Summer of the White Fawn

By Ron Gamer

Disturbing events at home see Connor Benton spending summer break at his grandparents’ remote lake cabin. On the very first morning, he stumbles across a newly born, white-furred orphan fawn. Although against the law, Connor wants to keep the unique creature, hoping to care for it until it can fend for itself. While attempting to sneak the fawn into the bunkhouse, he’s confronted by Olivia, a girl with private problems of her own. She promises to keep his secret, and Connor sees no other option but to accept Olivia’s help. It’s good he does because, as he soon discovers, Mother Nature isn’t always a kind hearted caregiver

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Mar 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780878399819

Ron Gamer

Now “semi-retired” after four fun-filled decades of teaching “middle graders,” educator/outdoorsman Ron Gamer chose to channel excess energy into authoring classroom-friendly outdoor adventure aimed primarily at reluctant adolescent readers. Summer of the White Fawn is his fifth “Up North” title.  Native to Minnesota, Ron and his wife, Madeleine, are the proud parents of two lovely daughters and grandparents of five healthy, active grandchildren. Ron and Madeleine split time between a home in Hanover and a lake dwelling near Garrison, a hundred miles to the north. When not in the woods, perched in a tree with camera or bow, or inside, working on a new outdoor adventure story, Ron enjoys taking his little tent and campfire production, “Stirring up a Story,” out and about. To schedule a presentation at your library, upper elementary or middle school classroom, please visit Ron’s website at www.RonGamer.com or www.metronet.lib.mn.us.

Book preview

Epilogue

Prologue

Kaa-whump-whump-clunk.

Connor woke with a start. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

What the heck was that? And where am I? Pine paneling? And over there—a set of bunk beds? Ah, got it. This is the back bedroom of Grandpa’s lake place.

As if being caught in a downpour, reasons why he awoke in this room rained down, a worry storm so drenching he wished he could pull the covers over his head and, for a time, make the world go away.

He flopped back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine that the disturbing mind videos were only scenes from a bad dream. He hoped when he next awoke, like fog after sunrise, all his worries would have been wisped away.

Part One: Special Delivery

Chapter 1

No matter how hard he tried, Connor couldn’t drop back off to sleep. Too many mental images played brain tag with each other. As soon as one thought stopped, another rushed in to take its place. After a time he realized he was fighting a losing battle. He yawned, swung his feet out of bed, and stretched.

Hmmm… how much sleep did I get? Five hours? Six?

The drive north from the Twin Cities had taken almost four hours. Gramps had picked him up an hour after supper. They had arrived at the cabin close to midnight. That explained why Connor was so tired. He didn’t even remember crawling into bed.

He was still wearing his T-shirt and cargo pants and figured Gramps had helped him into the cabin.

Unable to sleep, Connor decided he might as well get up. Maybe he’d go out and shoot some hoops before breakfast.

Quiet as a whisper, so he didn’t wake Gramps, who was probably tired, Connor nudged open the screen door. He limped through the narrow space and eased the door back in place. He saw no need for the door to slam shut and wake his grandparents.

Early morning air held tight to an overnight chill. Connor shivered before tugging up his sweatshirt’s hood.

Warmer, he stood gazing beyond the wooden walkway. Something seemed out of place. He stared first at the garage and then at the cabin. The difference slowly dawned.

On his last visit, Grandpa’s carport had been clad in weather-stained plywood sheeting. That was no longer true. Despite dawn’s dim glow, the structure proudly displayed new outerwear—tan-tinted log-like siding. To Connor’s eye, the half-logs were an exact match to those of the main house.

Grandpa had been at work with his hammer and saw. He might have been retired, but the old man sure kept busy.

Connor tilted his face skyward. He sucked in a deep breath and held it. The air smelled like moldy leaves, pine, and a little bit of dead fish. Still, it was better than city air.

He exhaled a miniature cloud of steam-engine white in the cool morning air. He lowered his head, grabbed onto the stair rail, and trundled down the porch steps, trying not to limp. Reaching ground level, he shuffled along the wooden walkway to the garage.

The early morning target was the game box stored just inside the building’s side entrance.

Connor hefted the basketball to chin level. Then he focused on the rusty rim bolted above the wide carport door. Suddenly, without warning, came a sharp gunshot—"ka-blam!" The slap of the door caused him to flinch. But it was too late to pull back. The ball left his hands and sailed high above the hoop before giving way to gravity.

