“It was a beautiful day,” Eliza agreed with a smile.
Back out in the hallway, the door to her mother’s room shut behind her, Rachel felt guilty about lying. Though at that moment she had no choice but to keep Mason’s remarkable return a secret, she knew that the occasion would soon come where she would no longer be able to hide the truth. For now, the consequences of her deceit would remain unknown.
Rachel also knew that she had to reconsider Mason’s plight. Her own memories of the man closely resembled those of her mother; he had been kind, hardworking, and blessed with a charm few men possessed. While the years he spent away had hardened him, she didn’t know if the man he had been still existed beneath the rough surface.
Only time would tell.
Mason sat silently watching the rain fall against his window. Lightning crashed and thunder roared as the storm gained in intensity, the strength of the wind enough to drive the branches of a nearby elm tree against the glass. Suddenly, the door to his room burst open and, as tempestuous as the outside weather, Charlotte came running in.
“Look what I did!” she shouted. “It took all afternoon, but look what I did for you!”
Rushing over to the side of the bed, with a smile that spread ear to ear, Charlotte thrust a sheet of paper into his hands. The paper was covered with many drawings: a house, several trees, and a large sun sharing the sky with a pair of puffy clouds. But what stood out was a gathering of people: a man lying in a bed, a woman at his side, a small girl with blonde braids, and, right beside her, a big dog with its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. The drawing was crude, clearly that of a child, but there was no mistaking who everyone was supposed to be.
“That’s you in the bed,” Charlotte declared proudly. With one of her small fingers, she pointed out everyone else. “That’s Rachel, and me, and that there’s Jasper… he woulda been mad if he wasn’t in it.”
“It’s lovely.” Mason smiled weakly.
“I made it for you to have.”
“Thank you, Charlotte.”
Though he hated to admit it to himself, there was a part of Mason that found it uncomfortable to be around Charlotte ever since he learned that she was his daughter with Alice. Every time he looked at her face, heard her infectious laugh, or felt her hand against his own, he was reminded of his wife. It was hardly the girl’s fault, but it made him uneasy all the same.
“Once you’re walkin’ around,” Charlotte kept talking, “I’ll make you another one, then at Christmastime, and then in the spring, and maybe even when you go and—”
“Wait, Charlotte, wait,” Mason cautioned her. “I… I don’t know how much longer I’ll… be staying here with you…” Even as he spoke the words, Mason understood that they were true; no matter how much thought he had given to the decision facing him, he truly didn’t know what course of action he should take. After his confrontation with Rachel, her accusations still ringing in his ears, he didn’t know how he could possibly stay.
“You… you might be going?” Charlotte asked haltingly.
“Once I’m back on my feet I might need to—”
“Stay a little longer!” Charlotte cried. “Oh, please, stay a little longer!”
With that, she collapsed onto the side of the bed and buried her head into Mason’s side. Her small hands found his, holding on tightly as her shoulders shook with sobbing. Even Jasper was taken aback by her outburst, backing away toward the door with his tail between his legs.
Mason was speechless. He placed one hand on Charlotte’s back and tried his best to comfort her, but to no apparent effect. Suddenly Mason understood just what his daughter had been missing for all of the years he was gone. Though Otis undoubtedly did his best, Charlotte had no father. Although she was growing up in a loving home surrounded by a family that did all they could for her, the void he had created in her life had never been filled.
“I don’t want you to go!” she sobbed. “Why… why won’t you stay… a little longer?”
And to that, Mason Tucker had no answer.
Chapter Nineteen
OTIS SIMMONS STUMBLED down the darkened streets of Carlson, whistling a nameless tune. His made-up song and footsteps echoed off shuttered windows, closed doors, and empty boardwalks. Although night had long since descended upon the sleeping town and the moon hung full in the star-laden sky, he traveled a route he knew well. Even given his current state, he could find his way home.
