Truth Be Told (10 page)

After paying for their tea, they started back in the direction of the paper. Amelia smiled when she noticed a number of people standing along the boardwalk, reading the
Gazette.
Several of them glanced up long enough to smile and nod, then went back to their reading. A thrill of pride rippled through her at the sight.

They crossed to the other side of the street and passed the Great Western building. Amelia slowed a bit and peered through the plate-glass window, wondering if she might catch sight of Ben.

Clara's voice cut into her thoughts. “What are you planning to do with your evening?”

Amelia pulled her attention away from the office building and turned back to her friend. “I have work to do in the newspaper office. Then I thought I might read for a while before I retire.”

“That sounds like a grand idea. Nothing like curling up with a good book after a hard day's work.”

Amelia nodded, although her plan didn't involve a book. This evening, she intended to go through her father's files and read over his notes.

Stepping down to cross the alley that ran between the offices of Black & Landry, Attorneys-at-Law, and the
Gazette
, Clara stopped dead in her tracks and stared over the top of Amelia's head. “What on earth?”

Amelia whirled around and gasped at the sight of a man sprawled facedown in the alleyway. Horror filled her when she recognized the wispy white hair.

It was Homer.

A
melia hiked up her skirt and raced down the alley. She skidded to a halt at Homer's side and dropped down next to him, heedless of the loose gravel that dug into her knees.

She pressed her fingers against his neck, praying she would find a pulse. A sob of relief tore from her throat when her fingertips detected the reassuring sign of life. Then she caught the unmistakable odor of alcohol, much stronger than before.

No.
Rocking back on her heels, she looked down the alley and retraced Homer's route in her mind. His last stop in delivering the
Gazette
would have been Zeke Miller's boardinghouse, which sat next door to the Brass Rail Saloon. It would seem Homer had stopped by one of the town's watering holes for a libation on his way back to the newspaper.

So I didn't imagine
it earlier.
A shadow fell across Homer's limp form, and Amelia looked up to see Clara standing over her.

“Is he dead?”

“No, I'm afraid—”

Before she could say more, Clara knelt beside her. At that moment, Homer stirred and let out a moan. Pungent fumes
wafted up, enveloping the two women. “Ah.” Clara raised one eyebrow. “We'd best get him inside, then.”

Amelia stared openmouthed, amazed at the way her friend was taking the situation in stride. She looked down at the unmoving man. “I suppose you're right. But how?”

Clara reached over and clapped Homer on the back. “Come on. You need to get up.”

Homer's eyes flickered open, then fluttered closed again.

Clara grabbed his shoulder and gave it a good shake. “We can't get you inside on our own. You need to help us.”

With a groan, Homer scrambled to his hands and knees, then stumbled to his feet.

Clara stepped up beside him. “If we each get under one arm, can you manage?” Without waiting for a reply, she gestured to Amelia.

Amelia moved to Homer's left side and drew his arm across her shoulder, gasping when her knees buckled under his weight.

“Where does he live?” Clara's strained voice gave evidence of Homer weighing her down, as well.

“He has a little cabin out back, but I don't think we can get him that far. Let's take him through this rear door. It's the one we use for deliveries.”

Step by halting step, they staggered along the alley. Amelia shot a quick glance over her shoulder, hoping no one was there to witness their weaving progress. To a casual observer, it might look like all three of them had spent the afternoon at the Brass Rail.

When they reached the alley door, she fumbled with the latch and kicked the door open with her foot. “In here.” She nodded toward the improvised sickroom her father so recently
occupied. She and Homer had returned the shelves and most of the storage items to their places, but the bed still took up space against one wall.

She and Clara maneuvered Homer over to it, then let him slip out of their grasp. He sprawled across the mattress and lay there, moaning.

Amelia stared down at her old friend, compassion and anger warring within her. She should have spoken to him earlier, as soon as she caught that faint smell of alcohol on his breath.

How
would Papa deal with this?
Homer had been a heavy drinker when her father took him under his wing, but he'd looked beyond the surface and recognized Homer's value—not just as a help around the newspaper but as a human being worthy of God's love and forgiveness . . . and thus, his own.

