As I awoke slowly, groggily, to the unmistakable sounds of violent retching, the red numerals on my bedside clock blazed 4:13. I’d been working at least 12-hour shifts for 17 consecutive days, as the weather had been ideal for harvesting, and no farmer needs to be reminded to “make hay while the sun shines.” But I’d reached the utter, rubber-legged exhaustion of a marathon runner on mile 18.
I’d been a single parent for 15 years, and while I couldn’t imagine life without my beloved daughter, raising her by myself was the most challenging thing I’d ever done. And judging by the horrific noises emanating from just outside my bedroom door, her teenage years sure as hell weren’t going to be easier.
Last night I’d forced myself to stay up until midnight, but even after crawling into bed, I wouldn’t allow myself to sleep. Despite her 10 o’clock curfew, Rachel Ruth, my only child and the love and purpose of my life, wasn’t home. I’d last glanced at the clock at 2:19, but I must have dozed despite my determined effort not to. As a Marine who’d stood watch in combat zones where members of my squad's lives depended on me, I was embarrassed to have fallen asleep, but I was 43 years old now, not 20.
I felt my exceptionally bright, beautiful, and mature daughter’s flawless deportment had earned her the right to choose the company she kept, so I accepted her choices. But against every frayed nerve of my best judgment, Rachel Ruth had been spending time with 21-year-old Ethan Jensen, a scion of wealth for whom I bore a generational loathing. His grandfather, Levi Jensen, whom Ethan lived with, was a high school classmate of my dad’s, thrice past mayor of Childer, Iowa (population 1,327), and president of Marine Bank and Trust for two decades and counting. I doubt my father, David, a devout Christian, hated anyone. But for reasons never explained, he’d had a strong aversion to Levi, who’d been class president and valedictorian of his high school’s senior class.
Ethan and Rachel Ruth’s relationship was fairly recent, but seemed to be blossoming rapidly. His parents lived in New York City, but Ethan had recently moved here under mysterious circumstances. Among the mysteries: he wasn’t in college and didn’t have a job, yet he drove a brand-new gold Mustang convertible with black highlights.
While in the Marines, I’d learned the hard way that extreme fatigue leads to mistakes, and as soon as my harvest ended, I intended to take a very hard look into Ethan’s situation, which smelled so much like my barn’s manure pile that I was surprised it didn’t draw flies. But right now, my every moment in the field was vital.
I was the fourth generation to farm our place, and Rach planned to be the fifth. My family had banked at Marine since the institution first opened its doors decades ago. Every spring I’d get my input loan from them, then work furiously throughout the long Midwest growing season to pay off that debt by December 31st, or risk having my property foreclosed. And although I’d always met the note, as had many before, this year was touch-and-go. Heavy autumn rains had slowed my progress, and obtaining the yield from my last two fields was imperative to my financial survival. But the first winter storm, supposedly loaded with eight inches of wildly blowing snow, was predicted to strike tonight. If a blizzard dropped anywhere near eight inches on my crops, then stayed cold for days, I could permanently lose all those unharvested soybeans. And if that wasn’t trouble enough, my widowed mother, Kathleen, had begun seeing Levi socially. I felt she was inviting a viper into our already fragile family nest.
But a lifetime of farming and four years of service as a Marine Corps lieutenant had bequeathed me an iron discipline and an unwavering bias toward action. Despite an upset stomach and pounding head, I shook off cobwebs of exhaustion. Leaping into the fray, I hurried into Rachel Ruth’s bathroom where I found her curled up like a cat on the tile floor beside the toilet, semiconscious and moaning piteously. The scent of vomit sickened me, but as I had for too many fallen comrades, I hoisted her up and walked her to bed. After stripping off fouled outer garments, I helped her crawl between the sheets, then hurried to the kitchen and returned with Tylenol, Tums, and a large iced glass of Sprite. I kept coaxing until she’d consumed the meds and drunk all the fluid before allowing her to collapse into sleep.
As a dedicated high school athlete, I never drank until I was in college. However, this was no time for conversation, and some mistakes contain within the seeds of their own punishment. However, while I might offer my daughter grace, I was furious with Ethan.