To Connor’s disgust, it was just an air ball. He always shot air balls. Adding to the insult, the sphere splattered into the shallow puddle edging the blacktop. It managed a soggy bounce before dying on a layer of damp leaves.

Jeeeeeze-Louise! I’m such a loser! Never even touched the hoop! Add basketball to the long list of things I’m lousy at.

Connor hadn’t noticed the sound of approaching footsteps. He stood like a statue, brooding, fists clenched at his sides. He turned in time to catch Grandpa walking around the garage.

A smile awoke on the old man’s stubbled face. Oh, so there you are. Wow! You’re already out shooting baskets!

Grandpa shuffled forward. He continued to chatter but with a softer voice. You certainly got up early. Remember, kiddo, it’s summer break. Grams and I don’t care what time you crawl out of bed. You can sleep in as late as you like.

Like a tree with a thick trunk, Connor remained rooted in place. When he found his tongue, the first words of the day fell out in a stuttered mutter. Ah… g’mornin’, Gramps. Yeah, I woke up real early. Something big and heavy clunked by up on the gravel road. I’m not certain, but it sounded like it could have been a lumber truck. Maybe headed to that place near the dead end, maybe that lake home you said was being worked on last summer. Anyway, I tried but I couldn’t fall back to sleep.

Grandpa Mitch’s slipper-clad feet trundled closer. Really? Grams and I didn’t hear anything. But since you were sleeping in the corner bedroom, you’d be more likely to notice noisy traffic then we would.

Grandpa shifted his gaze beyond the square patch of pavement. He studied the small building tucked between a stand of mid-sized maples and paper-barked birch. He’d built the bunkhouse several years earlier, originally as an ice-fishing shanty. He wanted one large enough for the entire family to drop lines at the same time. But with the addition of siding, windows, folding chairs, and a heater, the shanty put on pounds. What was supposed to be a middleweight entry quickly weighed in with the heft of a Sumo wrestler. And despite it being built over an axle with wheels, it became too bulky for the lawn tractor to tug. Especially up the tree-shaded slope abutting Ahmik Lake.

After lots of thought, Grandpa had made a new plan. With hammer and saw, he added a peaked roof, including wide overhanging eves. With that accomplished, he tacked on gingerbread trim. Next, he painted the building to blend with the house.

After several weeks of nonstop pounding and painting, the structure resembled a fairy-tale cottage. Both cute and cozy, the building made an ideal grandkid’s mini-cabin.

Grandpa smiled in satisfaction and refocused on his grandson. I didn’t see you when I peeked into your room. I thought maybe you’d moved out, decided to snooze in the bunkhouse.

Connor studied his shoes as if expecting to spot a loose lace. The truth was; he didn’t feel comfortable sleeping away from the big house. Not quite yet, anyway. Likewise, he ­wasn’t brave enough to cough up the real reason.

He crossed his fingers and mumbled an itty-bitty white lie. Nah. It still gets pretty cool at night. Maybe I’ll move in later in the week when it warms up.

Turning his head to conceal a knowing smirk, Grandpa patted the boy’s shoulder. Whatever. It’s your call, Connor. Right now, we’d better get a hustle on, though. I think Grandma has breakfast ready. You’re gonna like it… cold juice, crispy bacon, and one of your favorites—vanilla-flavored French toast. To top it off, gobs of locally brewed maple syrup.

As promised, breakfast proved a tasty treat. So much better than the bowl of frosted flakes that had become Connor’s habit at home. But despite the yummy meal, the boy’s mood remained murky. Replies to his grandparents’ friendly chit-chat were most often only a yep or a nope.

Wise with age, the elders didn’t push. They not only understood, but they shared many of their grandson’s concerns.

Later, Connor slouched against the garage wall. He looked on as Grandpa Mitch backed out the Buick. The full-sized sedan cleared the big door and rolled to a stop. The passenger window slid down.

Grandma Marie’s graying curls filled the opening. In her school-teacher voice, she asked, Connor, are you certain you don’t want to tag along? You could pick out your favorite fruits and cereals.

Connor’s unruly brown locks shook side to side. Nah. You won’t be gone all that long. I’ll be fine.

