“It’s nothing.”
“I don’t believe you. I can see it all over your face,” he said. “What happened? Spill it.”
Spenser looked out at a large machine moving a massive pile of earth as it smoothed and flattened a section of ground in preparation for the trees Ryker would eventually be planting. Her mind churned with what seemed like ten thousand thoughts. It was an incoherent jumble of notions and memories cascading through her head so hard, it was giving her a migraine.
“Tell you what,” Ryker said. “Let’s both go get cleaned up and go out. You can fill me in on what’s going on over drinks and some food.”
Spenser sighed. “You always know how to make me smile.”
“Of course I do. It’s one of my many talents,” he replied and tipped her a wink.
They shared a laugh as they headed for the main house hand in hand.
“He’s obviously trying to get under your skin,” Ryker said.
“That’s the problem. It’s working.”
“He’s nothing. The people around here—the people who matter—know everything you’ve done for this town. They like and respect you, Spenser.”
“Some of them. But definitely not all of them.”
He smiled. “You’re never going to get one hundred percent of the vote. I really hope you didn’t think you would.”
“No, but right now I don’t feel like I’m going to get a majority either. There’s no way I can compete with Johansen’s money. Or his name recognition. Sad to say, but both those things are keys to winning elections.”
“Run a lot of political campaigns, have you?”
The corner of Spenser’s mouth quirked upward. “Not since eighth grade when I ran for class president.”
“Yeah? How’d that turn out?”
“I got crushed.”
Ryker laughed heartily, picked up his wine glass, and swallowed it. He’d taken her to the Sweetwater Fish Grill, a relatively new spot in town. The restaurant had a distressed wharf motif with a lot of weathered wood and exposed brick that was a little campy. It was dimly lit with faux gas lanterns and decorated with old nets, gaffs, and other equipment you’d find on a fishing boat. The décor was a bit hokey, but luckily for them, the food was pretty good.
“Well, the first thing you need to find is a campaign manager. Somebody who can do all the worrying for you,” Ryker said.
“Oh, so you’ve run a lot of political campaigns, huh?”
“I’ve seen it done on TV.”
Spenser smirked and looked down into her wine glass. Ryker reached across the table and took her hand, gently caressing her knuckles with his thumb. She looked into his eyes and felt some of the weight she’d been carrying around on her back begin to lift. That was another of his many talents.
“We’re going to get you through this,” he said.
“He’s got the Dispatch on his side. That woman—Kyra Foster—popped up after I talked to him and grilled me. It’s clear she was putting me on the spot on his behalf,” she told him.
“Nobody takes the Dispatch seriously. Not for hard news anyway,” Ryker said. “And they sure as hell don’t form their political opinions based on anything they read in that rag—the same rag that once printed an in-depth exposé on the Bigfoot problem around town.”
Spenser covered her mouth as a laugh exploded from her mouth. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” he replied. “It was some years back but I’m pretty sure that shot what little credibility they had left. Now, people like to read it for the laughs.”
They shared another laugh, but Spenser’s good humor soon faded. She looked down at the table, doing her best to stave off the feelings of doom that were wrapping themselves around her like an anaconda that was starting to squeeze so tight, she was having a hard time breathing.
“I feel like I’m already behind,” Spenser said.
“Have you seen any polling?”
“Well… no.”
“Then you can’t know you’re behind.”
“But I feel like I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I will be if the Foster woman runs pro-Johansen stories,” Spenser countered. “And even more so if she runs that hit piece about Derrick she was alluding to. She’s trying to make it seem like I framed him or something. I can’t beat the perception people will have of me if she makes me corrupt or part of some grand conspiracy to put an innocent man in prison.”
“Then you need to go on the offensive—which I’m a fan of, by the way. I’ve never been one who enjoys sitting back and simply reacting to what comes my way. I say throw the first punch. Bloody your opponent before they have a chance to bloody you,” Ryker said.
“Hit him with what, though? As far as I can tell, the guy is squeaky clean.”
Ryker scoffed. “Nobody is squeaky clean. And guys in Johansen’s privileged position are even less clean than most. There’s dirt on him out there to be found.”
Spenser’s lips curled down. “I don’t like politics at all. You know that. But I like dirty, mudslinging politics even less.”
