The Lost Women of Lost Lake by Ellen Hart Page A

to predict where she’d come down on any given issue, which provided her with another good reason to keep Judy close.
    Hearing footsteps on the deck, Tessa hoisted herself to a standing position, pulled her crutches under her arms, and went to unlock the front door. Right after Jane and Jonah had left, she’d called Fontaine, asked him to stop by. He was the one man in the world she could go to with the kind of favor she needed to ask.
    â€œAfternoon,” he said, removing his snap-brim cap, bunching it together in his large, rough hands. These days, his once thick black hair was shot through with gray. “How’s the ankle?” he asked.
    â€œAwful.”
    â€œYou been taking your pain meds? Always important to keep up with that.”
    â€œCome in,” she said, making her way back to the couch.
    Fontaine closed the door and stood for a moment taking in the large, open room. “Smells good in here.”
    â€œA friend came by to make me breakfast. A frittata. There’s some in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    She motioned him to a chair.
    Still glancing around, he adjusted his small, round, wire-rimmed glasses, then lowered his muscular frame down on the leather La-Z-Boy. He was dressed in his usual gray work shirt, jeans, and heavy work boots.
    Fontaine Littlewolf, a full-blooded Ojibwe, was a Gulf War vet, a man who’d served his country with honor. On the outskirts of Lost Lake there was a sign that said WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS . In Fontaine’s case, it was only minimally true.
    While society was changing, many folks in town still looked down on Native Americans. Fontaine had come home from Kuwait with headaches, odd skin rashes, and chronic fevers, what doctors eventually began to call Gulf War Syndrome. Because he was Ojibwe and couldn’t exactly hide his heritage, he had a harder time than most finding a job when he returned. His fatigue made it difficult for him to hold on to one once he’d found it.
    Tessa had been elected president of the board of the Lost Lake Community Center the same fall she’d first met Fontaine. In a conversation over coffee, he mentioned that he’d been evicted from his apartment because his sporadic attempts to pay the rent had created problems with his landlord. For the time being, he was living in a tent in the woods. He said it was no big deal. It might have been alright then, but winter was coming on.
    It took a few weeks for her to finally get the go-ahead to offer Fontaine the job of janitor at the center. With a BA in history from the University of Minnesota and seven years of high school history teaching under his belt, he was overqualified, although nobody seemed to notice. She figured that if he was in charge and had to take time off, he could find someone to cover for him. She arranged for him to report directly to her, which gave him the option to take as much leeway with his hours as he needed.
    Within a year, he was doing far more than simple janitorial work. He’d become the community center’s part-time handyman, periodic set designer and stage manager, and was beginning to take over the ordering for the gift shop. Tessa had no doubt that he’d be running the place sooner rather than later.
    Wincing at a stab of pain in her ankle, she jerked her head up to see the clock above the mantel. She had to get this over with before Jill came home to take her to her doctor’s appointment. She was actually looking forward to the walking boot. Mobility was crucial. If she didn’t start walking, and fast, she would be an easy mark for anything Feigenbaumer wanted to pull. She had to push through the pain, no matter how much it cost her.
    â€œI need to ask a favor,” she began.
    â€œAnything.”
    â€œThere’s a man in town. Arrived a few days ago. His name is Steve Feigenbaumer. I need to know where he’s staying. All I can tell you is that he’s