Roland West, Loner Read online

  Roland’s vision blurred as he gazed at the chair. He touched the armrest. The feel of the smooth wood on his palms sent a thrill through his soul. An old piece of furniture, like any antique, had a story attached to it. A secret. Sometimes a lesson. Discovering details surrounding one piece of the past often struck a chord deep inside him. He sensed that certain antiques held answers, maybe even answers for his life.

  “Roland . . .” Papa said, still gazing out the window.

  “Papa?” Roland dropped his butt into the chair and dried his palms on the sleeves of his shirt.

  Papa turned and studied him through steel gray eyes. His gaze rested a moment on Roland’s shirt.

  He wore the shirt too often, but it was a gift Papa had given him from Italy. It was the only white shirt Roland would wear. He preferred shades of gray, black, brown, or anything dark that wouldn’t draw attention.

  Papa took his Stetson in one hand, ran his fingers through his graying hair, and sat on the edge of his desk. “I’m fixin’ to head out tomorrow. It’ll be a short trip.”

  “Tomorrow?” Roland’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to keep his forehead from wrinkling. “I thought we . . . I thought your next trip . . . I thought we were gonna . . . I mean, what about the Colorado trip?” It was Roland’s turn. He was going to help explore the old mines on some guy’s hundred-acre land. He was going to get out of school.

  “This is the Colorado trip.”

  Roland gulped back the protest that nearly flew from his mouth. He wanted Papa to know he trusted his decisions even when he didn’t like them. It’s what set him apart from his brothers. But this just wasn’t fair. He’d been counting on this trip for weeks now. It was going to save him, at least for a little while.

  Papa put the cowboy hat back on and crossed his arms. “I’m sure this is a letdown. I’d really planned on taking you, but this assignment might be a little too, uh . . . It would be better for me to go alone.”

  Roland’s jaw twitched. Dangerous. That was the word Papa couldn’t get himself to say. Papa knew Roland hated for him to take dangerous trips. Why should he take such chances? They’d already lost Mama— a memory Roland couldn’t avoid this time of year.

  “I’ve got another assignment I think you’ll take a liking to, much more than you would’ve this one.”

  Another assignment. Sure. It wouldn’t be soon enough. Every day at River Run High pushed him farther into the nightmare. He had no friends. He heard his name all the time, but not from kids wanting to talk to him. They were talking about him.

  Maybe he should’ve tried to make a friend or two before the school year began, but they lived so far away from everyone, Papa loving his privacy. Their nearest neighbors owned the bed-and-breakfast on Forest Road, a twenty-minute walk from their house.

  When Roland had gone with Papa into town, he’d seen a kid about his age outside the house. He even considered walking over there. He was glad now that he hadn’t. He’d seen the kid at school. He was tight with the Hispanic kid in the wheelchair, the chief gossipmonger, the one everyone seemed to go to for the latest. The wheelchair kid slowed whenever he and Roland crossed paths, eyeing Roland suspiciously.

  “It’ll be a much longer trip,” Papa said. “One or two months. Overseas. You’ll like it.”

  Papa stared as if he was trying to read Roland’s mind, but Roland intentionally remained expressionless. He wouldn’t let Papa think he was crushed by—

  Overseas? Did Papa say overseas?

  Roland straightened in the chair.

  “You’ll have to miss school. I know you just started.” Papa adjusted his Stetson. “But you’ve never had a problem keeping up with schoolwork. I’m sure your teachers—”

  “Yeah, no, that’d be great.” Roland tried not to look too excited, but he couldn’t stop the smile from stretching across his face. “I’ll keep up with my school work.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t take you to Colorado. I know—”

  “No, really not a problem. I trust your decisions. You said overseas?”

  Papa grinned and gave a nod in the direction of the map table, the eight-drawer antique chest by the bookshelves. It stood about three feet high and had a nice wide top where Papa laid out the maps for his upcoming trips.

  “While I’m gone, you have permission to come into my study to look over the maps and my notes. And I’ll need your research skills.” He strode to the map table, his boots scuffing.

