The Willows (13 page)

Spat on the ground, as if to rid
himself of the ugly taste in his mouth, but the memories came to
him faster than he could fight them off. There had been a time, he
remembered painfully, when playing her games had meant the world to
him.

Poor as a youth, he had gazed with
fascination and envy at that grateful, elegant house with its
larger-than-life occupants. Compared to his family’s shack, it was
a magical wonderful land. Beautiful people came and went with
careless ease, the laughter bright and gray admitted the obscene
display of luxury. Watching them, equating happiness with wealth,
security with success, Michael had sworn the one day he would
fashion such a life for himself.

Early on, he’d seen that its mistress
with the focus of the Willows’ charm. Young as he was, Michael had
been a little in love with the lovely and gracious Amanda, many
merely walked into room to make everyone smile, male and female
alike. Never an unkind word, always generous with your time and
money, she brought joy to those around her. Michael could recall
how often she come to visit his poor mother, even against their
families wishes, and how only Amanda had come to say goodbye,
presenting a farewell basket of food when her husband had the
family evicted.

Gwen had grown up to be more like her
father, but back then, watching her play with her friends, he’d
thought her a younger replica of Amanda. For like her mother she
seemed the day she’d asked him to join their game. She’d been his
angel of mercy, the answer to all his yearnings, for by inviting
him into her world, she’d let him think he could become part of it,
that is the difference between them no longer mattered. When she
smiled at him, with a gaze as warm and open as Amanda’s, he’d
believed even a common dirt farmer could be her King.

Right up until it she’d handed him the
Apple.

It still made him burn, her casual
insole She’d brought him right to the break, getting him so swept
up in the dream that he’d made a fool of himself, only to draw her
favor at the last hour. The instant she no longer needed him, she
dismissed him from the game-and her in mind-as if he had never
existed.

Frowning, he thought of the
handkerchief in his pocket, at soft, sentence great con and lace,
and wished strongly that he had never met Gwen. Was one thing to
play the heartless flirt as a child, but she was a grown woman now,
old enough to know what those soft, melting looks could do to a
man, if Gwen had summoned him today, he’d make it good and clear
that he was too busy for her nonsense, that he wasn’t about to be
toyed with her games. He had no attention-and even less desire-of
rescuing her again, only to have her stroll off with
Lance.

Lance, he thought with a snort of
disgust. Maybe the summons he had come from him. He had been at the
Willows that night, had no doubt heard each sorry word of Michael’s
argument with Jervis, and had grabbed this means of curing favor
with the McCloud’s. How like the bastard to hide behind
anonymously, while boating about his powers to his friends. He
could hear Lance telling his clones, “I’ve drawn the stupid, up
start farmer out of the edge of nowhere, so we can go pound him
into a pulp.”

If so, Michael thought as the road came
to an end, Lance could not have chosen a better location. Set at
the edge of the Bayou alone and isolated, the Riverview covered in
trees and darkness, a small building hid. Michael had been in
hundreds of bars in his travels, and he’d learned to tell at a
glance which spelled trouble. This one, with its narrow door and
single window, could well be a trap.

Dismounting, he secured the horse out
of sight among the trees and approach the Tavern cautiously. He
wish now that he brought a weapon. If it had come to Fists, he
could hold his own against one or two, the lances kind travel in
packs, referring to use ambush to beat their enemy.

Looking ever alert, he climbed the
steps and pushed through the door. The room inside was gloomy, with
only the dirt streaked window to reveal the darkness, but Michael
sensed no immediate danger. As his eyes adjusted to the reduced
light, he took in a dozen or so tables to the left, and a shadow
opening in the back wall. Another exit he hoped: my yet come in
handy.

A long wood frame bar lined the wall to
his right, behind which stood a stout balding man in his mid-30s.
Michael recognized Jim Longley from his youth, and what he
remembered was mostly unpleasant, Jim was a bully, unlike most of
his kind, a coward-real strong when it came to those younger and
smaller, but not much to worry about any fair fight. Jim had gone
after his sister once; ref he had stopped his taunting by knocking
him unconscious.

