Stay a Little Longer (8 page)

Looking over his bony shoulder, Jonathan released his grip on Rachel so quickly she would have thought her blouse had burst
into flames. He was once again the traveling salesman, his face as innocent as newly fallen snow. Rachel moved away from him,
gently massaging her arms where he had grabbed her.

“Just the fella I was lookin’ for,” Otis said gruffly when he’d reached them.

“Me?” Jonathan asked in surprise. Briefly, a shadow of worry crossed his face, a fear that maybe he had been caught doing
something he shouldn’t. “Whatever for?”

“For the four bits you been owin’ for rent on that there room,” the drunken man said before taking yet another swig of his
liquor. “Seems like every damn time I been up a-poundin’ on your door, there ain’t nobody there. Thought I heard your voice
out here…”

Jonathan looked from Rachel to Otis, expecting her to tell him all that had occured, but she held her tongue. She knew that
he’d understand her silence to be some sort of returned affection, but the truth was much simpler; times for her family were
tough, and kicking out one of their few boarders would only make them tougher.

“How… how much did you say I owe you?” Jonathan muttered.

“Four bits,” Otis repeated.

“I might have that much on me,” the skinny man said, checking his pockets.

“You best be knowin’ that this here ain’t no charity house, Mr. Moseley.” The words fell out of Otis’s mouth as slurred as
if they themselves were drunk. “What with all the work poor ol’ Rachel here is doin’, it just wouldn’t be right of you not
to pay what you done agreed to. The way some of us is headin’, why, our word’s gonna be all we got left!”

“Quite right, Mr. Simmons,” Jonathan agreed.

For a moment, the salesman looked hopeful that Otis would let him bring the money to him later, but the large man didn’t budge,
fixing a determined yet unfocused stare upon him. “I guess I’ll need to fetch my money purse, then,” Jonathan finally said
with a huff. His eyes lingered on Rachel for a moment longer before he set off back toward the house.

As she watched him go, Rachel knew that she would have to keep a close eye on Jonathan Moseley. He obviously had bolder plans
for her; but if he put his hands on her again, she would be ready.

In his room on the top floor of the boardinghouse, Jonathan Moseley seethed. All of his many intentions for the day seemed
to have been going well until that obese drunkard had come out and ruined everything! If it hadn’t been for him, why, he could
have been down on the lakeshore frolicking with Rachel instead of digging for money he didn’t have.

“Damn that man and his poor timing!”

Cluttered and cramped, Jonathan’s room looked as if it had been struck by a tornado and earthquake all rolled into one. Cascading
piles of books, bundles of brushes, and bottles of hair tonic vied for whatever space could be found on the floor and the
small table near the window. His lone chair and bed were both covered in clothing; shirts and dirty socks were tossed willy-nilly
and shoes were underfoot.

Even if I had any money, I wouldn’t know where to find it!

Though he portrayed himself as a man of great prospective wealth, the fact was that Jonathan Moseley was nearly penniless.
He had attempted many enterprises: investing in a “surefire” Oklahoma oilfield, selling insurance outside of St. Louis; he’d
even traveled with a circus as a carnival barker.

But all had ended in failure…

Now he was attempting to ply his trade as a traveling salesman, but he could already see that this was headed in the same
direction as all of his other careers. The fact was that people didn’t want the junk he was selling. With winter coming, his
prospects seemed bleak.

Not that he considered himself above stealing. He’d needed occasionally to break into a home or business. He felt no shame,
no regret. He’d learned long ago that there were moments a man had to take what he wanted. He might need to do so again.

Part of his interest in Rachel Watkins was that she had a secure roof over her head for the coming winter. If he were to become
romantically involved with her, it seemed unlikely that he would be expected to pay for his room. But that was hardly the
end of his interest.

