Page 17 of Reckoning

“That’s okay. Mama’s pancakes are my best present ever,” he said.

Abel winked. “Happy birthday, Tate. Eat them while they’re hot.”

Tate grinned as he reached for the butter and syrup.

A short while later, they were all at the table, crunching bacon and passing butter and syrup around the table. Tate was down to his last few bites when there was a knock at their front door.

Abel frowned. “Who the heck would be out this early, in this weather?”

“It’s Mister Gibson,” Tate said, without looking up.

“Curly? What in the world?” Abel said, got up in a rush and hurried to the door. Whatever was happening must be bad or he would have just called. He opened the door. “Lord, Curly, get in here before you freeze to death,” he said, and grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside, shutting out the blowing snow and cold wind.

“I’m sorry for intruding on your breakfast,” Curly said.

“You’re not intruding. Come sit. We have coffee in the kitchen.”

“I’ll track snow all over your floors,” he said. “I’ll just talk right here on the entry rug if it’s okay with you.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” Abel said. “What’s wrong?”

But before Curly could answer, Tate came into the room. “His daddy died,” Tate said.

Curly’s eyes widened. He’d gotten glimpses of this child’s knowing for years, but it had never referred to him, and it was both daunting and amazing to witness it.

Abel gasped. “Curly! I’m so sorry.”

Curly’s hands were shaking. “Thank you. I’m closing the garage until the weather passes and we can get my dad laid to rest. Yes, I could have called you for that, but I came because I need a favor from Tate.”

Tate gave Curly an intent look, then nodded. “Ask.”

Curly sighed. “I have six brothers and sisters, and they’re all already fighting about Dad’s property and who’s going to get what. I know Dad had a will, but we couldn’t find where he put it, and that’s why I’m here, Tate. I was wondering if you might be able to help us out here and stop this fight before it becomes a feud.”

“I’ll help,” Tate said. “Do you have anything with you that belonged to him?”

Curly groaned. “No. I didn’t think to—”

“Never mind,” Tate said. “You belonged to him. Don’t talk. Just hold my hand.”

Curly looked down at the boy’s outstretched hand and grasped it.

For Tate, it was like turning a page in a book and seeing new words written there. He could see himself standing in a house he’d never been in, watching an old man walking up a set of stairs holding a white envelope, then down a hallway and into a room with an old treadle sewing machine.

“Upstairs. In the room with a funny sewing machine. Bottom drawer on the left, beneath the spools of thread, underneath a piece of red felt, like the kind they use to make Christmas stockings.”

Curly’s heart skipped. “Oh my word. I hope you’re right, Tate. This will mean everything. I wonder why he put it there?”

Tate let go of Curly’s hand. “He changed the will because he was afraid of someone,” he said, then glanced at Abel. “Daddy, there’s more. Do I tell him even if it’s bad?”

“If Curly wants to hear it, then it’s okay,” Abel said.

Curly’s eyes widened. “What else, Tate? Tell me.”

“What made your daddy die?” Tate asked.

“He was old. The doctor said it was likely his heart.”

“Who’s Reggie?” Tate asked.