I’m drunk… and proud of it…
Many an hour had passed since Otis was able to count the number of glasses of whiskey he had poured down his throat. One toast had followed the next, all blurring together into a swirling vision of raised glasses and forgotten words. When he first arrived at the tavern, he had found a few of his friends, but they had all left early. Not wanting to go home, he’d continued imbibing. He’d never been one to let a lack of company keep him from a good time; often he drank to his own loneliness.
“And I had me a helluva time,” he assured himself.
Even with the crisp chill of the fall night, Otis didn’t feel cold. With the more than ample blubber on his belly and the amount of whiskey he had filled it with, contented warmth spread across his body. Besides, it wasn’t anywhere near the time of year to be worried; in the depths of winter he would be concerned, because not to make it home then could mean death.
Fortunately, he’d managed to fill his own flask before the tavern had closed; he had long ago learned how disappointing it was to go home empty-handed. Unscrewing the cap, he tipped the liquor to his lips and drank deeply. Suddenly, the urge to urinate overcame him, and he reeled over to a secluded corner, undid his trousers, and proceeded to relieve himself, all the while never stopping his drinking for a moment.
Might as well fill up as I empty out!
Otis was just about to finish when a sudden clamor rose behind him. Scarcely managing to turn around without falling over, he stared into the dark but saw nothing. With a shrug of his shoulders, he dismissed the sound as that of a cat out rummaging for food or for another feline to cozy up with for the night. Taking another gulp from his flask before screwing on the cap, he fumbled to close his pants and headed on his way.
Turning down the alley that led to the rear of the boardinghouse, Otis thought about the stranger Rachel had installed in the upstairs bedroom. The way that she doted on the man struck him as odd, but though he had wondered a time or two whether he should tell his sister, he’d managed to hold his tongue. Whatever reason his niece had in keeping the man a secret from Eliza must be good enough; Rachel had always had a good head on her shoulders and there was no point in doubting her now. Besides, being able to needle that cheap bastard Moseley about it had been a hell of a thrill!
Reaching the boardinghouse yard, Otis wondered how he was going to manage to sneak back into the house undetected. The last time he had come home in a drunken stupor, bumbling and stumbling inside as he made enough racket to wake the dead, Rachel had given him a tongue-lashing every bit as harsh as it was well deserved. Knowing that he might need a bit of alcoholic confidence, he retrieved his flask from his pocket. Thus deep in thought, he hardly heard the sudden pounding of footsteps behind him before something struck him and a shooting pain laced up and down his left arm.
“What in the—?!” he barked.
Crashing to the ground in a heap, Otis let his flask fly from his fingers and slide into the cold grass far out of reach. Looking back, he saw a shadowy silhouette raise something he thought might be a metal pipe or a piece of wood, and then bring it down hard upon his wounded arm. The pain racing across his body was so great, so utterly overpowering, that Otis couldn’t even manage to scream, the sound remaining stuck in his craw. Reflexively, his other hand groped for his wounded arm, but even that touch ached.
Over and over again, the weapon was smashed into Otis’s flesh, each flare of agony worse than the last. After one solid blow, the fingers of his other hand throbbed painfully, and he gave up any hope of ward
ing off further punishment. Weakly, he tried to roll away, to escape from the beating that seemed as if it would never end, when one last blow with an audible crack broke the bone of his arm.
It was then that Otis found the strength to scream out, but even as he was blinded by pain, only the very first strains of his suffering were heard before a strong hand was clamped down on his mouth, silencing him.
Though his eyes wanted to close, to try to erase the crippling ache by shutting everything out, Otis forced them to stay open. At first, all he could see was the starry night, but that vision was soon replaced by another; a face that he couldn’t see clearly enough in the darkness to identify. It was then that a man’s voice gruffly spoke.
“Let this be a warnin’ to you,” he said, “that you best get any idea of holdin’ on to this house out of your head. There’s only gonna be one chance to do what’s right, and that’s sell this shithole and take what’s been offered.
