by Gorman, A.
And if her past caught up with her somehow, they’d deal with it as a married couple. Just like how they were going to deal with Lucy’s parents. She’d promised him that this morning.
“More coffee, Patsy?”
“Goodness no, but thank you. Your coffee has more grounds than a spring pond has tadpoles.”
Faith drew back, stunned. Frog-loving Sierra had already shone her pictures of millions of swimming tadpoles. She peeked at the carafe. Perhaps. “Dawson’s never said anything,” she said slowly.
Patsy reached across the table and patted Faith’s arm. “Dawson never would, sweetie.”
Faith smiled. She had met Patsy and Hank Perkins at the dance. Turns out they were neighbors, in a how-the-crow-flies distance. She was learning time and locations were different here than she somehow expected them to be. She dusted off the apple-designed tablecloth. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t.”
“Now, before I forget, Dawson had been asking around, inquiring about any newcomers to the area. He might want to know this if you could pass it on; my Hank spotted a couple city-slicker men driving a long, shiny car day before yesterday. Then he saw those same men walking over near the back of our spring pasture today. Hank didn’t engage them because they weren’t trespassing, but he said he felt funny knowing they were walking around out there.”
Something sliced through Faith, a mix of heady excitement tinged with sorrow. Those men were part of her past. She just knew it, deep in her heart. And they were here! She had to learn more.
She plied Patsy with questions, making a map in her mind. With the coffee and pound cake gone, Patsy stood to leave. “You’ll remember to tell Dawson about those men?”
“Of course. I’ll even make a note of it.” After seeing her guest to the door and off with a wave, she dashed to the kitchen drawer. Taking paper and pen, she scribbled a note.
Dawson, Patsy was here for a visit and said her husband noticed well-dressed men near their spring pasture. I know they are part of my past. Lately I feel so strongly that I want to remain in your life, and Sierra’s, here at Tica. I want to be a permanent part of your life. But, Dawson, please understand I have to go find these men and find out who I am. I can’t be your Faith until I know, and these men can help me unlock that door. And, darling, once I know my past, I will come back to you to create a future. – Faith
Going outside, she wryly eyed his battered pickup. “A child of seven drives it. With help. You can drive it, Faith.” Bolstered, she climbed behind the wheel. It was huge. Sucking in a breath, her heart beating, she turned the key. With a grunt, it roared to life. Gingerly, she shifted the gearstick on the floorboard. It screeched like the rooster. Jumping, she stomped on the pedals and tried again. The truck inched forward. Exhaling, she tapped the gas.
Eventually, she ran out of road and path and finally trail. Stopping, she turned the truck off and eased out a grateful sigh. What an experience with the beast. Maybe she’d walk back after finding the men. They had to still be in the area. Her gut told her so. One thing amnesia had taught her was to follow her gut.
She stood, surrounded by woods and hills, which opened to lush ranch land. She turned in a circle and knew this land was the reason she was out here. Something to do with this land. This area. This what?
She walked, driven by instinct, a guiding finger leading her through the trees, and up the hills. She was thankful for the sturdy boots Dawson insisted she have. She regretted not bringing a thermos of water.
Topping the hill, she headed down into the valley. Sunlight glinted off the river and glass. She squinted. Hidden in the trees sat a car. Not a rusty truck but a real car.
Eagerly, she trotted down, listening for voices. She heard them, talking softly, before she spotted them. Ducking low, she watched.
Two men, one tall and wide-shouldered, the other not as tall and slender. Both about mid-thirty. Both wearing slacks, loafers, dress shirts, and sport coats. Her pulse raced, knowing they were connected to her past. No names came to mind. Their conversation was too low for her to catch more than a stray word. She had to get closer. Her gut warned caution, but she had to catch them before they left. They would know her.
A twig snapped, and she froze, breath held. They both turned, and the wide-shouldered man slowly smiled at her. With caution still flashing in her mind, she took heart at his welcoming smile. He did know her.
“Isobel. I hardly recognized you in those bohemian rags.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Isobel. Isobel? Was that her?
He took two steps toward her, and instinctively she backed away, yielding to the screaming caution. His smile did not seem so welcoming now. Her hands went up in defense, and she marveled at her body’s automatic reaction to him.
“You were a bad girl to run away from me, Isobel. You embarrassed me in front of my friends. You made me have to lie to cover up your misdeed.” His voice dropped to a low growl, and his eyes narrowed. “I would have thought you learned your lesson by now.”
She inhaled and whirled. He was faster. He caught her shoulder and spun her around, slamming her into the nearest tree. Breathless, Faith stared up into his hard eyes, void of any compassion. She looked over at the other man, hoping for help, but he was busy smoking a cigarette and staring in the opposite direction.
She twisted, desperate to get away. He held her in an iron grip as he smoothed back his hair with his free hand. His gold rings sparkled in the dappled sunlight. Finished, he turned his full attention back to Faith, his lips lifting into a snarl and eyes narrowing to slits.
“Let me go, please. I don’t know you.”
“Since you don’t learn well, maybe I need to break a leg or two so you can’t run away. Would that do it, Isobel?”
She swallowed against the fear as her throat constricted. He would do it; she knew he would do it.
“No, please don’t.”
Faith felt him coil his arm like a snake and braced herself. He hurled her away from the tree and to the ground. She landed with a thud, forcing the air from her lungs. He grabbed her by the arms and lifted her as if she were a ragdoll and slammed her against the tree. Her head cracked alongside the trunk, and her fingers dug into the bark. Stars exploded behind her eyes.
She’d have dropped if he still hadn’t been holding her. Giving her a jerk by the shirt collar, he pounded her against the tree again. She felt the warm blood flow down her face. She clutched the tree as her world spun.
