Stay a Little Longer (6 page)

But I’ve been too ashamed, too afraid to go back for it…

Mason’s back had already begun to ache from being tossed against the train car’s wall. He’d managed to survive this time,
but what about the next… or the next… or the time after that? Men such as Horace and Del lurked around every corner, their
eyes eager for prey. This life was hard, in some ways even harder than being a soldier, and he was getting tired.

For the first time in eight years, Mason knew that the longing he felt for home and family, for Carlson, for Alice was so
great that he could no longer ignore it. What harm would it cause to go and look upon the people whom he loved? What harm
could come from staying at the edge of town and remembering, if only for a while, what he had once been? He would have to
change a train or two, but he knew that he could be there within a matter of days. As the Wisconsin night sped by in a blur,
Mason Tucker made up his mind.

He was going home.

A
S HE HAD DONE
nearly every day for the last eight years, Zachary Tucker stood at his office window and drank two fingers of whiskey, a
silent toast to both his good fortune and his brother’s death. Beneath his sill, Carlson was beginning to wake from another
night’s slumber. A pair of wagons lazily made their way down Main Street; a shopkeeper swept a scattering of leaves from in
front of his door; a dog began barking somewhere in the distance. Zachary looked at his pocket watch, a quarter after seven
o’clock in the morning, and smiled as if he were a proud parent.

Someday soon, I will own this town…

“I’m waiting for an answer, Mr. Tucker,” a voice spoke from behind him.

Zachary turned slowly to fix his gaze upon Wilbur Stack, a representative of the Gaitskill Lumber Company of Minneapolis,
freshly arrived on the earliest morning train. A short, balding man with just the smallest hint of a chin, Stack was immaculately
dressed, his dark suit of the latest fashion and without a single wrinkle or out of place crease from his trip. Beady eyes
peered out from a pair of round spectacles precariously perched atop his bulbous nose. His face seemed utterly devoid of good
cheer. Zachary had the impression that the man was a lawyer of some sort; it seemed that when money was involved, particularly
big money, men of that stripe could be found scurrying about like insects on an overripe fruit.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stack, but it seems that I was somewhere else for a moment,” Zachary apologized. “What was it that you asked?”

Sighing irritably, Stack said, “I was explaining to you that while the Gaitskill Lumber Company has done all that it had set
out to do with regard to the new mill they planned to construct east of town, it appears to the board of directors back in
Minneapolis that things are… lacking on Carlson’s end. I was asked to come here to give you an opportunity to explain your
point of view, but for that, I’m still waiting.”

Instead of answering, Zachary asked, “Would you mind if I smoked?”

Stack nodded. “If you must.”

From the moment he received the telegram that told him to expect a visit from the lumber company’s representative, Zachary
had dreaded his impending arrival. In his experience, meetings such as this could easily degenerate into shouting matches,
spiteful accusations, and often the collapse of a carefully prepared deal.

Plucking a thickly rolled Spanish maduro from the silver box on the edge of his enormous oak desk, Zachary took his time in
snipping the cigar’s end and striking the match to light it. Puffing heavily, he soon had the end blazing red and bluish tendrils
of smoke rising toward the ceiling. Fresh tobacco smoke burned in his throat.

“Where are my manners?” he said in sudden awareness. “Would you like one?”

“No thank you,” Stack answered curtly.

Zachary’s desire to smoke, as well as his offering a cigar to his guest, was not born out of a longing for tobacco; it sprang
from his desire to avoid showing weakness. Making Stack wait for him to proceed, while infuriating to the man, also served
to remind him that his host was not without power of his own. Too often in situations such as this, whoever was on his side
of the desk bent over backward to please his benefactors.

But that is something I will not do!

Weakness was not an attribute that many would ascribe to Zachary Tucker. Well over six feet tall, he was a thick man who was
drifting toward fat; like his father, his ability to consume drink and large meals was something of a local legend. His coal-black
hair, pomaded smartly, had begun to show just the faintest hint of a silver-gray at his temples. He often ran his fingers
through the bushy thickness of his mustache. While his cheeks were ruddy, a color associated with good cheer, the blackness
of his eyes, as well as the dark circles that surrounded them, suggested something far different. Many a man had been broken
under the stare of those eyes.

