Chapter 2

Sadie crept away from her makeshift bed early in the morning, determined to bathe in the creek before going to work. Her hair

would be wet, but at least it would be free of its oily sheen. She needed to hurry so she would have time to wash her extra

clothes and lay them out to dry. Staying clean while living in filth had proved difficult, but she was resolute. Alta's words

stung more than she wanted to acknowledge, and from now on she would go to whatever lengths necessary to maintain at least

a moderate level of cleanliness. Not for Alta, of course, but because her own pride demanded it.

The sun was not yet up, and fading stars still twinkled in the sky as she pulled herself through the broken window, soap and

soiled clothes in hand. The abandoned factory sat near the road. Behind it was a magnificent house, taller and finer than

any other in Monticello, and past that was a creek.

With a gentle step she began her procession toward the creek, mindful of twigs that might snap from her weight. Hanging laundry

and chimney smoke had told her someone lived in the magnificent house, but from her careful watching she knew the schedule

they kept. No one would be up now. She was safe to bathe and wash her clothes so long as she didn't dally.

The soft babbling of the water met her ears, alerting her that she'd made it past the house. Its pleasant sound was a welcome change from the scratching feet she heard at night. The rustle of the leaves in the wind, the water, and the dew-laden grasses elicited a sigh. She savored the calm of it all.

One more glance in every direction assured her that she was alone. Covered by darkness, she undressed down to her undergarments

and slid into the knee-high, frigid water of the creek. Bending lower, she splashed water on her arms and onto her shoulders.

The duster factory—with its feathers and dander floating in the air, mixed with sawdust from the lathe that spun the hubs

and handles—was not an easy place to keep clean in. Her brow often grew sweaty in the hot room and every particle that floated

in the air raced for her damp flesh, sticking to her with vengeance.

She worked the soap against her skin, scrubbing until at last her arms were clean and the freckles that sprinkled her skin

were visible once again. She was about to begin her face and hair when she heard steps coming closer. An animal? Though she

looked up and saw nothing, she sank deeper into the water, holding herself still despite the cold.

Everything went quiet except her breath, which seemed to come louder with each passing second.

After a few more moments passed, she lifted one foot through the water, then the other. Like a silent catfish she moved closer

to the shore, praying that whatever caused the noise was gone. If being caught squatting was bad, being caught bathing in

the creek in thin, wet underthings was surely worse.

A rustle in the brush near the bank caused her to flinch. Fleeing to the far side of the water was tempting, but her clothes were waiting for her on the factory side. Her numb and tingling legs begged her to decide quickly. Flee, hide, or fight. She had to do something.

She could curse herself for caring so much about her appearance. Never again would vanity get the better of her. Let Alta

mock her—let them all mock her.

When she heard another noise, she chose to act. She crept closer, ready to glance over the bank, hoping to see a deer, racoon,

or opossum. The beady night eyes of any animal were sure to make her skin crawl, but she would face them. If necessary, she'd

fight off the creature. With no weapon, she prepared herself to appear large and intimidating. One more deep breath, one more

silent prayer, and then she poked her head up just high enough to see beyond the bank.

Coming face-to-face with the wet nose of a panting dog, she relaxed—only to tense again when she saw it pick up one of her

shoes.

"Give me my shoe," she said in a firm whisper. "Come on."

Obediently, it dropped her shoe. She smiled, proud of her commanding voice. But her moment of smugness was instantly dashed

when the dog arched its back, lifted its head toward the sky, and howled.

There was no time to think. She flew from the water, wet and still dirty except for her clean arms. In one swift motion she

grabbed her sparse, filthy belongings and raced past the ornate home, bound for the old factory. Giving no thought to modesty,

she flew across the yard as she made her escape. She didn't look left or right—she kept her eyes on the broken window, running

for it like a mouse fleeing a cat, only it was a dog at her heels.

Only once she was inside did she stop to catch her breath. The dog continued to howl, bellowing over and over, a hunter announcing

to the world that it had treed an old ringtail.

She wasn't about to be caught dripping wet, shaking from cold and fear. Quick as she could, she pulled her dry skirt and shirtwaist over her wet underthings, brushed and braided her still-grimy hair, and then peered out the window, ready to make her second escape, this time to the Hoag factory.

