Stay a Little Longer (22 page)

“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.

O
TIS 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 warding 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.