Chapter Twenty-One

 

Milo

 

Having cleaned up and put on a fresh set of clothes, I drive myself over to the family estate. I climb out of the car and go inside, not wanting to be there at all. But, I told my mother I would come by and I won't disappoint her.

I step through the door and hear soft harp music playing from the large sitting room. People – some I know, some I don't – stroll through the house, drinks or appetizers in hand. The mood is somber for the most part – as you'd expect at a funeral reception – but, I hear raised voices and raucous laughter coming from down the hallway. The old man's office.

“Milo.”

I turn and find my mother standing in the doorway of the sitting room. I see the sadness in her eyes as I cross to her and pull her into a tight embrace.

“I'm sorry about what happened at the funeral,” I say as I step back.

“It's not your fault.”

I nod, but somehow still feel responsible for it. I need to tell my mom the truth about what happened to Timmy. She deserves to know – needs to know. But, I don't want to tell her here with so many people around. The gossip mill in this town is notorious and I don't plan on providing any fuel for that particular fire.

Gossip and rumor only deepens the divide that exists in this community. The lines between Longstreet and Sheridan will only grow harder. Deeper. Loyalists and factions will grow fiercer. And if we're not careful, there will be a lot more blood spilled in the streets of Folson Forge.

I want to end the feud. But to do that, I need to do it the right way. I need to be the man and leader my brother and father refuse to be. I need to set the example. I see no other way.

“I need to talk to you,” I say. “Privately.”

My mother nods and leads me out of the house, taking my arm as we walk through the rear grounds and gardens of the estate. I glance behind us to ensure we're alone and well out of earshot of the house. Satisfied that both of my conditions have been met, I give my mom's hand a gentle squeeze.

“Mom, I need to tell you something.”

She looks at me. “You finally figured it out, did you?”

I cock my head and look at her, confusion sweeping through my brain. “Figured what out?”

“That Bree's child is yours.”

My mouth falls open and I gape at her. “H – how did you know?”

Her laugh is soft yet harsh. “Because I'm not an idiot,” she says. “When I heard about – well – everything that happened between you and the girl, and then started hearing rumors about her having a child, it didn't take much thought to connect the dots.”

“How did you know it was mine though?” I ask.

“Because if there's one thing I know, it's that Bree Longstreet is not a woman with loose morals,” she says. “I've always admired the girl. Thought very well of her, in fact. She's a lovely girl. Very intelligent and compassionate. Kind. I've worked with her at several church functions and she has always impressed me. To tell you the truth, when you were younger, I had hoped you two would get together.”

I laugh softly. “You know that’s considered blasphemy in this house, don't you?”

“That's why I kept it to myself,” she says. “But, don't mistake my silence for ignorance.”

“I never have, Mom,” I say. “I've always known you're the sharpest person in this house.”

The smile on her face is beautiful and she looks ten years younger. She cocks her head and looks at me.

“So, what are you going to do about the child?” she asks. “And about Bree?”

I shrug. “I don't know yet,” I admit. “I want to be a part of Owen's life. I'm his father, after all.”

“And Bree?”

“She lied to me, Mom,” I say. “She never told me about Owen –”

My mother waves me off with a dismissive hand and a derisive snort. “Really?”

“What?”

“You can't possibly know what life has been like for her. I certainly don't. But, I'd imagine she lives a life in constant fear – of our family and hers,” she says. “If it got out that you were the father of that child, it would have been chaos. Pandemonium. It wouldn't have been good for her – or your son.”

I sigh and nod. “I know,” I say. “I know.”

“I don't think you do,” she says. “If your father had learned that he had a grandchild, he would have stopped at nothing to take that little boy from his mother. He would have wanted him raised as a proper Sheridan. Not a Longstreet. It would have been a tug-of-war for that child, that would have resulted in permanent scars. Is that what you want for your child?”

I shake my head. “Of course not.”

“And that's not what Bree wanted either, I'm sure of it,” she says. “And she sacrificed everything – her dignity, life, and reputation, to ensure that didn't happen. It wasn't about protecting you. It was about protecting that precious little baby. So, while it's easy for you to sit on your moral high horse and grouse about her lying to you, think about what she gave up. Why she had to do what she did. And then put yourself in her place.”

A remorseful laugh escapes me. “A friend of mine recently said roughly the same thing.”

“Then your friend is wise and someone I think I'd like to meet.”

I let out a long breath and look at the gardens around us. They're beautiful and though I remember drawing a sense of peace out here when I was younger, all I feel right now is anxiety. That and something dark and ominous. As if something terrible is headed our way.

