Two Days Ago…
Vera had paced the bedroom all morning, and William studied her movements with a craftsman’s eye for pattern and repetition. Window to door to fireplace back to window again. Each circuit like clockwork. Her shoulders stayed straight while her hands worried at her long sleeves. The complete set of motions he saw in her face spoke of anxiety barely held under control.
Dominic’s silence troubled them both in ways his threats never could. Almost two weeks had passed since the phone call with Vera ended with ultimatums and deadlines, yet nothing had followed; no contact, no escalation, no attempts at enforcement. William had seen enough volatile men during construction projects to know that quiet of this sort often preceded the worst strikes. When a man like Dominic stopped making noise, it usually meant he was planning something that required his full attention.
He wished he could offer more than just his presence in the two rooms they could exist together, but the complexities of Vera’s age were as foreign as the strange devices she and her friends carried in their pockets. The basics made sense: Dominic sought to destroy her through official channels and violence, while she planned to counter with documentation and newspaper exposure with this appointment with this reporter — Townsend. But the specifics that might make a difference remained beyond his grasp. Laws had evolved since his time. Nuances of a society he’d never known now governed battles he couldn’t understand.
Time crawled when you waited for your opponent’s next move. Days stretched ahead until whatever strategy his futuristic friends were developing could take effect. Mere weeks remained until Dominic’s anniversary deadline arrived. Each hour was both endless and fleeting, as if uncertainty had changed time itself.
He tested his recovery as he had each morning since the attack. The oddly sealed wound pulled at his side, but it was solid. His ribs protested when he breathed too deeply, and his muscles had softened during the forced rest. Standing upright no longer made him dizzy, and he could stay alert for hours, but the real work remained. Swinging hammers. Carrying lumber. Standing between Vera and whatever Dominic had in store for her.
His body had survived and mended enough to prove that November fourteenth would not claim him as history apparently required, yet here he sat useless while Vera gradually dissolved in a constant state of anxiety. She needed finished spaces where they could exist together without the barriers that currently marked this Doubling.
He rose carefully from his chair and tested his balance. Movement had always served him better than stillness. Purpose proved preferable to keeping watch, which accomplished nothing.
He had options. He could stay in this room and watch the shadows advance across the floor while purposeful work went unaccomplished below. Spend these hours measuring time until either his strength returned or Dominic’s patience finally came to blows. Or test his limits against more demanding tasks and do some good.
He needed to talk to John.
Rhythmic scraping mixed with the muttered curses and commentary brought him toward the kitchen. He found John kneeling beside a bucket of plaster, furiously stirring the mixture.
“About time you showed your face down here,” John said without looking up from his work. “Was startin’ to think that knife turned you into a permanent invalid.”
“I’m well enough.” William settled carefully onto a wooden crate. “Ready to lend a hand.”
John chuckled. “Ready to lend a hand, are you? Last time I let you ‘help,’ you lasted twenty minutes before your face went white as paint. Ellie’d have my hide if I let you collapse again.”
“I’m stronger now.”
“Strong enough to keep from bleedin’ all over my plaster?” John’s eyes remained fixed on his work. “Because I got enough problems without explainin’ bloodstains to whoever owns this place when they come callin’.”
William studied the surrounding walls. Patches of completed brown coat created an uneven checkerboard pattern across the room’s surface. Progress had been made slowly, at the pace of a man working alone when the job needed more hands.
“Speaking of problems,” William said, “that police fellow of Vera’s seems to have a talent for disappearing when work needs doing.”
John’s trowel paused mid-stroke. “You noticed that too, did you?” The scraping resumed with vigor. “Boy shows up askin’ questions, pokin’ around, makin’ himself important. Then vanishes when you need an extra pair of hands. Makes a man wonder about his character.”
“He has other duties.”
“Perhaps.” Skepticism dripped from John’s voice. “Though it’s curious how those duties always seem to call him away when there’s honest work to be done. Same with those women friends of yours. Appear one instant, gone the next, like smoke on a windy day.”
William felt the familiar unease of navigating conversations that skirted too close to truths he could not explain. John’s suspicions were entirely reasonable from their perspective.
“They have their own concerns,” William offered carefully.
