Free Dead Renegade by Victoria Houston

along the lobe of his right ear.
    “Hey, you razzbonya,” said Osborne, rushing forward to take the boy by the shoulders and give him a friendly shake. “Ray didn’t say you were in town. Here for the rest of the summer?”
    “I wish,” said Nick, grinning as he reached to give Osborne’s hand a firm shake. Though his face had filled out since they last met, there would never be any mistaking that Nick was the son of the dark beauty with an arctic heart who had tried to convince Ray that she had borne his child.
    “Doc,” said Ray, “Nick surprised me, too. Showed up at my place about an hour ago to tell me he’s pre-fishing the Moccasin chain with a team from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. They’ve qualified for the finals in the National Collegiate Bass Fishing Tournament, which starts next week, so I thought it might help if I show him some of my honey holes.”
    “Help? Hell! How ‘bout a guarantee,” said Osborne, turning back to the boy. “So when did you get into bass fishing, Nick? I thought Ray had convinced you that walleye fishing is the way to go.”
    Nick shrugged. It was long-standing argument among Osborne’s buddies over their morning McDonald’s coffee: walleye fishermen like to consider themselves more skilled than bass fishermen—insisting that walleyes are smarter, wilier than bass. Bass fishermen swear the opposite.
    “Yeah, Ray gave me some trouble about this, but for fourteen thousand bucks I’ll fish carp if I have to.”
    “Whoa, the purse is that good?” Osborne asked. “I had no idea.”
    “Oh yeah, the college tournaments are really popular, Doc. Our team’s been fishing since June and done okay—got five largemouths weighing just over thirteen and a third pounds in the semis.”
    “Wow.” Osborne was impressed.
    “Thanks to my good buddy here, I’ve got some decent skills,” said Nick with an appreciative nod towards Ray.
    “Ray suckered you in.” Osborne gave him a light punch in the shoulder. “He let you think you hooked those fish but, fact is, son, the fish hooked you. Right?”
    “Absolutely,” said Nick. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts as he said with a sheepish expression: “I am thinking of doing this for a living …”
    “Not the easiest way to get rich,” said Ray. “I’m proof of that.”
    “Rich is relative,” said Nick. “Thing about you is you’re fun to be around, man—you’re a happy guy. More’n I can say for my stepfather, who’s worth a few million and can’t start the day without a shot of Jack Daniels.” Nick raised his eyebrows, “He says it beats Zoloft.”
    “Hey, enough talk, you guys,” said C J., “let’s get this show on the road.” And she waved for them to follow her back down to the dock. Ray tipped his head towards C.J. as he caught Nick’s eye with a wink.
    Yep, thought Osborne, some things never change: Ray would always love fishing and he would always love pretty women, and one or both could always get him into trouble.

    Ambling down the walkway behind Nick and Ray, Osborne reflected on what had been a tense summer two years ago: three long months when Ray had tried to be the dad he thought he was to a recalcitrant teenager from New York City. It took a series of life-threatening events crossed with the lure of the northwoods to weaken Nick’s resistance to authority—not to mention his addiction to the Internet.
    But nature worked its magic on the kid—fueling a love for the mournful wail of the loon, the heavy breathing of the wind through the pines, the soothing lap of waves in the dark. Ray, in turn, found himself charmed by a boy whose curiosity and willingness to take chances rivaled his own.
    Thus was born a kinship that had to survive devastating news when a DNA test (requested by someone other than Ray) delivered one simple, heartbreaking fact: Nick’s mother had lied. Ray was not the boy’s biological father.
    No matter. Ray had no intention of letting go: