Page 88 of The River We Remember

He descended the steps, and she watched as he walked away and blended eventually with the gentle dark.

She closed the door, turned out the porch light, and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She switched off the lamp on her desk and lay down with the little ribboned medal still in her hand. She began to cry, weeping out of love, purely and simply. She loved this place she’d come to and the people in it. She loved Jewel, Minnesota, and Black Earth County. She loved Felix Klein and all the others who’d entered her life through the door of the Wagon Wheel: the cantankerous, the laconic, the bigoted, the gentle-hearted, the fearful, the horse’s asses, the sheltered, the accepting, the broken—especially the broken, who came to her every day. Her life had begun in another way, promised something else entirely, days filled with degradation and despair. But she’d been saved. Salvation had come to her unasked for and undeserved, and it had brought her to this beloved place.

She’d almost lost Scott, but she hadn’t. And she held in her hand recognition of his valor. In the morning, she would give it to her son, proof that although his heart wasn’t perfect, it was strong in all the right ways.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHARLIE BAUER CHERISHED her mornings. She cherished the first cup of coffee, cherished the solitude in which she drank it, cherished the view from her front porch as the sun rose above the hills east of the Alabaster and for a little while blinded her to everything except the small, lovely piece of land that was her home now.

That Saturday morning, she sat in faded jeans and an old work shirt ragged at the collar. She wore no shoes, and her big feet felt perfectly delighted with that liberation. She hadn’t brushed her hair. It was just her and the morning and the mounting sun and a cup of coffee. She was enjoying her solitude when she spotted a ribbon of dust rising along the lane that ran beside the river and led to her home. Her senses went on high alert. She hadn’t received any threats directly since she’d taken on the defense of Noah Bluestone, but she’d seen a few vehicles creep up her lane and sit there. It was usually near dark so that she couldn’t make out the details of the vehicles or who was inside, but the message they wanted to send her was clear.

No one had been bold enough to come in this way during the day. Still, she watched the station wagon that turned onto her lane with apprehension. It stopped near the shed she used as a garage, and Charlie was relieved to see Sam Wicklow behind the wheel. They’d become good friends over the years as he’d covered events at the courthouse, and every once in a while, he’d drop by to run a legal question past her. That morning, she figured he wanted to talk about Noah Bluestone.

“Morning, Charlie,” he called. “Mind if I join you?”

She waved him up and indicated the unoccupied chair on the porch.

With that prosthetic leg, mounting steps tended to be a little awkward for Sam. When he was seated, she held up her mug and offered, “Care for some coffee?”

“Thanks, no.”

“Fine morning,” Charlie said.

“Indeed,” he replied. He gazed at the sun a moment, then launched into what had brought him.

“I’ve got something here I’d like you to read, Charlie, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s an editorial I’m thinking of running in the Clarion.”

“Since when do you need my approval for an editorial, Sam?”

“Just read it, okay?”

He handed her a sheet of typed paper, and she read the paragraph.

I was in the hardware store yesterday, and I overheard a conversation that alarmed me greatly. Two men, two staunch citizens of Black Earth County, were talking about the death of Jimmy Quinn. They both agreed that it would be good to have the man accused of his murder locked up in prison and the key thrown away. Or better yet, why not just string him up? Killing Jimmy Quinn was a savage thing to do. But what else could you expect from an Indian?

She glanced up at Wicklow. “You really overheard two men talking about lynching?”

“I didn’t just overhear them. I argued with them. By the time I left, they were ready to lynch me along with Bluestone.”

“Who were they?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve been hearing similar sentiments since word first got out that Noah Bluestone was a person of interest.”

Charlie read on and wasn’t surprised by Sam Wicklow’s incisive assessment of the prejudices abroad in Black Earth County directed at a man who was Sioux and who’d married a Japanese woman. Wicklow’s defense of the precept of innocent until proven guilty was eloquent. He ended the editorial with these lines:

Noah Bluestone is innocent of any crime until a jury of his peers decides otherwise. If I had to sacrifice another part of my body to defend this liberty, I would do so gladly.

Charlie lowered the paper and studied Sam. “If you haven’t got enough enemies in Jewel already, Sam, this’ll fill the quota. What’s Loretta say?”

“Her exact words were ‘You’ll publish this over my dead body.’ ”

“She’s worried about losing subscribers, advertisers?”

“More about losing respect. She says if I print an editorial like this, she won’t be able to walk down the street without people accosting her.”

“There are some folks in Black Earth County who will agree with you a hundred percent, Sam.”

“And a lot that would likely want to hang me.”