The Branson Beauty

 

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About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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For Joe

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This is a work of fiction, but it would not have been possible without the very real help and support of many people. First, a huge thank-you to my wonderful readers, whose constructively critical eyes helped make this book ten times better than it was before they got ahold of it—Kristi Belcamino, Paige Kneeland, Bridget Gray, and Claudia and Michael Brown; and to my technical consultants, Zachary Heyde and Mandi Fanchar, who generously (and patiently) shared their different areas of expertise with me.

I also want to thank Jim McCarthy, my fantastic agent, who wholeheartedly encouraged my switch from nonfiction to novels; my wonderful editor at Minotaur, Elizabeth Lacks, whose support and enthusiasm I deeply appreciate; and David Rotstein, who created the gorgeous cover art.

I've been a writer in many different ways for a long time, and I'm very lucky to have always had the unconditional support of my family, including my parents and grandparents. Thank you. I also owe a debt of gratitude to my in-laws. Without them, I never would have discovered Branson in the first place, and without them, I wouldn't have the most important person in my life. Thank you for my husband.

To my husband and my children—you made this possible. I couldn't have done it without you. You are my everything.

 

CHAPTER

1

His feet crunched on the snow as he stumbled behind the Company Man. The guy had loafers on and still managed to keep his footing as they scrambled down the incline toward the lake. Hank's heavy-duty snow boots, on the other hand, were not living up to their billing, he thought, as his feet went in opposite directions on a patch of ice.

Finally, he skidded to a stop at the edge of the water. The lake wasn't a terribly wide one, but it was pretty. It lay like a shard of glass in the middle of the granite Ozark Mountains, its surface that glassy sheen only possible when it's a degree or two from freezing solid.

It was, he thought, nature at its finest. Except for the boat. That was nature at its worst. Or human stupidity at its worst. His guess was the latter.

“It seems to have run aground,” the Company Man said. He had the grace to sheepishly clear his throat.

Hank fished his binoculars from inside his parka. He raised them toward the huge, immobile paddlewheel, which he judged was about five hundred yards from where they stood on the shore.

“Yep. Seems that way,” Hank said, still looking through the binoculars. He could see some movement through the windows, but no one was out on the deck. At least the passengers seemed to have some sense.

“How often does the boat go out?” Hank asked.

The Company Man cleared his throat again.

“Every day except Thursdays,” he said.

“New captain?”

“Uh, no. It's Albert Eberhardt. He's the same one's been doing it for almost twenty years.”

“New route?”

The Company Man sighed. “No. Same route as always. It was windy earlier, though, so we think maybe the boat got blown this way and stuck on the rocks.”

“You take it out when it's windy?”

“Um, well. It is up to the captain's discretion.”

“And he decided to? He's the only one who makes that decision?”

The Company Man frowned.

“Not anymore, he's not.”

Hank snorted. He aimed the binoculars to the left. The nearest shore to the boat appeared to be only about one hundred yards to the east. That wouldn't be fun, though. They'd have to carve a road through the woods to reach that spot. Then they would need something that could coast right up onto the shore. Maybe rubber dinghies? All those little old ladies out for their luncheon cruises bobbing instead on the near-frozen water like so many corks in a barrel. He tried not to grin and hid behind the binoculars.

“Um, Sheriff? We, uh, we were hoping to keep this quiet.” The Company Man smiled eagerly.

Hank lowered the binoculars.

“Quiet? There're a hundred and twenty tourists on that boat. My guess is they're not satisfied customers at this point.”

“Yes, but they're out of cell range right now,” the Company Man replied. “It took a radio transmission for the boat to notify us about this at the home office. No one else knows about it.”

Now Hank was starting to get irritated. He hoped the guy's feet were cold.

“Unless you think that the two of us alone are somehow going to either unstick that boat or swim all those people to shore, I don't think this is going to stay quiet.”

The Company Man sighed again. Hank started hoping for frostbite.

“We would just rather this not turn into a public relations disaster. You know, something that would reflect badly on the company.”

Hank decided it would not be wise to smack the guy with the binoculars. Instead, he reached for his own radio.

“Unless you want to get those shoes wet, I'm calling in the cavalry.”

*   *   *

Hank's radio call notified not only every one of his deputies, but the highway patrol, the state water patrol, the mayor, the Coast Guard, the television stations that bothered to listen to police scanners, and Lovinia Smithson, the widow who lived just west of Branson and had bought her own scanner a few years back.