The dog let a final howl ring through the air before quieting. It paced back and forth in front of her window entrance. She

looked over her shoulder, trying to think of a way to get past it. Every couple of days, she bought a loaf of bread and rationed

it as long as she could. Her loaf was down to a dry crust. She wrapped it in a handkerchief and peered out the window. Her

stomach rumbled as she looked again at her crust, but she could forgo a meal if it meant escape.

Where had this dog come from? She could now see that the dog wore a collar, which—drat—made it far less likely the animal

was a stray. Someone owned it and took it for walks. Perhaps it was lost and its owner was searching all of Monticello for

it. That would be the best scenario. Once it was found, she could go back to her quiet existence, sneaking in and out unnoticed.

The possibly lost dog continued its nearby marching, and she could wait no longer for it to go away. She had to meet Peter

and then get to work. Losing her job would make this entire endeavor for naught, which was an outcome she could not accept.

"Hello there," she said in a soft voice as she crept out the window. She'd been raised with animals. Surely this dog only

wanted attention. "What's your name?"

It cocked its head to the right and then to the left, its dark ears flopping over with each tilt. Its coat was mottled and

spotted, appeared almost blue, and its expression was friendly. Sadie stepped closer, held her hand out, and continued speaking

softly. "Don't bark. I'm leaving. You can have the run of the place."

For one moment she believed her crisis averted. Then it leaned back on its haunches and tilted its head to the sky. Obstinate, stubborn animal!

"Here!" She meant to throw the bread only, but her handkerchief went with it. No time to fret that loss, she ran for the Hoag

factory while the dog went for its prize.

***

Otis's heart pounded against his chest in the most uncomfortable way as he surveyed the parlor of his childhood home. He'd

tried sleeping when he arrived but had found rest unattainable. When Wolf cried, begging to go out before the sun had even

risen, he obliged. Wolf, crazy old coon dog, ran for the creek as soon as the door was open. Otis shrugged. Wolf might be

excited about Monticello, but that didn't mean he had to be.

So he stood in the parlor, waiting for his dog to come back, all the while fighting the memories he saw when he looked around

the room. Years of trying to forget proved ineffective as the flood of remembrances crashed against him with storm-like force.

With gritted teeth he crossed the carpeted floor to the corner seat where his mother had preferred to sit in the dim evenings.

He let his hand run across the tall wingback chair and tried to remember her face, but a mere outline was all he could invoke.

His father had often sat on the other side of the room. When Otis's gaze went there, he instantly saw the man he'd once looked

up to, the man who let him down, hurting both his body and soul. His father had been narrow-shouldered and wiry, a driven

man always reaching higher, never satisfied. Otis shook his head, trying to get the image to fade, but it lingered like a

foul odor.

Wolf bawled like he always did when he caught the scent of a coon or even a squirrel. Fool dog wasn't overly particular about what he chased.

Otis went to the window, pulled back the drapes, and peered out, spying a flash of white. A person?

When he lost sight of the figure, he went to the door and opened it, trying for a better look. But whatever he thought he'd

seen was gone. He shook his head. Being back at the Taylor mansion was already affecting his mind. Returning was foolhardy—he

never should have agreed to come. Someone else should have managed the sale and he should have stayed hidden away.

Why had he come back? He'd asked himself many times. And every time he rationalized, convincing himself that his return would

make the sale of the property easier. But in the pit of his stomach, he knew there was more to it than that. For years he'd

waited to be beckoned home, and it had never happened. If he was being honest, he would admit that he'd returned so he could

step into the house of his childhood and attempt to settle the tumult of the past. If he faced it, would he find peace?

Foolish. Here he was staring at his father's chair, feeling no liberation. Only the tightening of chains.

"Otis?" Leon Dawson's voice echoed through the hall. The man and his wife, Mildred, had faithfully worked for the Taylor family

since Otis was a lad. It was Leon who had sent word calling Otis back to Monticello after his brother's death. Six letters

later, he'd finally agreed to return.

"I'm in here." He tugged at his vest, as though clothing free of wrinkles would somehow make him less of an oddity. There

was no hiding the uneasy feeling that had overtaken him since the carriage rolled into Monticello. "I didn't mean to wake

you. Wolf wanted out."

