“Who the heck are you?” Clay demanded. “And what are you doing on my property?”
Her eyes riveted to the undeterred man, and she tapped Clay’s arm. “I know him. He’s the knife guy.”
The man gave a short, one-syllable chuckle. “Hmm, an interesting nickname.” She noticed dirt in the creases of his hands and under his nails as he fingered his string-thin mustache. “But I do recall I introduced myself to you as Horace Cain. Why, I even gave you my card.” He tsk, tsked. “You mislaid it, didn’t you? I was highly disappointed you didn’t follow up on what we discussed.”
“You followed me here, didn’t you?”
He laid a business card on the kitchen counter. “I’ve simply been doing a little, shall we say, sleuthing, on my own.”
“Enough,” Clay said gruffly. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t just go breaking into places and—”
Horace gasped. “I would never. The door wasn’t locked.” He glanced about the dingy, unkempt place with a disdain that was laughable on a man who smelled as he did. “You really can’t blame me for assuming the place was abandoned.”
“Oh, but I do.” Clay’s arms tensed, veins rising. “Whatever you did or didn’t think, you’re still trespassing.” Finger pointed, he stepped close to Horace, and all Charlene could think was, How can Clay stand the smell?
Horace stepped back and smoothed a hand down his front. “Now, now, don’t get ruffled. I’ll be on my way.”
“You bet you will.”
She caught Horace honing in on Clay’s scarred finger, the pale old cut just barely visible past his knuckle bandage. Was it her imagination, or did the sight please the man?
“I just want to make sure you’re aware that I’m willing to pay generously for that special little article I’m seeking.”
“The ugly old knife?” Clay moved till he stood toe-to-toe with Horace. “How do you even know about it?”
“You’re brother and I, we moved in similar circles.”
Highly unsettling.
“Still . . .” Horace tapped his fingertips together greedily, his beady eyes harboring deep, distant thoughts. “. . . it took me time to realize its value.” His slender tongue slid over his gapped teeth as he grinned. “You don’t have the slightest idea where it might be?” His gaze darted about the room.
“No,” Clay said firmly, “and you’re not welcome to search. My brother took it with him to the bottom of the lake, for all I know or care.”
“Gracious, such thoughtless unconcern is disturbing. I would think you’d be more cautious, considering the little lady.”
As Clay sputtered, “What do you mean?”, Horace slipped into the bedroom. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Clay stalked after him.
Following Clay, Charlene scanned the room. It was dominated by a drab, saggy bed. Abner must have replaced it after the fire damage (courtesy of Max)—and done a little redecorating. An ugly taxidermy goat head now hung oddly low above the bed, quite a thing to have looking down on you as you fell asleep.
Maybe that was why she’d seen Clay’s sleeping bag in the main cabin room. She’d have to remember to suggest he remove all remnants of Abner’s macabre existence before attempting to sell this charming place.
Horace prowled the room like a rat, his eyes wandering the walls and floor. Clay’s expression was disturbed and slightly stunned, as if he didn’t understand how the man had gotten this far. Clay’s fists clenched. “Get out of here.”
As if he hadn’t heard Clay’s raised voice, Horace said, “You are aware of the curse, aren’t you?”
Clay’s arm moved, but Charlene caught it. “Wait.” His bicep felt rock-hard under her hand, but her thoughts were all on Horace. “What do you mean, ‘curse’?”
Horace’s eyes almost twinkled. “The knife is very old, with a long, rich, and tragic history.”
“Give her the short version,” Clay cut in, “and make it shorter.”
“Very well.” Horace grinned. “It’s the dagger of Satan himself. Possessed. And whoever is cut by it, is forever marked to suffer the evils of hell—in this life, and in the next.”
She swallowed and released Clay’s arm. He made a scornful sound.
“You weren’t cut by it, were you, dear?” Horace’s fingers walked the log walls like thick fleshy spider legs. He tapped and even put an ear to the wood. “He would have kept it in a secret, safe place.” He spoke in hushed tones now, as if to himself, or . . . someone.