“I’m sure they do.” John sat up and fixed him with a direct stare. “Question is, what exactly are those concerns, and why do they involve a man campin’ out in someone else’s house while strange folks come and go like they’re runnin’ messages for the Underground Railroad?”
“Vera needed help. I could give it.”
“Help.” John wiped his hands on a rag and stood slowly. “That’s what we’re callin’ it now?” A gesture toward the half-finished walls surrounding them. “Because from where I sit, this looks more serious than simple ‘help.’”
“My motivations are honorable.”
“Never said they weren’t. Just said they were more complicated than you’re lettin’ on.” John picked up his bucket and examined the consistency of the remaining plaster. His face darkened as he stirred the mixture. “Speakin’ of complications…we got a bigger problem than your romantic entanglements.”
“What sort of problem?”
“The sort that leaves walls half-finished and windows open to the winter wind, which is getting worse, if you haven’t noticed.” He set the bucket down hard. “I’m out of supplies, Will. Lime, sand, proper horsehair for bindin’. This batch is the last of what I scrounged together from three different sources.”
“When can you get more?”
“That’s the rub,” he said, scratching his forehead, which left a streak of plaster dust across his skin. “Can’t just waltz into O’Malley’s and order materials for work that don’t exist. Questions get asked when a man buys enough supplies to finish a house but can’t name who’s payin’ for the work.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks. Maybe three. Got to travel to Worcester, maybe Springfield. Find suppliers who don’t know me, don’t ask too many questions about why a man needs materials delivered to the middle of nowhere.”
William felt the walls of the room close in around him. Two weeks of watching Vera pace and worry while he sat useless. Two weeks of her jumping at every sound while he recovered his strength for nothing. Two weeks for Dom to make do on his promises. How can he protect her?
“There must be another way.”
“If there is, I can’t see it. This work ain’t legitimate. It requires careful handlin’, Will. One suspicious shopkeeper, one loose tongue in the wrong tavern, and we’ll have the sheriff askin’ questions neither of us wants to answer.”
William stood abruptly. Sharp pain shot through his side, but he ignored it. “Two weeks is too long.”
“Too long for what? This urgency of yours don’t make sense. You keep pushin’ this work, actin’ as though the walls can’t wait another day. Why?”
“The woman needs…proper shelter.”
“The woman has shelter. Roof don’t leak, foundation’s solid. These walls are finishin’ work, not survival.” John crossed his arms and studied William’s face. “You’re holdin’ somethin’ back.”
William turned toward the window to avoid John’s stare. “I told you. Vera needed help.”
“And I told you that’s horseshit.” Sharpness crept into the older man’s voice. “You want me to risk my neck travelin’ three counties to buy materials for work that could land us both in jail? You want me to use my connections, spend my money, put my reputation on the line? Then you tell me the truth about why this matters so much.”
“John — ”
“No! I won’t do it unless you tell me what’s really goin’ on.”
William’s hands formed fists at his sides. John’s eyes bore into him, stubborn as bedrock. The old man could wait all day for an answer, and they both knew it.
“Because I love her, you damn fool.”
The words erupted from him like water breaking through a dam. John’s hands stilled on his trowel.
They stared at each other across the half-finished room. John’s hands worked slowly, using a small knife to clean plaster from beneath his fingernails. Silence stretched until William felt compelled to fill it.
“There. You have your answer.”
John set down the knife and fixed William with a clear stare. “Love.” He rolled the word around in his mouth as if testing its flavor. “That’s a powerful word, Will. Especially comin’ from a man who hasn’t spoken it in eleven years.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means I knew Elizabeth. Watched you two together from the day you started courtin’ her until the day they shipped you out to France.” His voice gentled but lost none of its intensity. “Love takes time to grow. What you’re sayin’ sounds more like a man drownin’ who’s grabbed onto the first piece of flotsam to float by.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? You’ve been here what, a month? And in that time you’ve gone from a man with nothin’ to live for to someone willin’ to risk jail for a woman you barely know. That ain’t love, son. That’s desperation wearin’ love’s clothes.”
“She saved my life.”
“And now you think you owe her yours? Gratitude ain’t the same as love, boy. Neither is the need to feel useful after years of feelin’ useless.”
The words stung because they could be true. “You think I’m using her?”