“You understand what I’m sayin’?” the man asked, and to encourage Otis to respond, he shook the wounded man’s head so hard that his jowls quivered.
Otis could only nod in answer.
“If you don’t do what I’ve asked, I’m gonna come back and find you,” the assailant continued, the heat of his breath only inches from Otis’s face, “and if stupidity gets the better of you, I’m gonna do far more than just bust a bone in your arm, I’m gonna cut you from ear to ear.”
For emphasis, the unknown attacker gave Otis’s broken arm a solid punch, sending such pain racing through his body that he nearly fell unconscious. Stars fluttered not only in the sky, but before his very eyes as darkness steadily encroached, his scream unheard as it was muffled in the man’s never-flinching hand.
“Mark my words,” the man warned, “sell this house or it will be your life.”
Without another word, the attacker let go of Otis and quickly raced down the alley, leaving his victim alone with his misery.
Travis Jefferson hurried down the alley, careful not to be seen. Behind him, the fat man’s moans were soon lost in the night. Absently, Travis tossed his weapon into the deepest recesses of the alley; the sturdy piece of oak had done what he intended; it inflicted enough damage.
Zachary Tucker’s request had been easy to fulfill. Watching his prey, waiting for the right moment to strike, had not required great effort; Otis Simmons had been far more interested in his liquor than in noticing that he was being followed. Waiting outside the tavern for the man to leave had been a bit boring, but once the oaf had finished his indulging, Travis had simply trailed along behind and seized the opportune moment to strike.
Beating the man had been as easy for Travis as it would have been for him to whip a dog; save for the whining and yelping, it was no chore at all. The halfhearted way Otis had tried to deflect the blows raining down on him had amused Travis. Over and over he had struck, only stopping when he heard the telltale sound of breaking bone.
A part of Travis wished he could have gone further; a broken arm was certainly a step in the right direction, but if he had been able to spill a little blood, well, that might have ensured that bitch Eliza Watkins and her family would do what Zachary wanted. After all, fear was an amazingly effective tool. But if there was one thing he had learned during the time he had worked for Zachary Tucker, it was that he was a man who should never be crossed. In the end, that trait was what he admired about his employer, his callous ruthlessness.
Just like me…
Another part of Travis hoped that the fool wouldn’t heed his advice; Otis Simmons had long since proven that he wasn’t the smartest man in Carlson. Maybe on the next trip he’d get his chance with Rachel Watkins. In his ample experience, if there was one thing an uptight, haughty young thing like her needed, it was a round or two with a real man, the sort of man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. It angered him the way she had led Mr. Tucker on, apparently giving her word about the sale of the boardinghouse, then withdrawing. Such trickery needed punishment.
Still, he had done what he was asked. The next move was theirs, and depending upon the answer given, he might still have some mischief to play.
When he left the alleyway, Travis Jefferson was smiling.
Rachel awoke from a pleasant dream with a start, a feeling nagging at her that something was wrong. A sense of dread weighed upon her. Anxiously, she blinked her eyes as she tried to shake the cobwebs of sleep from her mind.
The inside of her room was pitch black save for the sliver of moonlight that eased in through a crack in her curtains. Located on the first floor and facing toward the courtyard, Rachel’s room was sparsely furnished: a small bed, a scratched and chipped dresser topped by a warped mirror, and a rickety nightstand. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the gloom.
She had heard a strange sound, a noise that was out of place, but as she strained to listen, she didn’t hear it again. Even in the later fall months, she often slept with the window cracked open; she liked to let the sounds of the night carry her off to slumber. Tonight, the curtains rustled with the softest of breezes, carrying with it the insistent chill that announced the changing of seasons. Just as she was about to give up, to turn her head back to her pillow and return to her dreams, she once again heard the faint cry.
“.help… can’t… arm…”
Rachel rose from her bed, threw a knitted shawl over the top of her nightgown, and moved toward the window. Though the words had been barely more than a whisper, she knew that she hadn’t imagined them. Looking out into the gloomy night, she couldn’t see much at first, but as her eyes continued to adjust, there on the ground…
“.damn… arm…” came another moan.
