Heath didn't feel his legs, didn't feel his feet. He didn't feel his exertion. He didn't feel anything but the need to run, the need to hide. He stopped, his back on a tree, sweating, breathing hard.
With his eyes closed, he thought about the man he was running from, the man who was able to awaken his most hidden fears. He let himself slid toward the ground and sat, his knees up.
The man known as Matt Simmons had caught him by his mama's grave.
"So you're back".
Heath was kneeling, his thoughts on the one woman who had never failed him, the one person whose love he had never doubted. He felt a raw anger build inside at the hateful voice, and fought to keep it under control. Aunt Rachel's death cried out for justice, and he had in mind to get to the bottom of what had happened. But not now, not here, not on his mama's grave.
He slowly stood and turned to face his uncle. "What do you want, Simmons?" he asked. He hadn't called him "uncle" since he was eight years old.
"What do I want? I want to finish what I started. You know it, boy. You should have drowned in the river that day. Not even your own father wanted you".
"But I didn't, and I won't. And don't name my father".
"Why not, I knew him, unlike you. And I hear you settled down with them, didn't you? With his widow and his real children. Do they know you came here?"
"This is not of your concern, Simmons. You won't get anything from me or them. Now, tell me, what happened to Aunt Rachel?"
Matt stiffened. "You better know your place, boy. You're not the one asking questions, here. That woman didn't know her place and it cost her her life".
Heath's hand went for his gun. The man's words were all the evidence he needed.
"She was just an old woman, Simmons, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"I'll teach you respect, boy. You're biting the hand that fed you and you'll pay for that. Leah is not here to protect you, this time. You're all alone".
Heath extracted his gun and aimed at the man. "You're not even worthy to mention her name, Simmons. And guess what? I'm not a child anymore", he said coldly.
"You are not worthy living, Heath Thomson", the man said, walking toward him, stopping when he was just a few inches from him.
"My name is Heath Barkley", Heath said, each word like an icy needle, his eyes fixed in the void of his uncle's orbs. He cocked his gun.
Matt froze at the sound. He made a step backward.
"You won't hurt your uncle", he said.
"You ceased to be my uncle a long time ago. You're nothing to me, Simmons, and I'll do it if I have to".
He hadn't finished to speak those words yet, that something hit him on the back of his head. He fell on the ground, senseless.
"What are you doing here, Phelps?" Matt asked, without looking at other man, his eyes fixed on his nephew. "The boy is mine, and you have no right…"
"He knows about Rachel, I heard everything. I have all the rights, since I helped you after what you have done".
"You know well as I know that that was all Martha's doing".
"Yeah, and she's the only reason I helped you. She's the only thing that keeps me tied to this town. She's too much woman for you".
"Maybe, but she won't exchange one failure for another". Matt raised his head and looked the man in the eye. "Now, clear out".
Phelps said nothing. He let out a little, ironic laugh, then turned and went away. Matt watched him disappear. He had no time to think about his wife's lover, at the moment. He had more important things to look after. This little bastard, to name one. Matt bent and took Heath's gun from his hand. He dropped it on the ground, it was of no use.
When he opened his eyes at the pain of Matt's boot in his ribs, Heath realized his uncle was brandishing a branch. A paralyzing terror gripped his heart. He couldn't move, frozen in place.
Heath was a young, strong and healthy man, perfectly capable of self defense. He had proven his courage, strength and agility many times. And, he was a deadly shot. But, he was nothing like that anymore: at the sight of Matt Simmons brandishing that branch, he instantly traveled back in time, at the time he was a helpless eight years child, almost dead with fear. Too many times he had been hit; too many times he had been hurt. Too many times he had been abused.
Matt grabbed Heath by his shirt collar and pulled him upright. "Move", he said, hitting him with the branch and shoving him.
Heath knew where they were going. It was happening all over again, and he couldn't do anything to stop it.
"You let my boy be, Matt", Hannah voice came from behind Matt.
Matt let go of Heath's shirt and turned. Hannah had a gun in her hand and was aiming it at him, just like one day Leah had done.
But, Leah had been a young, strong woman. Hannah's hand was trembling, her voice was weak. An evil smirk on his face, Matt walked toward her brandishing the same branch he had been using on Heath.
"Run Heath, run!" Hannah cried out.
And run Heath did.
He didn't know anything anymore, just that his uncle would kill him, if he didn't run.
After Rachel Caulfield's premature death, Hannah had inherited all her belongings, Rachel's late husband's gun included, the very same gun that had already bit Matt's flesh.
Hannah was an old woman, she was ready to meet her maker whenever he called her. Her memory… her memory was now often faltering, but she hadn't forgotten her boy, the boy she had helped raise, her Heath. She had been so pleased to see him again. He had come to visit Miss Leah's grave and she was proud of the way she had taken care of it. She had kept it clean and brought fresh flowers every day. Leah had been so dear to her… But she had died, and Rachel had died, too. They had killed her, the Simmons. Both her good friends had died and now maybe they would kill her, too. She was terrorized by the couple. They were bad, bad people.
But now Hannah couldn't think about herself. She wouldn't let Matt Simmons harm her Heath.
She was old, and weak, and her hand was wavering. But, when Matt was close, she pulled the trigger.