Redemption at Dead Man's Hole

Buckle

Dedication

To Trent, my husband, adventure companion, and steadfast love.

Acknowledgements

To my husband, Trent: for all your support and encouragement while I was writing this story. You know it is a dream come true and many years in the making. I love all our adventures we’ve had together and look forward to many more. I thank God for your leadership of our family and for teaching our daughters so many outdoor skills. I appreciate your artistic skills for Chapters 1,12, and 19.

To Erika Huestis, Allise West, and Rylee Knight: You are all amazing women, and I am blessed to call you my daughters. Thank you for your drawings for the chapter pictures. It is special for me to have you be a part of my first book. Erika: Chapters 3,4,6,7,8,13,15, and 18. Allise: Chapters 10 and 17. Rylee: Chapters 2,3,5,9,11,14, and 20.

To my dad, Jim Lusby: for raising me to love the Lord and for all the adventures of my youth. My love of the outdoors comes from those.

To my mom, Marilyn Lusby: for being my rock and biggest fan. We shared the same writing dream. I miss you. I know you’ll be smiling from Heaven when I open the pages of my book for the first time.

To Jeremy Toman: You are a great cover photo model, willing to make the leap.

To Logan and Brennen Cooke: Thanks for letting me drag you around the island. You are great cover photo models, too.

To Keturah Huestis: my eldest granddaughter. You are a fellow lover of adventure. You are also the prettiest cover model!

Thank you to our friend, now in Heaven, Bow Breeden, who taught us the saying, Fear but fear not, for fear is your greatest weakness.

Thank you to my Beta readers: Lauren Gibbs, Hannah Huffman, William Mosman, and Garrett Yonge, and to my editor Patti Lee of Artistica Writer Services.

Thank you to my dear friend, Anna Bosshardt, for the huckleberry buckle recipe.

Photo credits: Cover photos by Laura Morgan

Author photo by Allise West

Dear Reader,

My wildest dream wants to run

through the wilderness of Alaska

and onto the page

weaving through

letters standing tall

Adventure bound in leather

page after page

of gilded-edged imagination

My dream romps through a landscape

never changing

skipping along with timeless characters

Alas,

I am awake

Yet

my dream lives on

soaring with eagles

running with bears

I extend the invitation

Let’s dream together

CHAPTER 1

The Before

Rogan Chaffey’s life was forever changed. He now referred to it as Life Before and Life After. After. The Life Before had seemed so perfect, but he hadn’t truly appreciated it. He was in fact, at that very moment, bragging to his friend about his older brother Peter, and how he’d gotten a monster buck and straight A’s.

Then. Jim and Elise Chaffey stepped heavily into the kitchen, sat hard on the honey-colored oak chairs at the table, and politely, but woodenly, asked Timothy to head home. He did. Rogan’s sisters, three and five, were called for. They came. The light seemed to fade around him, still sunny, but somehow wrong.

They told them. Explained. Peter had an inoperable brain tumor.

He suddenly felt like he was in one of those old-time cartoons, with a saw cutting a rapid, merciless circle around his feet, knowing the ground would collapse from underneath. This sudden drop of solid ground sucked the breath from his lungs like a giant vacuum hose shoved down his windpipe. When his breath was gone, he tried to inhale needed oxygen, but his throat constricted, not letting any in. Panic pushed the alarm button in his brain, and he struggled, flailing, to suck in some air. He finally managed to eke a thin stream past his closed throat.

This can’t be happening, he thought. No way this is true. But. It. Was. From a far-away tunnel, he heard his name being called, echoing.

Rogan! His mother’s voice was sharper now.

He looked up, through the haze. His family was reaching out to him. A hard hug. Come join us.

The Chaffey family knelt in prayer on the gray rug that covered the old oak floor slats. The petitions voiced that day and over the next year were sometimes desperate, sometimes hopeful, sometimes thankful, sometimes angry, sometimes exhausted, and sometimes only a groan. Feeling, but having no words.

Some days, they were a happy family, without the crashing collision of the reality truck. Other days, Peter paced in pain, fell to the floor in a demanding seizure, or was too weak to get out of bed. In the end, they simply sat by his bedside or snuggled next to him as they took turns recounting the good things, the fun family times that were so important to them all. Rogan waited for God to save his only brother, his hero.

