IF THERE WAS one thing Zeke didn’t miss about his family, it was the drama.
“We loved Grandpa Harlan.” Sophie righted her glasses over tear-filled eyes and gave the two older men disapproving glances. “There’s no reason not to tell us about Irene.”
Had Zeke known anything about Harlan, Irene or Ruth, he’d have cracked like a struck piñata beneath Sophie’s wounded stare, spilling all his information, just to see her smile again.
Looking paler than usual, Roy turned on his heel and left.
Egbert, on the other hand, remained. He opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it and closed it, staring at his boots.
“Secrets are rarely worth keeping,” Sophie announced, nose thrust in the air. Which might have been more impactful if she hadn’t cast one last longing glance at Old Jeb’s journal in Egbert’s hands. But then she was gone, following Roy and Shane out the door, her boots crunching on the snow.
Outside, Shane and Roy exchanged verbal volleys, their angry voices echoing through Second Chance. They both ignored Sophie’s attempts to make peace.
“Let’s fight like Old Jeb and Merciless Mike Moody.” Andy danced around the forge. “I’ll be Merciless Mike Moody.” He karate chopped the air with his hand. “Give my horse some shoes!”
“How did Old Jeb fight?” Alex asked Egbert, brown eyes alight with mischief.
“With his fists.” Egbert stared at the front door, not helping Zeke in any way, because his answer fed into a little boy’s imagination.
Predictably, Alex raised his fists and let out a primal battle cry, charging his twin.
Zeke stepped in Alex’s path and held the twins apart, longing for the days before he’d been their sitter when the boys pretended to be cannonballs and somersaulted across the inn’s floor. He frowned at Egbert. “I don’t see the harm in telling the Monroes about Irene.”
“Really?” Egbert’s gaze swung around to Zeke. “If a man didn’t mention his past to his relatives, what right do I have to do so? Especially when I signed a document saying I’d hold my silence.”
Although Zeke could respect the man’s moral code, he didn’t want to see Sophie unhappy.
The boys struggled to punch and stab each other. Zeke continued to keep them out of each other’s reach. “It’s going to get mighty unpleasant around here if the Monroes don’t start getting answers.”
“Would you like to read Jebediah’s diary?” Egbert held it out as if it was a peace offering.
Hell to the no.
“Sophie would love to read it,” Zeke said, gut churning with his secret weakness. “And Shane is working with Mitch to establish that Second Chance has historical significance in Idaho or the United States. Both men would love to read it.”
The boys continued to try to reenact the fight between Old Jeb and Merciless Mike Moody.
“Perhaps I’ll offer this to one of them some other time.” Egbert put the journal back in the chest. “When tempers have cooled.”
Wise man.
“If you’re interested, there are instructions on how to shoe a horse on the back wall.” Egbert tried to salvage his tour.
“Pass.” There were too many words. Zeke considered heading back to the inn but remembered Alexander’s books awaited. “How about you rent us some fishing poles, Egbert?”
“Fishing?” Alex lowered his fists.
“We’ve never been fishing.” Andy quit slicing the air.
“Fishing helped Second Chance residents survive the harsh winters.” Egbert walked toward the door in that slow gait of his, leaning heavily on his cane. “I’ll get you boys some gear. On the house. I couldn’t charge Harlan’s great-grandchildren.”
“Are there fish in the snow?” Alex trotted ahead of the old man.
“It doesn’t matter if there’s ice and snow on top of the water,” Egbert said grandly. “There are fish in this river longer than your arm.”
There might have been fish that big in the Salmon River forty or fifty years ago. Zeke doubted there were anymore. The biggest fish he’d heard caught since he’d been in town was about twelve inches long. Locals blamed man-made dams and the government practice of stocking mountain lakes with nonnative trout for the change in the fish population.
Andy ran after his brother. “I’m hooking the first fish.”
“I’m hooking the biggest,” Alex called back.
“I’m keeping mine,” Andy countered. “My fish is going to have a big tail. And I’m going to call him Fred.”