“So is there a way to break the so-called curse?” Not that she believed his claim for a moment. She was humoring him. Or, more accurately, she was strangely, unwisely, fascinated—as if by a dreadful ghost story or horror movie.
She tried to rub the goosebumps from her arms.
“Break the curse?” Horace faced her. “Perhaps . . . but first you have to find the knife.”
Clay’s hands came down strong on the man’s shoulders. “Get out. Now.”
Horace sent Clay a sizzling look that belied his odd, mild-mannered attitude. “Careful, Mr. Morrow. You wouldn’t want to face another assault charge, now would you? They won’t go so easy on you a second time.”
“My property. I’m well within my rights.” Clay’s tone was clipped. He propelled Horace out of the bedroom and to the front door.
“Perhaps . . .” the word came out of Horace’s mouth like a hiss.
Clay opened the door.
“I’m a very determined man,” Horace said. “You will let me know if you find it. I’ll make it well worth your while. And don’t forget about the curse.” He met Charlene’s eyes and said solemnly, “Bad things will happen.”
“Is that a threat?” But Clay didn’t let Horace answer. He gave him a hard shove down the steps, then slammed and locked the door.
Clay pried a board from the window and he and Charlene watched silently as Horace strolled down the weedy drive. The man’s shiny wet form reminded her of a slimy snake in the grass.
“He’s a new nightmare to add to my collection.” She released a short laugh. “This cabin of delights is going to be a real catch for someone.”
“Why I didn’t kick him out the second I saw him, is beyond me,” Clay berated himself.
“It was like he had us under a spell.”
Clay glowered out the window, making sure Horace reached the road and kept walking. “If I ever find that knife, I’ll destroy it.”
She was silent a moment. “What did you think of the curse?”
Contempt covered his face. “He made it up to scare you, that’s what.” He finally moved away from the window. “Look, I’d better check in the cellar and . . . the other room down there, make sure he wasn’t up to anything else. He’s probably just a harmless kook, but you never know.”
You never know, indeed. You might find a dead body down there.
Clay regarded her indecisively. “You’ll be all right up here? It’s just for a few minutes.”
She nodded. She wouldn’t tell him her veins iced at the very idea of him leaving her side, not when he was going down there. Alone.
When he left, she stood ramrod straight in the middle of the room and stared into the grimy filmed window of the cold wood-burning stove. Her eyes fixated. Her heart forgot how to beat properly. She thought she saw a flicker of flame curl to life. It rose up, licked the glass, and prodded, seeking a crack to escape from, to slither out and—
“Charlene.” Clay clasped her arms and she gasped. He peered into her face, concerned. “You okay? You looked—”
“I’m fine.” She blinked and shook herself. “Did you find anything down there?”
“Just some holes in the dirt. He must have been digging for the knife.”
She traced the scar on her ring finger. “All that curse stuff . . . it’s nonsense, I know. But when you think about all our rotten luck . . .”
“No such thing as luck. Rotten or otherwise. Life’s what we make of it, with God’s grace. Trials and crosses got noth
ing to do with a curse.”
“I know, but still.” She shuddered. Her mouth pulled down at the corners, out of her control.
Before she knew what was happening, he wrapped her in a hug. A strong, protective hug. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Forget him. Forget the knife. The curse. Forget everything.”
Finding herself in Clay’s arms was so pleasantly bewildering, that forgetting everything else was suddenly very easy to do. Her cheek pressed against his firm shoulder. He smelled of lake water, rain, and trees. Even though they were both still wet, she felt warm. She shivered, but it wasn’t related to cold or fear.
“Come on,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s ditch this place. You shouldn’t be here.”
She felt him letting go, and reluctantly, she slid back to reality.
His gaze skimmed her face. “When did you last eat?”
It took her forever to recall. “This morning.”
He plucked his wrinkly wet cap from the counter, almost tugging it on before thinking better of it and stuffing it in his back pocket. “Let’s go get some food.”
