying to turn Vivian into a boy, but the girl still kept her girly side. She loved the outdoors and would kick up her heels like a young colt, but team sports held little interest. Softball was okay; soccer was out. She said she had quit playing kickball in the Second Grade. She much preferred roaming the hills, or hunting crystals and gems with Brooke.

One afternoon a customer asked why the complex didn’t fly or sell the Rainbow Flag. The shop owners had settled on a straightforward answer: “We don’t virtue-signal. We don’t display or honor anything that celebrates homosexuality, transgenderism, or the rest of the sexual preferences represented on that flag. Our charter is not to cater to people with heterophobic fears.” It ruffled some feathers, but no further demands for political correctness followed.

Dale, never one to let an opportunity pass, had a batch of T-shirts printed:

THERE ARE 2 GENDERS

ONE GOES TO A GYNECOLOGIST,

ONE GOES TO A UROLOGIST,

THE REST NEED TO GO TO A PSYCHIATRIST.​

He sold out before the week was over and went straight to reorder.


Will had finally solved the day-labor bottleneck for barge deliveries. He designed a sturdy sled that could be loaded with building supplies and dragged off the landing craft. Blake ordered a Warrior Trojan 4,000-pound 12-volt portable utility winch with synthetic rope and an assortment of snatch blocks. They could anchor to a tree, a buried deadman, or even a heavy earth anchor and winch the sled ashore. The boat could drop supplies and head back for another load while the customer or their crew handled unloading. Blake and Will tried to be as accommodating as possible.
 
Chapter Twenty-Five

Robert made his way down the ridge along one of the state forest trails, his trekking pole clicking occasionally against a stone. Through the trees ahead, the faint orange glow of a campfire flickered in one of the scattered camping areas. The trail curved toward it, so Robert slowed and moved with deliberate silence, placing each foot carefully.

All of a sudden, a heavy blow slammed into his pack. A man yelled, “Hey! I caught someone sneaking up on the camp!”

Robert pivoted, sweeping the trekking pole hard into the assailant’s knee. The man crumpled with a grunt. In one fluid motion, Robert drew the Böker Plus Gnome neck knife from its sheath and drove the two-inch blade into the man’s thigh. He followed with three quick, precise stabs to the other thigh, disabling him. The man screamed.

Two more figures burst from the shadows. Robert spun and buried the blade into the nearest attacker’s thigh, then added several more wounds to ensure he stayed down. The third man tried to dance sideways, but Robert closed the distance in seconds and dropped him too, the knife flashing in the firelight.

The three men lay writhing and cursing, unlikely to go anywhere soon. Robert retrieved his pole, slipped off the trail, and melted into the darkness. He made his way cross-country back toward Sandy Shoals. At a small stream he paused, swished the blade clean in the cold water, and returned it to its sheath.



Blake’s head snapped up at the knock on the back door. He rose from his desk, slipped the P227 into the S.O.B. holster, and crossed to the door. Opening it, he was surprised to see Robert standing there in the shadows. Blake nodded him inside, led him to the kitchen, and poured a large insulated tumbler of cool spring water.

“I ran into a mess this evenin’,” Robert said quietly as they settled into the breakfast nook.

Blake listened while Robert recounted the ambush, idly cleaning his fingernails with the small blade of his Swiss Army knife. When Robert finished, Blake asked, “You know who they were?”

“It was dark, but I think it was the Ross boys. Didn’t get a good look at what they were doing around that fire before things got heavy. I reckon I ought to go back and clean up the mess.”

Blake shook his head. “Nah, let ’em be—unless you figure they’ll bleed out. I’ll call Schofield and report possible gunshots and poachers in that area. Knowing the Ross boys, they probably had guns and a sack of recreational drugs anyway. He can find ’em and haul ’em in on whatever else he digs up. You sure they ain’t gonna bleed out?”

“I know where to poke without hitting an artery.”

“You look tuckered. Why don’t you sleep here tonight? I’ll have breakfast ready early enough for you to slip back home before sunrise.”