  Roland joined him, standing with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and his back to the wall lined with bookshelves. Before he focused on the map, the slightest movement near the door on the opposite wall caught his attention.

  He snapped his gaze to the old-fashioned knob and the dark keyhole in the brass plate.

  “So, what do you think?” Papa said.

  Roland’s attention returned to the map . . . a map of a boot-shaped peninsula surrounded by seas. Italy! His unrestrained grin made his jaw ache. He was going to Italy!

  Over the years, they had traveled all over the continental United States, but he and his brothers had never been allowed on the international trips. Images from overseas assignments Papa had told them about appeared in his mind like pictures in a scrapbook: the charred bodies and crumbling remains of the ancient city of Pompeii, a Mediterranean cave filled with crystal blue water, narrow tunnels leading into fifth-century catacombs . . .

  Papa propped his hands on the table and leaned close. In a low voice, he said, “Hey, uh, don’t mention our trip to your brothers. I’ll tell them about it when I return from Colorado. I don’t think it’ll go over well.”

  Roland made eye contact. “Can’t they come, too?” It wouldn’t go over well with Jarret for sure. Really, that was an understatement. A trip to Italy? Jarret would be so jealous he’d have Roland in a cast before he could pack a suitcase.

  “No, uh . . .” Papa’s gaze shifted. His mouth twitched. A grimace flickered on his face. He probably remembered an incident from a past trip they had all taken together. Like when Jarret had been caught sneaking out with a client’s daughter. Or the time he swiped a client’s pre-WWII miniature pocket knife. Yeah, Jarret had a knack for causing trouble.

  “They aren’t suited for this particular trip.” He said they but he no doubt meant Jarret. “I appreciate your help, Roland. You work hard. You think logically. Your brothers, eh, they don’t always play according to Hoyle. Get what I mean? They cause trouble.”

  He paced to the window. “Besides, I can only take one of you this time, but I do have a trip in mind for them.” He looked Roland in the eye. “I’ll help Jarret understand when I return. All right?”

  “All right.” Roland suppressed a grin. Did Papa realize he said Jarret and not them?

  Chapter 3

  A breeze rustled the leaves of the poplar tree by the Brandts’ house. Sunlight pulsed in through the kitchen window. Fifteen-year-old Peter Brandt straddled a barstool and leaned on the countertop, watching patterns of shade and light sway over his outstretched arm.

  “I’m never going to another funeral home so long as I live,” he said into the phone.

  “Who can help that?” said Dominic Miato on the other end. “People die. If you are related, you have to go. Do you know how many funerals I have been to? Besides, were you not close to your abuelito?”

  “My . . . what? My who?” And then Peter got it. “Oh, you mean, my grandpa? Yeah, I guess we were close, for living a thousand miles apart, him in California and us in South Dakota. He always came up for holidays. I know I’ll miss him. It hasn’t really hit me yet.”

  A memory of last Christmas flashed through Peter’s mind . . . Pine and tobacco scents filled the house. Gramps came to visit. He wore an old burgundy sweater and spent most of his time in the recliner in the living room. He liked watching the family go about their routine, and he liked sharing the stories of his life. “Can’t begin to count the ways God has blessed me,” he always said before retelling this or that little mira
cle from his past.

  “It’s not really about the funeral home,” Peter said. “It’s Toby. You’ll never believe what he did. As soon as he realized Gramps was in the coffin, he wouldn’t leave it alone.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. Besides, he is autistic. You have to make allowance. So Toby wanted to see his abuelito one last time. Who can blame him?”

  “No, no, I mean, he wouldn’t leave it alone. He climbed up into the coffin and everything. Mom and Dad couldn’t get him out. Everyone stared, eyes bulging, all horrified. I mean, who lets their kid climb into a coffin?”

  Dominic burst into laughter.

  Peter heard a loud clatter, as if his friend had lost control of the phone. It amazed him how Dominic, a kid stuck in a wheelchair, a kid who couldn’t move his legs at all, found humor in just about everything.

  “Well, I’m glad you find it funny, but I—”

  Someone rapped on the frame of the front screen door.