“I think you’re a good man who’s been in pain for a very long time. I think when good men hurt, they sometimes confuse healin’ with helpin’! Tell me about her. Not about what she needs or how she helped you. Tell me who she is.”
William opened his mouth, then paused. What did he really know about Vera beyond her circumstances, let alone what he could share? Her boldness in leaving a dangerous marriage. Her gentleness when she tended his wounds. The way her eyes lit up when she laughed. The fierce determination to protect her friends despite the personal cost.
“She’s stronger than she knows,” he said finally. “Brave. Kind. She sees people clearly, without judgment.”
“Good qualities, for sure. That’s all. What else?”
“She loves those cats that keep coming out of the woods. Talks to them like they understand every word.” A small smile tugged at his mouth, making his beard twitch. “She wears these strange garments with other men’s names on them, says it reminds her of her father.”
John’s eyebrows rose. “I have seen tell of them. Men’s clothin’?”
“Not men’s clothing. Sporting clothes. The point is, she does what brings her comfort, not what others expect of her.”
“What does she want from life? Her dreams, her hopes?”
William realized, uncomfortably, that he didn’t know. Their conversations had focused on her immediate troubles, his recovery, and the strange situation that brought them together. He knew nothing about her aspirations.
“I see.” John’s face creased somewhere between sympathy and disappointment. “You love the idea of her, Will. The woman who saved you, who needs protectin’, who makes you feel alive again — but you don’t really know her.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then answer the question. What does Vera want from life once her troubles are behind her?”
The silence became its own answer. William felt ice settle in his chest, not unlike the sensation when Jenkins’ knife had found its mark.
“Love grows from understandin’,” John continued quietly. “From seein’ someone complete, not just the parts that need fixin’ or the parts that fix you. Elizabeth loved you because she knew all of you; the good builder and the damned stubborn fool I see daily, and the gentle man and the one who threw punches when his temper got the better of him. Do you think this Vera sees you that clearly?”
“She sees me clearly enough.”
“Does she? Or does she see a mysterious man who appeared in her time of need? Someone different from the husband who hurt her? Sometimes we fall in love with who someone ain’t rather than who they are.”
William felt the foundations of his certainty crumble beneath him. “What are you saying?”
“I’m sayin’ maybe you should finish these walls because it’s the right thing to do, not because you love her. I’m sayin’ maybe you should get to know her as a person before you decide she’s the answer to years of loneliness.”
“And if I decide she is?”
John’s expression softened slightly. “Then I’ll help you court her proper. But Will, my boy, if you’re wrong about this, if what you feel is gratitude or desperation or the need to save someone because you couldn’t save Elizabeth and…young Jacob…” He paused. “Then you’ll hurt her worse than her husband ever could, because she’ll trust you in ways she’s forgotten how to trust, and when that falls apart, it’ll break somethin’ in her that might never heal proper.”
The weight of that possibility settled on William’s shoulders like lead. He thought of Vera’s gentle hands, her careful trust, the way she’d kissed him when she thought he was dying. The idea of causing her pain made his chest ache.
“I won’t hurt her.”
“Not on purpose, you won’t, I’m sure of that as rot. But intentions don’t always match outcomes. You want these walls finished because you love her? Fine. But you take time to figure out what that really means before you go makin’ promises — or consequences — neither of you is ready for.”
The tension stretched between them like a rope pulled taut. John’s hands resumed their cleaning. The accusation hung in the air: You don’t really know her.
Anger flared in his chest, sharper than the dull ache of healing wounds. John was wrong — had to be wrong. What he felt for Vera was real and had weight and substance beyond simple gratitude. Yet the questions burrowed under his skin like splinters.
What did Vera want from life beyond escape from Dominic? What made her laugh when she wasn’t afraid? What dreams had she carried before marriage crushed them flat?
The not-knowing gnawed at him, but more importantly, was he able to give them to her?
“You’re right about one thing,” he said finally. “I need to understand her better.”
“That’s a start.”
“But you’re wrong about my feelings. What I feel for her isn’t desperation wearing love’s clothing. It’s the first real thing I’ve felt since Elizabeth.”
“Feelings can be real and still be wrong.”
