He grimaced at the exciting, embarrassing memory.
He’d given her the wrong impression of him.
Or had he?
Was that yearning, desperate kid really still alive in him?
Jacob didn’t think so. But still . . . even though Jake Tharp was dead to him, he was having an effect on Jacob’s present reality. Somehow . . .
It wasn’t the first time in his life that he’d thought Harper McFadden was worth the complication. It probably wouldn’t be the last. In the case of himself—Jacob—the complication was risking his exposure. His shame. His weakness.
For Jake Tharp, the stakes of getting involved with Harper had been even greater. In helping that girl so many years ago, Jake had risked nothing less than his own life.
seven
Twenty Years Ago
Jake woke up to the sound of the dogs barking furiously. His uncle, Emmitt Tharp, ran one of the largest dogfighting and gambling operations in the Appalachians. Emmitt’s run-down house, barns, dog cages, and fighting rings were well hidden in the mountains and forest from the police.
There was no fight scheduled tonight, though; no dozens or hundreds of loud, drunk men arriving in their pickups or with the boat service Emmitt provided, which dropped off gamblers at nearby Shaker’s Landing. The dogs had been alerted to something—or someone—on the property, though. Jake sat up on the thin mattress when he heard Jarvis, one of their more aggressive dogs, bawl extra loud.
Maybe the mountain lion that had prowled around the dog pens last summer had returned? If so, it’d be best to leave dealing with it up to Emmitt. Jake hated his uncle, and feared him more than anything he could imagine, but one thing was certain: Emmitt could handle a mountain lion. Emmitt Tharp was as lean, mean, and strong as the bred killers bawling right now out in the pens.
Word had it that Jake’s father, Emmitt’s older brother, Marcus, had been even taller and stronger than Emmitt, a rumor that fascinated Jake. He still doubted it, though. Emmitt was brutal, but he was still the most physically intimidating, fastest, and most fearless man Jake had ever known. His uncle was probably already shaking off his nightly whiskey drunk and reaching for his shotgun at this very moment.
But Jake heard no sounds emanating from the direction of the living room, where Emmitt usually passed out every night in front of the television. His uncle must have really overdone it this time. Jake usually made himself scarce once the bottle left the cabinet at around four o’clock every afternoon. Hell, he made himself as invisible as possible from Emmitt all the time.
Earlier that afternoon, Jake had tried to make an escape to the cave to avoid his yelling and his
heavy hand for a few blessed hours. Emmitt had been unusually aware today, however, grabbing Jake by the too-long hair at his nape when he’d tried to slink silently out the back door.
“You’re not sneaking off anywhere to play whatever games you play all alone. I’m starting to think you’re a little faggot. Probably dolls you’re playing with out in them woods,” his uncle had said around a wet, sagging cigar.
This was a new bullying theme Emmitt had taken a liking to since Jake turned thirteen: insinuating he was gay because he was five foot two and skinny as a rail.
Using his hold on Jake’s hair, Emmitt shoved all eighty-three pounds of him. Jake flew across the worn wood floor of the living room, landing with a thud against the wall. He scrambled to his feet quickly, ignoring his pain, so that Emmitt wouldn’t find him in that vulnerable position. Jake prayed daily for a bigger, stronger body so that he could start to defend himself against his uncle . . . but was starting to worry it’d never happen. He’d be weak and helpless forever.
“You get on back to your room and don’t come out until tomorrow. If you do, I’ll make you sorry. You know I will.”
“But I gotta see to Mrs. Roundabout.”
“You don’t need to worry about that born cold bitch. She’s done for. Only use she has is to train the other dogs on her.”
Terror had shot through Jake’s veins at that. Mrs. Roundabout had suffered multiple puncture wounds, severe bruising, and a shattered thighbone in a recent fight. A pit bull’s jaws were lethal, horrible weapons. Dogfights were brutal, and not primarily because of the dogs’ savagery. In Jake’s unvoiced opinion, the true offenders were the men who got off on the violence.
He’d been terrified when Emmitt had declared two weeks ago that Mrs. Roundabout would go in the ring. It’d been nearly two years since the frisky brown and white puppy had been unfortunate enough to be brought onto Emmitt’s property. Jake had hid his bond with the dog as best he could but his efforts were useless—just like most things were when it came to caring about something in the vicinity of Emmitt Tharp.
After the fight, Emmitt had left Mrs. Roundabout to heal, suffer, or die. Each was the same to him. But Jake had silently set up a bed of sorts for her in one of the barns and was tending her as best as he could with limited supplies. At the edge of his awareness loomed the idea that he was just prolonging the dog’s agony, but he refused to give up hope. Emmitt hadn’t interfered with Jake’s doctoring of Mrs. Roundabout until now, mostly because the situation had been beneath his notice. But he’d just called Mrs. Roundabout cold, which meant Emmitt believed she was born not to fight. Emmitt had no use for a cold dog . . . except to use her as a patsy for the other dogs to sic on, to nurture their killer instinct for the ring.
“She’s not cold,” Jake insisted, knowing the only way he could try and save Mrs. Roundabout’s life was to defend her as a worthy contestant for the ring. “You saw her fight—”
“I saw her cower and whimper, just like you. No wonder you like that bitch so much. Two of a kind,” Emmitt had bellowed, shoving Jake toward the hall. “Get back in your room and stay put. Don’t you come out, even for food, until I say so. Hear?”
Jake had known better than to argue. Sometimes Emmitt got like this when he was planning some kind of dirty deal—a drug or a weapons exchange. Emmitt’s illegal endeavors spread far beyond dogfighting. Or more correctly, dogfighting, by its very nature, drew in a variety of ugliness and crime.
His room had been sweltering hot. He’d drowned in his own sweat, lying on his bare cot. He’d found a book abandoned at a campsite three miles through the woods—Dune. He’d reread it thirty-one times now, and guarded it like a religious icon. Usually, he reserved all his reading for the public library in Poplar Gorge. If Emmitt saw a book in his room, Jake cringed to think of the shit he’d get.
But it was too hot to focus on reading tonight. Luckily, he’d brought a glass of water into his room last night, or he might have dehydrated. With nothing to do in the nearly empty room, he’d eventually fallen asleep.