Free Echoes of Darkness by Rob Smales

feeling—and he barked out the first thing he thought of, trying to distract her.
    “I’ll see Wilbur Clarke, if you please.”
    He had to ask twice—something that had not happened for years—and then she refused.
    Refused!
    That slapped his confusion aside. Refused? Made to stand out in the sun by this mere slip of a girl?
    Me?
    He’d started forward, just as he would in any meeting, confident of compliance, knowing full well he was in charge out here in mud-flats Kansas, just as he was back in his Boston boardroom—
    —and the girl had barred his way. As she drew near he detected a strange, sour odor coming from her (apparently cleanliness was not next to godliness out here in corn country), and when she did not move he strained to avoid touching her. He tottered back onto his heels, retreating a half step to keep his balance.
    Unbelievable , he thought. She’s a pretty girl, yes, but there are limits , by God!
    Struggling to maintain his temper and at least a modicum of professionalism, something he could see these farm people sorely lacked, he drew himself up to his full height (such as it was), waved the envelope before her nose, and spoke in his most commanding tone.
    “I have here certain official bank documents that Wilbur Clarke is required to see and sign. You will either lead me to him or go and fetch him, girl, but either way, you will do it at once.”
    “No,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I will not.”

    Part of Eva watched the situation developing on her doorstep with a detached pride. Following her mother’s death the previous year, she had retreated from life and become nothing more than her father’s daughter—a fine, God-fearing woman who cooked, read, and went to church. It had been a good arrangement: she had wanted to be taken care of in the wake of her loss, while her father had needed someone to care for and protect, as he had not been able to protect his wife from the fever that had stolen her away.
    A few weeks ago, however, it was her father who had begun to require looking after, and Eva had stepped smoothly into the position, as if all she had been waiting for was the chance. She had taken more and more responsibility on the farm, and it was no mere farmer’s daughter who had answered this door. Standing tall and barring entry to this old popinjay of a bank messenger, Eva reminded herself of her mother, and her heart swelled at the comparison.
    Though it was also swelling with anger.
    “Not that I expect a drop of sympathy, but my father lies upstairs in a sickbed, thanks in great part to your boss and his banking practices.”
    She heard a slight tremor in her voice, but managed to hold herself to a raised eyebrow as the only physical manifestation of her anger, looking down at this messenger-man with an imperiousness to match his own.
    “I will not disturb him for one such as you. I will, however, give you a message to carry to your master.”
    Despite her intentions of iron control, she loomed over the small figure, her voice rising a notch in volume, her finger pointing at his nose.
    “It is his fault you cannot deliver your missive. My father dealt with Mr. Henson for more years than I have been alive, and Mr. Henson always dealt squarely. Farming is a variable business, and sometimes there were extensions, but my father always came through; always paid him, eventually. You can ask him, if he hasn’t been run out of town yet.”
    The old man on her doorstep shifted slightly, fanning himself with the oversized envelope still clutched in one knobby hand.
    “Then he sold the bank to your Mr. Capshaw, and everything changed. All those foreclosures! Father started to worry. Little messenger-men—just like you—running about with their documents and papers, while good, hard-working people lost their land. Their homes. I don’t know your Mr. Capshaw, but he’s forcing people from their homes for some reason I do not understand; but understand it or not, I find it