“We’ll be lucky to catch a fish, fellas, much less keep one.” Zeke followed at Egbert’s pace, excited despite himself. Fishing. There was a solid, nonreading activity. Zeke was on the road to recovery, walking easier and now angling for an evening meal.
They followed the path Shane had shoveled to Egbert’s place. The old man led them inside his store. There were chairs for customers and a glass counter with all kinds of fishing gear on display. “I’ve got poles your size, boys. Zeke, do you know how to tie a fly?”
“No, sir. I can bait a hook, though.”
“No bait,” Egbert said. “I’ll tie flies on for the boys. Winter fish prefer a stone fly nymph.”
“Flies?” Andy giggled, pressing his nose against the glass case.
But Alex shadowed Egbert, ready to learn. “Do we have to catch our own flies?”
“No. I’ve got some pretty ones that were made to look like real flies.” Egbert pulled out a tackle box and opened it up, revealing several flies with hooks disguised in the fluff. Egbert had fishing poles hung on the back wall. He took one and beckoned Zeke closer. “I’ll show Zeke how to tie a fly on and maybe next time he can do it for you. Fish are hungry in winter and less discriminating about what bait they bite.”
A few minutes later, Zeke and the twins exited the back of Egbert’s shop. Zeke shoveled a narrow path to the bank. The river curved around a bend, creating deep water, which Zeke assumed was where the fish were since that’s where Egbert had directed them to go. Ice and snow lined the banks, but not midstream.
“Do you know how to fish?” Alex reached for a pole.
Zeke handed it to him. “I’ve fished before, but not fly-fishing.”
Andy removed his glove and immersed his hand in the snow and ice of the river, yanking it back almost immediately. “How can fish live in the cold?”
“I guess they like it.” Zeke planted Andy’s pole handle in the snow.
“What do we do if we catch a fish?” Alex stared at the top of his pole, high above his head.
“We cut it into pieces and eat it.” Zeke expected them to say ew. The Clark boys over at the Bucking Bull were staunch meat eaters and turned up their noses at fish.
“I love fish,” Alex said, completely serious. “Salmon is my favorite.”
“I love chicken nuggets more,” Andy said in the same matter-of-fact tone. “But fish is good, too.”
Their disliking fish would’ve made not catching any less of a disappointment. And Zeke was sure they weren’t going to catch anything, especially given the four-year-olds didn’t have a long attention span. He’d give this activity a thirty-minute timeline, perhaps less.
Zeke showed each boy how to cast, using only his observations from seeing men fish along the river over the years. “Pole in your right hand. A little slack on the line with your left. And then you cast it out to the water.”
“I missed.” Andy stomped his foot. His fly sat on top of the ice midstream. “What do I do now?”
“Reel it back in.” Zeke showed him how to do it and then stepped out of the way so he wouldn’t get snagged by Andy’s fly when he cast out again. Which meant he was snagged by Alex’s hook instead. “Hey.”
The boy hadn’t realized he’d caught Zeke by the sleeve of his jacket. He kept trying to cast. Tug-tug-tug.
“Stop, Alex.” When the boy paused, Zeke removed the hook. It left a small tear in his thick maroon jacket. A white feather poked out, resisted the wind briefly, only to be taken on a ride across the river.
“I missed again.” Andy got impatient and flicked his fly back and forth in the air, momentarily mesmerized by the action.
“Stop that, Andy.” Zeke helped Alex cast, dodged Andy’s fly because the kid didn’t stop and then ducked to dodge Alex’s fly when he began waving his pole through the air. “Stop it! Both of you.”
They let their poles drop, but not before Alex’s fly snagged the red knit sock on Zeke’s foot.
“Nobody move.” The last thing Zeke needed was Alex to flick his line again and tear out a bit of his toe. He bent to free himself.
“You’re doing great!” Egbert called from his back patio.
Heartened, both boys lifted their poles and flung them about like bull whips.
Still hooked, Zeke’s foot was pulled out from under him. For the second time in two days, Zeke plopped into the snow. His caught red bootie was flung toward the river on Alex’s fly.
Just his luck. This time the boy’s cast reached the water.