He locked the cabin behind them and walked her through the drizzle to her car, where he gave her trunk and backseat a thorough onceover to calm her nerves and assure her she was safe to drive alone. She wished she could ride with him.
Her wipers swiped water beads from her windshield, and she tailed his truck out of the winding woods and back to the main road. She felt a sense of rightness that she had found him and helped convince him to return home. She thought of Sam and Brook. Then, not strong enough to stop herself, she replayed his hug in her mind, such a brief, strange moment. Pleasant confusion stirred within her, warming her again.
As the rain tapered off and stopped, she turned her wheel and followed Clay’s truck into a gas station. Good timing. Her car needed a fuel-up, too.
“Be out in a few,” Clay called as he headed into the building after filling his tank. He soon emerged with a plastic bag, which he slung into his truck before they took off again.
Her stomach growled. And just when are we going to get that food you promised? She’d assumed he would have pulled into a fast food place by now. They’d certainly passed enough of them.
Finally, he took an exit off the highway, but he soon turned off the country road onto a hidden dirt road with not a single building in sight, only fields and forests. Despite her gnawing hunger, she was curious. What are you up to?
Her car jostled along with occasional sharp bumps till they emerged in a clearing bordered by aspen and pine. Clay’s brake lights glowed red, then he shut off his engine and stepped down to the ground. She parked beside him and got out to see him gathering branches and clearing a patch of dirt. The rain storm hadn’t come this far south, apparently, because nothing here was wet. Before long he had a little fire burning briskly in the dusky clearing.
Crouched on one knee before the flames, he cocked an eyebrow. “Ever tailgate before?”
She shook her head. “Don’t people do that in parking lots, before games?”
He crossed to his truck and dropped the tailgate with a clunk. “Sure, but I’d choose this spot over crowded pavement any day.” He ducked back in his vehicle for the plastic bag and flipped on a country music station.
He brought the bag to where she leaned against the truck. Fishing inside, he drew out a pack of hot dogs, then hauled out a cluster of cans. “Got us a six pack, too.”
“Oh.” She felt flustered. “I don’t really drink.”
“Sure you don’t.” He winked. “It’s root beer.” He popped a tab and handed her one.
They stood around the fire, the heat finally drying them as they roasted hot dogs on sticks till the meat blistered. Then they hoisted themselves onto the tailgate to eat and washed the food down with root beer. Before she knew it, stars appeared, bright little pin-pricks in the velvet sky. The warm humid air gradually cooled with the darkness to a pleasant temperature.
“This is nice.” She swung her dangling legs. “Much better than fast food.”
He raised his soda. “To tailgating.”
Her hand lifted her own drink. “To tailgating with you.” She blushed. “I mean, since this was your idea and everything. And it’s really nice.” Clunk, she put her can down. She might as well be drunk, the discombobulated way she was feeling. It was just so perfect and peaceful, though, with the cozy little fire—nothing at all like the specter flames in the cabin stove—and the twinkling stars and the curtain of trees all around. Like there was no one else in the world but them.
“It is nice,” Clay echoed, contentment in his voice.
“Just to clarify,” she touched the condensation on her soda can and spoke softly, “you do forgive me, then? For keeping the letter from you?”
“Yeah, sure I do. It’s all right. I know you meant well.”
She tipped her face to the sky. “The good things, the blessings—they’re all around us, and we forget to see them.” His words from the Fourth of July rippled through her like a refreshing breeze. She filled her lungs with sweet night air. This. This right now. This is a blessing.
She turned to eye his profile. “You’re a good guy, Clay.”
He gave something like a snort. “I wouldn’t go that far.” He turned and dug out a plastic bag. “Ready to roast some marshmallows?”
“Definitely.”
After torching too many marshmallows into charcoaled lumps, she managed to toast a perfectly light brown one. She savored the burst of warm gooey vanilla before settling back on the tailgate, full and satisfied. She gazed up at the stars, and a random question popped into her head. “After you build your house, what color are you going to paint it?”