“Then I’ll prove they’re right.” He moved toward the window where weak light filtered through unwashed glass. “By finishing these walls, by showing her I’m a man worth knowing.”
“With what materials? I told you, we’re tapped out.”
“The Whitcomb site in Turners Falls. Half a mile east of the new canal. They were laying foundation when the crash hit.”
“That’s private property — ”
“Abandoned property. Has been for weeks.” William’s voice gained strength as the plan took shape. “Whitcomb had three pallets of lime putty delivered the day before he called off the job. Good quality, aged properly. Probably still covered.”
John’s eyebrows rose. “You’re talkin’ about theft — if it hasn’t already been stolen. I heard tell Jenkins and his gang are still around.”
“I’m talking about salvage. Those materials will rot before Whitcomb pays another bill. We mix that putty with local clay; you can get clay from Henderson’s farm, tell him it’s for chinking. Animal hair from the same source. Dog hair, horsehair, anything with length and strength.”
“And if we get caught?”
“We won’t. I know that site better than the back of my hand. Laid out every inch myself,” William said as his hands gestured, sketching invisible blueprints in the air. “There’s a service road that connects to the thoroughfare. I can be in and out before anyone notices.”
John studied his face with the careful attention of a man reading weather signs. “This matters that much to you?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to risk jail — death?”
“Enough to risk anything.”
The older man was quiet long enough that William wondered if he’d pushed too far. When John spoke, his voice carried resignation mixed with grudging respect.
“You always were pig-headed when your mind was set.” He reached for his cap. “I’ll gather what we need from Henderson’s place. Clay, hair, tools. You get that lime putty.”
“John — ”
“Don’t thank me yet. If we end up in the county lockup, I’ll tan your hide raw before they string us up.” He settled the cap on his graying head and smoothed out his beard. “When do we do this foolish thing?”
“Tomorrow. Early. Before the sun’s fully up.”
“‘Course it has to be early,” John groaned as he picked up his bucket and headed for the door. “Nothin’ good ever happens at a reasonable hour.”
William watched him go, then climbed the stairs. Each step sent shocks through his healing side, but the discomfort felt manageable now. Purposeful. He had work to do, materials to secure, walls to complete.
But as he climbed, John’s words echoed in his mind: What does Vera want from life? The question followed him like a shadow, pestering him for answers he didn’t have. First though, he needed to tell Vera about tomorrow’s plan. She deserved to know he’d be gone most of the day, and why.
Dawn came gray and cold, with the promise of rain hanging in the air like a threat. He rose before first light and dressed in Tommy’s work clothes, then made his way downstairs where John waited with a canvas sack and the grim expression of a man embarking on a questionable enterprise.
“Clay’s in the truck,” John said without preamble. “Henderson didn’t ask questions, which suggests he don’t want to know the answers. Horse hair and dog hair mixed should bind well enough.”
“Excellent.” William shouldered his tool sack. “I’ll take the service road to Turners. Less chance of encountering anyone who might recognize me.”
“And if you do encounter someone?”
“I’m a drifter looking for work. Heard there might be salvage opportunities at the old construction sites,” William replied as he checked the contents of his sack one last time, not wanting to meet John’s eyes. “Simple enough story to maintain.”
John nodded grimly. “How long for you to collect what we need?”
“Four hours at most, but getting there and back will take most of the day. There should be a wheelbarrow on site for transport.” William calculated distances and loads. “I’ll return before dark if all goes according to plan.”
“And if it don’t?”
“Then you’ll know to look for me in the county jail.”
John’s face cracked into something resembling a smile. “Ellie will never forgive me if I let you get arrested for theft.”
“She forgives nothing. But it’s not theft; it’s the recovery of abandoned materials. Remember that.”
“Tell that to the judge.”
William clasped the older man’s shoulder. “Thank you, John. For everything.”
“Don’t thank me until we’re both clear of this mess,” John said as he hefted his own bag. “I’ll start preparin’ the mixing station while you’re gone. Have everything ready for when you return with that putty.”
The walk to Turners Falls took longer than expected. His healing body protested the uneven terrain and the weight of his tools, forcing him to rest more frequently than he or his pride preferred. But the discomfort was nothing compared to the mental wrestling that came with each step.
What does she want out of life? The question pounded in rhythm with his footsteps. Do you love her or the idea of her?
