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Bridges

By Deborah Raney

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Chapter One

J.W. McRae braked at the stop sign where St. Charles dead-ended at Clark Tower Road. He shifted his pickup into Park and rested his forearms atop the steering wheel, his chest constricting. If he didn’t know better he’d think he was having a heart attack.
But he did know better. His body was simply reacting to the memories this town always dredged up. He would never admit––to anyone but himself––the fear he felt at returning to Winterset. It was a good thing he was alone in the truck because his white knuckles on the steering wheel would have given him away.
He rolled down the passenger-side window of the dusty Dodge Ram and looked out at the billowing clouds that floated in a clear blue sky above the county road. He could turn left onto Clark Tower Road and wind his way back to the Interstate…pretend he’d never been here. And never return.
If it wasn’t for Rina, the daughter-in-law he’d met only once, he would be back in Kansas City, oblivious. Oblivious. He could hear Char’s shrill voice even now. You don’t have a clue, do you, J.W.? You’re oblivious!
And he had to admit, the woman had been right. For too many of their nine years together, he’d lived in a self-centered fog.
But Rina had reached out and offered him a chance to redeem himself. She’d wanted him here for Father’s Day, but he just hadn’t been able to gather the courage for a day that was fraught with such guilt and regret for him. But Rina had opened the door, and he intended to walk through it, even if it killed him.
And it just might.
He sucked in a deep breath, turned the steering wheel to the right, and hit the gas.
Since the day Char sent him packing, he’d set foot in Winterset exactly twice—that disastrous summer twelve years ago when he’d come back for Wynn’s high school graduation, and then two years later for Char’s funeral. Cornfields rose up on either side of the road and stood at attention in the June sun, reminding him of his roots. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be reminded.
His cell phone rang. Grateful for the interruption, he dug the phone out of his pocket and checked the ID. Work. Correction: former work. What did they want? Reluctant, he clicked Talk. “McRae.”
“Mr. McRae, this is Britney…Linscome. At Hartner & Hartner?”
“Yes, I know.” Be kind, McRae. It’s not her fault.
“Oh. Well, anyway, Mr. Hartner––Matt––is working on the Citizens Bank project, and he wondered if you could answer a few questions to get him up to speed on the project? Would you have a few minutes for me to go over a list of questions he sent?”
J.W. stared straight ahead, his jaw gaping. Were they serious? Matt Hartner had some nerve—and apparently no guts if he couldn’t even make the call himself. Thanks to that weasel, J.W. had all the time in the world…the rest of his lousy retired life. But it would be a cold day in Tucson before he’d talk to Matt Hartner through his assistant. If the man needed help, he could ask for it himself.
J.W. bit his tongue and shot up a prayer that he wouldn’t say something he’d regret. “I’m sorry, this isn’t a good time.”
He punched End and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat beside his camera bag, feeling his blood pressure ramp up. His boss’s nephew had dismissed him—called it early retirement—and a week later, from what J.W. heard through the office grapevine, moved into his corner office at the Kansas City firm. They’d thrown him a bone with the offer of consulting for them, and he hoped he hadn’t just put the kibosh on that. Though he doubted it. Matt Hartner didn’t know the first thing about being an ad exec. The kid would be calling him twice a week trying to figure out how to read a spreadsheet.
“Early retirement, my eye,” he muttered into the truck’s cab. He’d made decent money as an account executive at the advertising agency, and he’d been frugal and invested well. But he was at least five years from the comfortable retirement he’d planned toward. And at his age, he’d be lucky to get an interview, let alone a new job. Of course, Hartner & Hartner had waited until the stock market was at an all-time low and 401Ks had shriveled to half of what they’d been the previous year before they started laying people off. Sure, he’d survive, especially if his house sold as quickly as his Realtor thought it would. But it would not be the early retirement he’d dreamed about. Not by a long shot. And he’d go stark raving mad sitting around watching TV. Or even playing golf every day. Not his thing. He liked working.
He took his foot off the brake, cranked the wheel to the right, and navigated the curvy roads into Winterset’s city limits. Glancing at a street sign as he passed, he chuckled. Clark Tower Road had turned into John Wayne Drive. His mother would have approved of him coming back to the birthplace of The Duke.
Third Street appeared on his right and he veered onto the tree-canopied road. In the decade since he’d last been here, everything about the town seemed to have changed, but he was pretty sure they hadn’t moved the cemetery. It should be just ahead on the right.
He turned onto East Summit Street and slowed the truck. There it was, the twin entrances still intact. The cemetery was bigger than he remembered. Seemed death had been busy in his absence. He wondered if he’d be able to find the gravesite.
Guilt gripped him. Was he only here so he could tell Wynn and Rina that he’d paid his respects? Did it matter? Knowing Wynn, he’d probably quiz him on what the gravestone looked like or what kind of flowers were planted there. Better be prepared to pass the test.