The woman glanced at her husband for a sign of consent. When he nodded, she said, Well… if you’re certain you’ll play safe. But you must promise to follow the number one rule: no fishing from the boat without a life-vest on.

Yeah, I know. But I won’t be going fishin’. I’ll wait until Gramps and I go out together.

All right, then. We’ll be home before noon. Remember, if something comes up and you need help, call the Jensons. They’re the first driveway coming in from the county blacktop. Their number’s on the notepad next to the phone. Other than your gramps and I, they’re the only other full-time residents.

Connor nodded but remained mute. He looked on as the car snaked up the narrow tree-lined drive. Brake lights blinked and then the car turned left onto the access lane.

Chapter 2

Having scored on two close-in shots , Connor stepped back and threw up a three-pointer. Like earlier in the day, the ball missed everything—basket, net, and backboard.

Feeling as deflated as a punctured life-raft, he trudged to retrieve the bad shot. Scarred and bruised, the ball was in bad shape. Yet it held a special place in Connor’s world. The ball had once belonged to his dad.

I wonder if we’ll ever be able to play a game of horse together again. It’s just not fair! He’s already done his share!

Deep in gloomy brooding, Connor began to dribble. Each bounce pushed down little harder and a little faster. The ball became a blur, bumping up and down, up and down. Soon, with the bounces so fast, Connor lost control.

As if wanting to teach the lad a lesson, the ball hop-skipped across the pavement. Then, almost as if it had eyes, rolled straight into the puddle.

Thoroughly peeved, Connor snatched up the ball and tossed it alongside the building. He stomped to the garage opening and slumped against the doorjamb. Then he stood quietly, gazing across the parking area, pondering Grandma’s parting words.

Play safe! she had said.

Right, Grams! Like there’s really anything cool to do by myself in the middle of Mosquitoville, Connor muttered to himself.

He could forget computer games. That wasn’t going to happen with Grandpa’s ten-year-old Dell. That dinosaur would be better used as a doorstop. Besides, there wasn’t even a high-speed Internet connection. Just slow, turtle-toed dial-up.

Connor knew there was nothing much to watch on TV. Just a couple of antenna stations out of Duluth, and they only came in when it wasn’t cloudy.

Play safe. And exactly who am I supposed to play safe with? Chipmunks and squirrels? Frogs along the shore? Bears in the bushes?

For the first time that dismal gray morning, a hint of a smile played along the boy’s mouth. Unlike many of his buddies, he relished reading and writing. He enjoyed the way amusing-sounding words skipped along in a line, almost as if playing tag with each other Dr. Seuss-like.

Bears in the bushes. Clever, Connor, really clever. Good use of alliteration. ’Cept there better not be any bears in these bushes. Hmm… maybe I should go in, jot that line in my journal.

Grandpa Mitch hadn’t bothered pushing the garage door closed. Connor retrieved the ball and sauntered through the wide opening, trying not to limp. He stopped inside to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. With the sun yet to burn off the clouds, the interior of the garage was a dusky cavern.

The front part of building served as the collection center for most of Grandpa’s tools and big boy toys. Parked off to one side was a green, squat-wheeled John Deere lawn tractor. Snuggled in front of the tractor was its little cousin, a well-used, grass-stained trimming mower. Connor considered both machines.

When it came time to cut, Connor bet he could guess which one he’d be using. It wouldn’t be Big Green. Not with the hill and all the trees to mow around. Gramps probably figures I’d steer it into the lake, Connor thought. And if not that, run over one of Gram’s flower beds.

Dismissing the mowers, Connor let his eyes roam along the wall. Dozens of stout braces supported an array of tools and gear. Rakes, shovels, saws, a couple of axes and more competed for space with camp lights, hanks of rope, bags of tent stakes, hoops for lawn games, and things Connor couldn’t even identify. The most obvious object was a beat-up old Red Ryder wagon. The large pull toy dangled dangerously from the wall by its one long, skinny arm.

Satisfied he’d checked out all there was to see on that side of the room, Connor walked toward the far wall. Halfway across, he fixed on an object that made him grin.

Resting against the wall’s exposed supports, its shiny chrome handlebars pointing toward the door as if waiting for a rider, was an old-fashioned, ready-to-pedal, fat-wheeled, one-speed bicycle.