He tried to inventory what he actually knew about Vera. She was brave, certainly; brave enough to leave a powerful man, brave enough to trust strangers from another time. She was gentle with those cats, patient with his questions about her strange world. She possessed a quick wit and wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
But what did she dream about? What made her feel truly alive? What would she do with her freedom once she had it?
He realized in a way that he knew he couldn’t answer those questions with any amount of certainty. John was right; he had fallen in love with the idea of Vera, with what she represented rather than who she truly was. So why was he risking everything just to finish the last couple of layers of plaster?
By the time he reached the construction site, the sun had climbed high enough to burn off the morning mist and show the full scope of Whitcomb’s abandoned ambitions. The foundation walls rose three feet above grade, with their limestone blocks precisely cut and mortared with pride. William had supervised this work himself. Seeing it abandoned stirred something bitter in him.
The material pallets sat exactly where he remembered them, covered with canvas tarps that had kept the worst of the weather at bay. He approached cautiously, listening for any sounds that might show he wasn’t alone. Hearing nothing but wind through bare branches, he lifted the corner of the nearest tarp.
The lime putty had aged beautifully during its weeks. Smooth, workable, and of the proper consistency for mixing with aggregates. He tested a small sample between his fingers and smiled. This would work perfectly.
Loading the wheelbarrow proved more challenging than expected. The putty buckets weighed nearly forty pounds each, and his side protested every lift and twist. But he persevered, driven by more than stubbornness.
He had secured four buckets and begun the journey back when he heard voices approaching through the trees.
“Told you the bastard would come back here eventually.”
William’s blood turned to ice water. John was right; the Rat was still lurking around.
Jenkins.
“Easy money, boys. Barrett thinks he’s clever, but a rat always returns to its nest.”
Three men emerged from the treeline. Jenkins led them, his face bearing fresh marks alongside the old ones from their previous encounter; new bruises layered over fading ones, a split lip that had reopened, and something wild in his bloodshot eyes like festering rage. Behind him came two different laborers than before. The first was a thin man with pockmarked skin and nervous hands that kept fidgeting with his crowbar. The second was broader, older, with gray stubble and the yellowed fingers of a heavy smoker. Both moved with the nervous energy of men who’d been promised easy money but were suspecting otherwise.
“Looky here,” Jenkins said, his prominent teeth appearing in a grin that held no warmth. “William Barrett, grave robber. Thought I smelled somethin’ rotten.”
William straightened slowly, keeping his hands visible and away from his tools. The wheelbarrow full of lime putty sat between him and the three men.
“Rat.” He kept his voice level despite recognizing the dangerous gleam in the man’s eyes. “Still stealing for a living, I see.”
“Stealin’?” Jenkins said, his voice cracking with mock indignation. “I prefer to call it collectin’ what’s owed to me. Startin’ with interest on the beatin’ you gave me.”
“You brought that on yourself.”
“Did I?” He began circling, forcing William to turn. “See, I been thinkin’ about that night. About how you got lucky, even with the weird going’s on in that joint. What you protectin’?” His grin widened. “Been thinkin’ about goin’ back there, special-like.”
William’s blood turned cold, not the dramatic chill of novels, but the recognition that came when a man realized he faced genuine danger yet again.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“‘Course you don’t. Just like you don’t know why you’re here alone, stealin’ materials in broad daylight.” Jenkins stopped circling and gestured to his companions. “Boys, Mr. Barrett here’s got himself a secret he’s been keepin’. Somethin’ worth protectin’ at that ‘abandoned’ house on Goodnow Road.”
The pockmarked man shifted nervously. “Hank, you said this was just about materials.”
“Shut your trap, Neddy,” Jenkins snapped, never taking his eyes off William. “This is about settlin’ accounts. All of ‘em.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew a knife, the same modified switchblade from their last encounter.
“Been carryin’ this every day since our last dance,” Jenkins said, turning the blade to catch the light. “Thinkin’ about what I’d do different. How I’d take my time instead of rushin’ things.”
“You’re making a mistake,” William said quietly.
“Only mistake I made was not finishin’ you when I had the chance.” Jenkins began advancing, knife held low and ready. “This time, I’m gonna gut you slow right here in the dirt. Then me and the boys are gonna take a nice walk to that house. See what secrets you been keepin’.”