  Peter glanced down the hall then into the dining room. He didn’t want to get up, and he really didn’t want to welcome a guest to his parents’ bed-and-breakfast. Where on earth was Mom?

  He leaned to glimpse the glass doors at the back of the dining room, the doors that separated the guest rooms from the family’s side of the house. Mom and Toby had been going back and forth all day.

  “I don’t mean to laugh,” Dominic said.

  Another pound on the screen door. Then the doorbell rang.

  Peter slid off the barstool. “Hold on a sec.” He lowered the phone to his side.

  A shuffling sound came through the screen door then a gasp. The blur of red hair on the other side told him it was Caitlyn. She had her back to the door and, as he neared, she ducked as if she saw a bee.

  Peter stopped at the screen door but hesitated, his hand poised just above the handle.

  Caitlyn, still with her back to him, swatted at something overhead.

  He brought the phone back up. “Hey, I gotta go. Caitlyn’s here. I forgot she was coming over.”

  “Caitlyn Summer? She’s over your place a lot, eh? She your girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, right. That’d be weird. She’s like my sister.” They had been friends for so long he couldn’t remember not knowing her. Their parents had been friends since before they were even born. “I’m helping her with algebra. She’s not my girlfriend. Got it? Don’t go starting any rumors about me.”

  Dominic laughed. “Okay, man, but I will keep my eye on you.”

  Caitlyn leaned, twisted, and swatted again before Peter realized her problem. She had managed, only Heaven knew how, to tangle herself up in the trailers of a hanging spider plant. She turned to face him, gaining her freedom, just as he pushed open the door.

  “Hi-ya, Caitlyn.”

  “What took you so long?” She transferred her load—schoolbooks and a brown package—to her left hip. Then she ran a hand down her hair as if the meager effort would have any effect on her long, crazy, red curls. “Didn’t you hear me knock? I saw you sitting there. You must’ve heard me.” She pushed past him into the house, her gaze snapping to the dining room.

  The glass doors slid open, and nine-year-old Toby skipped through saying, “Boo, hoo, hoo, hoo. Don’t cry.” One of the many lines he liked repeating from Alice in Wonderland. He made a beeline for Caitlyn.

  “Hi, Toby.” She smiled. As she stretched one arm for a hug, her books and the brown package tumbled to the floor.

  “For me?” Toby said, stooping for the package.

  “Oh no, that’s not yours, I don’t think,” she said, stooping too. She and Toby cracked heads, two coconuts colliding. She stumbled back, but Toby seemed blissfully unfazed.

  “Train?” Toby stared wide-eyed at the package in his hands.

  Caitlyn squatted for her books. “A train? Oh, in the package? No, I don’t—”

  Peter had reached his tipping point. “It’s not a train.” He tried to snatch the package from Toby, but Toby twisted away. “It’s Caitlyn’s package. Give it back.” Peter lunged.

  Toby dashed for the stairs. “My train.”

  “Hey, you can’t go up there!” Peter tore after him. “And it’s not your train!” He climbed the steps by twos. “It’s not your box. It’s Caitlyn’s. Give it back, you, you . . . You totally drive me crazy.” He hollered over his shoulder, “Mom!”

  Caitlyn followed. “It’s not my box. I got it from the delivery guy.” She stumbled on the steps behind him and let out a quiet, “Oops.”

  Sure the steps were steep, but did she have to trip every single time?

  The top step squished under Peter’s foot. “You don’t live here. You can’t get our mail. That’s a Federal offense.”

  The carpet on the landing squished with every step. “What in the world?” He glanced at his half-open bedroom door and at the wide-open door to the bathroom. His stomach tensed as he passed the bathroom. He didn’t want to look.

  Water, shiny and calm, filled the tub to the very top. The floor shone with wetness. The bathroom rugs were soaked. The pile of clothes and towels on the floor, soaked. The carpet in the hall. Soaked.

  A fishing pole leaned against the edge of the tub, its line, complete with orange bobber, dangling in the water.

  “Mo-o-o-o-m!” Peter’s face heated, his head ready to explode.

  Caitlyn came up behind him. “Eww. The steps are wet.”