Upon reaching the road, the silver-trimmed two-wheeler veered sharply to the right. Unlike the climb up the unpaved portion of the driveway, Connor now rolled on a solid, flat surface. He gave it his all. He stood on the pedals, hunched over the handlebars, and pumped for all he was worth.

Untamed vegetation hugging the shoulder of the road zipped past in a green blur. The bike’s fat, knobby tires hummed and cackled as they crunched over itty-bitty rocks and pebbles.

Bike riding was one of the few outdoor sports at which Connor excelled. It was an activity where he could compete with others his age. His limp didn’t make a difference—or hold him back. What had begun as a mild smile soon blossomed into a full-faced, tooth-showing grin.

A tall wall of blended forest-green soon loomed ahead, marking the road’s circular turn-around. Connor released the pedals to let the bike coast. Unlike free-wheeling on pavement, the two-wheeler slowed swiftly. Several hundred feet before the turn-around, the wheels wound down to a stuttering stop.

Connor found himself staring at the lane’s last forest-shaded driveway. Tacked to a tree next to the opening was a hand-lettered sign: Trails End—Welcome to the Olanders.

Connor knew most lakeshore owners marked their private entrances. The dozen or so cottages and private campsites along this mile-long lane were hidden behind lengthy, wood-lined driveways. Many curved this way or that way, in and around evergreens and hardwoods. Without nameplates, new visitors wouldn’t have a clue who lived or camped where.

Besides being heavily wooded, each property was at least several acres in size. This meant they stood in total privacy, well away from each other. Connor looked again at the placards, noticing their wacky wording. Though he enjoyed wordplay, he thought many went overboard: Whitman’s Whispering Pines, Larson’s Loony Lair. Even Grandpa Mitch had a silly caption—Welcome to Mitchells’ Mini-Mansion.

Connor dropped his gaze and studied the driveway opening. A set of fresh tire tracks—deep dual imprints—told of a heavy vehicle traveling in and out. The question of the wake-up racket was answered.

Chapter 3

Conner breathed in labored gasps . Beads of sweat dappled his brow. Adding to the warmth from exercise, the sun began to heat through a rapidly thinning cloud cover, quickly warming up the day—and Connor.

Connor eased the bike to the ground and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. Underneath he wore a red T-shirt, a birthday gift from his grandparents. The Minnesota Wild hockey team logo—an outline of a snarling wildcat—was displayed on the front and back.

He tied the hoodie’s arms around his middle and trudged to the tarmac, leaving his bike on the shoulder. No need to worry about traffic. During the week most rural roads in northern Minnesota saw little activity. Nevertheless, he looked both ways. The expanse of blacktop looked as forlorn as an abandoned airstrip, nothing coming or going as far as the eye could see. But Connor knew that, come Friday evening, this would change. City folks, from both Duluth and the Twin Cities, would be racing to weekend retreats located on lakes further up the road.

Resembling a wooden soldier standing at attention, the Mitchell postal box stood first in a short line of clones, most of which never received mail because their owners lived elsewhere. Connor pulled the latch on his grandparents’ box and peeked inside. As he imagined, being early in the day, it stood empty.

Crossing the road again and getting back on the bike for his return trip, Connor rotated the pedals at a slower rate. More relaxed, Connor tuned into the many nature noises. From the weedy roadside shoulder, a choir of crickets chirped a continuous two-note score. Adding to the chorus, a distant loon’s wail lilted from somewhere off the surface of Ahmik Lake. Distant caw-cawing gave clue to the direction of a mid-morning crow conversation.

Busy daydreaming, Connor’s return ride passed in a blink. When he’d gone out, he’d been lost in thought, mulling over recent family events. Topping the list was his dad’s National Guard unit called up for a third tour, prompting his family’s recent move. Without much warning, they had had to vacate a roomy house with a big backyard. And then seemingly overnight, Connor found himself crammed into a cramped, smelly old apartment, sharing a room with his younger sister.

At least for the summer, Grace would have the room to herself. She’d been given a choice. To avoid a sitter, she could take Spanish class in the morning and theater arts in the afternoon. It was either that or staying with Connor all summer at their grandparents’ cabin.

Connor had been given a similar option. He’d opted for door number two: woods and water.

Bills, he’d overheard his mother say to someone