“I’m afraid I don’t see the problems you so clearly do,” he finally said.

“You must be joking,” Stack replied impatiently.

“Everything is going exactly as we intended,” Zachary explained, cutting the man off while absently flicking a half-inch of
ash from his buttoned coat, one of a seemingly endless wardrobe of the newest fashions.

“Not according to the papers you’ve shown me,” Stack argued, holding up a sheaf of documents. “Everything indeed does seem
to be in order, save for one property,” he continued, peering down his nose at a particular sheet, “owned by one Eliza Watkins
and Otis Simmons.”

Simply hearing the names of his late brother’s in-laws sent shivers of disgust running down Zachary’s spine, a reaction that
he hoped had not been betrayed by his face. To have his financial future so intimately connected to those people was an insult
he wouldn’t be able to stand much longer. But every time he tried to speak with Rachel Watkins…

God damn Mason and that damn family!

“They’ll come around,” Zachary assured his visitor.

“You said the same thing four months ago,” Stack snapped back. “Or have you already forgotten that visit?”

“My associates and I are doing everything in our power to ensure that all will go exactly as planned,” Zachary explained,
pointing over Stack’s shoulder to the quiet man standing in the corner. Travis Jefferson had worked for Zachary Tucker for
the last four years, usually doing jobs of an unsavory nature. Thin, but wiry and strong as a wildcat, he was apt to let his
bony fists do his talking. It was a brave man who willingly faced him. Close-cropped brownish-blond hair framed an oval face.
An angry scar, white and fat, ran diagonally from his hairline down to his tanned brow. He didn’t acknowledge Tucker’s gesture,
nor did Stack turn to look at him.

“You’d better be,” Stack said. “You know how much is at stake.”

“Oh, yes,” Zachary answered. “I do.”

Nearly one year earlier, the Gaitskill Lumber Company had come to Carlson with the intention of opening a lumber mill to the
east of town. Large groves of cedar and oak covered that area, ideal for the growing needs of Minneapolis and St. Paul. With
the railroad already an established presence, all seemed in place for a prosperous partnership. All it would take was a rail
spur run from the lumber operation to the existing depot.

But then there had been a snag…

One of the conditions that the lumber company had placed upon the deal was that they wanted to buy up the properties located
around the depot. Newly constructed offices would coordinate traffic from the mill to and from the Twin Cities. Company executives
could come to view the enterprise’s progress without having to camp out with the laborers. The amount they offered for the
properties was generous, far above true value, and all those who first had been approached had jumped at the deal. But then
Zachary had spoken with Eliza Watkins and everything had gone to hell.

Standing in the darkened room on the second floor of the boardinghouse, her eyes had filled with tears as she recounted all
of the wonderful years her beloved daughter, Alice, had spent growing up under the building’s gabled roof. She’d told him
of birthdays, skinned knees, her girls sliding down the banisters to the front door, and of the first time Alice had brought
Mason to visit, until Zachary had been ready to pull out his hair! Eliza told him that selling the house would be nothing
short of a betrayal to those memories. Though he had offered to raise the buying price higher than any building in Carlson,
she told him no amount of money would change her mind.

The worst part for Zachary was that he knew she and Otis needed money. Any fool who stood outside and looked at the property
could see that the owners weren’t financially secure; worn and chipped paint, a sagging roof, and cracks in the windows were
only the most obvious of their problems. Boarders in these parts were few and far between. Eliza had given up her birthing
practice and Otis was a drunk. Even Rachel…

What future did these people have?

“A great deal of work has gone into making sure that this deal actually comes off,” Stack explained, his eyes never wavering
from Zachary’s. “A considerable amount of… greasing the wheels has occurred, if you know what I am saying. For it to come
undone now would be a grave disappointment… indeed, nothing short of a
grave
mistake,” he added pointedly.