The bootie sank.
“Reel those flies in,” Zeke said sternly in a voice reminiscent of his father’s. “Both of you.”
Andy’s fly had also reached the river and as he spun his rod’s wheel a very large trout lunged for the fly, rising out of the water with predatory intent.
Both boys shrieked and dropped their poles. Andy’s pole shot toward the river, towed by the hooked fish.
Zeke leaped to his feet and lunged after Andy’s fishing pole. He landed facedown in the snow but managed to get his fingers around the pole’s handle. The line zinged out of the reel.
Who knew a fish that big could travel so fast? Or so far?
The twins stood on either side of him, more concerned with the fish than in helping him up.
Zeke got to his feet, not bothering to wipe the snow off his poor exposed toes. He wanted to catch this fish.
“Don’t use brute force.” Egbert may not be willing to spill his Monroe secrets, but he was more than willing to share his fishing advice. “That fish isn’t a bull you’re trying to lasso. Play with the tension.”
Zeke had reeled in a fish only a time or two, and that’d been when he was a kid fishing with a bobber and a worm for bait. He tried starting and stopping reeling the fish in. Starting and stopping. The end of the line danced in the water as the trout contorted about, straining to gain its freedom.
Zeke’s toes stung with cold. The wind chapped his cheeks. He didn’t care. He was determined to land this fish.
“That’s it. Bring him in now.” From the porch above them, Egbert must have seen something Zeke couldn’t. “Give him a jerk when he jumps.”
The fish couldn’t be that close.
Proving him wrong, the fish leaped out of the water just a few feet away.
Reflexively, Zeke jerked the pole back. The fish flew toward Andy, landing against his chest.
Andy screamed. Alex screamed.
The fish flopped around in the snow at their feet as if trying to jump back in the water.
“Grab him! Grab him!” Zeke tried to find solid footing, tried to bend—nearly impossible with his walking boot—tried to get his hands around the surprisingly agile fish.
Finally, something went right. Zeke straightened, holding the fish solidly with both hands.
“Fish tonight for dinner,” Andy singsonged, raising his hands in victory.
“Nope.” Egbert destroyed that notion. “Remove that hook and toss him back.”
“Toss him back?” The fish struggled to free himself from Zeke’s grip.
“You heard me.” The old man was full of bad news today. “You can’t keep him. That’s a bull trout. The population is too low in Idaho. He’s protected by law. Get that hook out of his mouth and release him.”
“But he looks tasty.” Alex rubbed his tummy and then glanced up at Egbert. “If we eat him, will Zeke go to jail?”
“With my luck, yes.” Zeke had to put the fish down on the snow so he could remove the fly. After a few unsuccessful tries, the fish was free, and Zeke tossed him into the water.
The bull trout disappeared, seemingly none the worse for the experience.
“You’re bleeding.” Alex pointed to Zeke’s walking boot.
“That’s fish blood.” Andy peered at Zeke’s toes and then at the snow around their feet. “It’s all over the snow.”
Zeke’s big toe began throbbing, contradicting Andy’s fish theory.
“No.” Alex knelt near Zeke’s walking boot. “Zeke’s toes are bloody.”
Sure enough, red blood dripped from Zeke’s big toe where Alex had yanked a hook through his flesh. Suddenly, Zeke was grateful for the cold. It was like Mother Nature’s bracing ice pack.
So much for a quiet pastime.
“Are you gonna cry?” Andy bent to examine Zeke’s toes. And then he looked up at Zeke. “Mom says it’s okay to cry.”
“I’d cry if I were you.” Alex patted Zeke’s walking boot.
Both boys stared at Zeke as if waiting to see if he’d break down.
“There’s not enough blood here to move this cowboy to tears.” Zeke wiggled his toes, eliciting a sharp reaction. He stopped wiggling. “This is nothing. Why, one time I was gored in the backside by a bull. Couldn’t sit down for a week.” He reeled in Alex’s fly. There was no red bootie on the boy’s hook. “I think we deserve fish sticks for lunch at the diner. Who’s with me?”
The twins cheered.