You were only there to care for a poor girl who’d been beaten by a client. Charles mistook you for a prostitute. What happens next is up to you.

Adam and Cathy had gone west, and Charles was alone. Again. He was certain he could manage. After all, he had managed for so many years. Alone. On a farm where there wasn’t another human soul for miles. On a farm where it took all the running he could do just to stay in the same place. On a farm where he felt like a prisoner in a cell with the door standing wide open.

Three months had passed since that night at the brothel, when Charles had broken down crying on the floor of a filthy room in a sickening fit of self-pity. He had come back. He couldn’t help coming back, because only there, and only that way, could he get a few scraps of human warmth from a as wretched as he was. A sordid tumble on a creaking bed in exchange for a couple of crumpled dollars was all he deserved.