I strode into my bedroom as the Eastern sky displayed the first glimmer of false dawn grey, and far too troubled to sleep, I pulled on yesterday's soiled work clothes. Showering was a luxury available to people who had more time than I. After peeking at my daughter, I lumbered downstairs and turned on the percolator. I gulped two cartons of blueberry yogurt while my ambition brewed, then poured steaming liquid and sat at the table.
My cherished bride Jillian had succumbed before Rachel Ruth was a year old. My 53-year-old father had died in my arms after suffering a massive stroke while we were haying in 100-degree heat. As a 22-year-old Marine, I’d helped place what remained of my best friend, Spec Lee, in a body bag after he’d stepped on a landmine while on a patrol I was leading. After this seemingly endless confluence of pain, I longed for surcease. But combat in Afghanistan had taught me that war has neither mercy nor conscience. No matter the circumstances, soldiers must fight on.
Jillian’s cervical cancer had been discovered during the appointment that confirmed her pregnancy. Her obstetrician, Dr. Siek, had stridently advised aborting the fetus and immediately beginning aggressive treatment. As a devout Catholic, Jillian refused to terminate our child’s life and was swayed by none of my heartfelt pleadings. The desperate chemotherapy started a day after Rachel Ruth’s birth did little to slow the disease. Her horrific suffering and eventual death a few months later crushed my spirit and amplified the excruciating survivor’s guilt I’d suffered since returning from a war zone. Her treatments also plunged me into a quagmire of debt that made it impossible to finance the farm buyout Mom and I had agreed on. Although I was 100% in charge of operations, and thought of the farm as mine, the truth was that I’d been Mom’s tenant for the last 15 years.
A piercing sun had just crested the horizon when I heard a key rasp in my front door lock, and a grinning Michelle “Bell” Dubois entered jauntily. Her parents, Louis “Lou” and Mable “Mab,” had purchased the property contiguous to my farm, where Hans and Marie Hafner had resided since before I was born. Dad and Hans were not only neighbors but lifetime best friends, although my mother was never close to Marie, whom she’d once described as “provincial.”
But the Duboise family was extremely different than the Hafners, and Mom took to them at once. Both drove fully loaded Silverado EXs, Lou’s black, Mab’s hot red. Shortly after Bell’s arrival, they’d purchased a white-sand model for her, and she’d told me her dad considered their vehicles to be his fleet. (My “fleet” consisted of a rust-filigreed, once-blue 12-year-old Ford pickup with over 200,000 miles on its odometer.) I didn’t know the Duboise’s financial history, but Dad used to say the best way to be a millionaire farmer was to start with two million, and I suspected their significant wealth had been derived from something other than working the land.
Bell moved in with her parents after fleeing a rough divorce she’d never discussed with me. This woodsprite of a girl was as slender and limber as a young willow, and as resplendent as a gold finch. At five feet tall, she was a full foot shorter than I, and her tightly packed yet voluptuous body weighed 100 pounds less than my work-hardened frame. I kept my bowling-ball black locks, recently flecked with grey, closely shorn, while like Aphrodite, Bell’s resplendent profusion of golden-blonde hair curled below her waist. She had striking, yet sweet-tempered sea-green eyes, and a lovely roasted-marshmallow-tan complexion covered with a constellation of freckles she claimed were angel kisses. During the months we’d been together, I’d tried to re-kiss every one.
Seeing this angel of mercy made me smile so broadly I feared my face might split. She’d never visited at this early hour, and I hoped her appearance was a positive portent for this crucial day. Strolling behind me, she leaned over and kissed me, long and hard.
We’d met at a lawn party my mom, the Managing Broker of Mid-American Real Estate, had thrown. Mother insisted on my attendance during these business get-togethers, but I appeared reluctantly because there was always farm work that needed to be done. But when this gorgeous burst of sunshine arrived, attired in a frilly, blue sundress, my attitude summarily improved. Mab introduced us, and we conversed throughout the rest of the party.
Bell was looking for a job and asked my advice. As we discussed possible employment, she told me she’d previously worked on a cattle farm and enjoyed it immensely. I replied that I could really use some help, and offered her a salary well above the norm. Her beaming smile sealed the deal.
