Free The Best Way to Lose by Janet Dailey

mouth. A string of multicolored lights circled the pilothouse of the towboat, and an artificial, faded green wreath was tacked onto a large life ring on the side, near the name
Sophie B
. Trace lifted a hand in silent greeting to the man at the controls. Engines throbbed, turning props and churning up water in a muddy wake as the towboats passed.
    The faint smile lingered on his face as Trace pivoted to slide an amused glance through the opened window of the wheelhouse at the pilot taking his turn at watch on the
Delta Belle
. “Either the Swede hasn’t been sober since Christmas, or else he’s getting a headstart on next year.”
    “Ill ask him.” Dan Bledsoe chuckled and picked up the radio mike. There was a crackle of communication over the short-wave before he came back with the answer. “He said he hasn’t been home for Santa Claus to visit him. It’ll be another week before he gets back. Hope we don’t get stuck like that. My wife’s due to have her baby the end of the month.”
    “This is supposed to be a turn-around haul,” Trace replied.
    “Yeah.” There was a skeptical quality in the response. “I’ve heard that before.”
    So had Trace, but he wasn’t a family man like some of the others on the crew. He didn’t complain about the delays in port, or the junk hauls they’d been making recently. He tapped the windowsill in a gesture of decision.
    “I’m goin’ below. She’s all yours.”
    “Aye, Cap’n,” Bledsoe replied absently, already looking ahead at the bend in the channel.
    After hours at the wheel negotiating through an early-morning fog and drizzle with one eye on the radar screen and an ear tuned for the blast of a horn, Trace was ready for a break. It hadn’t been his watch, but as the senior pilot, he hadn’t been willing to let the green Bledsoe take it alone, since he’d only obtained his river pilot’s license seven months ago.
    A pot of coffee was cradled on a back burner of the stove in the mess cabin. Trace filled a cup and carried it to the table where Evers, the cook, was cheating at a game of solitaire.
    “Want something to eat?” Evers chewed out the words through the cigar in his mouth.
    “Nope.” Trace took off his hat and dropped it on the table while he combed a hand through his hair, then let it rub the knotted muscles in his neck.
    “Your mail’s still sittin’ over there. Ya never did open it,” Evers reminded him and slipped an ace from the pile.
    “It’s just bills.” Trace rocked his chair back to reach the short stack of envelopes with his name on them, then leafed through them, looking at return addresses before bothering to open them.
    “What do you suppose is gonna happen to the line now that your old man’s gone?” Evers lifted his chin to frown curiously at Trace, the cigar wigwagging from his teeth.
    “What do you mean?” He used his pocketknife to slice open an envelope. An eyebrow arched briefly when he saw the amount listed as damages at the bar where he’d had the fight six weeks ago.
    “There’s been some speculation that his widow might sell it. I just wondered if you knew.” The ash fell off Evers’ cigar onto the cards. The cook muttered under his breath and swept it off the table with his hand.
    “Could be.” Trace shrugged with disinterest.
    Evers began flipping down cards again. “Can’t imagine a woman running a barge line.” He darted an interested look at Trace. “You’d get some of the money if she sold it, wouldn’t ya?”
    “Mmhmm.” It was an affirmative sound as he slid the knife blade under the flap of another envelope. He unfolded the official-looking letter and skimmed the notice of a special stockholders’ meeting of the Santee Line, Ltd. Disinterested, Trace shoved it back in the envelope.
    “She wouldn’t get much for it if she sold it,” Evers announced, continuing theconversation whether Trace was interested in the subject or not. “The business has been going downhill the last few years.