  “Yeah. Look why.” He gestured at the tub, then returned to the top of the steps and shouted, “Mom, hey, Mom!”

  “Don’t shout from your room.” Mom’s voice came from downstairs, but all he could see of her was the white bandana over her dark-blonde bob. “Come down if you need to talk to me.”

  “Toby flooded my bathroom.”

  “Aren’t you even going to pull the plug?” Caitlyn said from the bathroom. Then she shrieked and something squeaked.

  He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her land on the bathroom floor.

  Mom stomped up the stairs, slowing as her foot sank into a soaked step. “Oh my.” Her eyes narrowed as she reached the drenched landing and caught sight of the bathroom. “Toby!”

  Toby peeked from behind Peter’s half-open bedroom door. “Toby’s train.”

  “Let’s bring your train downstairs,” Mom said, regaining her calm and reaching for Toby’s arm. “You’re not allowed upstairs. Toby stays downstairs.” She escorted him down the steps.

  “What about the mess?” Peter shouted.

  “There’s a mop in the laundry room,” Mom shouted back.

  “I have to clean it up?” Peter slammed a fist against his bedroom door. It would’ve had a good effect if the door would’ve swung freely, but it only opened another foot and bounced back.

  He squeezed into his room and scooped up the pile of clothes blocking the door. “What’s the use in having the attic all to myself if Toby’s allowed up here?”

  Caitlyn followed him into his room. “He’s not allowed up here.”

  “I’m getting a lock.” Peter stomped between boxes of electronic projects and piles of clothes on his way to his desk. He wanted to check the transmitter he’d been assembling. If Toby did anything to it . . .

  “A lock? You don’t need a lock.” Caitlyn folded her arms and frowned. “That’ll just push him farther out of your life. Toby likes to be around you. You don’t do anything with him anymore.”

  “Do anything with him? Are you crazy? How can I do anything with him? He’s embarrassing. He always causes a scene. You should’ve seen him at the funeral home. He—”

  “So don’t go anywhere public with him, just hang out with him. He needs you. Maybe he’s just trying to get your attention.”

  “By flooding my bathroom? He got my attention all right.” The transmitter appeared to be untouched, so he sat on the end of his unmade bed.

  She sat beside him, staring, as if attempting to drill compassion into him with her big green eyes. “Toby’s your brother. And he’s autistic. He can’t help that. I thin
k you need to accept him for who he is.”

  Peter groaned and flopped back on his bed. “Maybe you’re right.” He rubbed his face, thinking it over. “I’m going fishing tomorrow in the stream on the other side of Forest Road. Maybe I’ll take Toby.”

  “Across Forest Road? Isn’t that private property?”

  “No, not on this side of the river. The other side is. I’m not going there.” He sat up. “That’s private property, all right, and you wouldn’t catch me over there for nothing.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Peter grinned, amused. “Don’t you know whose property that is?”

  She shrugged. “Should I?”

  “They’re only the most talked-about kids in school this year.”

  She gave a little headshake.

  “The new kids?” Peter said. “The West boys?” Her complete ignorance of the hot topics in high school totally annoyed him. She had to be the only girl whose ears never perked for gossip. “Everybody talks about them. I think one of them is a mute. Apparently, they’ve always lived around here, but this is their first year at school.”

  “Maybe they were homeschooled. That’s not so strange. I’d love to learn at home. I could help teach my sisters. We could—”

  “They own all that land over there.” He gestured in the relative direction of Forest Road. “Their house sets way back, not that I’ve seen it. I heard they live like savages . . .” He grinned, picturing it. “. . . shooting anything that moves on their land, hunting their own food, living secluded.”

  She giggled. “That’s silly. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

  “No, but there may be something to it.”

  Chapter 4

  A beam of sunlight snuck between the drapes and fell on Roland’s eyelids. Though typically a heavy sleeper, the brightness ended his dream and pulled him from sleep. He winced, blinked open his eyes, and rolled over to check the alarm clock.

  The picture beside the clock caught his attention first. It faced away, as if someone had bumped it. Roland gave it a tap, angling it so he could see it from bed.