"Mildred heard you. She shoved me and told me to come and see if you were in need of anything."

"No... N-nothing." Otis stumbled over his words. He'd lived isolated so long and conversed so rarely that his tongue caught

in his mouth. "I thought... I thought I saw Wolf chasing after... something."

"We've coons out there."

At the risk of sounding out of his head, he said, "I thought it was a person. A woman, perhaps, but not in a dress." Heat

raced to his face. "She was clothed, but—"

The dog bawled again. Otis sprang to the door, throwing it open. He saw nothing but Wolf.

"Come here, boy." Otis whistled several times until at last Wolf came running, carrying something in his mouth. "What have

you got there?"

Wolf dropped his treasure for Otis to scoop up. "A handkerchief. It's got stitching on it."

Leon stepped closer. "I don't know where he found that. Must be something that was lying around awhile."

"It's got breadcrumbs in it, and"—he brought it closer to his nose—"it smells like birds."

"Birds?"

"Yes, how peculiar." Otis pointed to the hearth where the dog's favorite blanket lay. "Go on. You've been up long enough,

as have I."

Wolf looked back toward the door before lying down.

"Is the old dog run still in working order? If he's going to find things to steal, I might not be able to let him roam."

"It's not had dogs in it since your brother died." Leon rubbed his wrinkled forehead. "I haven't inspected it for some time.

I believe the winter storms did damage, but we could work on making repairs."

"I should have come sooner. Then all this would have been sold and done with long before any storms." Or maybe he should not have come at all, but he kept that thought to himself. Leon couldn't understand, at least not fully, the many memories that haunted him.

"I did write you as soon as your brother died." Leon sat, looking nearly as comfortable in the house as Wolf.

"I wasn't sure..." Otis's mouth went dry, so he let his words trail off. He'd not come with the first letter because he

hadn't wanted to accept his brother's death. And he'd not come after the other letters because this was not how he wanted

his homecoming to go.

"You're here now and we can talk about the sell. Or I can wait until you are settled in more—"

"Settle in? I've come to sell the place and be off. I'll linger a month, maybe two, while it's settled, then I'll go." Otis

looked around the dark room that had once been home. There was no warmth, no swelling in his chest, no feelings of homecoming.

He wasn't going to spend his life hiding in Monticello, tormented by the past.

"Very well. We still need to discuss the financial situation your brother left you with and decide how you want to go about

the sell."

"Go about it? I want to find a buyer and exchange all this for money. How difficult can that be?"

"Do you want to try to sell all of it together or separately? Do you wish to keep any of it? Do you want to sell the furniture,

your brother's rifles, your mother's dishes—"

"Dishes..." His mother had special ordered them. They'd arrived packed in crates with straw tucked carefully around each dish. Flowers, small and hand-painted, along each edge. Material things meant little to him, so why did he suddenly have the urge to find the long-forgotten dishes? "I don't know what I'd do with them." He looked away, alarmed by the lump that so quickly formed in his throat. "As for the businesses, my father never included me in his financial affairs. I'll take most any reasonable offer." The room was full of portraits, chairs, trinkets. "What am I to do with it all? Pack it into the woods?"

"The woods?"

"Or wherever I go next."

He'd inherited the house, the businesses, and every worldly possession his family had left behind, and he felt no inkling

of interest in making them his own. The thought of his mother stirred a fondness, yes, but the rest could all go. It could

burn to nothing more than hot coal and he would not care. "If you called me back to try to convince me to keep it all running,

yours is a fool's errand. Monticello will never be home. I won't stay here. I don't know why I even came."

"It doesn't have to be home. I know... I am sure it is difficult." Leon's face filled with a sadness so intense that Otis

had to look away. "I suggest we put off the sell."

"Put it off? Don't play games with me. I told you—this is not my home. I don't want it."

"I did not mean to suggest putting it off forever, only until we have thoroughly gone through the estate's books and talked

to the bank. You may not want these properties, but there is money in them, and you don't want to sell them off cheaply and

then discover your brother left you with a gambling debt you overlooked. We've had several letters from debtors saying that

Reginald owed them. Thus far we've been able to stave them off by telling them that Reginald's finances are still being settled."

