Stay a Little Longer (24 page)

Rachel lay unconscious on the floor, her blouse violently torn open and her naked flesh exposed. Her arms lay defenseless
at her sides, her coal-black hair splayed out on the floor around her unmoving head. Kneeling before her, caught as he was
lowering his trousers to the middle of his pasty thighs, was a man Mason didn’t recognize. When he looked up, his wispy hair
flung helter-skelter around his balding head, instead of the expected surprise at being caught, his bony face became a mask
of anger and indignation.

“What the hell? Get out! Get out!” he demanded.

“You no-good son of a bitch!” Mason roared in answer.

Fueling Mason’s arms and legs with a strength he hadn’t known for many years was a burning, relentless drive to save Rachel.
He leapt forward as if he were a wolf protecting its cub, passing over Rachel’s unconscious body and barreling into the man.
Even though the stranger raised his hands to defend himself, it was a useless gesture. Jamming the would-be rapist back onto
the floor, Mason knelt upon his chest and drove his fist hard into the man’s jaw, following up with another blow to his midsection.
Over and over he swung, punch after punch connecting, his thoughts a whirling torrent of both pain and anger.

“How dare you touch her!” Mason thundered.

Desperately, Rachel’s attacker tried to fight back, throwing feeble punches of his own, but even those that connected had
little impact; to Mason they were nothing more than the gentlest of taps. His anger at what this man had done, let alone what
he had intended to do, fueled him ever forward.
I will make him pay for what he has done to you, Rachel
.

But just as Mason was about to throw a punch laden with all of his remaining might, to try to end the whole horrific affair,
the rapist managed to buck his hips and tip him on his side. Unable to balance himself, Mason fell on the floor, but before
he could right himself, the bastard scuttled away from him. In a flash, the man jumped to his feet, desperately yanked his
trousers up, and then barreled over Rachel and out the door. The clatter of footsteps rose from the staircase and was followed
by the slamming of the front door.

We belong together… as husband and wife…

Rachel woke with the suddenness of a gunshot, her mind racing as fast as her heart. Gripped by panic, she felt the touch of
a man’s arms on her shoulders and was certain that she was in grave danger. In that split second, she remembered what had
befallen her: she had just left Mason’s room, tired from having cared for Otis’s wounds, when a hand had clamped down on her
mouth and she had been dragged away into darkness.

As she had struggled to get away, to get back to the safety of the light, she hadn’t been able to think straight, hadn’t been
able to ascertain who it was that was attacking her. Not until her assailant had shut the door behind them and spoken had
she learned his identity, and with that knowledge had come a hopelessness, an icy dread that had latched on to her heart and
refused to let go no matter how much she fought.

Now that Rachel was once again alert, that dread returned. Her arms jerked outward, scratching and fighting to push him away.
Though her vision was still clouded, which made it impossible for her to clearly see Jonathan Moseley’s face, she knew that
she needed to get away from him as quickly as she could. While her legs felt as weak as a newborn calf’s, she implored them
to move, to push with all that she had.

“Rachel, stop fighting!” a man’s voice pleaded. “It’s me!”

Instantly, she knew that the person who held her was not Jonathan; instead of his reedy, nasal voice, what she heard was much
deeper, the sound of a man infinitely more sure of himself than the salesman. Blinking rapidly in the dim light from the hallway
beyond, Rachel recognized her rescuer.

It was Mason.

He leaned down over her with the slightest wisp of a smile, a lightness that was betrayed by the grave seriousness of his
eyes. Though some dizziness washed over her, Rachel couldn’t help but notice the tiniest of details in his face; the dark
stubble that graced his cheeks, the faint wrinkles that spread at the corners of his eyes, and even faint strands of his black
hair. Still, these pleasant features couldn’t calm the terror in her heart.

“He… he… he was going to rape… me,” she whispered.

“I stopped him.”

“Where… where is… he… ?” Rachel panicked, looking about the room for some sign of Jonathan.