The threat was clear enough without specifics. He understood that Jenkins had spent weeks planning this, feeding his anger until it became something far more dangerous than just revenge.
“House is empty,” William said.
“We’ll see about that, won’t we? Maybe there’s nobody there. Maybe there’s somethin’… interestin’…fresh?” Jenkins’ tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Either way, I’ll have all the time I need to find out once you’re bleedin’ out in this pit.”
The gray stubbled man looked uncomfortable. “This ain’t what you said, Jenkins. Thought we was just here for salvage.”
“Plans change, Coombs. You got a problem with that, you can walk.” Jenkins’ voice carried an edge that suggested walking might not be an option.
William saw that Jenkins held the knife properly. He knew this knife well. The other two flanked him at angles that would make escape difficult even if he got past Jenkins. But they also seemed reluctant participants, which might help him.
“What’s it gonna be, Barrett?” Jenkins asked, raising the knife. “You gonna make this easy, or do I have to work for it?”
Cold resolve settled over him. Jenkins had made his choice when he threatened Vera’s home, now William would make his.
“I got a different idea,” William said.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“You die here instead of making it to that house.”
Jenkins lunged forward with the blade aimed at William’s stomach, but William was already moving. He sidestepped and grabbed Jenkins’s wrist, twisting hard until bones ground together. Jenkins screamed and dropped the knife.
But the Rat was tougher than he looked. He drove his knee toward William’s crotch, connecting solidly. William’s gasped and his grip loosened enough for Jenkins to break free and scramble for the fallen blade.
Neddy came at William from the side, swinging his crowbar in a wide arc. William ducked under the swing and drove his fist into the man’s throat. Neddy dropped the crowbar and fell to his knees, clutching his neck and making strangled noises.
Jenkins had recovered his knife and was advancing again, this time more cautiously. “Gonna enjoy cuttin’ you up slow,” he snarled.
He feinted high then slashed low, but William pulled back just enough to avoid the blade. Jenkins pressed forward with a series of quick thrusts that forced William backward toward the foundation pit.
Coombs tried to flank him, but William grabbed a handful of gravel and flung it into the man’s face. The older laborer stumbled backward, clawing at his eyes and cursing.
Jenkins saw his opening and lunged again, this time committing fully to a killing thrust aimed at William’s heart, but William was ready. He pivoted aside and caught Jenkins’s wrist again, this time using the man’s momentum against him.
They grappled for control of the knife, crashing into the wheelbarrow and sending lime putty buckets flying. Jenkins was stronger than he appeared, but William had size and training on his side.
The knife wavered between them, both men straining. Jenkins brought his knee up, trying to catch William in the groin again, but William twisted and took the blow on his thigh.
“Shoulda just died quiet,” Jenkins gasped through gritted teeth, slowly forcing the blade toward William’s throat.
William drove his forehead into Jenkins’s nose with all the force he could muster. Cartilage crunched and blood sprayed across both their faces. Jenkins’s grip on the knife faltered.
William tore the blade from his hands and in one smooth motion drove it up under the man’s ribs, angling toward the heart. The blade slid smoothly between bones.
Jenkins’s eyes went wide. His mouth opened and closed without sound as blood frothed from his lips.
“Should’ve stayed away from that house,” William whispered and with a jerk, twisted the blade.
Jenkins’s body went limp. William pulled the knife free and let the corpse collapse beside the pit.
Neddy had recovered enough to see his leader dead in the dirt and the pool of blood spreading beneath the body. Terror replaced his expression of revenge.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You killed him.”
William turned to face the two survivors, blood covering his shirt and hands, the knife still dripping in his grip. “He threatened to violate a woman. Any man who rides with scum like that gets what he deserves.”
Coombs had cleared the gravel from his eyes and was backing toward the trees. “We’re gone,” he said. “We don’t know nothin’ about this.”
“Smart choice. But if I ever see either of you near that house, or if I hear you’ve been talking about what happened here, I’ll track you down and finish what Jenkins started. Are we clear?”
They nodded frantically and disappeared into the woods.
