Silas stepped toward him and gripped the man's arm.

Old Jonesey looked down at his hand as if alarmed.

"You were the only adult I remember who cared a whit for me, Mr. Jonesey. After I left, I . . . I even took your last name since I didn't know my own." He let go of the janitor's arm and offered him his hand. "I'm pleased to see you again-name's Silas Jonesey."

The old man didn't take his hand. His eyes didn't quite look straight at him either. Maybe he couldn't see well enough to recognize him or see his hand. "I'm Ezekiel Jones."

Not Jonesey? He blinked. "I guess I should've realized Jonesey was a nickname."

The man's face split with a grin. He had far fewer teeth than twenty years ago. "Never heard of no white child naming himself after a black man. Jones was my old master's name, though. Don't rightly know my family name either."

Silas let his hand drop. "I want to thank you for everything you did for me."

The man nodded slightly, but his face still looked blank. Was he going blind?

Silas waited for light to fill the man's foggy eyes, but the janitor only stood politely, patiently. "You wouldn't know if a dark-headed boy named Anthony came here sometime in the last few weeks?"

"Naw, just got five boys right now, and they've been here awhile. None of them dark headed."

Silas sniffed and glanced down at the little torture chamber. "Glad to know they don't use the closet like they used to."

"Yes, sir. My mop bucket and rags are much happier occupants."

Silas rubbed a hand across his face. "You wouldn't happen to know what my real last name is?"

"What's your name again?"

Silas's shoulders slumped. "Silas."

The man rubbed his stubble. "Was your hair the color it is now?"

Silas nodded and closed his eyes. Please remember.

"Hmm, there were so many of you after the war. But I hear the new directors are sticklers for paperwork. Might ask them if they have a file on you."

"Yes, I suppose I should talk to them before I leave." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The whole way to the orphanage he'd imagined giving his namesake a hug, but now? Had old age fuzzed his memory? Or had no one-not even this cherished memory of a man-ever had a lasting care for him?

God . . . oh, God, why does this hurt so much?

The hole he carried around inside him widened, felt emptier, bore deeper.

No one had ever cared for him enough to miss him, to want to stay with him.

The Bible said Jesus offered to love everyone, and he'd begged for that love years ago, clung to that promise as he'd clawed his way out of a life of despair. But if God couldn't arrange for one person on this earth to trouble themselves with him . . .

Silas tipped his head toward the janitor, who'd at least made him feel loved once. "It was. . . . nice to see you again."

The man nodded, his eyes foggy but concerned. "I wish I could help you, son."

He swallowed at the man's choice of words, wondering if they were as intentional as they sounded, despite the man claiming he didn't recall him. He nodded before turning to tromp down the stairs to meet the new directors and see if he could find out his real last name.

Though with Anthony gone, what did it matter?

Chapter 11.

Silas stood outside Red's Tavern, one hand strangling the brown paper-wrapped bottle hidden inside his coat pocket. Troubled by his visit to the orphanage and the telegram he'd picked up after returning to town an hour ago, he'd wandered around Breton in the spitting rain . . . and gotten himself into trouble.

How long had he grasped on to that thread of love he'd believed Jonesey held for him?

Now he had nobody, and nobody cared what he did.

A flash of navy blue and auburn hair flounced in his peripheral. He groaned. Was Kate looking for Anthony by herself in this weather?

Would Kate still believe he'd become a better man if she saw him now? She'd told him she no longer believed him to be the man Lucy described, but he'd read enough of his wife's journaling rants to know he'd been a short-tempered drunk. And what did it matter if he became one again? It wasn't as if he had a son to care for. It wasn't as if anyone needed him. Least of all her. But she was the only person who might care enough to wrestle the demon from his hand.

Maybe, maybe not.

He caressed the curve of the heavy bottle. At one time, he'd thought a fine whiskey could help solve his problems. It had at least dulled the pain for a while. And he certainly had plenty of worries to bury right now. He crumpled the telegram in his pocket more compactly.

The thumb of his other hand ran across the whiskey bottle's firmly seated cork, and he pressed against it. He could pop it off if he pushed with a little more oomph. The aroma, the wet glass against his lips, the fire down his throat, all those tempting sensations were seconds away. Only a few ticks on the clock separated him from relief-and being as hooked as ever.

One drink would free him to ignore the rules, ignore the despair, ignore the need to care. The indigestion and next day's headache? Minor things to overcome. All he had to do was drink again, and again, and again . . .

He tried to pull out the bottle so he could throw it away before Kate noticed him, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. He stepped out of the shadows before his brain insisted he flee and flagged her with his free hand.

When she caught sight of him, she hurried his way, a slight smile on her face.

The whiskey in his pocket would give her good reason to scowl at him like she used to.

He'd known better than to buy it, but his fingers only clenched the bottle neck harder.

Kate stopped in front of him, her dark auburn hair covered with a shawl glistening with drizzle.

Would she help him? If he didn't get help now . . .

She looked up and snatched her shawl before it slid off her head. "When did you get back?"

His jaw refused to unclench. He could keep the bottle hidden.

"The weather's gotten nasty." She rubbed her hands together. "I was thinking-"

"Take this"-Silas forced his hand to pull out the whiskey-"from me."

Her lips puckered. She reached for the bottle but stopped. "Carrying that around town won't help my reputation any."

"If you don't, I'll drink it."

