Free When Grace Sings by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page A

Chilled by the cold air, he’d rolled up his window between photographs. But today was pleasant, warm enough to leave his window down. Kansas sure had changeable weather.
    Even though he felt as if he’d already seen it all, he aimed his vehicle for the highway. Anything to use up the remaining couple of hours before sunset. A half mile out of town he came upon a man and boy walking along the road. Fishing poles bounced on their shoulders. Judging by their empty hands, he assumed the pair’s expedition had failed, but they didn’t look unhappy. The boy appeared to be jabbering as the man listened with his head slightly tipped, an indulgent grin curving his mouth.
    Something about the way they sauntered side by side, their clothes rumpled and mud-stained but their bearing relaxed and content, appealed to him, and he snatched up his camera to catch a photo. He slowed to a snail’s crawl as he eased alongside them, unobtrusively lifting his camera. They both turned in his direction, and the boy raised his hand in an exuberant wave. Briley pressed the shutter button and captured the bright smiles and friendly wave perfectly.
    He dropped the camera on the passenger seat and waved in return. Before he could drive past them, the man held out his arm in a silent bid for Briley to stop. According to his research, the Amish were squeamish about having their faces photographed, and he’d honored their preference, but this man and boy weren’t wearing Amish clothes. Hopefully they wouldn’t ask him to delete the photo. He happened to like it even if it didn’t prove the dirt Len had sent him to uncover.
    Briley braked and put the car in Park. “Yeah? What can I do for you?”
    The boy scampered over, his tennis shoes stirring dust, and the man ambled more slowly. In unison they slipped the poles from their shoulders and held them upright with the handles braced on the ground, the way a farmer might hold a pitchfork. With their matching short-cropped brown hair and brown eyes, they looked like a set of bookends. Except for one being much taller.
    The man stuck out his hand. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Paul Aldrich. This is my son, Danny.”
    Briley shook the man’s hand, and then the boy pushed forward to shakehands, too. A fishy smell clung to them. Maybe they’d managed to snag a fish or two after all. Or at least had sat on a dead one. “Nice to meet you. I’m Briley Forrester.”
    “Are you the reporter who’s staying out at the Zimmermans’? In Alexa’s cottage?” Danny nearly danced in place, energy pulsating from his wiry body.
    Briley grinned. Two days in town and already well known. He’d make a note of this exchange. “That’s right.”
    Danny jabbed his thumb at his father. “Me an’ Dad are the ones who built it. We built the kitchen and the bathrooms and the ramps for Mrs. Zimmerman’s house, too. That’s what we do—we build things.”
    A chuckle threatened, but Briley managed to contain it. He doubted this kid did much to help, but it was cute the way he took credit. Pretty decent of the dad to let him think he’d helped instead of setting him straight. “Well, I’d say you and your dad did a good job.”
    “Yeah. Alexa let me and my friend Jeremy come over and put the bed in the cottage up and down. Dad says it’s called a Murphy bed, whatever that means. It’s the best bed
ever
.” The boy’s gaze swept from one bumper of Briley’s car to the other. “And this is the best car ever. I’d sure like to take a ride in it sometime.”
    “Danny …” Aldrich shook his head, frowning slightly. “Don’t be pushy. It’s rude.”
    Danny shrugged sheepishly. “Was I being pushy?”
    Briley let his laugh roll. The boy might be pushy, but he wasn’t obnoxious about it. Not the way Briley had been as a kid, trying to steal attention wherever and however he could. He kind of liked Danny. Even though he smelled like dead fish. “Don’t worry about it. Since I’ll be in