The gates were open and J.W. eased the truck through them. The graves were still littered with leftover flowers and flags from Memorial Day weekend, which was a big deal in Winterset, thanks to the combined birthday celebration of the town’s most famous son, John Wayne. Turning down a narrow lane at a good clip, he perused the rows of granite stones in vain. Rina had given him vague directions, but he’d been picturing the much-smaller cemetery of his childhood, not this sprawling—
A figure crouched at the edge of the path. Too close—
He slammed on the brakes, his heart banging in his chest.
The woman—maybe in her late forties, if he was any judge of a woman’s age—wore a bright red shirt, and tendrils of pale hair escaped beneath the wide brim of her straw hat. What on earth was she doing? She was lucky he hadn’t mowed her down!
He tapped the horn and veered to the opposite side of the lane.
Heart still racing, J.W. pulled onto the grassy shoulder. He squinted into the rearview mirror, but all it reflected was the cloud of dust his hasty stop had kicked up.
He cut the engine, pushed open his door, and jumped down from the pickup’s cab. A film of Iowa dust coated his throat, and he coughed as he strode around the back of the vehicle. He approached the woman who was hunched over a child’s red wagon loaded with flowers.
“You okay?” he shouted, jogging toward her.
She didn’t look up. He hadn’t actually hit her. He was sure of that… Maybe she was sick. “Hey, are you all right?”
No response. His chest constricted further. He covered the distance between them in two strides and touched her shoulder.
She gave a little gasp and reeled back, eyes wide.
She wore earbuds attached to a cell phone with a bright pink case that stuck halfway out of her hip pocket. Her music was turned up so loud that even over the breeze rustling the poplars overhead he could hear the tinny strains of jazz coming from the earbuds.
The woman straightened and tugged at the thin white wire, popping out one earbud. “You scared me to death!” But she was smiling. A very becoming smile.
“I nearly ran over you. You should be careful.”
She shrugged and threw him a grin that was closer to a smirk. “This isn’t usually a high traffic zone.”
He was not amused. “I’m serious. I could have killed you.” He motioned at her left ear that still wore an earbud. “You ought to at least turn down your music so you can hear if a truck is about to flatten you.”
She laughed at that. “Don’t worry, I heard you.” She brushed off her palms on faded blue jeans, and yanked out the other earbud.
He extended his right hand. “I’m J.W. McRae.”
“Oh! You’re Wynn’s dad.” The open friendliness turned wary. “I’m Tess Everett.” She said it like he should know who she was.
“I forget how small Winterset is.” He rubbed the back of his neck, still irked that she didn’t seem one bit remorseful for nearly causing him to commit involuntary manslaughter. He squinted against a ray of sun that breached the poplars. “Yes, Wynn is my son.”
She suddenly looked stricken, and put a palm up to shield her eyes. “Everything’s okay with the baby, I hope?” She panned the cemetery as if she expected to see a funeral in progress. “I heard they had to take her back to the hospital, but I thought it was just for some routine––“
“Baby’s fine as far as I know. Haven’t seen her yet. They’re supposed to be home with her tomorrow.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t know why, but for a minute…well, I was afraid something had happened…with the baby.”
“No. Baby’s fine,” he said again.
She hesitated. “Can I help you find something then? Here in the cemetery, I mean…”
He couldn’t exactly say he was just browsing. “I’m trying to find a––certain grave. It’s been a while since I was here.” She didn’t need to know that he hadn’t been here since the funeral. And he’d hung back in the shadows that day, not sure he was welcome, but wanting to be able to say he’d been there. For Wynn’s sake.
She slipped her phone from her hip pocket and glanced at the screen. “City Hall closes at five on weekdays, or I’d call them for you, but I know the cemetery pretty well. I might be able to help.” She waited, curiosity clear on her pretty face.
“I’m looking for a…family member’s grave. McRae.” The last thing he wanted was her sympathy. “It’s a rather tall memorial. With an angel statue.” What had his son been thinking? Char was about as far from an angel as––
He clipped the thought short. He’d vowed to give up vilifying Charlotte now that she couldn’t defend herself.
Shading his eyes, he let his gaze sweep the sprawling cemetery. “The funeral––burial––would have been about ten years ago. The place has filled up quite a bit since then.”
She gave him an odd look. “Yes, I know which one you mean.”
“Really?”
Her eyes—the same blue as the sky—held a question, and something akin to sorrow crept in, then dissipated as she pointed down the main lane he’d driven in on. “See that copse of pines to the north?”
He nodded.
“Hang a left just past there and go about fifty yards. You’ll see some newer graves in that section. Behind that, you’ll see the tall one with the angel. I’d show you myself but I need to get these geraniums in before it gets dark.” She tilted her head toward the little red wagon where her pots of flowers waited, looking as perky as their caretaker.
“Need some help with those? I can put the wagon in the back of my truck.”
“Thanks, but”––she angled her slender neck in the opposite direction she’d just sent him––“I’m almost there.”
He wondered whose grave her flowers were for, but decided it was none of his business.
Besides, he didn’t want her asking him any more questions.

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