“Hmm. Haven’t thought too much about that.” He shifted beside her. “What color do you think it should be?”
She couldn’t help herself. “Yellow?” She waited for his reaction.
“Yellow,” he repeated, thoughtful.
“I don’t mean a glaring yellow,” she felt the need to clarify. “Something sunny, but still subtle.”
“That’s doable.”
“With white shutters?”
“Why not?”
Away in the distance came the forlorn whistle and rumble of a train, blending with the truck’s soft radio music. The moon glowed, a huge gray pearl above. Crickets chirped. Night was beautiful, and it had been forever since she’d thought that. Normally, the sinking sun signaled a descent into darkness and fear, memories and nightmares. But not tonight. She sighed. If every night could be like this . . .
“Do you ever have nightmares anymore, Clay?”
He was quiet a moment as the train whistle died. “Well, sure. Sometimes.”
Grateful for his honesty, she nibbled at her lip and tasted marshmallow residue. “I sleep with a night light.” She studied her knees and didn’t tell him that the main thing she was looking forward to about marriage was always having a strong man nearby at night to protect her. The silly thought stirred up a flood of mixed emotions that sparked like the fire.
She eyed her bare ring finger. She didn’t even know where she and Ben stood anymore.
Her eyes jumped to Clay’s fingers, to his one hand resting on the edge of the tailgate, rather close to her hand. She could reach over and touch that infuriating bandage. She could . . .
She did.
Clay’s head turned.
She didn’t meet his gaze, but brushed the bandage with her fingertips. “Can’t you tell me about it? Please?”
Surprisingly, he didn’t pull his hand away. She listened to him breathing, debating.
“It’s really no big deal,” he said at last. “Nothing you don’t already know anyway, I guess.”
The flickering yellow glow of the fire, mixed with the moonlight, gave just enough visibility. He loosened first one bandage, then the next, and removed them, revealing a row of harsh tattooed letters. They formed a word on each hand, right below the knuckles. He fisted his hands together and faced them to he
r, something vulnerable on his face as he waited for her to read the ink.
Worthless Convict.
She almost said the words aloud, but stopped herself in time. There was a familiar ring to the ugly expression. She’d heard it enough times to know who was responsible.
“Oh, Clay.” She recalled the cruel DVD and how she hadn’t finished watching it. This tattoo must have been what had happened next in that warehouse. She put a hand to her mouth. “Grandfather.” He had you branded. Like an animal.
Clay brought his arms back to his sides. “He didn’t think justice was served. He thought I got off too easy. Maybe he was right.”
“Clay, don’t say that. Not ever.” Was that how he thought of himself, as a worthless convict? A doleful melody flowed from the distant radio, and she tried to tune it out. She moved her hand to his and touched the “W,” felt the slightly raised letter of the ink-injected skin. “The words aren’t true. You know that, right?”
His pause was too long. “Sure.”
She knew he was only appeasing her.
The sadness that came over her was so intense, she couldn’t bear it. “You can’t think that, not for a second. God made you. In His image and likeness.” Her grip tightened on his hand. “He made you worth so much. So much that He died for you.”
The corner of Clay’s mouth tugged. “Now who’s being the theologian?”
She flushed and loosened her grip, yet didn’t take her hand away. She touched the tattoo again. Her mind played out the scene as she imagined what had happened in the warehouse after the film was turned off. Thugs holding Clay’s arms down. The buzzing, sharp needle. How long had it taken? “Was it really painful?”
He didn’t make her feel bad for asking the stupid question, just gave a short laugh. “It wasn’t pleasant. Wasn’t meant to be. But it could have been worse.”
She refused to think how. And now Clay had to bear this stigma for life. Unless . . . “Can’t you get it removed?”
His voice was doubtful. “It’s inked pretty deep. It would take a lot of costly sessions, and I’d still have scars from that. Don’t know that it would be worth it.” He shrugged. “Maybe someday.”
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