The truth was that he lusted after her. Even in the plain blouses and skirts she wore, he could see that she had curves in
all the right places. His loins positively ached to be between her legs! She had once smiled at him and the burning desire
it had caused had lasted for days! While Jonathan had no illusion that he was the best-looking man in the world, he also knew
that in Carlson, Rachel had little room to be choosy. If he were to play his cards right, if he were to display his ample
charms at just the right time, he had no doubt that she would fall for him.

That was why today was so important!

He’d finally managed to get Rachel alone, away from that poorly behaved brat and the thin walls of her mother’s flea-ridden
boardinghouse, and then everything had been going as well as he could have hoped. It had been a risk to reach up under her
skirt as he had, but the defiant way she had spoken had been well worth it and nothing short of arousing. Though she protested,
Jonathan had known that she was only moments away from accepting his offer of a picnic.

But then Otis had come along and ruined it all!

Thinking of the fat, drunken man gave Jonathan a sudden idea…

Maybe if he were lucky, Otis would have already wandered off to the bottom of whatever bottle he was currently nipping on
and Rachel would again be by herself.

Hurrying over to his small window, Jonathan stared down into the open area behind the building. Wiping away a layer of dust,
he arrived just in time to witness Rachel finish hanging the last of her laundry, snatch up her basket, and return inside.

He was too late… his chance was missed.

As he collapsed onto his clothes-strewn bed, anger simmered in Jonathan’s heart. Everything had run off the rails! Too much
was riding on his pursuit of Rachel for him to give up the hunt; on the contrary, he knew that he would just have to try that
much harder.

He smiled to himself. “Whether she likes it or not.”

M
ASON TUCKER LEAPT
from the moving train about a quarter mile from the outskirts of Carlson, just as the engine began to slow on its approach
to the depot. Choosing a spot that had been cleared of trees, he slammed hard into the ground before tucking his head and
rolling through, his momentum carrying his satchel up and over his head. It was a well-practiced move, an action that left
him ready to run quickly if necessary.

Leaving the train short of town had been an easy decision; he was not certain how close to town he wanted to get, and either
way, the last thing he wanted was someone to identify him. From where he had exited, it would be a short walk to the first
houses.

“And then I’ll be home, I reckon,” he muttered to himself.

But just as Mason straightened, a wave of dizziness washed over him. With a trembling hand, he steadied himself against a
tall oak tree, his feet buried in an impressive drift of fallen leaves. Ever since his encounter with the two assailants in
Wisconsin, his bouts of queasiness seemed to be coming more and more frequently. Closing his eyes tightly, he waited for the
world to stop spinning and was finally rewarded.

Slowly at first, then gaining stride, Mason made his way toward Carlson. The densely packed forest on the outskirts of town
soon gave way to gently rolling farming fields already stripped of their recent harvest. He passed a farm where a man and
his son were both atop ladders, picking apples from trees and dropping them into baskets hung from their shoulders. Somewhere
in the distance, someone was burning brush.

Eventually closer to the town itself, Mason was surprised to see that houses had sprung up much farther from Carlson’s center
than he remembered. Sturdy homes covered with fresh coats of paint were aligned in orderly blocks with new streets spurring
toward Main Street. Trees he recalled as saplings were taller, their branches reaching ever higher. Much remained that he
recognized, but much was different.

Easily jumping over first one fence and then another, Mason cut across yards as he headed toward the northern end of town.
He kept his head down, moving quickly, not wanting to be noticed and ever watchful that he not draw too much attention.

The last thing I need is a barking dog!

When he had finally decided to return to Carlson, he had known in his heart where he would go first; the loving house that
he and Alice had shared in the days just after their wedding. Dashing from the cover of a tree to the safety of a woodpile
and then across yet another fence, he found himself close enough to see the house clearly and his heart began to pound furiously.

Back when the house was built, Mason hadn’t been particularly comfortable working with his hands; he was much more within
his element in his father’s bank. But a wise choice had been made in hiring out the home’s construction; even eight years
later, it was still a work of beauty. A two-story Victorian with a gabled roof and large, multipaned windows, it looked almost
exactly as he remembered it. He smiled as he recalled the nights he and Alice had spent on the wraparound porch with its latticework
runner and sparkling white columns.