She glanced over both shoulders, then grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him into the alley. Not a good place for any passersby to see them go, but she was right, liquor in her hand would look worse than in his. He gripped the paper-wrapped bottle tighter. "Maybe you shouldn't take it. Don't want you getting in trouble."

"Why are you shaking?" She stopped and eyed his white knuckles.

"I shouldn't have bought it." His fingers wouldn't yield. "I need you to take it from me."

She pried the whiskey from his hand.

His empty fist clenched, driving fingernails into his palm. "Pour it out, please."

"On the ground? Right here?" Her pretty hazel eyes blinked in confusion.

His lips were as dry as the tongue he poked through them to unseal the word, "Yes."

No one was in the alley, but she glanced toward the street. "I'm not sure I should, but-"

She looked into his eyes, and he tried to let her see inside them. The misery he'd almost inflicted on himself, the desire to stop her from doing what he'd asked, the desperate need for her to do what he couldn't.

She pulled down the paper and twisted the cork. She'd obviously never opened whiskey before. "I can't get it out." She pointed the bottle neck at him. "Could you open it for me?"

"No." He stepped back and knocked into some discarded boxes. "No." He couldn't touch it again. "If you can't open it, maybe Mr. Logan can when you get home, or maybe he'd want to keep it."

"As if letting Mr. Logan open a bottle of . . ."

"Whiskey. Good whiskey."

She hiked her other eyebrow. "Having him open your whiskey wouldn't make the Logans any happier about the time I'm spending with you."

"Please."

She scrunched her lips sideways and looked deep into his eyes. He held her gaze, not hiding the desperation.

Pulling the bottle close, she wriggled on the cork until it finally popped. She watched him as she tipped the bottle over beside her. He tried to hold her gaze, but . . .

The amber liquid ran straight into the grooves between the alleyway's red brick. Each glug turned his stomach.

"Kansas prohibition has been good to me. I haven't been tempted to enter a tavern for years now since there aren't many and I don't like to go against the law."

Halfway through the bottle, his drinking hand started to lift of its own accord. If he stopped her now, there'd be a glass or two left to consume. . . . That wasn't too much.

He closed his eyes, dreading the last glug. "But I've crossed the threshold of too many bars looking for Anthony the past few weeks. I've been asked what I planned to drink, offered a swig . . ."

The terrible, wasteful glugging ceased.

Kate shook the last drops of whiskey onto the ground.

No more quandary over whether to taste or not, whether to sip, to consume, to binge.

Over.

His heart fluttered free. "Thank you."

She handed him the empty bottle, her head tilting a bit as she took in his face. "You couldn't do that yourself?"

Surprised her voice held concern rather than the disdain he'd expected, he met her eyes. "I tried, but then someone poured me a glass on the house this afternoon. After my visit to the orphanage yesterday, and the message I just received . . ."

He stared off into space, the vision of that glass full of golden liquid taunted him. "I left the drink behind. I didn't pick it up, didn't touch it, but at the next place I wanted a drink something fierce. The bartender would surely see it in my eyes, so before he offered, I asked for a whole bottle-I could pick that up without drinking it, as long as I didn't uncork it. Figured I could . . . Well, I don't know what I figured I could do with it besides the inevitable."

"An expensive drink to give the pavement."

"It would've cost more if I'd consumed it." He threw the bottle in a heap of trash next to a side-door stoop. "I'm sorry I made you do that."

"It's all right." She patted his arm, then snatched her hand back to catch her slipping shawl. "If only my brother-in-law had the strength to hand over his liquor to my sister years ago."

"Strength? I caved and bought a bottle." He shook his head. "I picked it up."

"Once you did, it was a hundred times harder to put down, yes?"

He searched her eyes. Understanding mingled in the golden flecks sparkling in her hazel irises. Did she have a similar problem? "Yes."

"Testing yourself with no one around is a dangerous game, Silas."

"How do you know?"

She shrugged. "My sister drinks too. She struggles with the same problem . . . or did." Kate looked toward the busy road, her mouth puckered. "We ought to leave the alley."

He blew out a breath and followed her onto Cedar Street. He figured she'd look down on him for his weakness, figured her opinion of him would sink. But she didn't seem to look at him any worse.

He ran his hands through his hair. He wasn't strong. No one should admire anything about an addicted, God-disappointing man. But no condescending pity filled her eyes, which eased the pain of wasting an entire bottle of good whiskey. They walked a half a block in silence before he found his voice. "So you still have family?" Hadn't she said she was an orphan?

"A much-older sister and a drunk brother-in-law. I went to live with them after my parents died when I was twelve. My sister tried to help me, but she drank too. She quit . . . many times . . ." She looked up at him. "How many times have you quit again?"

"Three. The last time was four years ago. The first time was after I left Hall's Home for Boys-about a day's ride from here." He pointed in the general direction.

"Do you know why your mother gave you up? Was it during the war?"

"I was at the boys' home then, yes, but I wasn't an only child-just the only one she gave away." His one memory prior to the orphanage was climbing high in a tree with a brother, and a voice calling them to supper. How many other siblings might he have that he'd never meet?

"I wonder why."

Yes. Why? What could he possibly have done as a four-year-old to lose his mother's love? He closed his eyes and fought against the hollowness begging for the whiskey she'd dumped on the ground back in the alley. He'd promised God he'd never go down that rat hole again . . . but did it matter?

He drew a hand across his face. Of course it mattered. But now with Anthony gone, and Jonesey not remembering him, and the telegram forcing him to decide between staying in Breton to look for Anthony or keeping everything he'd ever worked for, the hole was calling to him.