“There's something else I need to tell you,” I say.

“What is it?” she asks.

I try to compose myself and steady my nerves. “Timmy's death wasn't an accident,” I say. “He was murdered. I've been doing a little bit of digging and I've come across a mountain of evidence to prove it.”

I see grief flood her face as tears spill down her cheeks. She puts a hand to her mouth and shakes her head.

“Please, tell me it wasn't the Longstreets.”

“I wish I could, Mom,” I say. “I don't know who it was yet. But I'm going to find out. And I'm going to see that they're brought to justice.”

She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “Do your brothers know?”

A cold fist tightens itself around my heart. “Zach does,” I say. “I told him this morning.”

“You need to stop them then,” she says, her voice harder than steel. “You need to keep them from doing something stupid. If I know Zach, he's already told your father. And if I know your father, he's winding your brothers up for vengeance now.”

“I feared that might be the case,” I say.

“You have to stop this, Milo,” she says. “You might be the only one who can.”

“I hope not,” I say. “I hope it's nothing more than bluster and bravado.”

“I hope so too,” she says. “But, I wouldn't count on it. You need to stop that train before it can leave the station.”

“If I can, I will, Mom.”

“And after that,” she says, her eyes earnest. “You need to take that sweet girl and your child and get them out of here. Promise me you'll do that, Milo.”

I run a hand through my hair and let out a breath. “I don't want to make you any promises I can't keep, Mom,” I say. “There's a lot in play that I need to think about still.”

“I understand,” she replies. “But don't hold the fact that she didn't tell you against her, Milo. She was stuck in an impossible situation. She couldn't say a word. To anybody.”

I nod again and pull her into a tight embrace. “Thank you, Mom.”

“I love you, Milo,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “Now, go stop your brothers from doing something stupid.”

That is going to be tricky. When Zach has his mind set on doing something stupid, there isn't much anyone can do to stop him.

But I'm going to try. I have to.

~ooo000ooo~

“There he is,” my father's voice booms.

As I step into his office, he comes around his desk and pulls me into an embrace, thumping me hard on the back. He steps back and looks at me, a gleam of pride in his eyes. My brothers are all lounging around his office, drinks in hand, bandages over their cuts. The atmosphere in the office is festive. Celebratory.

And completely disgusting, given we buried our brother, his son, a few hours ago.

“Sounds like quite a party in here,” I say. “You'd never guess that we just put our youngest family member in the ground.”

“We're celebrating a big win over the Longstreets,” my father says. “You boys really put them in their place. Especially you, Milo. You redeemed yourself out there by defending the family honor.”

A big win. Like this is some fucking game. My brothers are being treated like conquering heroes. My mother was right – he is ramping them up. But for what? The old man returns to his seat behind his desk and picks up his glass, taking a long swallow, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Zachary has shared some rather disturbing news with us,” the old man says.

I shoot a dark glare at Zach, although I should have figured he'd do exactly that – run to the old man. Disgusting fucking bootlicker that he is.

“And it's being handled,” I say.

“Oh?” my father raises his eyebrows at me. “Handled by whom?”

“By the proper authorities,” I say. “I'm going to turn over all of the information I've gathered to the Georgia State Patrol. They'll take care of it.”

“And you call that justice?” Zach asks.

“I sure do.”

“So, you're okay with Timothy's killer spending years a free man, out of jail, as he waits to be tried,” the old man says, “only to likely be let off on some technicality? Or because his family is wealthy enough to get him off? Is that your justice, Milo?”

“It's the law,” I say. “We're not vigilantes and this isn't the Old West. We don't dispense justice with a street brawl.”

“No,” Zach says. “We dispense justice with this.”

I look over and see Zach holding a chrome-plated, .45 caliber pistol, a wicked jeer on his face.

“You're kidding,” I say.

He shakes his head and I look over to the old man, who is smiling wide. He seems to not only approve but is actively encouraging the behavior.

“You ever shot a man, Zach?” I ask.

“Not yet.”

“So, you think you're just going to walk over there and kill Clyde Longstreet?”

“That's the plan,” he says. “An eye for a fuckin' eye.”

“Let me tell you something,” I say, my eyes burning holes through him. “It's not as easy as just walking up and pulling a trigger. When you look in another man's eyes, you're going to have doubts. Fears. You're probably going to hesitate before you pull that trigger. Know what happens then?”

“Oh, enlighten me,” Zach says and feigns a yawn.

“If he's holding a gun, you're going to die,” I say. “The difference between life and death can be seconds. If you're not ready to pull that trigger, you best not leave this house.”