William kneeled beside Jenkins and went through his pockets, finding a few dollars and some tobacco. He kept the money and scattered the tobacco on the ground. Then he dragged the corpse to the foundation pit and rolled it in and covering it with loose stone and debris.
The knife went into his tool collection. It was a good blade, and Jenkins wouldn’t be needing it anymore.
Loading the remaining buckets into the wheelbarrow, he began the long journey home..
The return trip gave him time to think. The man’s threats about returning to the house left no doubt about his intentions. William felt no remorse for killing him, only satisfaction that the threat had been eliminated before it could reach Vera. He kept her safe once again.
He’d killed before during the war, when duty called for it. This felt different; more personal. Jenkins hadn’t just threatened him, he’d threatened to violate what William was building for the woman he cared about. That crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.
By the time he reached the house, his shirt was stiff with dried blood. John took one look at him and grabbed the wheelbarrow handles without comment.
“Get inside,” the older man ordered. “Rest while I unload this. We can start mixing — ”
“No.” William straightened despite the protest from his ribs. “We start now. We finish tonight.”
John’s hands stilled on the wheelbarrow. “Will, you’re in no condition — ”
“I’m in condition enough.” His voice carried quiet determination. “These walls are to be completed before morning.”
“What’s the rush? The work will keep another day — ”
“This isn’t about the schedule.” He moved toward the house. “I want Vera to wake up where we can be together properly.”
John studied his face, confusing filling his face, but reading what he saw there. The older man’s eyes took in the blood on William’s clothes, the set of his jaw, the way he moved like a man who’d just finished business that will stay with him for the rest of his life.
“Jesus Christ, Will. What did you do?”
“What needed doing.”
“That’s Jenkins’ blood, ain’t it? You killed him.”
William met his stare without flinching. “He threatened to come here. Threatened to violate her home. Said he’d take his time with whatever he found.”
John’s face went pale. “Now you’re killin’ for her?”
“I killed a man who meant to do evil. The world’s better without him in it.”
“And if they find the body? If they trace it back to you?” John’s hands worked nervously at his cap. “You’ll hang, Will. They’ll hang you for murder.”
“They won’t find anything to trace. Like I said, Jenkins won’t be missed.” He picked up a bucket of lime putty and hefted it toward the house. “Are you going to help me finish these walls, or are you going to stand here worrying over a dead rat?”
John stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. “You’re gonna destroy yourself over this gal.”
“Maybe, but not tonight.”
John stood there another moment, wrestling with doubt. Finally, he grabbed his own bucket and followed. “You’re still covered in blood, you damn fool. At least wash your hands before you touch my plaster.”
They mixed the lime putty with Henderson’s clay as the sun set, working by lamplight that cast long shadows across the walls. William scrubbed the blood from his hands and changed into clean clothes, but he couldn’t wash away what he’d done — he didn’t want to. Jenkins had gotten exactly what he deserved.
His body protested every movement. Each stretch and twist pulled at the wounds and made his muscles shake from fatigue, but he pushed through with a focus that nothing could break. Each stroke of plaster brought him closer to his goal.
John worked beside him without further complaint. They spoke little, but understanding passed between them in the language of craftsmen who had worked together for decades. Pass the bucket. Check the consistency. Mind that corner.
“You planning to tell her how you feel?” John asked quietly as they moved to the last wall.
William paused, considering. “When the time is right. When I know her well enough to mean it properly.”
“Building takes time. Foundations most of all.”
As the night deepened, William lost himself in the work. Spread. Smooth. Check for level. Each motion helped him process what had happened in Turners Falls.
Jenkins had made his choice when he threatened Vera’s home. William had simply made his own.
Every stroke of the trowel built something good over the violence of the day. He was creating safety, not just destroying threats. Building walls so that he could protect the woman he loved.
Love.
The word surfaced in his mind as he worked the final corner of the parlor. Not gratitude, not desperation, not the need to feel useful. Love.
He thought of Elizabeth, tried to compare the two women in his heart. Elizabeth had been gentle steel; quiet power wrapped in softness, a woman who could calm his temper with a touch and make him laugh when the world felt too heavy. She’d loved him despite his many flaws, seen the goodness beneath his stubborn pride.
