Into the Light (3 page)

She tried to put a humorous, self-deprecating tone in her voice. “I never married, but I live in the bosom of a family who would be shocked at the very idea of college even for a son. I do have books, though. I have a cousin who lends me his books, which is a good thing because I don’t get to town often enough to use the library. We live as far from town as your family.”

“So what kind of reading does your cousin do? What does he lend you?”

Cousin Caleb had handed over many novels and a smattering of history and philosophy tomes, most as loans but some as gifts. Without Caleb’s generosity, she never would have had anything to read but the Bible. The stranger didn’t need to know that.

As the two of them discussed what they had read and what they planned to read, she hoped he pictured her in a house with bookshelves lining every wall and even more books piled high on every surface.

She tried to imagine a serious, scholarly young man strong enough to knock down a drunk with one punch and failed to blend the two contradictory images into one.

The music stopped. Not just a pause between dances this time, but for good. How had so much time passed so quickly?

If she didn’t put in an appearance at the reception now, someone would come looking for her. Worse, Miriam — the whole family — would never forgive her.

She rose reluctantly. “I have to go, but thank you for the conversation. I don’t like crowds, so I escape whenever I can, but it never worked out this well before. Tonight is the best time I ever had at any dance or party.” She laughed as she admitted that, the sound mingling with his low chuckle. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit,” she added. “Good night.”

She slipped back into the hall, thinking she should have said goodbye, not goodnight. Whoever that young man was, she’d never cross his path again, and maybe that was why she didn’t want to know his name or the name of the friend he was visiting. She wanted the memory to be of a mysterious stranger who had engaged her in fascinating conversation in a way that made her feel intelligent and interesting — and female.

T
REY MADE NO
attempt to catch a glimpse of the woman as she opened the door to the hall and light spilled out across the gravel walk. She’d all but told him she was a middle-aged spinster living with parents or maybe a married sister or brother.

Why let the sight of reality spoil the lovely image he wanted to match to her voice? Even if she was on the plain side, why hadn’t some man fallen in love with that lively mind?

If he could find a woman close to his own age like that.... Who was he trying to fool? If he could, first she’d run from the wreck he’d become, and second, what would he do with her? Food wasn’t the only appetite his body still hadn’t gotten back.

Six months now since sensation had started returning. Walking every day helped his strength and balance, but the fear that today was as good as it would ever get never went away.

He started to position the cane to use to lever himself upright, then swished it through the air like a sword instead. Until tonight the thing had been nothing but one more symbol of what he could no longer do.

Driving the cane right into the drunk’s belly had knocked all the air out of him more effectively than a punch, and finding a way to shut up a lout like that felt good. More than good. Trey gave the cane another swish through the air. Just as well no moon shone tonight or he’d be howling at the sky.

He walked slowly back toward the street. He should be ashamed about lying to the woman about the music, but what kind of man admitted to a woman he couldn’t walk a half mile without resting at the halfway mark? At least his pride still worked as well as ever.

Maybe he should have introduced himself, but then she hadn’t given her name either, and not knowing had advantages. Let her stay a mystery, and he could imagine her any way he wanted, petite and blonde, tall and brunette, young, pretty, and of course, fascinated by a sack of bones who couldn’t walk as well as most one-year-olds.

W
ATCHING
C
OUSIN
C
ALEB
win Hubbell’s annual Fourth of July shooting contest was a Sutton family tradition. As always, Deborah’s family filled most of the front row of chairs set up for spectators, and as always, Deborah sat at one end, Miriam on her right and open space on her left.

Deborah fingered the fluffy bits of cotton in the pocket of her dress then withdrew her hand. When the shooting began, she’d stuff the cotton in her ears. Until then she wanted to know what was going on in the crowd behind her.

After the first two or three years, Deborah had expected to hear resentment over the way Caleb dominated the contest. To her surprise and amusement, and that of Caleb’s wife, Norah, the town chose instead to take a fierce pride in its very own former gunman.

