Free Dead Renegade by Victoria Houston Page A

“Nick,” he’d said, chin thrust forward, “I may not have been there when you were born, but … you are my son.”

    Oblivious to his guests, Curt had remained engrossed in his cell phone conversation while his wife untied the pontoon from its mooring. When her husband still didn’t move to take his place running the boat, C.J. had shrugged and anointed Ray skipper.
    “It’s up to you or we’ll be stuck here forever,” she’d said, beckoning Ray forward.
    So Ray had taken over the captain’s chair while Nick settled into the seat beside him. As they crossed the lake, C.J. was standing, legs apart and knees bent for balance, behind Ray and Nick, leaning over their shoulders with a wide smile on her face as the three shouted back and forth over the roar of outboard.
    Osborne sat with one arm encircling Mason’s shoulders as they sat side by side on one of the pontoon’s padded benches. He gazed across Big Moccasin while the pontoon scooted over the waves towards the western shore. The late afternoon sun was glorious on the water: electric blue and sparkling.

CHAPTER 14
    A s the boat picked up speed, Mason snuggled closer, glancing up every few minutes with a happy grin. Clutched tight in her right hand was the new Scientific Angler reel he had handed to her for safekeeping as they left the dock. Between his feet Osborne cradled two long metal cases holding his fly rods.
    It was a good ten minutes before the boat slowed and Ray shifted down to a slow trolling speed. “Doc,” he said, “I’m going to run us along the shoreline here for a bit. Point out the key spots for Nick to lock into his GPS. No problem for us if you want Mason and C.J. casting off the sides. You won’t be in our way.” Nodding towards Curt, he rolled his eyes. The man was still on the phone.
    “Okay,” said Osborne, getting to his feet. The late day thermals off the potato fields had died, leaving the lake still as glass. Only the burbling of the pontoons trolling motor disturbed the surface.
    “Mason and C.J.,” said Osborne, uncapping his rod cases, “I’d like both of you up front here.” He pointed out two spots, one on each side of the pontoon. Mason and C.J. took their places. Moments later, fly rods rigged and eyes bright with anticipation, they stood ready for action.
    “Watch closely now,” said Osborne, reaching for the Winston rod that Mason was holding, “I’m going to demonstrate. First thing you need to know is that casting a fly rod is easy—all it takes is a little coaching. And, ladies, women tend to be very good at it because—unlike spin casting—it requires no muscle.”
    As he talked, he brought his elbow up and down for a perfect roll cast. Possibly the best he’d ever done. Damn, he thought, why wasn’t Lew here to see this? Oh well.
    “In fact, the more muscle used, the worse the cast. It’s all in the timing—” Again the elbow was up and down and his fly line flew forward straight and smooth to land light as a dragonfly on the water.
    “So today you’ll learn the roll cast, which is the best for catching bluegills off a pontoon like this. Watch me a few more times—then I’ll have you try …” Again the elbow up, down and the thumb snapping forward.
    “See how I keep my hand, forearm and upper arm in line? Watch my wrist: I start by bending it down so I can feel the rod against my arm here—” He held his arm out so they could both see, “now I take my wrist straight back, lift … and lower my elbow as I push with my thumb to let the fly line out—that’s the power snap that Lewellyn Ferris taught me. She learned it from Joan Wulff who was a world champion fly fisherman.”
    He demonstrated twice more, then handed the rod to Mason. “C.J., Mason, you try it.”
    “This doesn’t look like the movies,” said C.J. after a few tries. “I want to look like Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It”
    Osborne chuckled. “Hold your horses, C.J. Next trip, I promise you’ll learn how