“Won’t make much difference,” Robert said with a shrug. “Folks can’t see from the road how I get back into my hollow.”

“Well, rest up anyway. I’ll wake you when it’s ready.”

Blake led him to the outside entrance of the storm shelter, showed him the light switch, bunk, and toilet. He pulled a battery lantern from a cabinet and set it on the rough-built table beside the bunk.

“I’ll come get you when breakfast is ready,” Blake said, pulling the door shut behind him.

Back in his office, Blake flipped through his Rolodex, found Schofield’s number, and left a concise voice message. He set his phone to vibrate and the alarm for 03:30.



Blake snatched the vibrating phone off the nightstand before it could wake Brooke. He pulled on sweats and moccasins and padded downstairs. After starting the percolator, he decided biscuits and gravy would stick with Robert on the hike home. He pulled sausage from the fridge and the bread bowl from the counter. Biscuits went into the preheated oven while he browned the crumbled sausage and built the gravy. Once everything was ready, he covered the pans, put them in the warming drawer, then headed to wake his guest.

Robert was already up, sitting in a folding chair beside the neatly made bunk with its crisp military corners.

“You hungry?” Blake asked.

“I could eat a bite,” Robert said, grinning.

The smell of fresh biscuits greeted them as they entered the kitchen. Blake poured Robert a mug of strong coffee and seated him at the table. He split two biscuits on a plate, smothered them in sausage gravy, and set it in front of his guest. Then he cracked three eggs into a hot skillet with a splash of milk, scrambling them quickly. He slid the eggs onto the plate beside the remaining biscuit halves and poured himself a mug of coffee.

“I left Schofield a message last night,” Blake said. “He’ll probably be up there early looking for sign. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

Robert nodded, took a bite of eggs, and reached for the pepper shaker. He ate steadily but refused seconds when Blake offered.

“Don’t want to founder on the way home,” he said with a grin. “That was mighty fine.”

Robert finished his coffee, stood, and shouldered his pack. Blake handed him a bottle of spring water from the pantry fridge, which Robert tucked into a side pocket of his coat. They stepped onto the porch and waited while Robert’s eyes adjusted to the pre-dawn darkness.

“I reckon I’ll hole up at the cabin for a couple days,” Robert said. “Stay clear of that part of the forest, at least.”

“Good idea. I’ll give you a heads-up on anything I find out.”

Robert slipped his other arm through the pack strap. “Appreciate the food and the roof. I’ll be seeing ya.”

Blake watched the shadowy figure melt into the treeline and climb the ridge.

Once Robert was gone, Blake refilled the 6-cup percolator and settled into the great room to catch the early Fox News broadcast. At 06:30, Brooke came downstairs, nose twitching at the lingering smells.

“You already fixed breakfast?” she asked, pouring herself a mug of coffee.

“Yeah, had a visitor earlier.”

Blake recounted Robert’s story, the ambush, and how he’d put the old woodsman up for a few hours of sleep and a hot meal.

“If it really was the Ross boys, he was lucky they didn’t shoot him,” Brooke said, shaking her head. “Each one of them has two brain cells fighting for 3rd place.”

“Robert can handle himself pretty good,” Blake replied.
 
Chapter Twenty-Six

After breakfast, Officer Peter Schofield checked the area around Campsite 28 and found the three Ross brothers passed out cold. At first he thought they were dead. Blood soaked their thighs, and drag marks showed where they had crawled back into camp. Schofield quickly ruled out a bear attack—no torn clothing, no gnawing or claw marks. The men were more likely to die of hypothermia in the misting rain. He radioed the County Sheriff’s office for medical and investigative backup. He carried only one pressure bandage, but the wounds were seeping rather than pumping, so he held position until paramedics could take over. Near each man lay a fruit jar that had clearly held moonshine—likely the reason they were comatose.

Schofield left the three pickup trucks untouched. In the beds he’d spotted parts for what looked like a fifty-gallon still. He waited for the Sheriff’s personnel to arrive.

Forty minutes later the Garland County EMS rough-terrain ambulance rolled in, accompanied by three deputies on ATVs. The deputies followed the drag marks back to the apparent site of the attack. One deputy pulled a plaster-cast kit from his pack and began taking prints.

“I don’t know, Jake,” one deputy said. “I only see four sets of prints total. If it was an ambush, it was three against one. These boys may have stumbled into a Howler by mistake.”

“Get serious, Joe. Just take the prints and let forensics sort it out.”

The other two deputies searched the trucks and laid out the still components on a tarp behind the tailgates. Inside the cabs they found nearly five pounds of methamphetamine, several bottles of prescription pills, three handguns, and one AR-15.

Joe poured the final casts and covered them with a poncho to protect the plaster from the drizzle.

“What’ve you got so far?” Jake asked.

“Boot prints from the brothers—Red Wing with the Traction Tred sole. And one clean set from what looks like a Vietnam-era post-’69 Panama sole, probably military surplus.”

“When you’re packed up, you and Don escort the ambulance. Bill and I will wait for extra drivers to haul these trucks to impound.”



Two days later, Blake and Will were replacing a bow line on the landing craft when two deputies approached them on the wharf.

“One of you Blake Alexander?” the taller deputy asked.

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“We need to ask you a few questions about the message you left on Officer Peter Schofield’s phone earlier this week.”

“Not much to tell,” Blake said. “I heard shots, figured out the direction, and called it in.”

“You didn’t go out there yourself?”

“Hell no. Only an idiot goes tracking a poacher at night. Good way to end up on a stainless steel table in Hot Springs.”

“How’d you know the direction?”

Blake grinned. “Lived around here two-thirds of my life. I know how sound travels in these hills every season of the year.”

“He can smell the fart of an owl flying overhead and tell you what it ate last night,” Will added, grinning.

The deputy cleared his throat and jotted something down. “That’s all for now. If you remember anything else, give us a call.” He handed each man a contact card.

Blake and Will finished the day’s work. Blake pulled two twenties from his wallet. “On your way home tonight, stop by Harps and grab a family pack of pork chops, a bag of potatoes, and some green beans. Robert likes pork chops better than T-bones.”

“No problem.”

“Oh, and tell him everything’s cool. Have him boil that neck knife in vinegar water.”

“Sure thing.”

When Blake got home that evening, Vivian was bent over her homework at the kitchen table and Brooke was putting supper together: country ham steaks, mashed potatoes, kilt lettuce, and cornbread. Blake pitched in, mixing the bacon-grease dressing. Vivian loved kilt lettuce—probably because he always stirred in a pinch of brown sugar, vinegar, and salt. Poured hot over leaf lettuce and thinly sliced green onions, it was powerfully good.

After supper Vivian showed them the reference photos she’d taken of the café staff. She was planning a drawing for Camilia and was getting remarkably good with a pencil. She’d already done a strong likeness of Brooke that now lived in a document protector on the front page of her school binder. She was working on one of Blake but refused to let anyone see it until it was finished.

That night Robert boiled his knife, laid it in a skillet on the wood heater, and let it dry thoroughly. Once cool, he gave it a good coat of Hoppe’s No. 9.

The Ross brothers found themselves in far deeper trouble than they’d expected. The drugs and distilling equipment brought in the ATF and DEA, and an IRS investigation kicked off as well. With the meth and other illegal substances, they faced ten to forty years—or life. The remaining charges added at least five more years and heavy fines. A jury trial looked risky; nobody in the county liked the Rosses, and a guilty verdict could come on sheer meanness alone. They would almost certainly try to plea-bargain.

The whole mess became the daily topic down at the café, with plenty of under-the-table betting on exactly what sentences the brothers would draw.
 
Momma called that wilted lettuce. Good way to get extra fat calories in hard working people. Same with biscuits and gravy along with stew with a thick rue/gravy.

The Ross boys may not make it to trial if their suppliers and distributers decide to quiet them. Not unknown for investigators to offer protection if they talk and threaten to put them in general population and let it slip they rolled if they don't.
 
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