“He’s gone from here,” Mason answered reassuringly. “When I opened the door and found him with you, I tried all that I could
to stop him from doing any more harm, but he managed to get away. I would have gone after him, but I’m not well enough to
run down the stairs. Besides, I need to know if you’ve been hurt.”

Even as Mason spoke, Rachel realized that she had been saved. With shaking hands, she touched the tattered front of her blouse,
realizing just how much horror Jonathan had wished to visit upon her. Seeing her naked flesh exposed made her flush crimson
with embarrassment.

“I tried my best to cover you,” Mason explained, his own modesty keeping his eyes from meeting hers. “Thank God that I was
able to reach you before he could do real harm.”

Suddenly, the enormity of what had nearly happened struck Rachel. Tears began to fall in a cascade that showed no sign of
stopping. She knew that she had made a terrible mistake in not reporting to her mother Jonathan’s improper advances toward
her, beginning with the day at the laundry line. By not drawing attention to him, by not calling him out for the bastard he
was, she had allowed him to gain confidence, to believe that nothing and no one would stop him. Only because of Mason had
she been allowed to maintain her dignity.

But I’ve lost a lot more than pride…

While sobs racked Rachel’s body, Mason took her into his arms. There, in the darkness of her attacker’s room, he held her
close, allowing her to shed her emotional burden. His touch comforted her. Nestled into the crook of Mason’s muscular arms,
she wasn’t ashamed of her fear, but instead allowed it to be revealed and then cast out.

“Hush now,” he soothed. “You’re safe with me.”

And at that moment, she knew it was true.

M
ASON STOOD BEFORE
the window of his room in the boardinghouse, staring at the raging storm beyond. Angry rain fell, needles of cold water lashing
against the glass panes as gusts of intermittent wind pushed insistently upon the branches of the dappled trees. Occasional
forks of lightning laced across the sky, followed moments later by the deep bass rumbling of thunder. The weather, dark and
gloomy, was nearly as brooding as his own mood.

Three days had passed since Jonathan Moseley had attacked Rachel in the middle of the night. Mason had hoped that they would
talk about what had happened, but Rachel had done little more than confirm that she had spoken to her mother about her assault
and had rejected any suggestions that they call the police. She had told Eliza that she alone had fought Jonathan off and
had omitted Mason’s part in saving her. When he had pressed her, she had given him a weak smile and told him that she was
over it all, water under the bridge, but he knew she was lying. Since he knew nothing more of the bastard than that he had
assaulted her, he was frustrated that because of the darkness he didn’t even have a face to hate.

Since that night, Mason’s strength had steadily returned. Though he had been sore the morning after he chased away the salesman,
he’d taken his mobility as a blessing and had begun to make his way around the confines of his room. Slowly, inch by inch,
he had pushed himself, never settling for any amount less than he had done the time before. Now he knew that he was almost
fully recovered.

While Mason had taken great pains to regain the use of his body, he had also paid attention to the needs of his mind and spirit.
His return to Carlson had been difficult; hearing of Alice’s death had nearly been a mortal blow to his heart, and learning
that he had a daughter both delighted and disturbed him. He also often thought of the heated words Rachel had spoken to him
when he first admitted his true identity.

But because you ran away, you’ve lost everything!

The harsh truth of the matter was that Rachel was right; by running away from everyone and everything he knew, Mason had forfeited
all that he valued in life. Now, eight long years later, he had to pick himself up and begin again. While he could never be
certain of his future path, he knew that he could no longer hide from his responsibilities as he once had.

To that end, I will resemble the man I once was…

Over the last three days, Mason had acquired everything he would need, with Charlotte as his enthusiastic accomplice. Turning
from the window, he approached the bureau in the corner and looked upon his arrayed treasures that she had managed to procure
for the task ahead: a pair of scissors, an ivory-handled straight razor, a dish containing a cake of shaving cream and a brush
pilfered from Otis’s room, and a towel. The final addition, just delivered, was a basin of hot water, the steam still rising
from its surface and fogging up the mirror that hung above the bureau.

