Chapter Ten

Will winced and he backed up a step. Never had he seen a person look more out of control or infuriated. Turner’s dark eyes sparked with rage, his face contorted with the emotion as his lips pulled back.

Will shook when Turner started his way, “I just decorated a bit,” Will squeaked, circling the table to keep it between them.

It was no use. Turner grabbed the end of the table and with a roar that shook the window he tossed it aside, causing the ham and biscuits and everything else that had been on the table to go flying through the air and scatter across the cabin.

Will was terrified. He had known that Turner could be hateful, sullen and brooding but never had his mind let him believe the man might actually do him harm---until now.

Turner grabbed him by his shirt and jerked him forward. Will gagged at the strong odor of whiskey on the man’s breath as it assaulted his nose,

“You had no right!” Turner bellowed.

Will clamped his eyes tightly closed and turned his face away, “I’m s..sorry,” he stammered.

“I gave you his coat! His boots! His gloves! That wasn’t enough for you?! You had no right!”

Will had no idea who Turner was referring to. His mind raced as he wondered if tonight was the night he was going to die. Turner shoved him hard and Will’s legs tangled up on a chair before he fell backward. The air rushed from his lungs as his back collided roughly with the wood planked floor.

Turner came for him. There was nothing good in the man’s eyes at that moment. He looked murderous and his gaze was locked on Will.

Will scooted backward but it was no use. Turner descended on him. Will found himself dragged up by his shirt. Turner’s big hand closed around his upper arm and Will bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain.

He swung his free hand, intent on punching the jackass for manhandling him. His fist connected with Turner’s jaw but if the man felt it he gave no indication.

Turner dragged Will to the door, “What are you doing?” Will demanded, attempting to dig his boots into the floor. Turner simply jerked him harder, his calloused fingers digging into Will’s upper arm.

“You’re leaving!” Turner growled viciously.

“Leaving?” Will demanded. “It’s freezing cold outside, it’s dark and there’s three feet of snow! You can’t throw me out there!”

“I can do whatever I damn well please! This is my cabin! Mine!” Turner flung open the door.

Will closed his eyes and winced when the frigid wind blew against his back. Beaux growled and dashed forward. He grabbed Turner’s pants leg in his teeth and tugged. Turner shook the dog off and kicked him hard.

Beaux yelped in pain as he slinked back and Turner glared down at Will, “You’re not him!”

Before Will could ask who he was, Turner tossed him out the door and slammed it closed in his face. Will beat at the door, begging to be let back in, apologizing for whatever it was he had done wrong but it was to no avail.

Will shivered and wrapped his arms as tightly around himself as he could. The weather was intense and biting cold as the wind pounded against his thin clothes mercilessly.

Will looked out at the snow covered night with desperation. Turner wasn’t going to let him in.

The back door!

Will ran around the house, staying on the path that Turner had shoveled but when he tried to open the back door, his heart sank as he realized it too was locked.

“Please, Turner! Let me in!” Will cried, his feet, hands and face beginning to burn from the cold. “I’m going to die out here!”

Silence met his request and the situation came down hard on Will’s shoulders. Turner wasn’t going to let him in. He didn’t care that Will was going to freeze to death; he didn’t care at all.

That bastard could go to hell.

Will wasn’t going to let himself die out here in the snow! He hadn’t escaped from that brothel and Thompson Caudill just to catch his death out here now.

Will had to gather his thoughts. He had to shake off the shock of Turner’s rage and his situation and figure out a way to survive the night. Will racked his mind to think of a place to wait out the night. The barn. He would go to the barn.

The icy air stole Will’s breath. He walked around the cabin and grabbed the lantern from the hook by the door. Holding it high, he made his way through the night toward the barn. At least with the lantern he would have some warmth.

Will’s legs grew numb and he could no longer feel his feet at all. He became dizzy and he stumbled, falling sideways into the three foot high snow beside the path.

The lantern sank down into the drift, its light, and the warmth it could have provided, extinguished. Will cried out with shock as the snow quickly soaked his clothes and what little bit of warmth he’d had left was quickly leeched from his body.

