Page 63 of Protecting What Is Mine

27

Mollie

With the sun setting in the distance, the meager amount of light slipping through the trees retreats, leaving us in darkness as Roger fumbles with his keys outside the cabin door. The clinks and jangles from each failed attempt with the lock echo in the distance until he triumphantly pushes the door open and reveals an interior even darker than the woods surrounding us. “Come on in, Dollie. Might as well get comfortable.”

Roger steps through the doorway and disappears. A few seconds later, the bright flash of light from a match being struck illuminates his face as he stoops over a table to light an oil lamp. The yellow flame grows and brightens as he adjusts the wick, casting light and shadows across the modest space and revealing just how filthy and dilapidated it is.

“Is this where you live?”

“What, you don’t care for my summer cottage?” Roger scowls. “What’s not to your liking? Just say the word and I’ll instruct the groundskeeper to see that it’s addressed.” He snaps his fingers. “Just that quick, Dollie. How’d that be? Now, in the meantime, get your ass inside and lock the door.”

Reluctantly, I do as I’m told. I mean, what choice do I have at this point? But I don’t step any farther inside than is necessary for the door to close behind me. With my eyes adjusted to the light, I survey my prison and see that it’s barely more than a single room. It probably was, at least originally, but somewhere along the line a small kitchen was added on. There’s another door off the kitchen leading out back and a few windows scattered along the walls, all of which are covered with heavy black plastic. Presumably to keep any signs of light (or life) from leaking out. As for furnishings, there’s an old couch, a rocking chair, and a cot tucked away in the corner. Add in the small table and chairs next to the wood cookstove in the kitchen and, in this limited light anyway, that appears to be everything.

Roger digs through the cupboard and pulls out a can of soup. Nothing fancy, just a can of condensed chicken noodle. Next, he rummages through the drawers for a can opener and a spoon, and then sits at the table to eat.

No bowl, no heating, just an old man eating his cold soup straight out of the can.

It’s only after he’s finished scraping the last drops from the bottom that he notices me still standing by the door, attempting to cover myself as best I can with my torn shirt.

Roger looks me over, slowly. “Might as well leave it. You’re not hiding much anyway. You hungry?”

Hungry? Are you kidding me? Anxious? Check. Terrified? You betcha. But hungry? That’s so far down on my list, I can’t even remember the feeling.

I shake my head.

“Then by all means, come in. Sit. We can play some cards if you like.”

“Uncle Roger, please tell me why you brought me here. I know you’re upset about what happened to Clint, and I’m sorry about that too, I truly am. He and I were close once. Like you said…when we were kids.”

I feel tears welling up behind my eyes but this time I don’t fight them. I don’t know what he’s planning, but whatever his intention, he didn’t bring me to the middle of nowhere for any good reason. The more I can do to remind him we’re family, and that I’m not against him, the better.

“Do you really not have a clue?” Roger looks me over again and shakes his head. “Up till now, I was half-convinced the whole thing was a charade. A little act you were putting on for our benefit…to try to make us believe you were innocent. But now I’m not so sure.”

Still uncertain what Roger's after, I decide my best move is to keep playing dumb. For now at least. Reluctantly, I join him at the table. “Don’t have a clue about what? What did you think I was acting about? Please, I just want to go home. Maybe this was all some big misunderstanding?”

Roger glares at me for at least a minute. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink, only glares. “The brother,” he says at last.

“Brother?” If this is one of those situations where I have to solve a riddle to earn my freedom, then I’m doomed. “What brother?”

Roger leans forward, revealing the deep lines of his face in the lamp light. “The Wilde. The one who got shot.”

I blink in surprise. “You mean Chet?”

Roger sits back, carefully gauging my reaction. “If he’s the one who caught my bullet, then I suppose I do.”

His bullet? I thought Clint…Oh my God!

“That was you? But why? What were you doing on their land in the first place?”

“It’s like I said before, everything’s an opportunity, if you know how to take it. Those Wildes…so high and mighty. They’ve got more land—and more cattle—than they know what to do with. So what if they lose a few head? Hell, I doubt they noticed, even with your dumbass cousin failing to keep an eye out and letting everything go to shit.” Roger breaks eye contact and stares off, mumbling to himself. “Gave him one goddamn job. Just one. Open pastures as far as the eye can see, and he can’t spot a man riding up on a damned horse? Now look what’s happened to us.”

He slides his chair back and wanders over to rummage through the cabinets again. When he returns, there’s a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other. He stands directly behind me and leans over my shoulder to set one of the glasses down in front of me. “Drink?”

I twist in my chair, creating a space between his body and mine, as I turn to look at him. “Um, sure, but I really need to use the bathroom first.”

His eyes are locked on me as he returns to his seat. First my eyes, then down to my chest. The way he stares makes me so uncomfortable, like he’s planning, or debating something with himself. As he sits, he casually lifts his shirt and reaches into his pants.

In a flash, every terrible and despicable thought imaginable runs through my mind. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Oh my God, please don’t let this happen.

I close my eyes and turn away, pulling my arms tight to my chest as I brace for what comes next. A few seconds pass, and then…the sound of something thudding onto the table causes me to open my eyes.

Laying in front of him, with his hand still resting on top of it, is the pistol he showed me in the parking lot outside the diner. Roger looks at it as he says, “Out the back. Remember?”

I can’t look away from the gun on the table. “Out the back?”

Roger grips the gun and turns it, causing it to spin on the table like a bottle. “If you gotta go…it’s out the back. But Dollie, don’t take too long, huh?”

Still focused on the piece revolving on the table, I nod.

“There’s a flashlight next to the door. And you probably want to make some noise before you climb in. You know, to scare away any critters.”

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