"Hardly seems fair that the cast-off son has to come home and settle the dealings of his reckless brother," Otis mumbled,

crossing his arms.

"Life is rarely fair." Leon smiled sadly. "I'm not sure what the word even means."

Otis had no comment. He'd wrestled with the notion for years, never satisfied with the answers he found. In this moment, sleep-deprived

and assaulted by the memories he'd fought so hard to tuck away, he felt utterly incapable of grappling with questions that

would never have answers.

"It's good to have you back, even if it's only a temporary arrangement," Leon said, changing the subject. "Though I do wish

it were under different circumstances."

"Yes, well..." Otis looked around, his gaze landing on his dog. "Wolf seems to like it. We'll work together to settle matters,

then I'll be off."

The bluetick coonhound who rarely held still lay contently by the fireplace, his head across his paws. Otis envied him. With

no memories of this place, Wolf was free to see the grandeur of the mansion, hear the singing of the creek, and stretch his

legs on the grounds. Otis let out a shaky laugh. What an odd recluse he had become, believing his dog's life more appealing

than his own.

"It wasn't right of your brother to take over your father's businesses without consulting you."

Otis nodded. He'd not wanted the bicycle business or his father's investments, but when he'd received no word from his brother

after his father's passing, the sting of rejection pierced him again. Where once they'd dreamed of lives interwoven, in the

end, they had shared little.

"But your brother... he lost his way. I wish the two of you... Well, it's done now. No use dwelling on what can never be. The town never knew of your brother's shortcomings, and they don't know about your condition. They hold the Taylor family in high regard, believing the facade they've been presented with."

"Why have you been so loyal through it all? You knew the Taylor family's secrets. You could have left."

Leon paused before speaking. His features softened. "Your mother loved both her boys. Your father... he did care. But—"

"He loved his business and reputation and money." Otis didn't want to be patronized. He could still remember the look on his

father's face when he'd sent him away.

"Perhaps he did, but he still worried over you."

"He had an odd way of showing me his concern. An occasional letter tucked between tonics. And all his cures... you know

what they did to me."

Leon ran his hand over the arm of the chair, and once again Otis was taken back. It was in this room that his father had told

Otis that he'd be sent away. The events of so long ago should not cause such a visceral reaction, yet they did. He rubbed

at his forehead, trying to keep his strong feelings at bay, but holding back a stampede would have been easier.

"Your mother asked Mildred and I to look out for you and your brother. We had no power to bring you home as long as your father

was alive, and your brother... I believe he wanted you home but didn't know how to ask you back. He may have hoped to reform

himself first, but"—his voice grew quieter—"you know how that ended."

Otis shifted his weight from his right foot to his left and back again. This conversation—all conversation—felt awkward. He could blame his father for his reclusive nature, which had been practically forced on him when he was sent to live in the woods of Massachusetts with only an aged pianist for company and guidance. It was his turn to talk; he knew that, but no words would form on his tongue.

"It's all yours to do with as you like," Leon said. "I asked you back so you could be here and choose for yourself how it

was handled. But there is more..."

With an audible huff, Otis sank into the chair his father had once occupied and readied himself to hear whatever it was Leon

was trying so hard not to say. Instinctively, he ran a hand over his wide-brimmed hat, a habit he'd acquired a decade ago.

"Tell me. I don't have all day," Otis said, then let out a cynical laugh at his own words. How ridiculous. He had no other

demands on his time, nowhere to be, nowhere to go, and certainly no one to see. There was no reason he couldn't listen to

Leon for hours on end, other than the fact that he did not want to. "Tell me what other mischief my brother has left in his

wake. Pandora's box is open. I may as well face it all."

"Your mother loved Greek mythology. I remember her reading to you in this very room. Pandora, Zeus, Hades..."

Otis stopped short at the wave of warmth that rushed over him. He had been happy when he'd been by her side. As quickly as

the feeling came, it left again, and in its place came a cold emptiness and the reminder that he'd not been truly happy in

a long time. "Well," he said, fighting to keep his voice level. "If there's something that needs saying, say it."

"Very well. I believe your brother left behind a... a mistress."