D orothy willed herself not to literally run from Charles Sinclair’s son. It might be the wrong thing to do for a variety of reasons, and she certainly did not want to do the wrong thing.
She kept walking, not once looking over her shoulder, until she realized that, despite her intention, she had covered more ground than would have been remotely possible had she kept an unhurried and dignified pace.
She slowed her steps and took a deep breath. Her heart still pounded in her ears, and she shook terribly.
It is past, Lord. I showed up to the meeting. I met with the man. I did my portion. It is over. I thank Thee for granting me the courage to go through with it.
She kept walking until, with a glance behind her, she decided that she had gone far enough to be out of sight. Then she ran, holding up her skirts just far enough to keep from tripping.
The pounding of her feet on the hard-packed earth, and the rush of air sweeping across her face released some of the bound energy of her fear. She ran until she found herself quite out of breath and in desperate need of a drink from her canteen.
She could see Artie Sinclair in her mind. He had his father’s dark hair, but blue eyes, and nothing else about his features or build reminded her of the father, except the way that Artie carried himself; perfectly upright and tall. He seemed to watch her far too much. Just like his father. Dorothy shuddered.
The note from the night before haunted her. She tried to wash it away in her mind while she drank from her canteen, but it refused to go away.
Certainly, I remembered my errand and did as he told me—but I didn’t have the money. When will he decide that not paying means it’s time to fulfill his threats? What exactly do his threats mean?
She wandered until she found a rock large enough to sit on and sank down.
“Grant me protection, oh Lord. Grant the same to Father. I couldn’t read the man’s face. I couldn’t tell how displeased he might be or how displeased he thought his father might be, but grant us protection despite the outcome, I pray Thee.”
She pushed back a strand of hair that had escaped her braid and clung to her face.
“I will be going home alone, and I do not know how long that will continue. I am alone, and I am frightened.” She glanced back in the direction of Apache Junction but saw only a vulture as he circled alone and high overhead.
“If it’s possible, and Thy will, I would that I do not need to do anymore such errands. Lord, I fear Mr. Sinclair and his son. I would that I didn’t have to meet either of them alone again. If I do, however, cover me under Thy protection.”
* * *
Artie watched his father as he squinted at the ring, turning it around in his fingers. The father raised an eyebrow as he held the diamond toward the light coming in through the window.
“Is this all that she gave you?”
“Yes, sir. She said that she hoped it would be worth something.”
His father grunted. “Salts?”
Artie waited as the short little man came wheezing toward his father’s desk.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
Charles Sinclair held the ring out to Fred. “From the Hodges girl.”
Fred took the ring, stared at it for a long moment, then shook his head. “Is this everything that she brought?”
Artie watched his father nod.
Fred returned the ring, pulling out his notebook. “Joseph Hodges: Delinquent again.”
Artie looked at his father, who held up the ring for inspection once more.
“I suppose that means that I need to pay Joe another visit.”
“I imagine that you ought to do so, yes.” Fred scribbling in his notebook, didn’t look up.
“He isn’t home.” Artie frowned when Fred and his father looked up simultaneously.
“Joe isn’t at home? How do you know?” His father’s almost eager tone seemed odd to Artie.
“His daughter said that he’s up in the Superstition Mountains. She didn’t say why he went up or for how long.”
His father grinned. “He’s in the Superstition Mountains, is he? Good. Very good.”
Fred stopped his scribbling and looked from Artie to his father. “Very good?”
Charles Sinclair nodded. “Very good.”
Fred watched the man a moment, a singular expression on his odd face, then returned to his notebook.
Artie, whose frown had only deepened in confusion, pulled at his suspenders. “What about the ring?”
“No good.” Fred snapped the notebook shut, pushing it into his coat pocket. “It’s worth very little, really.”
Artie turned toward his father.
The man tossed the ring at his son, returning to the papers on his desk. “You keep it, Artie. You can use it if you ever get yourself a girl or something.”
“Or you could return it, couldn’t you?” Artie turned the ring around in his hand. “It probably has sentimental value to Miss Hodges, if no monetary value.”
His father didn’t answer, and Fred Salts shook his head. “We’ll count its monetary value. It’s not completely without worth. It’s just not worth enough to be considered a payment.”
Artie looked up from the ring. “How much would be considered enough for a payment?”
A grim smile passed over Fred’s face. It passed so quickly that Artie nearly missed it. “Considerably more than that ring could ever bring in on its own. The ring covers a drop—a mere drop—in the bucket of what Joseph Hodges owes. However, every drop counts. Every single drop counts.”