“As I explained,” Zachary assured him, “they’ll eventually sell.”

“For your sake, I hope you’re right, otherwise…”

“Otherwise what?”

“While it’s certainly too late for the company to turn its back upon the town, considering all the preparations made, it might
well revisit its intentions of doing further business with you.” Stack smiled sardonically. “If word were to get out that
you were unreliable, who’s to say what future opportunities would ever be presented? After all, the Gaitskill Lumber Company
is one of the pillars of Minneapolis’s business community. It is not an enemy one would wish to have.”

Without any doubt, Zachary knew that this was the true reason for Wilbur Stack’s visit, to give him a warning. Failure to
do as he had promised would have undeniable consequences. The lumber company would make him pay for his failure by blacklisting
him from any further contracts. With the right amount of pressure, his dream of owning Carlson, of being the most powerful
man in the area, could go up like so much smoke.

“There is another matter,” Stack explained with a delicate cough.

“Yes?” Zachary asked curiously over the end of his cigar.

“There are some members of the company’s board who would prefer to work with your father, Sherman Tucker, on this particular
matter,” Stack said with caution, clearly weighing each of his words, watching for Zachary’s reaction. “His is a name well
known in business circles. Many remember his efforts to bring the railroad to Carlson in the first place. I’ve been instructed
to ask if it might be possible to bring him into our negotiations.”

Zachary smiled inwardly. This request was something he’d long anticipated, and had expected to be made much earlier. His father
had been a lion, one of several founders of Carlson, and through sheer will had built the town into a successful community.
When he opened the Carlson Bank and Trust, he’d done so with the belief that fairness always bested greed, that by helping
a neighbor through difficult times the whole of the town could be strengthened. He’d taken pains to raise both of his sons
to believe in the same principles, all in the hope that they would one day succeed him. But Zachary had always known differently…

The truth is that I was never supposed to be the successor!

Mason had always been their father’s favorite. As the elder brother, he had clung to Sherman’s elbow, following the older
man around like a puppy. For that obedience, fortune had smiled upon him. Mason had been the one of the two blessed with the
looks of a leading man in the theater, the brains to master any task put before him, the grace and wit to charm anyone he
met, and the hand of the most beautiful girl in Carlson.
He
was the one who had always been meant to carry the mantle of the bank;
he
was the one who would be expected to lead Carlson into the twentieth century;
he
had always been the one…

But then he had gone off to war.

Though the news of Mason’s death had shaken all of Carlson to its very core, Zachary had been privately elated. There had
always been a simmering rivalry between them that grew with every passing year, but hostility existed mostly on Zachary’s
end; after all, he had nothing Mason could have wanted. If he had a penny for every time he’d been told to act more like Mason,
he wouldn’t have needed the rotten bastard to die in order to inherit the bank; he’d have already been rich!

And suddenly it all belonged to me!

Mason’s sudden passing had aged Sherman Tucker a decade in what seemed little more than a blink of an eye. More and more,
the older banker withdrew himself from public life, retreating to the library of his home on the northern edge of town. By
the time Alice Tucker died giving birth to Sherman’s granddaughter, he’d fallen so ill that he needed round-the-clock care.
It was undoubtedly only a matter of time until he joined his beloved son in heaven.

Sherman’s exit had left Zachary in complete control of the bank and the future of Carlson. His philosophy of business was
nearly the exact opposite of his father’s; he felt nothing mattered but the money. He didn’t give a damn if a farmer was going
through tough times or a merchant was still waiting for a shipment of goods from Duluth. If the money he was owed wasn’t paid
in time, he had no qualms about seizing whatever he could as payment. Was it his fault if businessmen had bitten off more
than they could chew? Money was power… and that was what he coveted.

“I’m afraid that my father’s illness is so severe that he will be unable to be of any help in this matter,” Zachary explained
patiently. “The doctors all say to expect the worst, but I prefer to be more of an optimist. Perhaps if he makes a recovery,
he might be able to aid us in the future.”