My favorite name these days is “Grampa Seamus.” That’s what my granddaughter, Megan McCree, calls me. She and her father, Paddy, are spending time with me up at my camp on a small lake sequestered deep in the woods of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. We’re fifteen miles from the post office and the nearest place you can buy anything and twenty-seven miles from a decent grocery store—or a hospital, for that matter. I love it. Megan thinks my satellite internet connect is sooooo sloooow and likes going into town and stream animated movies.

Megan and I are omnivores, but Paddy is vegetarian and likes cooking with fresh veggies. We were running low, and today is our planned trip to town to stock up. I’d forgotten how long it takes to get a three-and-a-half-year-old ready for a trip into town. It’s fun for me to watch the process: making sure all her clothing stays on, the last trip to the bathroom, collecting books for her to read in the car, remembering to take along Raff, her stuffed Giraffe.

I’m pulling my seatbelt over my shoulder and have second thoughts about leaving alone the guy I’m bodyguarding. This is my first solo assignment and my instructions were simply to keep him hidden. The location assures that, but . . . I mutter an apology, leave my family cooling their heels in the car and hustle back inside. Elliot’s where I had left him, watching a morning financial show in the TV room. “You’re sure you’re okay being here by yourself? I—”

“Seamus, we discussed this. I’ll be fine. Go, already.”

“Okay, okay” My misgivings melt before his certainty. “We’ll be back in four hours. Tops.”

As it turned out, we both had lied.

I jog back to the car. Paddy had plugged earbuds into his phone. Megan was belted into her car seat in the back, “reading” The Little Engine That Could to Raff.

“All aboard for Crystal Falls,” I call like a conductor. Paddy shoots me a questioning look and Megan ignores me. So much for Grampa Seamus humor.

Halfway to the post office, a report on the radio informs us a massive wind-storm is heading our way. If we’re caught in the woods and one decent-sized maple or popple or evergreen hits the car, we’re goners. The Amasa Post Office, squat and brick, would protect us from the wind—if I can get there. I jam down the accelerator, causing us to fishtail.

“Careful,” Paddy says, looking back at Megan. “The road’s a giant washboard. Don’t lose control.”

Behind us, the dust cloud thickens. We hit a dip and go airborne. Megan squeals in delight. “Do it again, Grampa Seamus!” Even fighting to keep the car on the road, a piece of me smiles in recollection of encouraging my father to take hills fast enough so we could feel our stomachs rise and fall.

The storm hits before I make it to the post office, but I find shelter near a lumber mill. The heavens unload a torrent of water, turning day into night. I stop and key off the engine.

“Grampa Seamus?” Megan often speaks my name with a question mark. “Raff’s scared.”

“We’re perfectly safe in the car, pumpkin. This will be over soon.”

Megan holds her stuffed giraffe close to her and tells him not to be afraid.

The winds hit with a howl; the rushing air pulses from around the piled logs, rocking us from side to side. Megan cries in fear. Paddy unbuckles and reaches back, caressing her hand. A sixty-foot spruce succumbs to the wind, falling directly across the road we had just taken, its impact so heavy we feel the reverberation.

The spruce is only the first tree to fall. By the time the storm’s over, the way home is blocked by hundreds of downed trees. I have no way to reach Elliot to find out if he is okay or to let him know we’ll be delayed. We have no choice but to wait for local loggers to clear the road, so we do our shopping, trading gossip and half-facts about the storm with the local merchants.

When we return to the woods several hours later, we find a single lane cut through the downed trees, which gets us within a mile of home. We borrow a neighbor’s boat to get us home where I have chainsaws and equipment to clear the last bit of road. The house, cabin, and pole-barn garage suffered no damage, which is a great relief.

Elliot, however, is missing.

You can read more about Seamus in Empty Promises, the fifth book in the “Seamus McCree” mystery series. The first book in the series is Ant Farm.

If you love the suspense and plot twists of domestic thrillers, this page-turner will be for you. Seamus McCree’s first solo bodyguard assignment goes from bad to worse. His client disappears. His granddog finds a buried human bone. Police find a fresh human body.

His client is to testify in a Chicago money laundering trial. He’s paranoid that with a price on his head, if the police know where he’s staying, the information will leak. Seamus promised his business partner and lover, Abigail Hancock, that he’d keep the witness safe at the McCree family camp located deep in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan’s woods.

Abigail is furious at his incompetence and their relationship flounders. Even his often-helpful son, Paddy, must put family safety ahead of helping his father. Seamus risks his own safety and freedom to turn amateur sleuth in hopes he can solve the crimes, fulfill his promise of protection, and win back Abigail. Wit and grit are on his side, but the clock is ticking . . . and the hit man is on his way.

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About the author
James M. Jackson authors the Seamus McCree series consisting of five novels and one novella. Jim splits his time between the deep woods of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and Georgia’s Lowcountry. He claims the moves between locations are weather-related, but others suggest they may have more to do with not overstaying his welcome. He is the past president of the 700+ member Guppy Chapter of Sisters in Crime. You can find information about Jim and his books at jamesmjackson.com. You can follow him on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads and/or Amazon.

All comments are welcomed.