His occasional lapses over the years hadn't pleased her father, but he'd seemed to take them in his stride. She was not her father, though. How could she love somebody like a dear uncle on one hand, and at the same time want to shake him until his teeth rattled?

She looked over at Clara, mortified that her friend had witnessed Homer's backsliding. “Thank you for your help. I never could have gotten him inside on my own. I'm sorry you had to see him like this.”

Clara brushed off the incident. “I had an uncle with the same problem. It isn't the first time I've had to help someone home after he's been on a bender. My uncle was a fine man, though, when he wasn't bending his elbow too much.”

She bent over Homer and frowned. “Looks like he whacked his forehead on the ground when he passed out.”

Moving closer, Amelia could see the knot forming near
Homer's temple. “I'll get a cloth and a basin of water.” She went to the kitchen to retrieve the supplies, along with some bandages. Annoyed as she was at Homer's drinking, he still needed care.

Carrying the items back to the storeroom, she set the basin on a nearby shelf and started dabbing at the wound. Homer flinched and tried to swat her hand away.

“I'm sorry. I know this is going to hurt. You have quite a lump already. You must have struck your head when you passed out.”

Homer looked up as if trying to focus on her face. “Didn't pass out. Not on my own, anyway.” He planted his hands on the mattress and eased himself back up against the wall at the head of the bed. “I was walking down the alley, and something smacked me on the head.”

He probed the discolored knot with his fingers. “This is tender, all right, but where it really hurts is up here.” He raised his hand, indicating the top of his head.

Amelia set the rag on the edge of the basin and used her fingers to part his hair with a gentle touch. She sucked in her breath when she saw a line of blood along his scalp.

Clara leaned close. “Must've been quite a wallop. And it didn't come from hitting his head on the ground.”

Amelia's eyes widened. “What did that, Homer? Was anybody else around?”

“Only me in the alley, as far as I could see. It doesn't make a bit of sense, but I know it happened.”

Clara's lips tightened. “Things like that don't just happen out of the blue. I think I'll go outside and have a look around.”

Amelia waited until she heard the alley door open and close, then she drew a deep breath and summoned up her courage. “Homer, this has to stop.”

He looked up at her with a puzzled frown. “What? Getting beaned on the head? I'll agree to that.”

“I'm talking about your drinking. You and I both know—” She broke off when Clara stepped back inside, carrying Homer's hat in her hand.

“I found this in the alley, not too far from where he was lying. This was off to the side.” She held out an oblong brick. “You can see the scuff on his hat where this hit him. Wearing the hat is probably all that kept that brick from busting his skull open.”

Remorse flooded Amelia when she took the heavy brick in her hands. Here she'd been thinking terrible things about Homer, when he'd been the victim of an accident.

Still, there was that telltale smell of alcohol on his breath.

As if reading her thoughts, Homer reached for her hand. “I'll admit I did stop in the Brass Rail on my way back here, just by way of celebrating the paper going out on time. But it was only one drink, and a small one at that.” His lips stretched into a thin line, showing how much it cost him to make even that small admission.

Amelia squeezed his fingers. “It always starts with one. You don't want it taking over your life again, do you? I hate what it can do to you. So did Papa.”

He pulled his hand away, avoiding her eyes. “I know he did . . . but he understood how it could happen. It's just the way I let off steam when things get a little tense. You have to admit there's been plenty of pressure around here lately.”

The bell over the street door jingled, saving Amelia from making a response. A voice called out, “Hello? Anybody here?”

Amelia's spirits brightened when she recognized Ben's voice.

Clara moved toward the door. “Want me to tell whoever's out there to come back later?”

Amelia smoothed her skirt and stepped forward. “No, it's all right. It's Mr. Stone. I'll go see what he wants.” Ignoring Clara's knowing look—and the grunt from Homer on the bed—she walked out into the printing office.

Ben grinned when she came into view. “I saw Jimmy out on the street with the latest issue. I know how busy things can get when you're putting it together, so I thought this might be an opportune time for you to take a break. Would you like to have dinner with me at the Bon-Ton?”

Amelia's heart skipped like one of Hyacinth Parmenter's fluffy lambs. Then her thoughts turned to Homer, and she came back to earth with a thud. “I'd like to, but I won't be able to this evening.”