Arriving here promptly at seven the morning after the party, we’d toiled together throughout the day, as she assisted me with a multitude of tasks on which I’d fallen hopelessly behind. Rachel Ruth’s team was playing an away softball game that evening, and Bell helped me fix supper. After we did the dishes, she’d taken my hand and led me upstairs. Showering together seemed natural, as did lovemaking. Other than Jillian, she was the only woman I’d ever been with.
“I’m delighted to see you, but you must have gotten up before the sun. What brings you here this early?”
After a shrug and a beatific smile, she said, “Guess I’m becoming a farmer, as I can’t sleep late anymore. I woke up an hour ago and couldn’t stop thinking about you. I haven’t seen you since the harvest began, but there’s a heavy dew this morning, and I know you can’t combine until it dries. Maybe we can think of something fun to do for an hour or so.”
Even at sunrise, dressed in worn work clothes with her hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, she looked and smelled divine. Her loveliness and kindness thrilled me, but I hesitantly stuttered, “That’s a delightful offer, but I’m afraid there’s a problem.”
Her face clouded. “I heard about the storm. How much do you have left in the field?”
“I have 150 acres, and I desperately need that yield.”
Now all business, she said, “Dad can harvest that in one day, but I know you don’t have his huge new machinery. How much can you get done today?”
“If all goes well, 80 acres tops. And that depends on no equipment breakdowns and the snow not starting early. I know all I can do is my best, and as difficult as it is, I try not to worry about things, like weather, that I can’t control. But something else, something even more urgent, has come up.”
She smiled forlornly and shook her head. “Poor baby. You have the troubles of Job. What is it now?”
I hesitated, reluctant to expose my shame, but then words gushed out. “Rachel Ruth just got home a little while ago. I cleaned her up and got her to bed, but she’s basically passed out drunk.”
Bell’s lovely eyes flew wide as she exclaimed, “Good Lord. Has she ever done anything like this before?”
My face flushed as I snapped, “Never, and I blame all of this on that punk Ethan.”
Staring toward the rising sun, Bell softly offered, “Did you say passed out? Today you have to worry about drugs too. My God, Jack, could she have been roufied and raped? Do we need to take her to the emergency room?”
New to having a grown-up daughter, this hadn’t occurred to me, and it shamed me that my first reflexive thought was, "but I HAVE to be in the field!"
Seeing my hesitation, Bell stood, took my hand, and said, “Let’s see how she’s doing.” We crept into her bedroom where the stench of vomit remained appalling. Sweating so profusely that her face glistened, she was tangled in her sheets. When Bell shook her shoulder and called her name, there was no response. All Marines are taught basic field medicine, so I quickly checked her pulse and respiration, both of which were normal. Getting a cold, wet washcloth, Bell wiped her face, neck, and chest. “There’s vomit on and in her bra. I’ll remove it, then straighten her bed. That’s about all we can do until she’s awake. Why don’t you get in the shower and I’ll join you, as I can only think of one thing that might put a smile on your face that could last throughout this tough day.”
Animals that we men are, despite my wall of woe, I thought, “Well, Rach is out cold, and it’s too wet for field work.”
An hour later, dew on my bedroom window revealed it still wasn’t time to harvest. After pulling on fresh underwear, I checked on Rachel Ruth. No longer sweating, she was breathing easily and appeared to be resting peacefully. My biggest concern had been that she might aspirate her vomit, but it appeared that possibly fatal risk had passed.
Crawling back under the covers and into Bell’s warm embrace, I asked, “Sweety, can you help me today?”
“I’d planned to. Make a list of chores you need done around here. While I’m knocking them off, I’ll keep checking on our girl. When Rachel Ruth awakes, I’ll give her more Tylenol and Tums if she needs them, and try to get her to take some soup. I’ve unfortunately been in her shoes, and I feel so sorry for the poor child. I’m afraid a trip to the ER may be in our future, as she’s so profoundly unconscious that I’d guess more than alcohol is involved, but we shouldn’t take her when she’s in this shape. I’ll bring out a homemade lunch around one, and update you on her condition, but it appears she’ll be a while coming around.”