No one in Hubbell spoke of winning the annual shooting contest any longer but of “beating Sutton”. Last year Mannie Ascher had gone so far as to purchase an old buffalo gun like Caleb’s, and Ascher had practiced with it for months. Not that it did him any good, he’d missed his target in the fourth round.

Other towns had contests with elaborate rules and ways of scoring shots and determining the winner by the total score, but Hubbell kept things simple.

Paper targets hung on nails pounded in tree stumps. The first time a man missed his target, he was eliminated. Shooting started at a hundred yards, and the successful contestants moved back twenty yards after each round.

Deborah counted eight shooters on the field. Behind her, men placed bets on how many of the eight would make it to the second round. Mannie Ascher’s father sat directly behind her, and Deborah could hear every word of his conversation with Mr. Lawson, who was behind Miriam.

“Last fall he bought one of those Mauser rifles the Spanish used in the war,” Mr. Ascher said. “They’re supposed to be the best, but I told him it’s not the gun, it’s the eyes. Sutton was just born seeing distances better than most men. It’s a gift.”

Deborah fought the urge to turn around and enlighten Ascher. Eyesight alone wouldn’t win this contest or any other. Strength and steady hands entered into it. And practice.

Caleb didn’t let his Sharps hang on the wall unused more than a few days at a time. He’d let Deborah hold that buffalo gun once. It was heavy, and in this contest a man had to heft his rifle. Contestants could shoot from any position, but they couldn’t use a tripod or any other support.

“Yep, not one of them down there is going to beat Sutton,” Lawson said. “They ought to just give him the trophy and cash now and save time, but I reckon when you let a man enter a contest, you have to give him a chance.”

Deborah stopped listening as she scanned through the spectators. She had watched all morning, but she never saw anyone who could be her mysterious stranger.

She didn’t know whether to feel relief or disappointment. Her stranger wouldn’t be back in town, and if he was, did she really want to see some callow youth who wouldn’t fit that voice?

She spotted an unfamiliar face, not in the audience but among the shooters. Her breath caught for a moment, but he couldn’t be her stranger. The man on the field needed a cane to walk and had to lean on it heavily just standing there.

A man like that wouldn’t stroll through town in the evening for pleasure. She doubted he could walk very far unaided. Not only that, he was her own age or even older, no college boy.

The men behind her started talking again. They recognized the stranger even if she didn’t.

“Well, I’ll be.... Look who’s down there,” Ascher said. “You got to give him credit for nerve. He looks like the recoil from a .22 would knock him over.”

“He looks like a strong breeze would knock him over,” Lawson said, “but I guess that’s an improvement. I heard when he crawled home this spring he was on crutches. I don’t see nothing but a fancy stick now.”

How exactly could a man crawl on crutches? Deborah studied the man with the cane.

Most of the others, like Caleb, wore work clothes for the contest, but the man she watched had on gray flannel trousers and a white shirt. Tight around his skinny middle, his belt divided his body into two distinct halves. Someone should make him a gift of suspenders.

When he pulled his hat off and mopped his face with a handkerchief, she saw the bones of his face angling out sharply under pale skin. Only a thick, unruly thatch of medium brown hair showed any sign of vigor.

She tried to imagine him healthy. Handsome, she decided. Handsome in that elegant way some men had. A rifle hung from his right hand. He leaned on the cane in his left. The fancy stick.

“Webster Van Cleve is a right bastard, but even he doesn’t deserve a son like that,” Ascher said, “begging the pardon of any ladies who heard my lapse there.”

Van Cleve! A quick glance to her right showed Miriam deep in conversation with Judith, oblivious to what the old men behind them had to say. No one sitting farther away showed any sign of having heard the name.

Deborah squinted at the man again. Even though the Van Cleves had been enemies of her family since she’d first come to live with Uncle Jason and Aunt Emma, she could only remember seeing any of them a few times, and the one she remembered was Mrs. Van Cleve, beautiful and haughty, her golden blonde hair perfectly styled, her shapely figure showcased in the latest fashion.

“I heard he don’t even use his old man’s name,” Lawson said. “His name is the same as his father and grandfather before him, but he calls himself Trey. I guess plain American ain’t good enough for him, so he picked out some foreign word for three, Spanish or something.”

