Chapter 8: His Daughter's Prettier Than a Movie Star

Claire stepped through the morning dew and pushed open the wooden gate.

The yard was quiet, save for the ivy climbing the corner wall, unusually green in the morning haze.

A familiar hunched figure was hauling a half-full bucket from the well, steps unsteady.

At the sound of the gate, the old man paused and slowly turned.

The moment his eyes found her, Walter Bennett's weathered face broke into a smile.

He dropped the bucket without a thought for the water splashing across his pant legs, voice cracking with surprise.

"Claire Claire's home!"

Her throat tightened, tears threatening. She crossed the yard and threw her arms around the thin old man.

"Grandpa."

Walter wiped his hands on his shirt and took her hand in his, thumb smoothing over her knuckles, his fingers rough as tree bark. His clouded eyes swept over her, worry written across every line of his face.

"You've lost more weight. Is the food up there no good? Or are they working you too hard?"

Claire swallowed the tears rising in her throat and forced a light, teasing tone.

"Not a chance I eat like a horse. My metabolism's just unfair. Everyone's jealous."

"Don't lie to me. You're skin and bone, your face isn't even the size of my palm," Walter muttered, though his frown eased quickly into hope. "You hungry? You must be starving after a night on the road. Come sit, I made noodles already got 'em going."

"Okay."

She watched him hurry off toward the kitchen and stepped into the main room alone.

The light was dim, the furniture worn and mismatched, nothing about it particularly beautiful and yet every corner of it felt like peace.

The largest frame on the wall held a black-and-white photo of her grandparents as newlyweds, alongside a family portrait. Smaller photos filled the rest of the wall mostly of her, more than anyone else.

She pushed open the door to her old room.

Everything sat exactly as she'd left it the desk spotless, clearly dusted daily. The blackout paper over the window had faded to a worn gray-white.

Just like this house. About to fade out of my life for good.

The tears finally came, dropping onto the floorboards.

"Claire! Noodles are ready come eat while it's hot!"

Walter's voice rang out from the kitchen.

She snapped back, wiped her face hard, slapped her cheeks once in front of the mirror, and forced a bright smile before calling back, "Coming!"

She pushed the curtain aside and stepped out.

On the worn, peeling table sat a steaming bowl, two eggs and two chicken legs piled on top.

Claire's eyes welled up all over again just looking at it.

"Eat, eat, before it gets cold."

Walter sat across from her, watching with open hope, his wrinkles smoothing into a smile.

"Broth's made from a hen I had this morning, simmered down slow real good stuff. I'll use the rest for your favorite shredded chicken at lunch. No cilantro, I remembered."

Claire bent over her bowl and ate in big, hungry bites, mumbling around the noodles, "Mm I've been craving your shredded chicken for months."

Then

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The courtyard gate slammed open, followed by a string of rough shouting that shattered the quiet.

Walter's smile froze. Something sharp and dangerous flickered behind his eyes.

He stood abruptly, pressed a hand down on Claire's shoulder as she started to rise, his voice suddenly hard.

"Claire. Stay inside. Don't come out, no matter what."

Panic shot through her. "What's going on? Who is that?"

Walter looked away, already sliding the warm smile back over his face. "It's nothing just a few old friends, dropping by. They're loud, that's all. Ignore them."

He turned and walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.

The second he crossed the threshold, his stooped shoulders straightened completely.

He walked to the corner of the wall, grabbed the wood-splitting axe, tucked it behind his back, and strode toward the gate.

Outside, a group of men were already kicking at the door.

"Morning, old man," the one in front sneered bleached-blond hair, already shoving forward.

Walter slammed the axe down into the dirt in front of him, voice dropping low, eyes gone cold as a wolf's.

"Not here. Come with me."

Something in his tone made them hesitate. They exchanged glances, then followed him to a patch of grass a few dozen yards from the house.

"I told you not this week."

Walter's grip tightened on the axe handle, veins standing out along the back of his hand.

"The house sold. Paperwork's already moving. You'll have your money next week."

"Old man, that's only a hundred grand." Blondie picked at his teeth, smirking. "That's not enough. Gary Bennett borrowed two hundred off us."

The mention of that name made Walter shake with rage.

"Beat him to death for all I care. I've got no son by that name anymore. He owed you a hundred grand principal I sold my house to cover that much, and my conscience is clear. Whatever interest he racked up on top of it, that's between you and him."

"Tch, can't say that so easy." Blondie's grin turned oily. "Gary mentioned you've got a granddaughter. Said she's prettier than any movie star..."

"Shut your mouth!"

Walter's axe snapped up, eyes bloodshot. "We haven't spoken in years. She's in the city somewhere. Nobody knows where."

"That so?" Blondie's grin spread wider, and he pointed back toward the house. "Then who's the pretty girl I heard walked into your yard this morning?"

Walter's mind went blank.

He turned and bolted for home like a man possessed, heart slamming against his ribs.

He burst into the courtyard to find two of the men already blocking the doorway to the main room, leering.

Inside, Claire stood gripping a kitchen knife, face bone-white, guarding the doorway with the blade shaking in her hand.

"Stay back! Don't come any closer!" she screamed, brandishing the knife.

"Claire!"

Walter roared.

He charged forward, axe cutting through the air, and brought it down on the man nearest her without a second's hesitation.

"AAGH!"

A scream tore through the yard, blood spraying across the dirt.

The man crumpled, clutching his slashed arm.

In the chaos, Walter shoved Claire behind him, using his own body not much of a shield, thin as he was to block whatever came next.

He held the bloodied axe in both hands, his clouded old eyes suddenly carrying a violence that looked like it had come from somewhere far darker, far older than this yard.

"Don't be scared, Claire."

"Grandpa's here. Nobody's laying a hand on you."

Claire shook violently, biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. Staring at the hunched back standing between her and the men, she felt the tears spill over.

"With you here, Grandpa... I'm not scared."

"Murder! The old man's lost his mind!" the wounded thug howled, clutching his arm, screaming like the world was ending.

"Then quit your screaming!" Walter bellowed, loud enough to shake dust from the rafters.