The hopeful smile faded from Ben's face. “Oh. Well, maybe some other time. I'm sorry if I disturbed you.”

“No, really! Something dreadful just happened to Homer. Come on, you can see for yourself.”

She led him back to the storeroom. Homer still sat at the head of the bed, but now a white swath of bandages encircled his forehead. Clara looked up from rolling up the rest of the cloths. Her eyebrows rose when she saw Ben. Homer merely glowered.

Ben took in the sight, then looked back at Amelia. “What happened?”

Amelia picked up the brick and held it out to him. “This fell on him while he was walking down the alley. If he hadn't been wearing his hat, it could have been much worse.”

Ben took the brick and turned it over in his hand with a
thoughtful expression. He looked back at Homer. “That must have been quite a wallop you took.”

His obvious concern took some of the starch out of Homer. “Yeah, it felt like a mule kicked me.” Then he seemed to remember who he was talking to, and his expression stiffened again.

Undeterred, Ben set the brick aside and leaned over the stricken man. “Is your vision blurred? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“What do you think you're doing?” From the distrustful expression on Homer's face, Amelia knew he would have scooted back out of Ben's reach if the wall hadn't been behind him.

Ben persisted. “How many fingers do you see?”

“Three. Does that make you happy?”

Without answering, Ben bent closer and studied Homer's eyes. “Both pupils are the same size. That's a good sign.”

Amelia exchanged a puzzled glance with Clara and turned back to Ben. “Have you had medical training?”

“I was on the boxing team at my college. This isn't the first time I've seen someone get a knock on the head. I've watched the team trainers check for concussion often enough.”

He moved his hand back and forth in front of Homer's face. “I want you to follow my hand, but just move your eyes, not your head.”

Homer fixed him with a baleful glare but did as he was bidden. Ben observed him closely, then leaned back as if satisfied. “I'm pretty sure there's no concussion. It wouldn't hurt to call in Doc Harwood, but I think you're going to be okay. You're going to have one nasty headache for a while, though. If I were you, I'd get some rest, and not do anything strenuous for a day or two.”

He stepped back and looked around him with a bemused expression. “Is this your room?”

“No,” Amelia said. “This is normally our storeroom. We had it set up as a sickroom when my father . . .” Emotion clogged her throat, and her voice trailed off.

Homer scooted toward the edge of the bed. “I have a little cabin out back. I'll go along now and do a little reading before I turn in for the night.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself up. His body swayed the moment his feet touched the ground.

Ben moved swiftly to his side. “Let me help you.”

When Homer tried to shrug him away, Clara planted both hands on her hips. “You had enough trouble getting this far with both Amelia and me dragging you along. You aren't going to make it home on your own, unless you plan to do it on all fours.”

Homer tried once more to hold himself erect, then gave in. Muttering under his breath, he draped one arm across the younger man's shoulder, and the two of them made their way out the alley door.

Clara watched their slow progress and shook her head. “That poor man. Just like my uncle—salt of the earth, except when he'd been tippling. Well, I'd best be getting on my way. Martin will be wondering where I am.”

Amelia followed her to the front door. “Thank you so much for helping. I never would have been able to manage on my own.” She watched her friend walk away down First Street, then closed the door and bolted it.

Returning to the other end of the building, she opened the rear door and peered out into the alley. There was no sign of
Homer . . . or Ben. A pang of disappointment caught her by surprise. It would have been nice to go to dinner with him. Maybe he'd ask her again sometime. She closed the door and locked it, then went to straighten up the printing office.

She carried a stack of blank paper back to the storeroom, then set about sorting the pieces of type back into their cases. She and Homer usually tended to that chore together, but tonight was anything but normal.

Poor Homer! To have a brick topple onto his head and then be scolded for taking a drink. Remorse nipped at her again for adding to his troubles.

But he
had
been drinking. Maybe only a small amount, but wasn't that the way it always started? A knot formed in her throat, and she tried to swallow it back. Her father had always been able to get Homer back on the straight and narrow after one of his lapses. But her father wasn't here anymore. Would Homer listen to her?

She couldn't run the paper on her own. She needed Homer, not only as an employee, but as a friend. One she could depend on.