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“When you want to borrow something of mine, you ask.”
The whip flew through the air and burned itself into Fred’s cheek again.
“Father!” Fred put up his arm, protecting his head. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll show you what sorry looks like.”
He blocked the next hit with his forearm. It bit into his skin, breaking it.
“Stop!”
“You ungrateful?—”
But as Father pulled back his arm, ready to dish out more punishment, Fred reached forward and grabbed his wrist, then forced the leather whip out of his hand.
The man’s eyes bulged as his face turned purple. Saliva foamed at the corners of his lips. And then his black eyes grew cold.
Fred’s heart was in his throat.
“Father.” He gripped the fist aimed at his face.
The older man shoved against him. Fred was ready. Gone were the days when Father’s physical strength easily overpowered the young boy he had been. Working at the mill seven days a week, doing the work of three men, transformed the feeble teenager into a man. Since the day his brother Honza and Karel, the hired hand, disappeared, Fred was the only one to work along the side of his parents to keep the mill running.
He pushed his father against the wall. For the first time in his life, he dared to stand up for himself, if only because of her.
“Let’s sit down and talk,” he hissed through gritted teeth as his father gasped for breath. “Okay?”
The question was loaded with hope, not malice. He would not hurt this man whose purpose was to make his son’s life a living hell. No, he would let Father keep his dignity even though Fred was fully aware that the man in his grasp never let anything slip by without retaliation. Yes, he would pay for this one day.
God, let it not be today.
“Father?” He looked straight into the hateful glare.
The man narrowed his eyes. He struggled for a moment longer, like a wild beast stuck in a trap. Then he nodded. Fred let go.
“This is how you repay me for all I have done for you?”
“I just want to talk to you.”
Father spun around and walked into the kitchen. “You are no son of mine.”
“Wait!”
Father froze, then slowly turned back. “Are you talking to me, boy?”
“I need your help.”
A bitter, mocking laughter filled the mill. “My help?”
“Yes.” Fred ran his fingers over the bleeding welts on his cheek, then pushed his shoulders back and held his father’s murderous glare. “The reason the horse is outside the stall is because there are people there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I need you to listen to me.” He picked up the whip and took a step toward the old man.
His father’s glare sent shivers down Fred’s spine.
“You know the dentist that fixed my teeth the time?—”