For goodness sake, hadn’t either Lawson or Ascher ever played a game of cards? Didn’t everyone learn the one, two, and three-spot cards as ace, deuce, and trey? Despising the Van Cleve family because they were arrogant, corrupt, and even criminal was one thing, making ignorant, ridiculous comments about a man’s name was another.

“Maybe he’s got reason not to use the old man’s name,” Ascher said. “You sure can’t see any sign of Van Cleve in him. He must be more than half a foot taller.”

Deborah’s hand dove in her pocket and fisted over the bits of cotton. The two old gossips fell silent, as well they should.

Someone braver must have given them the evil eye and let them know they’d gone too far. No, Mr. Lawson started in again on the same ugly speculation.

“If you’re right, maybe he didn’t run off as soon as he was full growed. Maybe Van Cleve kicked him out.”

Ascher wasn’t done yet either. “Except for the darker hair, he looks just like his mother, at least he did before he got that bullet in the back running the wrong way in Cuba. She’s a real beauty, but it’s not natural for a man to look that pretty.”

That was it. From the fussing still going on in the open field where the contestants stood, the shooting wouldn’t start for another five or ten minutes. Deborah shoved the pieces of cotton in her ears anyway.

Whatever Ascher and Lawson came up with next, she wasn’t listening to one more malicious word about Webster Van Cleve, III. Even if he was as wicked as his father. Even if he outdid his father by a factor of ten. In fact she hoped the Third won this blasted contest. Well, maybe not, but she hoped he was first runner up behind Caleb.

T
REY TOED THE
shooting line and tried to estimate how many shots he could make before falling flat on his face in front of half the town, which would be doubly embarrassing because most of them would cheer. The Mayor droned on about the rules, prizes, and history of the country back to Columbus.

Sweat beaded on Trey’s forehead and ran into his eyes. The morning was not yet half gone, and already every man’s face shone with moisture as the temperature and humidity rose in tandem.

The Mayor’s voice grew shrill as he reached the events of 1776. Resplendent in top hat and coat, meaty face slowly darkening from red to purple, he’d have to wind down soon. Trey lowered his rifle to the ground and centered the cane in front of him, curling both hands over the knob on top and leaning heavily.

At this rate he didn’t have to worry how many contest rounds he could endure. He’d be an undignified heap on the ground before the first shot was fired, which would serve him right for wasting good money to enter this contest on a whim.

The whole thing was Jamie’s fault. If Jamie hadn’t gone off with his latest lady love, he’d have been around to play the voice of reason.

The other contestants stood gazing into space or staring at their feet. At least they’d known what they were getting into. They probably heard some version of this speech every year.

A flutter of white caught Trey’s eye. The man at the other end of the line had his handkerchief out and was rubbing the barrel of his rifle with it. Every shooter straightened, smiles breaking out on sweaty faces as the Mayor stuttered to an abrupt halt and scurried out of the way.

The handkerchief man turned his head and looked down the line. Trey dropped the cane and jerked upright, heart hammering. Cal Sutton. At this distance he seemed unchanged from the monster who had haunted Trey’s boyhood nightmares. Hard face. Lean body under broad shoulders.

Trey stared, hate, or something close to it, twisting in his belly. Memories flashed one after another — of Sutton breaking in on his family at breakfast and frightening them half to death, of dead bodies and fire in the night, of holding hands with his hysterical mother on one side and his weeping sister on the other as they boarded the train taking them away from Hubbell, away from home and the bloody destruction Sutton wrought.

Sutton lifted his hat and ran his forearm over his face. Sun glinted off silver frosting his dark blond hair at the temples. At least time had affected the devil a little. He must be close to fifty now.

Taking a deep breath, Trey looked away, leaned down, and picked up his cane and his Winchester. He knew now what he hadn’t back then — Sutton had fought his side of the land war with bloody ruthlessness, but Webster Alexander Van Cleve, Jr., had started the war and hired killers to fight it for him.