When the soy beans finally dried enough, I was relieved to get to busy. I was working quickly and efficiently. Since I’d been harvesting this field for almost 30 years, little concentration was required, which freed me to consider my daughter’s plight. However, when Bell brought lunch, I remained furiously angry but had no answers. I must hear Rachel Ruth’s story before I could formulate my plan. But Marines are trained to attack, and I was sure of one thing: There would be a proportionate response to her insult and injury.
Bell climbed into the cab, passed me a hamper containing two huge pork-tenderloin sandwiches and a pair of icy-cold Cokes, then said, “Switch seats. I’ll drive while you eat.”
My early morning yogurt was long gone, and I’d forgotten to eat the bacon and eggs I’d planned on, so I bolted the first sandwich like the starveling I was. But after finishing, I sighed, wiped my lips, and asked, “How’s Rach?”
“Still out, but starting to come around. I made some vegetable soup for her, and have Tylenol and Tums ready. But unless she wants to talk, I won’t ask questions until you get home.”
“Thanks, although I’m afraid that could be very late tonight.”
There was a curious look on Bell’s face as she softly intoned, “Maybe not as late as you think… I hope you’ll consider what I have as good news.”
“I haven’t heard anything that started with ‘good’ in a long time. What is it?”
“Don’t be angry, but I called Dad and explained your situation. He said, ‘Why in hell didn’t Jack tell me?’ They finished two days ago, and his foreman, Todd, is on his way here with Daddy’s harvester.”
I was instantly suffused by fury, as I’d never asked anyone for help… But then I thought of my daughter. In addition to my fieldwork possibly delaying her needed care, losing this crop might put her home at risk. But it took a few minutes before I leaned over, gently kissed Bell’s forehead, and fervently whispered, “You’re a lifesaver.”
I arrived home just after eight, and as I walked from the barn through heavy snowfall, I indulged in a momentary satisfaction. My yield had been outstanding, so I could easily pay off my note, which should have been a cause for celebration, but my mind was swirling with concerns for my daughter.
After brushing snow off my clothes and boots on the porch, I stepped into the kitchen. As I hung my heavy Carhartt coat on a hook, Bell swept in and hugged me. “How’s Rachel Ruth?” I asked.
“She got up an hour ago, showered for a very long time, then dressed, but she’s stayed in bed, won’t talk to me, and refused soup. She’s taken Tylenol and Tums, and is sipping fluids, so those are good things… Did you finish?”
Nodding, I replied, “It was easy with Todd, and that giant combine of your Dad’s helping, but I need to talk with my little girl. She might be uncomfortable with you in the room, but could you please listen from the hallway? I’d sincerely appreciate your input.”
She kissed me gently and nodded, then we marched upstairs. The old Negro league pitcher Satchel Page had advised, “Never hurry into trouble,” so with great reluctance, I moved to confront a situation that could only be a disaster. Rachel Ruth’s door was cracked a few inches, and for the first time, I knocked and waited outside. When she whispered, “Come in,” I entered after a moment’s hesitation. Though her quilt was pulled to her throat, I saw she was wearing a somewhat tattered but heavy cotton old-gold-and-black Iowa sweatshirt. Pulling a chair to her bedside, I asked, “How are you, Kitten?”
Her eyes widened as she said, “You haven’t called me Kitten since I was five.”
I thought, I may not say it, but that’s part of who you’ll always be to me, then inquired again, “How do you feel?”
“I feel like I’d have to get better to die, but it’s more shame, embarrassment, and rage than illness.”
“I know it’s hard, but you have to tell me exactly what happened last night.”
Her cheeks flushed as she stared into my eyes. I was about to ask again when she began to speak deliberately. “Ethan arrived with a bouquet of pink roses. He said it was our two-month anniversary, and he’d planned a special evening. None of my friends have ever been given roses, and I was thrilled. We drove north for almost an hour to a place called Cole’s Hearth. This gorgeously quaint little restaurant sits high on a bluff overlooking a wide bend in the Iowa River. Cole, the owner, met us and shook Ethan’s hand, then led us to a table for two beside a window, where we had a wonderful view of the setting sun sparkling on river waters.