Will struggled to his feet and stumbled through the darkness. He made it to the barn and went into the stall of a mare. His strength was gone. Between getting the tree today and the shock and cold he was no experiencing, Will was done.

Shivering uncontrollably, Will curled up in the hay and straw, burrowing himself down into it and praying that somehow--someway--he would live to see morning.

***

Turner was too focused on the inside of the cabin to pay any mind to Will’s pleas for help from outside or the banging on the door. Quickly Turner raced across the room and took the nativity scene from the mantle and the quilt from the sofa. He held both things tight to his chest and swallowed hard against the emotions that rose in his throat.

Turner opened the hope chest and was about to drop the things inside when he saw the book and the glasses lying there.

Peter’s book. Peter’s glasses.

Picking the ragged book up in his free hand, Turner dropped to his knees. Peter had read this book over and over once he could no longer get out of bed easily. His lungs had been so far deteriorated that he couldn’t breathe if he walked around and so he had laid in their bed with those silly reading glasses upon his nose and simply read from the book.

When he could no longer easily hold the book, Turner had read it to him. He’d read those poems, Tell Tale Heart, The Raven and more easily two hundred times.

Peter would lie there wrapped in his favorite blue, yellow and white checked quilt and he would simply watch Turner read with his blue eyes full of so much love…. Peter had known who Turner was, known his past, the things he’d done, and had loved him so deeply anyhow.

Turner flared his nostrils and fought back the tears that were fighting so hard to be set free. He was not a man who cried. He hadn’t allowed himself tears while Pete had spent nearly a year wasting away and dying right in front of him. He hadn’t allowed tears as he’d held the mans hand while he took his final breaths. He hadn’t made time for tears in the three years that he’d spent up on this mountain alone…. He didn’t want to let them go now because he feared he would never get them to stop.

His nose smelled something hot and he glanced up to realize the rug in the kitchen was on fire. Quickly he yanked off his coat and jumped forward, smothering the flames. Glancing around for the cause, Turner saw the lamp, the lamp that he had had custom made just for Peter because Peter had loved things that were unique, different and out of the ordinary.

It was shattered. Broken. Destroyed. It would never again cast that blue glow around a room because Turner had ruined it in his temper. The Santa Clause figurine that had been with the nativity scene on Peter’s bedside table their final Christmas together was also broken.

Turner picked up the broken halves in his hands and tried to breathe in a breath but got choked up as he heaved. Shaking his head, Turner desperately tried to breathe again and he squeezed his eyes shut tight against the pain.

But the pain proved more than even a hardened ex-outlaw turned rancher turned mountain-top recluse could stand.

He broke down.

The sobs shook his entire body and the heaves stole his breath. Turner’s lungs burned and ached as hot tears spilled down his face.

Beaux trotted over, seeming reluctant and scared. Turner recalled kicked the poor beast and his body-wracking choking sobs grew in strength and intensity and he clung to the dog’s neck.

“I’m sorry, Beaux. I’m so sorry…” he gasped.

Beaux had been by his side for three years since Peter had died. The hound had been Peter’s dog. Turner had bought the pup for him six years ago and Beaux had loved that man nearly as much as Turner had. When Peter had died Beaux had stopped eating and nearly died as well--just the way Turner had.

But together they’d made it and moved up here on this mountain.

Turner had no idea how long he sobbed as if he were a baby into Beaux’s black fur. Somehow they ended up curled on the floor together wrapped in Peter’s favorite quilt.

Exhaustion settled over Turner. Between the whiskey, the fit of rage and the tears that had been a long time coming, Turner simply had nothing left in him and while he had no knowledge of doing so, he eventually cried himself to sleep.

A/N: Hello y'all! Wow.. this chapter was emotionally draining to write! I hope you all enjoyed it and that further look into Turner's past. He's had a rough one. Will had a happy life, a happy childhood, a happy carefree adulthood, up until the brothel, as was evidenced when he was talking about Christmas's. Hopefully you're getting a good idea of who these men are and I'm fleshing them out well! I always worry about not developing characters enough and yet I don't want to tell you everything about them all at once. I want it to be a slow build up.

Anyway thanks for reading!