Riding the Flume Read Online Free PDF

that. But somehow the words hung in the air. “Carrie always had a reason,” she whispered.

•   Chapter Four   •
    â€œC harlie’s back.” Francie let the back door shut as she came into the warm kitchen. “He’s going to be chute rider again. And he’s still joking about how he’ll ride the flume this year.”
    Her mother looked up from the oatmeal she was stirring at the big black cookstove. “That boy always was crazy,” she answered, shaking her head. “I’ll have to give him a talking to.” Charlie’s father and Francie’s mother were brother and sister, and when he was younger, Charlie spent every summer up in the mountains. He used to stay with the Cavanaughs, but after Carrie died he stopped coming. Then, two years ago he hired on with the lumber company as a logger.
    â€œWhat were you doing out so early?” Francie’s mother frowned at her.
    Francie hesitated, wanting to tell the truth. But somehowit just wouldn’t come. “I . . . I woke up early and it smelled so clean and new outside . . .” That was part of the truth, anyway. “I just had to get out in it.”
    Her mother smiled. “Summer in the mountains. There’s nothing like it, is there?” She glanced out the window framed with yellow checked curtains. “If we only had the time to enjoy it more.”
    Francie took a breath and plunged in. “Don’t you think Father would let me go to the basin, just until I finish counting the tree rings for Mr. Court?” And figure out about Carrie’s message, she added silently.
    Her mother’s hand paused in its stirring. Francie knew she believed promises were important.
    â€œDon’t you see, child?” Her mother turned to look at her. “If Mr. Court has his way, he’d stop the logging altogether. The loggers would leave. The town would die. We’d have to close the hotel, and this hotel is your father’s life.” She turned back to the oatmeal. “Please set the table now. Breakfast will soon be ready.”
    Francie began laying the silver and china on the dining room table as her father came into the dining room with the St. Joseph Herald under his arm. Mr. Court’s paper. “Good morning, Frances,” he said as he pulled out his chair and sat down.
    â€œGood morning, Father,” she answered, wishing he would at least smile at her. But it would do no good to be sulky. It would only anger him more. She watched as heunfolded the paper, shook it out, and began to read. Francie had always been proud of her tall, handsome father. She loved the way he brushed his thick dark hair back from his forehead. His mustache was neatly combed and waxed, and the creases in his suit pants were so sharp it seemed you could cut your finger on them. His one vanity, as he always put it, was his bright-colored waistcoats. The one he wore today had a red-and-black-plaid pattern. Francie knew his friends teased him about his waistcoats—he only laughed and wore them anyway. She sighed silently. He could laugh with his friends, but not with his family. Not anymore.
    Francie sat down in her place and folded her hands in her lap. What could she say to make him change his mind and give her permission to go to the basin? The headlines on the front page of the paper caught her eye. DEPRESSION WORSENS, they screamed. She wondered if that bad news would make it harder or easier to talk to him.
    Now’s the time, her mind was humming. Ask him now. A lump was forming in her throat, blocking her speech. “Father, I . . .” She swallowed again. “I’m sorry for what I said last night.”
    He looked at her over the top of his paper and gave a short nod. “I should hope so.”
    â€œBut, Father.” She stretched her hand out, almost touching his arm. “I promised Mr. Court I’d count the tree