The funeral was a simple affair but attended by most of the small community where they lived on the island in southeast Alaska. True to the typical weather, it was raining. Rogan didn’t mind, because his hot tears mixed with the cool water from the sky as both trickled down his grieving face.

God, why did you take Peter? How could you let this happen? We prayed! I thought you promised to keep us safe? were Rogan’s agonized thoughts.

His best friend, Timothy, walked over and somberly placed a hand on Rogan’s shoulder. There were no words, but there didn’t need to be. He’d been beside his friend through the struggles and questions, and Rogan knew he could count on Timothy’s friendship to help him through any dark days that were surely ahead. Rogan subconsciously appreciated that Timothy used humor in hard times, and hoped that it would help in the days, weeks, and months to come.

In his now-own-room, Rogan lay in the dark and vowed an impossible promise that he would be the perfect son to make up for his parents losing one. Double the responsibility, double the achievement, double the whatever else it took. If God wasn’t going to be around to save his family, then he would do it himself.

CHAPTER 2

Questions That Need Answering

Awakening softly, the now fifteen-year-old Rogan sighed and shifted slightly under his lightweight, plaid blanket. He’d shut his curtains last night so the early rising summer sun wouldn’t have as good of a chance at stealing away some much-needed sleep. The thick fabric didn’t obscure the sharp, staccato shrieks of the resident bald eagles. I love that sound, he thought. Wondering what time it was, he reached over to pat the nightstand for his clock.

Oh, no, it’s eight o’clock! How in the world did I sleep so late?

Guilt pushed him out of his bed and coaxed him along to make his way downstairs to the kitchen. His mother was sitting in the seat of the bay window, her hand resting on the open Bible in her lap, almost like a caress, her notebook and pen by her side. He could see she was cradling a cozy mug. The steam that wafted up from the hot liquid smelled to him like her favorite lemon tea, and her face looked peaceful as she thoughtfully gazed out of the clear glass. Rogan paused, not wanting to interrupt her quiet time, and he too gazed out the window and enjoyed the view. They lived on a hill that rose up from the bay below. The sun was glittering off of the small ripples that marched out in front of the breeze. Tall cedars with moss-draped branches stood alongside scrubby spruce and fir trees. The hill was dotted with green-leafed huckleberry bushes, delicate ferns, and some scattered wildflowers.

Elise Chaffey turned and smiled at Rogan with a softness that Rogan interpreted as meaning that she was grateful for her second-born son.

Hey, sleepyhead.

Morning, Mom. He walked over and gave her a hug. She hugged him back then reached up to pat his thick brown hair that stuck up off of his forehead, because of a swirling cowlick. He found the untamable locks annoying, but she insisted to him she found it adorable, much to his chagrin. His warm, chocolatey brown eyes met hers.

Sorry I overslept. I’ll head out to do the chores.

No need. I had your sisters feed the chickens and the dog. I fed the cat. It’s all good.

I’m really sorry, Mom. I should’ve set my alarm.

Rogan… she began, but paused, making him think she was unsure how to speak her thoughts. You take on too much. It’s okay to relax a little. Rest a little. It’s crazy, but I feel like I should tell you to not be so responsible all of the time. You’re a teenager, for pity’s sake.

Instead of finding the comment humorous, Rogan turned serious. Mom, can I ask you something?

The house was uncharacteristically quiet, with his father away for his job with the U.S. Forest Service, and his sisters were apparently outside, so there was the space in front of him, wide open, sucking his thoughts out into the air.

Of course, Honey. Mrs. Chaffey set her mug down on the table, then patted the padded bench seat. Rogan took the invitation to sit next to his mother.

"I know I’m a Christian, and I love God. I try to live like He wants me to, but sometimes, I just don’t feel like I’m a very good Christian, after what happened with Peter. It’s really been bugging me lately. I can’t stop wondering why God didn’t heal Peter. I heard the Spencers say to you and Dad that you didn’t have enough faith, or maybe you had sin in your life and that’s why God didn’t heal him. It still makes me so angry. Mostly at the Spencers for saying that, but a little at God too. We all prayed so hard, and I was sure God would do a miracle for us. Peter was already living for God, so why did he have to get cancer to ‘use it for God’s glory,’ like Pastor Greg said? How can people be that mean? And why, when the Bible talks so much about God protecting us, did He not protect Peter? It’s like He chooses who and when to protect, so how am I supposed to pray and have faith when I can’t know what His plan is. Will He protect us, or not?"