“Ethan got something called a Manhattan, and ordered me a Lemon Drop. I knew I shouldn’t drink, but it seemed rude to waste it, and it tasted like candy. We had crab cakes hors d'oeuvres, then filets and loaded baked potatoes, with crème brûlée for dessert. Even the flavored tea was delicious. It was the best food I’d ever tasted. After eating, we moved onto their deck, where our waitress brought us each another drink. The first one had made me a little silly, but it felt nice. Maybe I drank my second too fast, as I began to feel really sleepy.”
Rach knew very well that I’d forbidden her to drink until she was of age. But what’s done can’t be undone, and I was anxious to hear the rest of her story, so I let that pass without comment.
“We left as it got dark. Ethan helped me to his car, then seat-buckled me in, and we drove down a gravel road to an old river cabin. He forced me inside, then laid me on a bed. I was awake, but could barely move or speak when he started to very gradually undress me. I struggled, but couldn’t stop him. After he’d removed all my clothes, he took pictures of me on his phone. But when he leaned down and kissed my breasts, something boiled up in me. I screamed, then reached with both hands and raked his face with my nails. I missed his eyes, but blood poured down his cheeks, and he was screaming.”
I’d argued with Rachel Ruth for years about her long nails, as there’s a lot of manure involved in working with animals, and her bright-red claws collected and held feces. But she’d refused to cut them, and I was glad now that she hadn’t.
Since my great-grandfather homesteaded this farm, every male member of my family has served in the military. All saw combat, but we survived. And I suddenly realized our warrior gene was also present in my daughter.
Rachel Ruth continued, “I guess Ethan went to a bathroom, as I heard water running and him sobbing. When he finally came out, he was slashed from hairline to upper lip, and blood was still trickling. Daddy, his face looked awful. He helped me dress and get to his car, then drove home very slowly. He kept apologizing and begging me not to tell. When he finally let me off here, he was crying again. He said having four drinks made him drunk and promised he’d never hurt me again. And he’s right, as I’ll never see him again.”
My heart thundered, and blood-engorged muscles twitched, longing for action, but my voice was gentle. “I’m so sorry this happened. It’s my duty to protect you, and I failed. I never should have let you spend time with that asshole… Honey, I have absolutely no experience with anything like this, so I asked Bell to listen in on our talk, hoping her female perspective could help. Can she please come in?”
My daughter’s glare of disgust before she turned her face away was a clear answer. But I had no idea how to proceed, and while Bell seldom spoke of her past, I sensed it had not been without trouble. After hearing me, Bell stepped into the room, tears streaming down her red face. She stood staring at Rach for a minute, then rushed to her, threw herself atop, and hugged her desperately as they shuddered with sobs.
I employed that time to control my murderous rage. Especially during firefights, even after I’d been wounded, as a leader I had to overcome emotions to think clearly. And as I had in combat, I breathed deeply and ordered my mind. Physically, my daughter seemed okay, but the Jensen family had a lot to answer for. And so help me God, they would pay a price.
Their weeping went on for long minutes before I saw Rachel Ruth’s hands relax and slide down Bell’s back. She gently untangled from my daughter and adjusted her blankets. Quietly leaving the room, we closed the door and held hands as we walked to the kitchen.
Bell removed two Budweisers from the refrigerator, twisted off caps, and handed me one. We sat at the table and sipped quietly, each lost in thought, before Bell said with bold determination, “Tell me what you want to do, and I promise I’ll help in every way I can.”
I finished my beer and my eyes teared as I shrugged, then confessed, “I’d be very grateful for any advice you have.”
I grabbed two more beers, and we were silent again until Bell said haltingly, “I was raped by a drunk neighbor when I was younger than Rachel Ruth. I told my parents, but they were embarrassed and refused to discuss it, as, like Jensen, my attacker was a member of a wealthy and locally prominent family. Mom did take me to her gynecologist, who tested me for venereal disease and pregnancy. The doctor urged us to go to the police, but several days had passed, so no physical evidence remained. Every time I saw that bastard with his wife and kids, I felt sick. My assault occurred 20 years ago, and I’m still recovering. I hate to think of Rach suffering for that long, and I believe the worst thing we can do is nothing. We can’t just let the bad guy win.”
I was overwhelmed by Bell’s courageous confession, but still unsure how best to proceed, when she continued to advise.