Crouching in the deep shadows, Mason was suddenly filled with doubt about his decision to return. He felt nervous, fearful
that Alice would see him and be disgusted by what he had become. A shaking hand reached up to touch the scarred side of his
face. The memory of what had once looked back at him from a cracked mirror sent a shiver of revulsion racing down his spine.

No matter what, he would never let Alice see the truth.

Movement at the front of the house shook him from his unkind thoughts. The front door swung open and a well-dressed man stepped
down from the porch and momentarily reveled in the sunshine. Whistling to himself, the man shot his cuffs and smiled confidently.
Just the sight of him caused Mason’s heart to sink like a stone.

What did you expect to find, you fool?

During the long years that he had been traveling, Mason had often wondered what had taken place when Alice had learned of
his passing. As a young widow, she would have had no shortage of suitors. After so many years, she would have moved on… found
a new husband… found a new life. Though he had wanted her to be happy, the sight of her new man was like a blow to his chest.

But as surprised as he’d been to see the man step from the door, Mason was even more shocked when a young woman followed her
husband outside. She wasn’t Alice. With her dark hair cascading down over her pale yellow blouse, the woman rose up onto her
tiptoes to plant a tender kiss upon the man’s cheek. They both laughed before heading down the street toward the center of
town. In moments, they were lost to his sight.

What… what is going on here?

Mason was utterly perplexed. Stepping from the shadows out into the middle of the street, he stared at his former home, then
back down the street, returning his gaze again to the house. At that moment, he was no longer the least bit concerned whether
he was seen or not. Questions raced through across his mind.
Who are the people now living in my and Alice’s home? Why doesn’t Alice live there anymore? Where in heaven’s name did she
go?

Before he could set about finding answers to his many questions, another wave of dizziness washed over him. This seizure was
worse than the last, strong enough to drive him down to one knee in the road. Pulsing pain assaulted his senses and he had
to squelch the urge to vomit. He touched his forehead with the back of his shaking hand; it was hot. He was sick, but he refused
to allow his illness to keep him from the answers he so desperately needed. Gritting his teeth, he pushed to his feet and
breathed deeply, settling his racing head.

“Hold yourself together,” he commanded himself.

Once he was sure that he wouldn’t pitch face first into the road on his first step, Mason set out for the only place he could
think of to get the answers he wanted; Eliza Watkins’s home across from the train depot. While he knew he couldn’t just go
up and pound on the door demanding answers, he could watch and hope he might learn something. Going there would be a risk—there
was really no way to get there other than by crossing through the center of town—but it was a risk he was willing to take.

Mason stuck to the shadows of the buildings along Main Street, taking great care not to be noticed. Still, it was hard for
him not to stare at the way Carlson had changed in his absence; there was a new lawyer’s office next to Hamilton’s Grocery,
a new steeple atop the Lutheran church, and even a new balcony running the length of Carlson Bank and Trust.

Struck by all these changes, Mason was also prompted to recall old incidents from his youth: chasing after his father as he
made his way about his business, sloshing through mud puddles with his brother, and painstakingly choosing which candy he
would purchase from Laurson’s Mercantile with his shiny new penny. Carlson remained a part of him, no matter how many miles
he’d traveled or how many years he’d been gone.

He had just stepped down from the boardwalk, gawking at all of the changes, memories swirling about his dazed head, when he
collided with a man so violently that they both nearly fell to the ground.

“What in the name of—?” a gruff voice spat.

Quickly straightening himself, Mason was horror-struck to find himself only inches away from Samuel Guthrie, a man he had
known since birth. With his hawkish nose and unruly brush of a mustache, the man was unmistakable, even with the wrinkles
that lined his face. Mason clearly remembered running into his father’s office at the bank and being greeted by Samuel’s quick
smile.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Samuel snarled.