A Wife and a River - A Christian romance Read online

  Sherri’s Christian romances:

  Fried Chicken and Gravy – a romance

  available in audio

  Sticky Notes – lighthearted romance

  – available in audio

  The Piano Girl – for ages 7 to 107

  – audio in the works

  A Wife and a River

  – audio in the works

  A heartfelt thank you to my boatload of editors: Carolyn Ingermanson, Patty Slack, Pamela Waddell, Cori Murray, Ethel Schoenborn, and final editors, Jean Hall and Kristi Weber.

  This is a work of fiction, all characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead is completely coincidental. See final acknowledgements.

  A Wife and a River – Wilhoit Book 1

  Christian Romances – www.christianromances.com

  Copyright © 2015 Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photos by Clari Noel Photography

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Final Acknowledgements

  Recipes

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A huge thank you to my brother,

  Guy Schoenborn,

  whose fishing stories and

  knowledge of the industry

  helped to shape this novel.

  If any fishing facts are incorrect,

  the fault is entirely mine.

  DEDICATION

  In memory of my dad, Larry Schoenborn,

  a sports store owner and a renowned fisherman.

  Lamentations 3:22-23

  Chapter 1

  Scotts Mills, Oregon

  Mid-February 1960

  Near the front window of Trevor’s Tackle Shop, Kevin Olson, a recent high school graduate, stood reading the Help Wanted sign. He wore a white button-up shirt and dark tie, a sharp contrast to his usual fishing attire. They didn’t come any better than Kevin—clean-cut, from a church-going family, and passionate about fishing. Just the sort of fellow Trevor could trust to run his store while he took some time off to go steelheading.

  Hopefully, he was good at math.

  The bell above the door jingled.

  “Looks like you’re here for an interview.” Trevor set aside the spin reel he’d been repairing and rounded the side of the counter to greet the young man in the main aisle.

  “Yes, sir, if it’s a good time.”

  “It’s a great time. I need someone to run the till so I’ll be free to sell.”

  Two nights ago his prayer group had prayed, and standing before him was one fine applicant. “Get behind the register, Kevin. I have a math test for you.” Trevor grabbed one of the metal baking trays that he kept stacked at the end of each aisle, and inside it set five Okie Drifters, eight bait hooks, and a Mitchell 300 spin reel. He set the tray down on the long glass counter and stepped back.

  Kevin looked great. The tie alone was reason enough to hire him.

  “Pretend to ring up these items, and then set them in a bag.”

  The bell over the door jingled. A young woman holding a large quilted purse paused near the end of the first aisle and looked around. Most likely, she was lost.

  “Doris’s Boutique is one door down,” he called out. His front double doors were painted a dovetail gray, and only the left side was configured to open. Trevor’s Tackle Shop was printed on the door’s upper glass, but she’d obviously not read it. From the fish mounts on the wall, she should’ve already figured out that she’d made a mistake. But no, she carried her handbag in front of her and peered around like she was in a museum.

  “Are you speaking to me?” the young woman asked. Hopefully, she wasn’t Richard’s sister. He’d been putting off meeting her for over a year.

  “Yes. Doris’s Boutique is one door down.”

  “I’m in the right store, sir. Thank you.”

  If she was Richard’s sister, the two looked nothing alike.

  “I’ll be right with you.” He briefly held eye contact with her before returning his attention to Kevin.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Kevin started with the hooks. “There’s eight of ’em,” he said, sliding them inside one of the coin-sized manila envelopes that were stashed beside the register.

  “They’re eighteen cents a dozen,” Trevor said.

  “Is there a math sheet somewhere?” Kevin stepped back, searching the counter area.

  “Nope.” Trevor tried not to jump to an early conclusion, but the teen wore a blank look like he didn’t know which end was up. “Let’s move on.” Trevor picked up the boxed spin reel. “The reel’s priced at $14.99, but this week it’s on sale for 20 percent off.”

  “Good, an easy one.” Kevin narrowed his eyes. “Thirteen dollars and sixty cents.”

  Too bad he hadn’t taken a little more time. In his white shirt and tie, he looked sharp behind the register. “One more.” Trevor cleared his throat. “If thirty-three and a third is one-third of a dollar, what’s one-third of a dollar and a half?”

  Kevin gulped and looked at the hanging overhead lights. “Sixty-six cents.”

  His math skills stank. Trevor wouldn’t dare hire him. He’d lose customers and money.

  “I’m sorry. Brush up on your math, and I’ll give you another shot.” Trevor found his black felt marker and followed Kevin to the door. The young woman now roamed the fishing rod aisle near the front. “I’ll be right with you.” He pulled the door closed behind him as he stepped outside onto the covered walkway.

  “Now, don’t be a stranger,” he said, hoping the teen didn’t feel too discouraged.

  “I won’t.” Kevin hopped on an old Schwinn bike and pedaled east on Third Street.