“Rach should be fine physically, but she didn’t get that extremely ill from two drinks. I believe her sickness is a combination of whatever drug Ethan slipped her and wildly overwrought emotions. That so-called boyfriend is an adult who’s guilty of a crime, and I seriously doubt it’s his first. But we have no proof, and even if we can factually establish what happened, I’d guess your daughter won’t want this to go public. It’s utterly unfair, as he was in the wrong, but if the story came out, I doubt she could stand going back to school. We have to find a better solution than going to the police.”
When I again failed to respond, Bell said, “Look, you’ve been under tremendous stress, working nonstop for weeks. Then, out of nowhere, this nightmare explodes in your face. Let’s start turning things around by doing something we can control. You must eat to keep up your strength, as you’re going to need it. I’ll finish fixing your nutritious supper, then go home while you clean up and try to rest. Things often seem brighter in the morning.”
I’m sure Bell’s meal was excellent, but I don’t recall eating. I showered until the hot water ran out, but once in bed, my mind whirled, and sleep didn’t come. The sky was lightening in the East before I dozed.
The phone ringing at precisely 6 AM jarred me awake, and I sleepily muttered, “Hello?”
“Helpin, this is Levi Jensen. My grandson says your daughter attacked him, and that the assault occurred without cause or provocation. Ethan’s vicious facial lacerations may require plastic surgery. Sir, there will be hell to pay!” he thundered.
These comments woke me as surely as ice water dashed in my face, and my voice was fervent when I replied, “We agree there. There will be hell to pay. But Jensen, do you honestly believe my 16-year-old daughter would physically attack your much larger 21-year-old grandson for no reason?”
I heard him take several deep breaths before mumbling, “I’m still clarifying some details of this obviously criminal assault, but I’m advising you, Sir, that I will seek legal counsel and criminal charges may be filed. The consequences of that litigation may mean losing your farm.”
I said calmly, “I think it best for all parties involved if we discuss this before doing anything rash.”
After a lengthy pause, he inquired, “Can you be at my home by nine today?”
“I’ll see you then.”
Rachel Ruth was sleeping soundly, so I called Bell and explained the situation. She asked me to pick her up on the way to Jensens, and I was embarrassed by how greatly I was relieved that she’d join me.
As I drove carefully through nearly a foot of still lightly falling snow, the gloomily opaque and bitterly cold morning seemed as devoid of hope as it was of sunshine. But my spirits rose after seeing Bell walking to me wearing an attractive dove-grey suit, her ensemble embellished by several pieces of gold jewelry. Her makeup was light but flawless; however, her usually smiling visage was grimly set. Stepping into my truck, she reminded me of my squad of lethally armed troops saddling up to enter conflict, as a similar fierce determination had been evident in their faces. I was extremely glad she was on my side, but in retrospect, I wished I’d worn something nicer than jeans and a clean work shirt.
She pecked my cheek before buckling her seatbelt, but we traveled in silence, saving our powder, and arrived at Jensen’s a few minutes before nine. I rang the doorbell, and as Mr. Mayor let us in, he remarked, “Ms. Dubois… I didn’t expect to see you.”
Smiling faintly, Bell replied, “And yet, here I am.”
My attire regrets compounded when I saw this tall, flat-bellied, broad-shouldered 60-year-old was natily clothed in dark charcoal slacks, a starched and glistening white shirt, and a golden cardigan sweater. But beady, ferret eyes, narrow snake lips, and an affected, pencil-thin mustache hinted at the true character behind his sophisticated and polished facade. We followed Jensen into what I assumed was his very ornate private office, where it was my turn to be surprised. “Mother! What are you doing here?”
Her face was expressionless as she rose, put a hand on my shoulder, then air-kissed my cheek. After nodding to Bell, she returned to her seat. Even under these stressful conditions, I was struck by how youthful and attractive she looked. Tall and slender, her waist-long, ivory-white hair was plaited in a thick braid, and she wore an impeccable dark pin-striped business suit I’d never seen. But like Bell, her usually animated face was resolutely set. As Levi sat beside her on a davenport the size of a small boat, I begrudgingly admitted they made a strikingly handsome, almost regal couple.