“Somebody has to,” he snaps. “Someone has to avenge Timothy.”

I scoff and shake my head. It's funny to me that now, all of a sudden, they are so concerned with Timmy. When I first got to town, everything was business as usual, and his funeral was nothing more than another appointment they had to keep. Not one of them –the old man, Zach, Q, or Dalton – seem to really give a damn that Timmy's dead.

The only thing they're concerned about is themselves and their fortune. Oh, and the family name.

But, throw the Longstreet name into the equation and everything abruptly changes. Now, Timmy is a revered saint and his death must be avenged. Give me a fucking break.

Through it all, the old man is simply sitting back in his chair, watching and listening. His eyes are glittering, and I get the idea that he's enjoying the entire show. Fucking morbid bastard.

“Listen to me,” I snap. “None of you are actually capable of killing another human being. You just aren't. I can see it in your eyes. You walk out that door thinkin' you are, one of two things are going to happen – you're either going to die, or you're going to get incredibly lucky and kill Clyde, which will earn you a lifetime in prison.”

“How would we end up in prison?” Q asks, a nervous tremor in his voice.

“Because I'll go to the Staties myself,” I say. “I'll turn your asses in.”

The sound of a tumbler being slammed down on the desk draws all our attention. My father is staring at me menacingly, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. A shadow of pure, unadulterated rage crosses his features.

“You'd do that?” he asks. “You'd betray your own blood?”

“If it kept somebody alive and kept y’all out of prison, you bet,” I say.

“That's very disappointing, Milo,” the old man says. “And here, I thought you'd come back to be a part of this family again.”

“I told you before that I was only here to bury my brother,” I say. “It’s your fault if you chose not to listen.”

“Clyde Longstreet deserves to die for what he did,” Zach snaps.

“He didn't do it,” I say.

“Bullshit,” Zach says. “You said he did it before the fight.”

“I was fishing,” I say. “When I threw that at him, I could tell he had no idea what I was talking about. He didn't do it. I saw it in his eyes.”

“Bullshit,” Dalton finally says. “You're just trying to keep us from doing this.”

“Yeah, I'm trying to stop you,” I say. “You have no idea what it's like to kill another human being. You don't want to know. It's the most horrible, haunting experience possible.”

“Says the guy who killed dozens, if not hundreds, of people,” Zach says wryly. “How many did you kill over in the desert anyway?”

“Eighty-three,” I say without hesitation. “I killed eighty-three people and I see every one of their faces before I fall asleep. Sometimes after. I can describe each and every one of them to you perfectly. They haunt me. They're with me forever and will never give me a moment's peace. Is that how you want to live? Any of you?”

“Don't listen to him, boys,” the old man says. “You know what needs to be done. And if Milo here doesn't want to be part of the family, so be it. We managed well enough without him over the last eight years and we can certainly do so for the rest of our lives.”

I turn to the old man, leaning down over his desk and locking eyes with him. My gaze is unwavering and intense, and for the first time in my life, I see a flash of uncertainty in the old man's eyes. It's brief, like the shadow of a fish just under the surface of the water, there one second and gone the next. But, I saw it. It was there.

“Is this what you really want?” I ask. “For your three sons to be locked up for the rest of their lives for murdering an innocent man?”

“No Longstreet is innocent, Milo,” he says. “You're either naive or stupid to think otherwise.”

“Be that as it may,” I say, “Clyde Longstreet did not kill Timothy. He is innocent of that crime. You send your sons out to kill him, you're sending them to prison for life. For nothing. Is one-upping the Longstreets so important to you that you'd do that?”

“We do it because we believe in honor,” the old man says. “Something you've obviously forgotten all about.”

“I'm a U.S. Marine, you son of a bitch,” I hiss. “I've served with some of the finest fucking men on this planet. Don't even begin to think you can lecture me about honor.”

The old man looks taken aback. I've never spoken to him like that before and it catches him off-guard. I look at my brothers, who all seem a bit shell-shocked as well.

“What's it going to be, boys?” I say. “Stop being assholes or go to prison for life? Your choice.”

“You need to leave, Milo,” the old man says. “I want you out of my house. Now.”

“Consider me gone,” I say. “Just know that my next stop is to the Staties.”

I turn and walk to the office door. Zach's voice stops me, but I don't turn around.

“Just know that when you walk out that door,” he says. “You're no longer a Sheridan. You're no longer our family.”

I don't say another word as I storm down the hallway and out of the house. I guess I'm no longer a Sheridan. Yeah, I think I can live with that.