  What in the world was wrong with his Help Wanted sign that a young man with Kevin’s math skills would interview for the job? With his hands on his hips, Trevor read each line and then underlined the wording: “Must have great math skills,” and changed the period that followed to an exclamation point. He stepped back and reread it.

  If the next applicant didn’t have great math skills, he was illiterate.

  Through the door’s upper glass, he caught a glimpse of the young woman. She held her purse behind her as she studied the photo board to the left of the door. The black-and-white photos of customers holding fish received more attention than any of the prized mounts on the wall. He eased the door open. Whoever she was, she’d been patient enough.

  “How are you today?” he asked.

  She turned to face him. Most likely she was a salesgirl. Her camel-colored wool skirt accentuated her slim waist, and her auburn hair was curled above her shoulders. A hint of lavender soap drifted in the air between them, a pleasant contrast to the fish-bait odor that accompanied his regular customers.

  “I’m well, thank you, and yourself?”

  “Just fine.” She was going to try to sell him either some kind of fishermen’s soap or maybe candy for the front counter area. That is, if she wasn’t Richard’s sister.

  “
I’d like to interview for the job, too.” She now clutched the wooden handles of her purse in front of her.

  “The job?”

  “Yes, the cashier position.”

  He suppressed a chuckle before a smile stretched across his face. His buddies were already at it. Crossing his arms, he scanned the front windows for a glimpse of Bob or Jack, or some other prankster who might be involved. Might even be his dad and Ron Kessler.

  “Where’d you hear about the job?” He bit the sides of his mouth, curbing a chuckle.

  “I overheard your interview with the young man,” she said, glancing past him to the cash register area.

  Hmm . . . If it was a set-up, the timing was lucky.

  She followed him to the register and set her purse on the glass countertop between them. Maybe it was a combination of her shiny auburn hair and clear complexion, but in a down-to-earth way, she was striking.

  “Have you cashiered before?” He tapped the fingers of one hand on the counter.

  “No.”

  “Any job experience?”

  She nodded, avoiding his gaze. “I took care of my great-aunt, an invalid, for over two years.”

  He rolled a kink out of his neck.

  “What was the young man’s job experience?”

  “I taught Kevin how to tie his first trout fly when he was seven, maybe eight. I’ve never seen you before in my life.” The last thing he was going to do was hire a female who he didn’t know from Sickum to be in charge of his cash flow.

  “Are you Trevor?” Her gaze narrowed.

  “Yes; I’m the owner.” Who’d she think he was?

  Her dark brows gathered before her gaze dropped to his striped tie. “Eleven dollars and ninety-nine cents was the answer to your fishing reel question. The other one was fifty cents. When you say thirty-three and a third real fast like that, it’s easy to get confused. If you’d slowed down for him, he might have been able to—”

  “I didn’t want him to answer correctly, not after he missed the other ones as badly as he did.” He didn’t feel friendly; he felt cornered. Whoever had found her had done his homework.

  “I sell swivels by the dozen.” He found one in the crevice between the glass and metal edging, and set the brass swivel, the size of a small safety pin, on the glass for her to marvel at. “They’re a staple for most fishermen.”

  “They also prevent the line from tangling.” She glanced up, meeting his gaze.

  “Who sent you here . . . Bob Hawkins?”

  She shook her head. “Nobody.”

  The sign had been up a day and a half. He scanned the front windows. “If pyramid sinkers are ninety-six cents a dozen, and Joe Moe only wants seven, how much do I charge?”

  She batted her eyes twice. “Fifty-six cents.”

  “Ed Hoyde!” Trevor raised an index finger and grinned. “Ed set you up.”

  “No, it’s like I said; I overheard your interview, and I need a job.”

  “Why do you need a job?”

  “I have several reasons.” A deep pink stained her cheeks.

  Trevor scanned Third Street. There was no sign of Jack or Bob. This prank beat all. “Is that your truck out front?” He eyed an old Ford Model A.

  “Yes.” She set her purse off to one side. “Do you want me to stand behind the counter like Kevin did?”

  Every once in a while when the store was busy, one of his regular customers would step in to help. Not one of them could pass his math test. “Yeah. Sure.”

  He leaned a Shakespeare Wonderod against the counter. Next, he grabbed a metal baking pan, and set a handful of Okies, a clump of Mustad hooks, and a handful of swivels into it. And, just for grins, he opened the bait fridge and added a carton of night crawlers to the pile on the counter. “Go ahead.” He glanced toward the front windows, anticipating the mastermind would show up any minute and have a knee-slapping laugh.

  She counted the swivels and slid them into a small manila envelope as she’d obviously seen Kevin do.

  “How much are they a dozen, Mr. Dawber?”

  Had Kevin called him by his surname? He didn’t think so. The woman was a set-up, and by someone who knew him well. The ploy was brilliant. His regulars all knew he’d never hire a woman.

  “The swivels are eighteen cents a dozen.”

  “There are twenty-three of them. So, they’re just one and a half cents shy of two dozen.”

  That’s what he got for grabbing. “And, what is that?”

  “Thirty-five cents.”

