Page 89 of The River We Remember

“What is it exactly that you want from me?”

“I could say I’m concerned it might be prejudicial when it comes to picking a jury.”

“But that’s not really it.”

“You’re sticking your neck out for Noah Bluestone, Charlie. I admire that. I guess maybe I just wanted you to know that you’re not alone.”

“So you’re really going to publish this?”

“I am.” He looked at her then, and she knew there was more. “Any chance you’d let me talk to Bluestone?”

“About his arrest? I’ll advise him against that, Sam.”

“No, not about that. I want to talk to him about growing up Sioux. For the book I’d like to write.”

It was a sultry day. The air in the valley of the Alabaster River hung damp and heavy and unmoving, and over the broad, unkempt field between the house and the river, a hush had settled, empty even of the songs of meadow birds.

“The book about the Sioux uprising?”

“Yes.”

“You’re really serious about writing it?”

“I’m going to try.”

She remembered Loretta Wicklow’s cutting reaction when Sam declared this intent during the last gathering of the Prairie Blooms, and everything in her wanted him to succeed.

“I’ll talk to Noah. But if he agrees, I’ll want to be there when you do the interview, and you’ll have to stick to information that has nothing to do with the charge against him. Is it a deal?”

“Deal,” he said.

“You mind if I keep this editorial? I’d like Noah to see it.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

He returned to his car and drove away, leaving behind him a trail of yellow dust that took a long time to settle in that still morning. Charlie couldn’t help thinking that a lot more than dust was being stirred up in Black Earth County and whatever the outcome of Noah Bluestone’s trial, it was going to take a long time for everything to return to normal, if it ever did.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

BREAKFAST WAS WHAT Scott’s mother called Cajun Scramble: eggs scrambled with andouille sausage she’d made herself, cheese, hash browns, and Cajun spices. Along with it came a couple of slices of toasted bread and homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam. When Scott walked into the jailhouse carrying the tray, he found Hank Evans, one of the sheriff’s auxiliary deputies, sitting behind the sheriff’s desk.

“Breakfast for the prisoner?” Evans asked. He was tall, heavily built, jowly. His hair was gray and his eyes a color so dark they seemed black. He held an opened newspaper in his hands.

“Yes, sir,” Scott said.

Evans had spent thirty years with the police department in Minneapolis before retiring to Jewel, his hometown. The man sometimes helped the sheriff when one of the other deputies was on vacation or otherwise unavailable. So far, Scott had only seen him on duty in the jailhouse. Because he was never actually certain of the man’s official position and whether he should call him Deputy Evans, Scott usually kept his end of an exchange as simple as possible.

Evans put the paper on the desk, folded it so that the front page showed, and tapped the photo there. “You’re a hero.”

“I guess so.”

“Pretty impressive, son.”

Scott wasn’t used to such praise and found it embarrassing.

“I made the front page once,” Evans said. “Up in the Cities. Remember Morgan Gilroy?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”