Today was, neither of them were
youngsters now. Jim had grown taller and broader and a lot more
menacing. But then, so had Michael. Even if Jim held a grudge and
was foolish enough to act on it, there was every good chance he
wouldn’t recognize the boy he had once fought. Gwen certainly had
not.

Refusing to knowledge how much that
bothered him, Michael strode to the bar for a beer. Though Jim
acted as surely as ever, he barely glanced at his customers face.
With a spurt of sympathy, Michael realize that some, the isolated
life on the Bayou spelled intellectual death. And unimaginative man
like Jim-with little stimulation and less hope of escape-would have
long since stopped seeing anything out of the ordinary.

Michael paid for his shot and retired
to the back of the room, where he could watch the door. Sitting, he
surveyed his fellow patrons. A sorry looking person sat at the end
of the bar, a clear case of one whiskey too many, while a younger
man with the flashy waistcoat and clean white shirt of a gambler
sat nursing a bottle in the front corner. A drifter. Michael
recognized the man’s restless, almost lonely air, for he himself
had wasted a good eight years on the road, searching for that
elusive pot of gold, hoping for the one lucky break that would make
his fortune.

And what had changed? He asked himself.
If he was not still chasing rainbows, why was he sitting here,
waiting to be jumped, on the off chance that Jervis truly did mean
to honor his words?

Small chance of that, he emitted.
Service considered Michael beneath them, far outside of the
gentleman code. There was no need to honor a debt to a common white
trash; told Michael could prove he, too, was landed gentry, he
didn’t have to knowledge his existence.

So what was he doing here? There were
banks. Michael could get another loan, or at least an extension;
there was no need to put himself through this trouble. How many
ways must he be humiliated by this family, before he gave up and
quit?

As if in answer, the door burst open,
and a tall, graceless gentlemen stood over the threshold. His
attire was of the best quality, yet it varied colors and textures
seem to indicate the man had dressed himself in the dark. With a
smile and a nod at Jim, he glanced about the room, his gaze
skipping Michael and coming to rest on the drifter. “Mr. Williams?”
He asked.

Michael recognized Hamilton as the one
of the privileged few with played with when as a child. How
typically, that Michael could name every last one of that group,
while not one knew him. Clearly, none thought him import enough to
remember.

“
I’m Williams,” he said
sharply, draining his beer. “And I’m leaving.”

With Jim glaring at him and Colby
staring open mouth, Michael brushed past the door. There are both
remembering him now, they didn’t doubt, and considering Jim’s
vindictive nature, he might better put a goodly distance between
himself and the Riverview Tavern.

“
Michael, please wait,”
Colby called out in his crisp British accent.” I imagine you don’t
remember me, but”

“
I know who you are, Colby”
Michael turned in time to catch the sudden light on the man’s face.
Hamilton Colby had been shy and retiring, he now recalled, always
in Lance‘s shadow, so maybe it was unfair to lump him with the
others. “What I don’t know is what you want.”

The man scratched his unruly mass of
Auburn hair. “This is already artwork. I’m here, well, rather as a
liaison. I have someone who wishes to talk with you. If you would
follow me, she’d be ever so grateful.”

Michael stiffened. Who did Gwen think
he was, some puppet she could jerk on a string? “Thank you, but no
thanks.” He said, turning back to his horse. “I have more important
things to do with my time.”

“
All she asks is a moment.
To let her explain.”

“
Thank you, but let me
handle this from here. Michael, please, it is quite vital I speak
to you.”

Michael spun in surprise. It was not
Gwen who stood facing him, but rather her cousin. Edith was another
of the Camelot group who’d never had the chance to shine. She
always seem it quite little mouse, taking the crumbs her cousin
left behind.