Vera was made of a different steel entirely. Harder perhaps, tested by betrayal in ways Elizabeth never experienced. But underneath her caution, he saw the same core. The courage to leave everything familiar for uncertain freedom.
Both women possessed something a rarity, an inner fire that didn’t announce itself, didn’t demand recognition, just was there as surely as air. Elizabeth had loved him when he was whole. Vera was teaching him to be whole again.
What he felt for her wasn’t Elizabeth’s ghost, but recognition of one heart knowing another across time. She’d saved him, yes, but not in the way he’d first thought. She hadn’t rescued him from death on the trestle. She’d shown him how to live again.
Around five in the morning, John stepped back from the last corner and wiped his hands on his shirt. “That’s it, then. Done. I hope we didn’t rush it — the cold does murder on a rush job.”
William surveyed their work and nodded with pride. He saw out of the corner of his eye a black cat, Luna, appear and blink at them. That meant one thing: the Doubling was complete.
“I hope she appreciates what you went through,” John said, gathering his tools.
William nodded to his old friend. “Thank you, John. For everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You still need to prove you’re worthy of what you’ve built.” John shouldered his tool bag. “But this is a good start.”
After John left, muttering something about the wrath of Ellie, William cleaned his tools slowly. The house finally matched the vision he’d carried since the first day he laid the foundation stones.
Fatigue pulled at him, but satisfaction ran deeper. His hands shook as he set down the last trowel. He’d been running on will alone for hours, and now that the work was finished, his body demanded rest.
But not yet. Not yet.
Dawn crept through the windows and painted the walls in golden light. He could feel the difference in the rooms; the air itself seemed more substantial, like they were doubled.
As the light strengthened, he heard movement from upstairs. Vera, beginning her day. He climbed the stairs quietly, each step an effort, and listened at the landing. Water running. The soft sounds of someone preparing for the day. She would come down soon enough, unaware that everything had changed while she slept. He wandered outside to finish the cleanup.
The kettle’s whistle drew him toward the kitchen, but he stopped at the doorway, suddenly reluctant to announce himself. He could see her clearly now. She sat at the kitchen table, auburn hair catching the light, her entire form solid.
She sat without moving, even as the kettle’s whistle grew more insistent. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and something that looked almost like defeat had replaced her usual alertness. Yet she held herself with quiet dignity.
She was beautiful. Not the desperate beauty of a woman fleeing danger, but something deeper; the kind that came from enduring and choosing to keep going anyway. She wore one of her favorite sport shirts that somehow made her lovelier, more real than any finery could have managed.
The light touched her hair, her skin, the tired set of her shoulders; she glowed.
Like an angel.
Elizabeth came to mind then. Not a painful memory this time, but something that felt like a presence. He could almost hear her voice, feel her approval for what he’d found in this place. She would want him to love again, to build something new rather than destroying himself in grief, which he almost had done just a couple of weeks ago.
Watching Vera sit suspended in the kitchen, he understood that what he felt was real. Not gratitude masquerading as love, not desperate need wearing love’s clothes. This was love in its purest form.
He loved her. He loved her courage and her kindness. He loved her stubbornness that refused to break. He loved her way of talking to those strays, and the way she’d kissed him ever so gently when she thought he was dying. He loved the fierce loyalty she showed her friends. Above all, he loved her without knowing her completely, and that was precisely why he needed to step forward now to begin the slow work of genuine discovery that true love deserved.
She suddenly made an odd gesture with her fist toward something he couldn’t see. It was something sharp and defiant that made him smile despite his weariness.
As she finally rose to turn off the screaming kettle, he stepped forward.
His legs nearly buckled as he moved closer, but determination carried him. He didn’t feel the crazed drive of a man trying to save someone, but the choice of a man who finally decided to love. He wanted to build something real with someone who’d taught him how to live again — as impossible as their situation might seem.
He slowly placed his shaking hands on her shoulders.
Thank you for reading! For more stories like this, visit www.arcrocker.com
Elizabeth had been gentle steel; quiet power wrapped in softness, a woman who could calm his temper with a touch and make him laugh when the world felt too heavy.
Loved your words & sentiments- Will going into battle for Vera is pivotal- but ‘watching’ him work through his feelings and motivation was fascinating- John talks a lot of sense. Bravo Andrew