by Karen Harper
“Okay, okay, I get it. Steer clear. Don’t embarrass the lord of the manor. Bet you don’t even want me to stay here for a while, right, bro?” His voice rose, and he stood unsteadily. “Look, I won’t beg, but I’m telling you I need a tide-me-over job or maybe an investment for a new path—and if I don’t get some help somewhere...”
“You’re welcome to stay here for a while, but I can’t free any capital right now, not the kind you’d need to start another business or bail out the paper mill. The digital age would have taken the lumber mill under if I hadn’t diversified into things like mulch and log-cabin kits and concentrated on sales to hardwood-furniture stores and some other side projects.”
“I don’t need that lecture again. I’ll go on upstairs,” Brad said, holding up both palms as if to fend him off. He suddenly seemed sober, steadier, and his voice turned hard and cold. “Look, Grant. I only have one real big financial asset left, and I’m getting desperate enough to sell it—rare, precious and mysterious as it is. Wonder how much it’s worth? Prob’ly priceless.”
Grant’s head snapped around. “The four of us swore never to do that or even tell others. I wish we could put all that back, erase what we did and saw.”
“It’s just I need some help right now. So how much you think that big arrowhead would go for on the black market, huh?”
“Keep your voice down. I’ve got caterers here. Brad, there are laws now that would put you in prison and mean huge fines if you got caught.”
“Yeah, and then what if I blabbed about where I got it, right? But I said ‘black market.’ What did Dad used to say? ‘Let the dead stay dead’? Well, my paper mill’s dead, but I’ve gotta find a way to survive and thrive.”
“We can discuss it later. I’m sure there will be a place for you at the mill until you get on your feet.”
“Cleaning up the back lot? Driving a forklift? Hey, did Gabe catch those timber thieves around here yet? Stealing good hardwood offa people’s lots, but for sure, not selling it underhanded to you for the mill, right?”
“That’s right, and I don’t want you implying anything else, whether you’re drunk or sober. I just heard a car door slam outside. I’ll be sure you get some food and nonalcoholic refreshment upstairs after you get a shower, and we’ll talk in the morning, but I’ve got to greet my guests. You need help on the stairs?” he asked, taking Brad’s upper arm to move him along.
Brad shook loose. “The only help I need’s a job from our fam’ly business till I can find a buyer for the industrial rollers, dryers and big, dead building I still own. Go greet your guests, man. Don’t look at me that way, like I’m a zombie from the mound out back.” He snorted a half laugh. “’Member that old movie with Boris Karloff as a walking, murdering mummy from some old tomb? But listen, I can still think and plan. I’m not an idiot. I may have my life smashed in right now but not my skull!”
Grant’s stomach tightened at that final comment and at the nightmare memory that would always haunt him, but he buried it as he hurried to answer the front door.
Copyright © 2014 by Karen Harper
ISBN-13: 9781460345818
Broken Bonds
Copyright © 2015 by Karen Harper
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