“
There is a dock, down by
the Bayou,” she said, gesturing with her hands. The people smile
and fidgeting hands betrayed a her nervousness. “We run less risk,
I think, of being seen.”

Michal was tempted to go with there.
They must be a vital issue indeed, to force the timid Edith to meet
with the likes of him in some backwater hole in the Bayou. Still,
he had no wish to deal with anyone even remotely connected to the
Willows. “I’m sorry, Edith, this has anything to do with your
family, I’m something not interested.”

Please hear me out. You might find it
to work to your vantage. You do want my father to pay what he owes
you?”

“
You know about
that?”

She looked at her hands, refusing to
meet his gaze. “He relies on me to take care of what he calls
trivial details. They may seem insignificant to him, but those
details at up, Michael. I think that he would be amazed at how much
I know about him.”

Michael smiled. Jervis, typically
arrogant, had overlooked that it was often the quiet ones who
required the most security.

“
Indeed, it was about my
daddy’s activities that I wish to speak. Please, Michael, if you
will follow me? Hamilton will stand guard to make certain we are
not disturbed.”

She turned into the trees, taking for
granted that he would follow. Looking at Colby, who held out his
hands and shrugged, Michael knew the man was right. There’s not
much in either of them could do at this point. Edith had played her
hand beautifully. Michael cannot leave now, curiosity got to
him.

He followed her through the trees,
coming to a discrete small dock that no longer reach the Bayou.
Some time ago, the area had been underwater, but the course of the
stream had changed, leaving the dock standing in the middle of
nowhere.

Coming to a stop, she gestured around
them. “I suppose all this must seem terribly discouraging,” she
said with the strength smile. “It is just, well, I’d hate for my
father or his friends to overhear what I have to say.”

“
Just what is this about,
Edith?”

She studied his face a moment, then
apparently came to a decision, for she reached into her back to
lift out a sheet of paper. “This,” she said, handing the paper to
him. “My father plans to put these handbills up on every tavern
from here to Baton Rouge.”

Roughly looked down at the black and
white drawing of Gwen’s face. Underneath in stark block letters
were the words, “come compete for the mistress of the Willows.” His
eyes widen as he noticed the extraordinary amount required to join
the ranks of competition.

Edith was nodding. “Can see her face
that you’ve seen the entry fee. Daddy is quite convinced that men
will happily pay it.”

“
No respectable gentlemen,
I’d wager,” he said, thinking aloud. To participate, a man would
have to be either blindly in love with Gwen, or totally new to
social commendations. At best, the contest would draw the outer
fringes of light society, at worst, adventurers like himself. Too
bad he had neither time nor money, or he could well imagine there
burbling features if Michael charge into the field of
play.

“
On the contrary.” Her voice
assumed is a presently hard edge. “We both know how it is with the
world. Money talks louder than gossip. Society has always been
happily to overlook the indiscretions committed by the owners of
the Willows.”

How true, and how annoying to hear her
say it. “Your family is hardly overburdened with cash at the
moment. Rumor has it the Willows is one gasp away from the auction
block.”

She shrugged. “The land is still good,
and the house is sturdy enough. All it needs is someone willingly
to work, and work hard, to get it going again. its nots Gwen’s
beauty that will draw them into compete, but rather the prospects
of all the free land.”

“
I don’t get it. What would
your family give-not to mention your cousin-to a complete
stranger?”

My daddy stands to make a great deal of
money from this venture, Michael. It’s as simple as
that.”

Michael, who thought he’d heard
everything, felt shocked. This wasn’t some object Jervis was using,
for even a piece of prime life stock; this was his blood. Michael
had never claimed to be a saint, when he came out looking fairly
angelic compared to this vulture. For all his advantages, with all
the worthy pursuits in his world, Jervis at shows and be a
parasite, living off the dead carcasses of his brother’s estate,
using his own flesh and blood to attorney profit.