Never Tell Them N.L. Hinkens (books to read in a lifetime .txt) 📖

pulled the drawstring tight. ”You can’t help me, Ray. I don’t need rescuing anymore. I need you to leave, now.”

“What? You can’t be serious! I only just got here. Are you really going to throw me out?”

Tom reached for the rifle on the wall behind him and fixed a cold gaze on Ray. “I will if I have to.”

Ray held up his hands in front of him. ”Okay! Easy, Tom. Look, I realize I sprung this visit on you. But we need to talk—not just about the estate, about everything that’s gone on in our lives since I saw you last. How about I leave you my number and you can call me from town when you’re ready? I’ll come and pick you up.” He rummaged around in his pack for one of the pens he always carried with him in case he ran across a story. He tore off a corner of the map and scribbled down his number. “Don’t wait too long,” he said, setting it on the table. “It’s been far too long already.”

He swung his backpack onto his shoulders and turned to go, hesitating at a rustling sound above him. Glancing up at the loft bed, he let out a sharp gasp.

A small boy with terror-filled eyes was peering down at him.

25

Ray blinked up at the loft bed in disbelief. “Am I ... seeing things or is that a child up there?”

Tom flapped an arm angrily at the boy. ”I thought I warned you not to show your face!”

Quick as a fish darting into a reef, the boy vanished beneath a blanket.

Aghast, Ray turned to his brother. “Tom! What’s that kid doing here?”

Tom sniffed hard, his eyes shifting all around the room. ”He’s my son. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“You … you have a son?” Ray shook his head, incredulous. “I can’t believe this. First, I find out you’re alive, now I learn I have a nephew. How … I mean, who’s—“

“His mother left us,” Tom said abruptly. “It’s nothing I want to talk about, so don’t ask.”

“Can you at least tell me your son’s name?” Ray asked, fighting to keep his tone calm.

Tom scowled and reached for a coat hanging by the door. “His name’s Henry.”

“Henry Jenkins,” Ray muttered, trying to collect his thoughts. He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that Tom was a father. Was that the reason Celia had been sending him money each month? It made sense that she would be concerned about her grandchild’s welfare, especially knowing where he was living. But something didn’t add up. Looking around the humble surroundings, it was apparent Tom wasn’t spending the money on taking care of the kid.

Beyond that, the more pressing question on Ray’s mind was whether Tom was a fit father for a young child. It was alarming to think the boy was up here in the mountains without his mother, or access to healthcare, or education, or any friends his own age. Tom didn’t even have a dog for him to play with. Ray gritted his teeth. He needed to make his brother see sense. But he had to tread carefully. Judging by the way Tom had snapped at the boy, he was basing his parenting style on habits he’d learned in his own childhood—none of which were healthy. ”Did our mother know about Henry?” Ray asked.

Tom looked surprised by the question. ”Course not.”

“How old is Henry?”

After a beat of silence, Tom answered, “He’s … four.”

Ray’s heart sank a little further. He had a sneaking suspicion “four” was Tom’s best estimate. Talk about being a negligent father. Was he not keeping track of his own son’s age? History repeating itself. Their father had never known when their birthdays were—nor had he cared.

“Tom,” Ray said, doing his best to keep his voice level, ”You can’t raise a small boy out in the mountains alone like this. It’s not good for him. He should be in school. He needs to have friends. What if he gets sick or something?”

Tom’s eyes glinted with anger. “Don’t stick your nose into my business. I know what’s best for him. I’m taking care of him.”

“Really?” Ray motioned to Tom’s leather hunting pack. ”Looks like you were getting ready to head out alone when I arrived. Henry was in bed. Do you leave him here by himself when you go hunting? Is that what you call taking care of him?”

Tom jutted his chin out. “I’m bringing him with me.”

Ray frowned. “Didn’t look like it—the way he was hiding under the blanket like that. Regardless, he’s only four years old, way too young to take hunting. It’s dangerous to have a small child around guns.”

“You have no idea of the kind of danger he’s in.” Tom threw him a dark look as he yelled up to the loft area, ”Henry! Get down here, now! We’re leaving.”

“Tom!” Ray gasped. “Quit threatening him like that! He didn’t do anything.”

“Hurry up!” Tom barked up the ladder.

Stewing in a mixture of anger and helplessness, Ray watched as the little boy’s face reappeared from under the blanket. He stared solemnly at Ray but made no attempt to climb down.

Tom muttered something unintelligible under his breath, then stood on the bottom rung and grabbed the boy around the waist. Henry wriggled in his arms, whimpering.

“Knock it off!” Tom snapped as he set Henry down on the floor. “We have to go. And you can’t make a sound.”

Trying to mask his shock, Ray took stock of the boy’s neglected appearance. His dark curls were filthy and matted, his face so engrained with dirt that his eyes looked like marshmallows set in mud. He was wearing pants that were way too big for him, held up at the waist by a piece of string. Judging by the dried stains on the front, he was having difficulty undoing the string quickly enough to relieve himself.

Ray rubbed a shaking hand over his jaw. This was child abuse. If the authorities knew the conditions Henry