The questions that had been building up inside of him were rushing out, now that he’d unlocked the gate where he’d had them penned up these past five years.

"Remember when the neighbor, Crazy Hoffman, shot at Dad for no good reason, when Dad was walking on our property? God protected Dad then. He’s gotten us out of some scrapes, but not the big one that really mattered for Peter. He paused and dropped his chin. I just don’t know. It makes my head hurt."

His mother’s grayish-blue eyes glistened with pooling tears. She did a slow blink, and the droplets salted her cheeks. Pulling Rogan to her side, she kissed the top of his head.

"I don’t have all the answers, either. I still wrestle with these thoughts, too. People say things without really thinking it through sometimes, I think. I’ve finally come to the realization that God didn’t give Peter cancer, but yes, He could’ve taken it away. I don’t know why He didn’t, and I may not until I get to Heaven. I do know that life happens to everyone, and the most important thing is that God is there to help us through it. I know He loves us. I guess that’s what faith is. I have to trust that He is God and knows best."

I know that He knows best in my brain, but in my heart, it’s sure hard to believe. And then I feel guilty, like I’m not a good Christian when I think like that.

I understand, said his mom. I do.

The front door banged open and two thumps sounded as ten-year-old Lainey kicked off her shoes in the mudroom. She raced into the kitchen full throttle, which was her normal speed, dark blond hair in two braids flying like reins behind her.

Hey, Rogue. You’re up. She threw the greeting at him as she rushed by on her way up the stairs, undoubtedly heading to her bedroom to retrieve something she needed.

Mornin’, Lane. She was already halfway up the stairs.

Elise and Rogan both sighed a breath of unanswered questions and glanced at each other; the philosophical moment ended. They both stood.

Why don’t you have some breakfast? You must be hungry, and you need energy for your deer hunt with Timothy this evening.

Rogan chuckled to himself that his parents were the only ones he knew who still called his friend Timothy. Almost everyone, including his friend’s parents, called Timothy by the affectionate nickname Runt. It had started with someone in their circle of friends a couple of years ago, and the name had stuck. Runt had yet to catch up to many of the other boys who were going into the ninth grade in height, being held back five inches shorter than Rogan’s five feet seven inches. Both boys had an outdoorsy, wiry, and athletic build, but it was worn smaller on Timothy.

Yeah, I’m excited. Too bad Dad isn’t here to go with us.

I’m sure he’d like to, but he’s mapping that cave on the mainland for a few days.

Thump, thump, thump. Lainey ran back down the stairs with her bug net, paused to reconnect with her shoes, and she was back out the door.

She and Peg are trying to catch bugs and feed them to the chickens, smiled Elise.

Rogan laughed at the idea of his eight-year-old sister Peg, blond and pale complected, delicate, and somehow fragile, helping Lainey net some insects. What are they going to do once they’re in the net? Peg won’t pick up any bugs.

His mother shrugged as she headed to the laundry room to throw in a load of clothes to wash. You may soon be called upon to help.

"I suppose I could do that. After I eat something." He headed for the cupboard and the cereal.

The day passed quickly between playing with his sisters and getting ready for his evening hunt. Around 4:00, Rogan fired up the 4-wheeler, a dark green Yamaha Grizzly, and headed down the potholed, dirt road that was the main road in their small community. He headed out to pick up his friend.

CHAPTER 3

Evening Hunt

Rogan watched as Runt snuck around the bend in the road toward him. He could hear his friend’s feet crunching softly on the gravel. Runt had waited a good fifteen minutes after the crack of Rogan’s .270 had punched into the stillness of the evening air. By now, the light was soft and gray. Rogan wore the excitement on his face, sporting his slightly off-kilter smile, eyebrows raised.

Did you get ‘im? Runt whispered.

"Yeah! He was just right there. See where those two trees