  His nose twitched. She’d even rounded up a penny.

  She counted the hooks, all nineteen of them, and remembered without him telling her that they were also eighteen cents a dozen. If she missed one math problem, he’d have an out.

  “Twenty-nine cents,” she said.

  She’d again rounded up a penny. While she counted out the Okies, he walked past her behind the counter and picked up his spare rod-and-reel combination. He stood in the six-foot expanse between the cash register and the coffee machine and flicked the bail. Raising his arm to a forty-five-degree angle, he reached back and cast halfway across the store at a circle scored into the gray linoleum. The rubber plug bounced near the circle and then past it. Hopefully, his casting would distract her.

  “There are fifteen Okies. At sixty cents a dozen, that brings them to seventy-five cents.”

  She was quicker than his dad or his good friend, Jack, who occasionally stepped in to help. “The Shakespeare combo is regularly priced 18.99, and today it’s 30 percent off,” he informed her. One time during a sale, his dad had almost got everything right, but the percentage item had thrown him. Trevor reeled in and made another cast. Already, she was taking longer. He glanced over to see if she was using paper.

  “Thirteen dollars and twenty-nine cents,” she said, setting down a pencil.

  She was quite the number with quite the story. The mastermind behind this deserved a medal or maybe a dollar in merchandise.

  “What’s split shot?” he asked.

  “Lead pellets. They add weight to the line.”

  Somebody had spent a great deal of time with her. She picked up the Styrofoam container of night crawlers.

  “Make sure they’re alive. Last summer, a customer of mine brought a carton back and said they were all dead by the time he reached the river. I don’t think he was straight with me about how long he left them in his car. But my new policy is to check that they’re alive before they leave here.”

  “So take the lid off?”

  “Yes, move the bedding around and make sure they’re alive in there.”

  He suppressed a chuckle.

  Without a hint of angst, she held the carton a few inches beneath her chin, inching her fingers through the gray worm bedding. “They’re alive.” She set the lid back on, and wiped her hands on a nearby shop rag.

  Neither his sister nor Jocelyn, his ex-wife, could have passed this test; and the girl had made it look easy.

  “What pound test line would you use for trout fishing?”

  Hook file in hand, her movements froze. “We haven’t covered trout fishing yet, just chinook salmon and steelhead.”

  “We . . . what do you mean, we?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Fletcher Gleinbroch and me.”

  “Fletcher?” Fletcher, the chef out at Wilhoit Mineral Springs and an avid angler, must have heard he was hiring and pulled this together.

  “If you hired me, Mr. Dawber, I’d learn all I could about fishing.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss . . .” Had she already told him her name? “While the position is mostly cashiering, the fellow that I hire needs to be a well-rounded angler.”

  “Well-rounded angler.” She chewed on the words like they were her future bread and butter.

  She’d missed out on the fellow part. He made another cast. The rubber plug hit near the top of a display, knocking packaged spinners to the ground. Fletcher had been yakking last week about a girl out at Wilhoit. He’d mentioned she was pret
ty—quite the understatement—and that his boys had taken her fishing without a license. He’d already heard about her fifty-dollar fine from a handful of customers.

  “You’re the Wilhoit girl, and you’re finally here for your fishing license.” He reeled the plug snug against the top guide and leaned the rod against the wall. “Your reputation precedes you. Fishing without a license is a sign of bad character.”

  Red stained her creamy complexion before she returned to the customer side of the counter. “I thought we were going to stop at Miller and Nelson to get a license, but Henry didn’t want to wait until nine o’clock for them to open.”

  “That’s why you should’ve come here. During peak season, I open at 7:00 a.m.” He set a licensing form on top of the counter. Fletcher’s two boys had taken her fishing on the Molalla, probably at Wagon Wheel Park. “You sure had me going there.” He grinned. “Should have thought of Fletcher first. I’m pretty sure he’s heard my thirty-three-and-a-third one before.”

  “Fletcher didn’t set this up.” Her features froze; even her eyes stopped blinking.

  Trevor tapped his fingers on the glass and nodded. He had to give it to her—her performance was too stellar for a set-up.

  “The whole way here, I was trying to figure out how I’m going to pay for new tires and the fishing fine. And when I walked in, and you were interviewing…” She inhaled. “I thought it was a sign.”

  “A sign?” He mulled over the expression. Did she mean from God?

  “Will they send me to jail if I don’t pay? My aunt left me some money, but I don’t know when it’s going to come through.” The corner of her mouth twitched. She had one of those finely arched, full upper lips that might make some fellows go weak in the knees. That was another reason he wouldn’t hire her—his customers wouldn’t be able to concentrate.

  “That’s a question for the law, not me. Your math skills are great, but I won’t hire a woman. Especially a woman I don’t know from Dickey Prairie.” His regulars usually chuckled when he referenced the neighboring town, but not Fletcher’s Girl.

  The whites of her eyes became visibly more prominent.

  “Then why’d you interview me?” she had the gall to ask.