Taking my mother’s hand in his, Jensen began to speak in the pedantic tone used to admonish a child. “My grandson, an exceptional young gentleman, has never been besmirched by the slightest hint of impropriety. I’d advised Ethan a month ago that I believed your daughter was too immature to be his companion, but you know how bullheaded youngsters can be.”
He rose and began pacing. “Ethan said he escorted your daughter to Cole’s Hearth, and in retrospect, realizes she may have had too much to drink. He was raised as a gentleman, so he escorted her to your door, but when he bent to kiss her goodnight, she attacked. The girl apparently has the claws of a lion, as the eight extremely deep slashes she raked down his face are still oozing. He’ll see my dermatologist this afternoon, and I’m holding you solely responsible for any medical expenses. I’m also meeting with my attorney tomorrow morning, and charges may be filed against your juvenile delinquent daughter.”
Mother’s face revealed nothing as I asked, “Mr. Jensen, Rachel Ruth is five years short of legal drinking age. Assuming Ethan is right, how could she have been served alcohol?”
Shrugging, he said, "That restaurant’s interior is dark, and she is a lovely and poised young lady who is physically mature. Given those facts, I assume she fooled their server.”
“I understand your grandson knows the owner, Cole, personally. Do you think their relationship may have been a factor in whatever alcohol she was given?”
Resuming his seat, Levi snapped, “The circumstances of her drinking are irrelevant, as it remains your daughter’s responsibility to behave appropriately. Nothing excuses her violent behavior.”
“No excuses, huh?” I glanced at Mom, and although she and Rachel Ruth were extremely close, her face remained impassive.
Bell asked, “Is Ethan home? It might be helpful for us to see the extent of his injury.”
Jensen nodded and went upstairs. We heard loud voices, and several minutes passed before he and Ethan appeared. I was pleased to see that this daughter of an ex-marine had terribly marked his face.
Bell gestured and asked, “All this resulted from her reaction to an attempted good night kiss?”
Looking toward the floor, Ethan nodded.
I stood, my fists balled, and said, “Are you certain this injury didn’t occur in the cabin where you took my drugged daughter against her will?”
Mother gasped as Ethan glared at me and snarled, “That dumb bitch don’t know what she’s talking about.”
After weeks of unrelenting pressure, I snapped. Racing toward the boy, I did an upfake with my hands, then in full bullrush mode, lowered my shoulder, buried it in his midsection, and drove him down. He landed flat on his back with a resounding thump, and his head triphammered to the floor, as air wheezed from his lungs. As he struggled to breathe, I wrestled a phone from his pocket, handed it to Mother, and said, “I’ve had enough of this bull shit charade. Look at his pictures.”
Jensen attacked me and tried to free his grandson, but all fight had gone out of the boy. I watched Mother until I saw her face blanch. Throwing the phone on the carpet, she leaped up, smashed it beneath her heel, then ground down until it snapped.
Furiously rounding on Levi, she spat, “That phone had a nude picture of my sobbing granddaughter splayed on a sheetless single bed in some dingy room. Your grandson took it, and the filthy beast should go to prison!”
Jensen raised his hands with palms extended, and his face bloomed bright red as he stuttered, “Please, dear, remain calm. Perhaps I’ve been hasty in judging. I may owe your family an apology.”
Leaning down to Jensen, who was still kneeling on the floor, she screamed in his face, “You owe them a thousand times more than that! My granddaughter is a minor, and any sexual attack on her by a 21-year-old is, at the very least, statutory rape.”
After a lengthy pause, our frowning former mayor swallowed hard and muttered, “If that’s so, where is your evidence?”
Mother’s resounding slap knocked Jensen to his back. She stood tall, straightened her clothes, and looked into my eyes. “Let's go, son. It’s well past time for me to be with my granddaughter.” Clasping Bell’s hand, she added, “I hope you’ll join us.”
The clouds had abated, and the snow stopped falling. The sky was a pristine, glorious blue, and the sun’s winter warmth proffered comfort and hope. My career, my life, had consisted of perpetually overcoming disasters. While my daughter’s situation remained dire, I was certain we would prevail, and once again be annealed and purified by conflict. Such clashes were painful, but had made our family resilient. My mother’s support buoyed me, and as we walked to our vehicles, I realized Rachel Ruth’s warrior genes had descended from both branches of my family tree.