Using the palm of his hand, Mason wiped a clear swath across the mirror’s clouded surface. In it, he found the reflected image
of himself that he had been carrying with him ever since he was wounded on the battlefields of France, but nearly impossible
for him to see was the man he had once been.

Can I ever be that man again?

“You can’t turn back,” he muttered to himself. “Never again.”

Dipping two hands into the hot water, Mason splashed it onto his face, wetting his beard. Then, with the pair of sharp scissors,
he began to cut the damp hair off in clumps. Slice by slice, cut by cut, the façade he had painfully constructed over the
years was snipped away until only a residue of whiskers remained on his face. Then he lathered it, being careful not to take
too long a look at himself in the partially fogged mirror. He had resolved before he began to let his eyes dwell only upon
the final result.

As Mason was about to start shaving, his hand that held the razor began to shake. Tightening his grip upon the ivory handle,
he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, summoning all the courage he could muster. He had resolved that he would not run
from the problems that confronted him, but instead would meet his challenges head-on.

For Charlotte, for Alice, for Rachel and even for myself, I will not run…

Slowly he began to shave his face. Starting with his unscarred cheek, he scraped the sharp blade upward, cutting off his dark
whiskers. He worked carefully, dipping the razor back into the scalding water after every pass. Over and over he repeated
his work, working from cheek to lip to chin to neck. Finally, all that remained was what he had kept hidden.

Avoiding eye contact with the mirror, he shaved by touch, the fingers of his other hand guiding the blade where it needed
to go. Within minutes, he was finished. With great trepidation, he opened his eyes.

Mason’s first thought was that he was most certainly not the monster he had feared he had become. Though the scarring of his
cheek was visible, it was not revolting: whitish-pink ridges rose and fell where the skin had been melted across his cheek
and jawline. But the effect wasn’t widespread, more splattered than spread; it was almost certainly this fact that had allowed
him to grow a beard in the first place. Turning first one way and then the other, he closely examined the face he had allowed
to become a stranger to his own eyes. Touching the scars caused him no pain. While it would have been impossible to completely
ignore his obvious disfigurement, he realized that Alice would have recognized him.

Did I stay away all of these years for nothing?

Almost immediately, Mason knew the answer to his own unspoken question. The fact was that he was no longer the man who had
left Carlson so many years before, but the realization struck him that he wouldn’t have been that man even if he had never
been wounded. Even if he had come home unscathed and been met at the depot by a band and a banner blaring his triumph, he
would not have been the Mason Tucker who left. The horrors of war, the wanton blood and death and destruction he had witnessed,
would have changed him every bit as much as an exploding shell.

Besides, he had shaved off his beard not because of a desire to return to the past, but because he had finally realized that
what mattered was the man he would become.

Mason was lost in these thoughts when there was a soft knock on the door. It swung open and standing there, staring at him,
was Rachel.

*   *   *   

Rachel knocked softly on the door to Mason’s room before entering, just as she had done many times before in the days since
Charlotte found him. He had chosen to take all of his meals in his room, just as her mother did, but today Rachel intended
to ask him if he felt like joining her for lunch at the dining room table.

“It’s just about time for lunch and I wondered if—” she began before falling silent at the sight before her.

Gone was the disheveled, scruffy beard that had covered Mason’s face. Before him was a still steaming bowl of water and his
shaving instruments, a testament to what he had done.

At the sight of her, Mason quickly turned toward the wall, showing her only half of his face. His deep blue eyes darted toward
her and then back to the safety of the wall in a look of embarrassment. It took only an instant for her to understand why.

The wounds to his face!

Suddenly, all of the words that Mason had spoken to her about his traumatic experiences on the war-torn battlefields of France
came rushing back; the explosions that tore up the earth, the mud mixed with the blood of his fellow soldiers, but particularly
the attack that led him from the relative safety of the trenches into a bombardment that sent him hurtling through the air
and away from all he had known and loved. She recalled the tension in his voice as he spoke of waking in a hospital surrounded
by the screams and moans of the wounded and dying. All that he had done since that day was aimed at hiding what had happened
to his face.