CHAPTER 2

The Shooting Tree

After breakfast, Rogan and his friends took down the tent and laid it out in Tuff’s parents’ shop to dry before folding and stowing it. Rogan had the family four-wheeler as did Runt. They headed home on the dirt and gravel roads that cut through their small community. Rogan liked to hot dog it offroad but was always careful to be a safe driver through town. He wasn’t keen on losing the privilege of using the Yamaha Grizzly, plus he tried hard to be a responsible son. He had been the oldest child for five years now, since his older brother, Peter, had died from a brain tumor. Rogan had mostly worked through his angst about how God could’ve let Peter die when his family prayed so desperately for healing, but he still certainly missed his hero brother.

This tragedy had given Rogan a need to take over as protector of his two younger sisters. Lainey was ten and had enough energy to power a lighted Christmas tree. Peg was eight, quiet and timid, with petite, delicate features. Her greatest dislike in life was insects.

Rogan beeped his horn and hollered a goodbye to Runt when they reached the driveway to the Petersens’. Rogan continued a short distance then turned up his own driveway, graveled and steep. The Chaffey family lived on a hill that rose from the bay below. Tall cedar with moss-draped branches stood alongside scrubby spruce and hemlock trees. The hill was dotted with green-leafed huckleberry bushes, delicate ferns of various varieties, and soon-emerging wildflowers that would be scattered around. Their house was constructed from honey-colored logs that glowed a warm light whenever the sun overcame its shyness and stepped out from behind the coastal clouds.

Rogan parked the four-wheeler in the shed, greeted Sitka, their malamute husky, and hauled his gear into the mud room. The mud room was the entrance to the main part of the house. It opened up to the living room of their wood-crafted home. Beyond that was the kitchen, sporting a bay window with a seat on the ocean-view side of the house. The family dinner table, made of oak, sat in front of the window. Deeper in the kitchen, a utility island had pots and pans that hung silent and still. His parents had their bedroom at the other end of this floor, but his and his sisters’ bedrooms were upstairs. The girls shared a space, just as Rogan used to do with his brother, Peter.

Rogan plopped his duffle bag on the bench and took off his XTRATUF boots. These rubber boots, tall and brown-colored, were typical southeast Alaska footwear.

“Good morning, Son.”

Rogan looked up to see Elise Chaffey smiling at him.

“How was the overnighter?” Her light brown hair was tied back in her usual ponytail style. Rogan was proud that his mom was a tough Alaskan who wasn’t afraid to use a shotgun t