For His Daughter

Yanking his collar up, he said, “I’d forgotten how cold it can be up here, even in spring.”

His father’s expression was a mixture of annoyance and something more petulant. “Easy to forget,” he snapped, “when you don’t come back to a place for twelve years.” He banged on the side of the van near the sliding door and looked at Nick. “We gonna stand around talking all day so I can freeze to death, or can we go home now?”

Nick just grinned and shook his head, and in no time he had helped Sam to the backseat and stowed the wheelchair in the cargo hold. As Rafe closed the back doors, he nudged Nick’s arm to grab his attention.

“Why did you do it?” he asked in a low voice so that Sam couldn’t hear. “You know you just made the old man mad.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“I’m serious. One son on his hit list is more than enough.”

Nick shrugged. “The way I figure it, you’ll never get off his list if you don’t throw yourself into what matters to this family. Pop’s right about one thing, Rafe. Your home has to be more than just an address. Whatever you have planned for a future here, it will work better if you make your family a part of it.”

“I’m not used to involving other people in my business. My private life stays private.”

“Then you made a mistake coming back. Trust me, there’s very little in this family that isn’t a group effort. Whether you like it or not.”

There was a muffled rap on one of the side windows. Pop, trying to hurry them along.

They wove up the winding mountain road in silence. The sky was cloudless, a bright, clear, uncomplicated blue that the postcard companies must love. Every so often, Sam sighed heavily from the backseat, but neither Rafe nor Nick remarked on it.

When the quiet reached an uncomfortable level, Rafe looked over at his brother. “So how’s the local rag of a paper? Is it still only fit for lining the bottom of a birdcage? I suppose if I’m going to drum up interest in this festival thing, I should start there.”

“We have a new person in from Denver working the area,” Nick replied. He shrugged. “We do all right. Nothing much earth-shattering to write about around here.”

Rafe couldn’t help a derisive laugh. “Oh, how well I remember that. A night on the town around here takes about ten minutes.”

“You would know,” his father commented from the back-seat.

There was another long, ugly moment of silence. Rafe stopped the impulse to turn in his seat to look at Sam. Don’t say anything. Don’t feed the temptation to strike back. You open that dialogue, and there’s no telling where it will go.

He took a couple of calming breaths. “So this reporter… what’s he like?”

Nick tossed him a grin. “She. Danielle Bridgeton. And from what I’ve heard around town, she’s not all that excited about being stuck up here. But I’m sure you can win her over. It’s part of the reason I suggested you. The old Rafe D’Angelo charm might come in handy.”

Sam muttered something under his breath.

Since he’d been gone, Rafe had become quite an expert in a lot of things. He knew how to break a horse, how to spot a cheat at the blackjack table, how to survive thirty days on a week’s worth of rations. He had learned patience and the art of compromise. So how could his father get to him?

He can’t. Not if you don’t let him.

Ignoring the annoyed, grumbling sound from the back of the van, Rafe said to Nick, “You realize that these people will never agree on anything, don’t you? This festival is going to be a mess no matter how many committees get formed.”

Nick frowned. “I hope you’re wrong about that. It needs to be a success.”

“Why do you care? If I remember correctly, you were never much of a townie, either.”

“What’s good for Broken Yoke is good for the lodge. Every year we lose a few businesses. A few more young people move down to Denver where they can find work doing what they want instead of what their fathers want. It’s a trend I’d like to see stopped, and if a festival can help that, then I’m in favor of it.”

Rafe rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Nick. That’s a tall order. There’s no focus for this thing, no focal point.”

Nick gave him a quick look. “That’s why I threw your name up for publicity chair. If anyone can find a way to make something mediocre sound exciting, it’s you.”

Rafe knew Nick was referring to all the times he’d talked his brother into some harebrained scheme as kids, the girls Rafe had convinced to sneak out of their bedrooms for a clandestine meeting at Lightning Lake. Or the goose bump– producing trips he’d got them to make to the boarded-up Three Bs Social Club, which everyone said was haunted but was still one of the most perfect make-out places in the world.

