Luke spat. “It’s got to be someone’s.”
“He’s almost the age we were when we were on our own.” It wasn’t the challenge Luke took it as.
“You forget we almost starved to death till Tia took us in hand?”
He didn’t forget much, least of all the hunger, the pain of knowing his parents were dead and that he had nowhere after the massacre to go except with the other boys of Hell’s Eight. Then there had been Tia. Tia, who’d taken on the role of mother, guide, disciplinarian. She’d saved their souls, shaped their anger, given them a purpose.
“We had each other.”
“He’s got no one.”
Terrance had better than one. He had Pet.
Ace made the call. “He’s got us now.”
Luke nodded. “Amen.”
They cleared around the little hovel, and they could see Terrance in the back splitting wood. The ax was bigger than the boy. Too small, too skinny. Those were the words that jumped into Ace’s head. Hell, even his shirt draping off his thin shoulders made Ace feel guilty.
“He’s going to cut off a foot,” Luke muttered.
There was something in that boy’s swing that told Ace there was more to him than the disappointment that life was handing him. “I don’t think so.”
Just then, Terrance looked up. The only word Ace could think of to describe his expression was terrified.
Luke must have seen it, too. “We’re not going to hurt you, boy.”
Terrance didn’t put the ax down. Ace turned to Luke. “Must be your sour face that he’s reacting to.”
“Ha-ha.” His gaze was locked on the bruise on Terrance’s face. It was hard to look at. Harder to believe a man would do that to his own son.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Terrance said, glancing anxiously at the house.
“Or maybe his father’s,” Luke muttered before calling out, “Miss Wayfield sent us.”
He only looked more terrified. “She didn’t say nothing about you coming here.” The kid looked at the house again. It wasn’t hard to imagine why.
“Is your father home, son?” Ace asked, trying to think how one talked to a kid. Shit. He wasn’t sure he ever had.
Terrance nodded.
Ace wanted to spit. “Is he still drunk or is he awake enough to move?”
From the fact that there weren’t any fresh bruises on the kid, Ace was guessing that his father was probably still sleeping off last night’s bottle.
Shifting the ax in his hand, Terrance gestured to the measly woodpile. “I’ve got to finish my chores.”
“That didn’t answer the man’s question,” Luke said.
“I’ve got my answer.” Ace nodded to the woodpile. “You finish your chores, and we’ll go talk with your pa.”
“If we can wake him up,” Luke muttered, disgust in his voice as he looked around again.
“It would be better if you didn’t.”
Ace dismounted and stood beside the boy. “Better if I didn’t have to come out here at all, but neither one of us is getting what we want in that.”
“Why did you come here?” the boy asked, resentment in his eyes.
“I lost a bet.”
Terrance blinked. “You never lose.”
“I know. It’s not an experience I’m enjoying.”
A shout came from the house. Terrance jumped and dropped the ax.
Ace put his hand on his shoulder. All he felt was bone. The potential of muscle too undernourished to grow pissed him off. Luke was right; they had only been a year or two older than this boy when they were set loose on the world, and they’d been heading for wreck and ruin until they found Tia, who’d stepped out of her own grief to put a rein on theirs. Who’d fed them and cared for them and made them slow down and learn. A widow dealing with her own loss who’d given them a home. They owed it to Tia to help Terrance.
“No matter what happens, you stay out here, you hear me? You don’t go in the house.”
“You won’t hurt my pa?”
Ace couldn’t promise him that. “I just need to talk to him.”
“About what?”
He squeezed the boy’s shoulder, gentling his grip immediately when he felt the fragility. He should be a sturdy kid at this age. He had the build of a boy who was going to be a big man, but he was far too thin.
“He’s got something I want.”
“What?”
“Just stay here and finish your chores.”
“I got to bring water to the house next.”
“Don’t.”
“But...”
Ace looked over to Luke. “Keep him here.”
“Will do.” Luke took off his coat and neatly draped it over his saddle, before smiling at Terrance. “I’ll help you with your chores while we wait.”
Ace headed for the house. From behind he heard Terrance say, “You’d better go with him,” followed by Luke’s “Why?”
“My pa can be mean.”
“Ace can be meaner,” Luke retorted.
Ace smiled and tugged his hat brim down just a bit. That was the truth. As Winter was about to find out.
The inside of the house wasn’t much better than the outside. No, it was worse—the stench of dirt and molding sod fermented with the reek of vomit, drunkenness and stale cigarette butts.
Ace stood just inside the door. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see Winter sprawled on the only bed in the room. To one side of the door was a pallet of blankets on the floor. Christ, he treated the kid like a dog.
“Where the fuck you been, Terrance?” the man called, before moaning, “Where’s my goddamn water?”
Winter fumbled blindly around the bed. Ace stepped forward and picked up the whiskey bottle Winter was searching for, and poured the contents over the man’s head.
“What the fuck!”
Winter came flying out of the bed, arms flailing, shirttails flapping, stumbling as he got to his feet, clearly still drunk.
“Who the hell are you?”
Ace grabbed the bucket from the floor, threw the last of the water in his face. “Sober up. We need to talk.”
Brian dragged his hands down his face, recognition dawning in his eyes. “I don’t have a goddamn thing to talk about with you.”
“You owe me money.”
“I’ll get it.”
Ace made a point of looking around as Winter sat back down on the bed and grabbed the dirty sheets and rubbed them across his face. It didn’t help. The two day’s growth of beard on his face caught the rough fabric leaving threads attached. Christ, he was a mess. How did the man sink this low?
“I told you I’d get you the money.”
“Uh-huh.” Ace took a seat at his table. The chair rocked under his weight. He caught himself before