She got there first.

“Hey, Lovinia,” Hank said.

She grinned at him. Even her little puffs of breath seemed excited.

“Beautiful day, isn't it, Sheriff?”

Yeah, it was beautiful like the North Pole was beautiful—something best viewed in a picture, not in person. He was pretty sure his nostril hairs were frozen.

“Just stay out of the way, okay, Lovinia?” he asked. “I've got to go meet the EM guys at the road.”

She nodded and plopped down on a boulder that would afford her a good view of the whole operation. How she'd avoid having her pants freeze directly to the rock, he had no idea.

He climbed back up the incline to the road, which was the nearest access point. So they'd have to start hacking through the woods toward the boat from here. His boots hit the mercifully plowed surface, and he paused to take a deep breath. He spotted the Company Man standing dejectedly at the road's curve as a big blue sedan slowly pulled up.

As the back door swung open, the Company Man squared his shoulders and stepped forward. Hank couldn't help but cringe for him. It looked like the boss had arrived.

Henry Gallagher unfolded himself from the car and stood in the middle of the road. He listened to the Company Man for a few seconds, then held up his hand and turned toward Hank.

“Worth,” he called.

Here we go, Hank thought, and walked toward Gallagher.

“Hello, Mr. Gallagher. I assume he…” Hank realized he hadn't paid attention to the Company Man's actual name. He pointed instead. “I assume he's explained the situation?”

“Yes.” Gallagher's voice was about as cold as the surrounding air. He visibly got a grip on himself and softened his tone. “Of course, the company will assist in every way possible to get these poor people off my boat. I have a passenger manifest with me.”

Good. It would be quite helpful to know exactly how many people he was going to have to shuttle to shore. Maybe this would be easier than he thought. Gallagher handed him a crisply folded sheaf of papers.

“The asterisks denote those in wheelchairs,” he said.

Maybe not.

As they talked, the emergency vehicles started pulling up. The county emergency district chief leaned out the window of his rig.

“Hey, Hank.” He could barely talk as he tried to choke back laughter. “Did I get your broadcast right? The
Branson Beauty
ran aground? On the lake it's been sailing for more than thirty years?”

Gallagher scowled. The Company Man swooned a little and stifled a groan. Hank grinned.

“Yep, Larry, that's what happened.” He tried to focus the conversation on the task at hand. “How many guys you got who can help?”

“Oh, I've called everybody in. And Thompson over in the next county said he'd loan us anybody extra he's got.”

“Good,” Hank said. He jerked his thumb toward the woods. “Why don't you go park and start talking with the road department guys about cutting through those trees.”

“Sure thing,” Larry said merrily. “I'm glad I decided not to take vacation this week. This is gonna be a fun one.”

As the rig pulled away, Hank was sure he heard Larry whistling the
Gilligan's Island
theme. From the pinched look on Gallagher's face, he'd heard it, too. Hank pasted on his best try at a diplomatic smile.

“Sir, if I could get you to stand off to the side here,” he said. “Oh, and perhaps you should start talking with this gentleman.”

Hank pointed toward a man who had just climbed out of a Ford F-150 truck with a Bass Pro fish logo magnet on the side. Gallagher raised an eyebrow.

“You don't have the resources to rescue these people by yourselves?” he asked.

Hank stared at him for a long second. What world had he been living in lately? We barely have the resources to pay for the gas to get out here, he thought. He took a deep breath through his frozen nose.

“No, sir, we do not have thirty or forty boats sitting in a warehouse just waiting for the opportunity to rescue your stranded tourists. However, this nice gentleman does.”

He pointed at the Bass Pro man, who was giddily pulling a store catalog out of his coat pocket.

“I'll send a water patrol officer over to help you pick the appropriate watercraft for our needs,” Hank said evenly. “Then I'm sure Bass Pro will be happy to take a check.”

He turned on his heel and walked away. He fought the urge to swear. Then he fought the urge to whistle.
A three-hour tour …

*   *   *

He stepped away from the water patrol officers. It seemed they needed to get out to the boat a bit more quickly than they had thought. They'd been informed through the company's radio communications that situations were developing aboard the
Beauty
. Several passengers were complaining of heart palpitations. A diabetic's insulin supply was running low. And they were almost out of coffee.