“It will take more than that,” Rafe said, pursing his lips. “Journalists don’t like to be manipulated. The town wants this thing to make money, but this Bridgeton woman won’t be interested in a festival that’s motivated by greed. She’ll want some charitable or civic angle. They don’t like to feel like puppets for some commercial venture.”

Nick nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point. But the festival isn’t just to line the pockets of every businessman in town. This all started last year because we want to add on to the library, create a kid’s playground at the city park and clean up Lightning River Overlook.”

Worthwhile causes, every one of them. But what kind of spin could Rafe put on it for this newspaper woman to catch her interest? The whole thing was so disorganized at this point. How much money was the city willing to spend? And even if they could get people to come, how could they handle the influx?

He shook his head and laughed. “This is ridiculous. I’m not a PR person. I never have been.”

“What about when you worked for that Crews guy? I got the impression you did some of that for him.”

“I did a lot of things for Wendall Crews for several of his development projects. But I wouldn’t say it was PR work.”

He wasn’t sure what he would have called the years he had worked for Wendall. They’d had an interesting relationship. More mentor and student than anything else.

Shortly after leaving Las Vegas, Rafe had latched on to a job as a river raft guide on the Colorado. Wendall, an overweight and out-of-shape real-estate developer from Los Angeles, had signed up for one of the trips. It was clear none of the other tourists wanted the businessman for their raft partner. He was friendly enough, but clearly, they thought he couldn’t hold up his end of the overnight trip down the river.

They were right; he couldn’t. On the second day, on the next-to-the-last rapid, his raft had gone careening down one of the chutes, and Wendall had gone over the side and into the churning river. Caught in a whirlpool, the guy had sunk like a boat anchor. Rafe had gone in after him, hauling the panicked guy onto some flat rocks, even pumping water out of him before it could do him any serious harm.

Later, everyone had said Rafe had gone beyond the call of duty to save Wendall. At the time, he would have said all he was trying to do was keep from losing a customer on his watch.

But Wendall had been convinced that he would have died without Rafe coming to the rescue. He was so grateful that the next day he’d made Rafe a business offer to come work for him. One no one in their right mind would have refused, especially not an opportunist like Rafe. He’d quit his job and moved to L.A., where he’d worked by Wendall’s side for four years, until last fall when the big guy’s heart had finally done him in.

“You’ll think of something,” Nick reassured him. “You always had the power of persuasion.”

“What am I going to say?” Rafe spread his hands out as though framing a sign. “Come to Broken Yoke’s second annual festival…unless the high-school gym floor is being varnished.”

His father slid forward on his seat so he could catch Rafe’s eye. He looked thunderous. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you for the job. Take it seriously, or resign. We need someone who can appreciate Broken Yoke for what it is, not for how many jokes can be made about it.”

“I’m not going to resign,” Rafe said quietly. His father was getting on that buried nerve that was not quite dead yet. “In fact, I’m going to see this reporter at the paper as soon as possible.”

He could almost see Sam’s back stiffen for battle. “I’m sure you’ll have the woman dancing to your tune in no time. Just make sure it’s legal.”

The insinuation burrowed and found a home under Rafe’s patience. His father’s capacity for being strong- willed and unreasonable really rose to sublime heights at times. Rafe turned a little in his seat, and their anger met head-on. “Do we need to talk, Pop?”

If this was a quarrel at last, then let’s have it.

Nick took his hand off the steering wheel and chopped the air, cutting through the unpleasantness. “I think the two of you have talked enough for now.”

Sam settled back in his seat. “There’s nothing more that needs to be said anyway.”

His mild, colorless voice diluted some of Rafe’s irritation, and the knowledge that they had just made the turn-off to Lightning River Lodge did the rest. Sooner or later he supposed they’d have it out, just like the old days, but not today. Not with the rest of the family waiting for them, and the sky so blue that anything seemed possible. Even peace.

The lodge was busy and noisy. There were several noon checkouts keeping Brandon O’Dell, the front desk manager, busy. He barely managed a wave in their direction before he was pulled back to attend to another guest.