George Freelance staggered into his usual gambling hall with an empty bottle of whiskey in his hands.

After ransacking his tiny cottage and finding nothing more than empty bottles of liquor, it became apparent to him that he could no longer go another second without some alcohol. And how could he? Not only was he penniless, he was alone. Every second that ticked by brought nothing but the painful reminder of the loss he had had to endure in that past few years —first it was the loss of his wife, then it was the loss of his daughter. He was desperate; desperate to be rid of the pain, even if the alcohol was only capable of making him numb to it for a few hours.

He crossed the room, somehow managing to keep his blurry gaze on the shifty image of the floorboards beneath his dirty boots. Pulling out a stool by the bar, he settled on it.

"George Freelance," The owner of the place, Jerry Franklin, greeted as he sat down.

"A bottle of whiskey," he groaned, combing his hands through his sweaty hair.

"'Soon as you pay up." Jerry said.

"I will, soon as I can get my hands on that money." He lied, for there was not a dime to his name but Jerry didn't have to know that. George was desperate! If he didn't get some liquor tonight, he was certain he would lose his darn mind.

"What money, George? Whole town knows you are broke as hell. What with losing your only daughter in a bet, you are left with nothing to your name."

"Lies!" He cried, slamming his shaky fist on the table and hurting his knuckle. But the pain in his knuckles was nothing compared to emotional torture he was going through. He didn't need any more reminder of his predicament.

For a second, Sharon drifted through George's mind and he shoved the thought aside. It was beyond him where she was at that point —if she was safe and how she fared— but he knew he couldn't dwell on the thought. He would instead do what he knew to do with pain and guilt; he would try to drown the bloody emotions with alcohol.

"How so, George?" Jerry leaned forward, mockery visible in his inquisitive brown eyes.

"I have my house." He said, desperate. "I own the house." At least he thought he did. He wasn't certain whether or not he already lost it in a wager, but as far as his shaky memory could recall, he had woken up in that run down shack only this morning.

Jerry watched him, his brows furrowed by doubt. "Your house for a bottle of whiskey?"

George nodded.

Jerry sighed. "I'll tell you what, Freelance, while that does sound like a brilliant deal, I'm a much more honorable man than that. So, instead of one bottle of whiskey, I'll throw in a whole carton, just to make the deal worth your while. How's about that?"

Jerry's offer was nothing compared to the worth of his house —George knew that much— but so much more than that, he knew he needed his liquor.

He looked up at the conning eyes of Jerry Franklin, knowing full well that he was going to regret his decision later. But the thought of walking out of those doors with a whole carton of his favorite whiskey was not something George could walk away from. It could last him an entire week if he managed it well enough. Give or take, three days. It was worth the bet. And like the good Lord suggested, tomorrow was sure going to take care of itself.

"Jerry Franklin..." He smiled, exposing his decaying teeth. "I believe you have yourself a deal." He reached out with dirty hands to shake the man's hand.

"Wrong!" An angry voice boomed behind him.

~*~

Matthew glared into the eyes of George Freelance, his fingers balled into a fist.

After leaving the farm, desperate to clear his mind, he had somehow found himself in the tavern. It was a shameful place to be and Matthew was not much of a drinker, but tonight, he needed the alcohol to clear his mind not only of Gretchen, but of the guilt that stabbed at his heart for what he did to Sharon.

He had been seated by the bar, mentally scolding and kicking himself for his poor choice that evening, when George Freelance staggered into the tavern, pulling up a seat beside him and settling on it.

At first, Matthew had paid little attention to the man, ignorant of who he was. Then, he heard it; Freelance.

Turning sharply to the side to give the man a closer look, Matthew could barely see the resemblance between the drunken old man and Sharon. He sat beside him, bent over with desperate, wild eyes that carried black eye sacks underneath. Dirty silver hair sat atop his balding head as the pungent smell of liquor and dirt assaulted Matthew's nostrils.

It was impossible; there was simply no way Sharon was related to this man, he thought. He knew she had mentioned her father being a drunk and a gambler, but Matthew could never have imagined him to be this bad.

He was about to turn and leave the tavern when the bar owner's words drifted to him:

"What money, George? Whole town knows you are broke as hell. What with losing your only daughter in a bet, you are left with nothing to your name."

It was true then; this was Sharon's father.

Matthew stared at him once more, suddenly feeling sorry for Sharon. He could barely imagine the torture she had endured living with a man like this; the shame, the pain, and the emotional trauma that came with simply being affiliated with a man like the man that was before him. What was even worse was the fact that the rumor had gone around town of Sharon being gambled away by her father. He could only imagine how she felt.

Perhaps so much more than imagine, Matthew could almost empathize with Sharon? He too had a father he could barely rely on for anything; a father whose control he was desperate to come out from under. Matthew had been willing to do anything to gain his independence from a father who wasn't even half as bad as George Freelance.

Suddenly, the shame and guilt for what he did with Gretchen, came rushing back. Sharon had never had a man in her life she could rely on, and Matthew had gone ahead to prove to be quite unreliable.

He listened to the conversation, anger coursing through his veins as he heard George Freelance give his home up for next to nothing. He couldn't let it happen! For the life of him, Matthew could not sit by and let the idiot give his house up like that, not only because it was a stupid thing to do, but also because he knew it was the least he could do for Sharon. He knew as he sat there, that she would be devastated by the revelation of what her father had done. He didn't think it was possible to stop George Freelance from gambling his house away, but he thought he could help the situation.

"Wrong!" He barked, just as the deceptive bar owner was about to shake George Freelance's hand.

"Who are you?" The man George had made a deal with, eyed him up and down.

"The owner of the house George Freelance is trying to gamble with." He kept a scowl on his face, hoping to appear not only genuine, but infuriated by the bet on his property, even if it wasn't his property. He didn't think George was a man that could be reasoned with for the desperation that shone in the man's gray eyes was more than enough indication that George could not be reasoned with, neither did he think the owner of the bar could be persuaded not to jump on the opportunity to rob the poor man of his property simply because it was the noble thing to do.

Indeed, deception was the only way to stop both men.

"Liar!" George frowned, confusion flashing in his eyes. "I have never met this man in my entire existence." He pointed a shaky finger at Matthew.

Matthew maintained his resolve, turning instead to face the other man. "You will do well to ignore the ranting of a drunk," he said, watering the seed of doubt he had planted. "Step a foot on my property and I will have you arrested."

The man raised his hands in surrender. "I had no idea. I should have known not to listen to this liar!" He turned angry eyes to George.

"Don't. Let the whole community know that the land is mine. Whoever places a bet on it, does so at his own risk. George lives there as a result of my kindness, but heaven knows I will not hesitate to kick him out of there the next time he tries to gamble with my property."

"Of course, I'll let everyone know." The man affirmed, nodding. George sat still, his confused gaze moving from one man to the other.

"Good," Matthew rose to his feet, offering the man a curt nod, before turning around to walk away. He heard George's loud protest as he made his way to the door, a small smile curving his lips at the realization that George was being kicked out of the tavern.