“Otis?” she gasped, suddenly recognizing the voice.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Rachel rushed from the sleeping house and out into the cool night of the courtyard. Otis lay flat on his back in the dew-dampened grass just off the alley. In the light shed by the nearly full moon, she could see that he was in great pain; air hissed through gritted teeth, enormous beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and one arm seemed to be cradling the other. He didn’t appear to notice her approach; his eyes were closed tight and his face a mask of agony.
Kneeling down beside her uncle, Rachel’s hand hesitantly went to the man’s left arm. She had no more than touched it when his eyes flew wide open and he bellowed, “God damn it!”
“It’s me, Uncle Otis,” she soothed. “It’s Rachel.”
“My arm’s busted, Rachel,” he answered, panic in his voice. “It’s busted!”
“What happened?” she asked, unsure of what to do. “Did you fall?”
“Someone… someone jumped me and… and whacked my arm…”
Intense worry raced across Rachel’s chest; whoever it was who had attacked her uncle might still be lurking around! Nervously, she looked up and down the alleyway, but it was swathed so deeply in shadows that she couldn’t be completely certain that they were alone. Still, her responsibility to see to her uncle’s injury was her primary concern. She would not let him lie there.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asked, pulling herself together.
“Just… just my damn arm…”
As her uncle spoke, Rachel checked the rest of his body. A knot was growing on the side of his head, but that could very well have come from his hitting the ground. The real danger would have been from a vicious cut or another broken bone.
There was no denying that the damage to Otis’s arm was severe: just above the elbow, it appeared to crook a bit in the opposite direction. When she was a little girl, she’d seen a boy fall from a tree and break his arm, a wound that looked extremely similar to her uncle’s malady. Once again she tried to touch the arm, and again Otis yelped.
“We have to get you inside,” she muttered.
Otis could only groan in answer.
Rachel understood that moving her uncle would be a difficult task; given his enormous bulk, she worried that she would never be able to manage alone. Neve
rtheless, Mason’s continued weakness from his illness made it impossible for him to help. Since the only other man in the boardinghouse was Jonathan Moseley, and she wasn’t about to go anywhere near him, she knew that she was on her own.
“Uncle Otis,” she said, “I’m going to need your help to do this.”
“I’ll give you all I got, darlin’.”
Carefully, they rolled Otis slightly to his right where he was able to use his good arm to push himself into a sitting position. Then, with Rachel making certain that she didn’t bump his wounded arm, they managed to get him forward onto his knees. Finally, with every muscle in her body straining with the effort, they succeeded in getting him to his unsteady feet.
“Let’s just get our bearings,” she said, resting for what was to come.
“I ain’t got much of those to begin with.”
With both of them breathing hard, Rachel could plainly smell the alcohol on the man. She was not surprised to learn that Otis had been attacked as he returned from the tavern. Still, she was a bit disheartened; this would’ve been hard to do if he were sober.
Slowly, taking each step carefully, they made their way across the courtyard. Closer and closer they came toward the back door, but Rachel’s fears only intensified. She worried that Otis would fall and hurt himself more, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet.
“The fella… who attacked me… said…” Otis said hesitantly.
“What? What did he say?” Rachel prodded.
“He… he said we… need to sell… the house…”
“Hush, Uncle Otis,” she shushed him as the reason for the attack became obvious to her. “Let’s just get you inside.”
Without a shadow of a doubt, Rachel knew that Zachary Tucker was behind the attack upon her uncle. Before that moment, she’d thought the banker to be nothing more than a despicable snake only after profit, but now she knew she had underestimated his capacity for evil. Upset that his bid to purchase the boardinghouse had been declined, he’d undoubtedly sent some lackey to apply pressure, to make them all so fearful for their safety that they had no choice but to cave in to his demands.
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