Isobel. Now she remembered, memories tumbling loose through the pain. She was Isobel Cantillini. Her fiancé, Roberto, was giving her yet another pounding. And he most likely would break a leg or two before he was finished. His partner, Marsalis, was always present and never any help. And they were to be married soon. Once they returned to Jersey from this venture Roberto was obsessed with.
He learned there was natural gas in this area. He wanted to buy out the ranches dirt cheap, rip out the farmsteads, and mine the natural gas. While on a scouting expedition days ago, she finally saw a chance to escape Roberto. She slid off her engagement ring and ran until she could run no more.
Now he would haul her back to Jersey, make up something about how she was injured in some accident, and force her to go through with the wedding before she could recover. As he berated her and assaulted her, she thought of Dawson.
How she wished she had just stayed with him and become his Faith. It would have been so easy, if only she could have let her past go. Isobel had nothing to live for. As Faith, she had so much. And now it was all lost. Foolish, foolish woman.
As darkness dropped down on her, she cried for Dawson, for Sierra, and for the life they could have had. The legend was right. The Crazy Woman of the creek would never allow anyone to live happily in love.
Chapter 7
Dawson returned to an empty house. He found Faith’s note. Cold fear shot through him. What if these people convinced her to go back to her old life? Would she really leave him? Could she?
He folded the
note and stuck it in his pocket. Next, he called Hank and Patsy. Hanging up, he had a good idea where they’d seen those people. And where he might find Faith. He went out the door at a sprint.
When he reached where Faith parked his truck, he parked the Wagoneer. According to Hank, they were seen between Bald Gap and Crazy Woman. He heaved a sigh. Back to Crazy Woman and that dismal valley. Well, he found her there once, and he’d find her there again.
Unless she already left with the men. Her husband?
Sour bile rose in his throat at the thought, and he quickened his pace. He topped Bald Gap and eyed the valley. He spotted the sunlight reflecting off some glass. A car perhaps. Hank said he’d seen a car. Then he spotted the people. And his blood went cold as he recognized the woman on the ground.
Faith!
Racing down the incline, lungs laboring for air, he took in the scene. The slender man stood idly by, disinterested. The beefy guy was at Faith’s side. He must be her man. She appeared to be unconscious. Had she fallen?
Then the beefy guy reared back and lifted a foot, his intention clear. Red anger tore through Dawson as he raced on. Gasping for breath, he barreled shoulder first into him. The force lifted both of them off the ground. They landed, Dawson on top, and he scrambled to grab the man.
The other fellow sprang to life. “Stay back!” Dawson barked. He slugged his fists into the man’s chest. Enraged, he only saw Faith lying helpless and this scumbag trying to hurt her. He drove his fists repeatedly, raining blow after blow upon the man, until his movements stopped. With a final grunt of disgust, he shoved the still form away. “Take that cur and go!” he snapped at the thin guy, dismissing them and rushing to Faith.
Blood poured from her old scalp wound and many new wounds. Gently, he cradled her to his side and brushed her hair away. His heart splintered at the sight, and for a moment he hoped he killed the pile of crap who did this to her.
“Faith. Can you hear me, Faith?”
She moaned and pried one eye open. He realized the other was swollen shut and already turning black. Fresh rage covered him. He bent and kissed her split and bleeding lips. “Oh, Faith.”
“Isobel,” she whispered. “That’s my real name. And he’s my fiancé, Roberto.”
“You remember?” He wasn’t sure he was glad about that.
“I remember everything. He is a very bad man.”
He took her hand in his. “He will never touch you again. Now you know your past, and you will always be Faith to me. So what do you want to do with your future?”
She ran the scenario through her mind when Roberto and Marsalis returned without her. Roberto would never admit he’d been bettered by another man. He would make up a story of how she fell off a mountain or was mauled by a bear or something equally appalling. He would even show his wounds where he bravely tried—and failed—to save her. He would tearfully proclaim there wasn’t even a body to bring back. They would mourn her and then go on.
She gave him a small smile, wincing at the discomfort. “I want to be your Faith. Forever.”
“Me too. Will you marry me?”
Tears filled her eyes. “Only if I can do it as Faith. Let Isobel fade away.”
He wanted to burst into song. “Sounds good to me, sweetheart.” Giving her another kiss, he helped her up and into his arms.
It was the most wonderful feeling she could ever remember experiencing. How beautiful it was to be cherished by a good man like Dawson.
About the Author
Ryan Jo Summers writes contemporary romance, non-fiction, and magazine articles. When not busy writing, she operates a pet care service. She is always craving chocolate, coffee, and frequent trips to the country. Her hobbies include birding, chess, crafts, houseplants (about fifty-five at last count), painting, reading, word-find puzzles, and writing poetry. She lives in Western North Carolina in a century-old cottage with a menagerie of rescued pets.
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Devil in Dixie
By Cristina Slough
Chapter One
Pamela
Day One
Fear surges around my body; it feels like acid burning through my organs. My heart thuds against my ribcage; I swear I can hear my bones rattle. His cereal bowl sits on the countertop; I frantically stomp my feet, marching toward the cat to stop him licking the tiny puddle of milk sitting at the bottom of the bowl. Leftover milk is evidence he was at home this morning, and despite the humid weather, it still smells fresh, it hasn’t spoiled, which means he hasn’t been that long at all: But long enough for the police to be called, long enough for the town to be searching the woods where he was last seen, the worried voice in my head reminds me. It’s been two hours since sundown; I imagine the four of them out there, afraid, the thickness of the trees playing tricks with their eight-year-old minds. They know they’ll be in trouble, taking an adventure too far—at least it’s the scenario I am so desperately praying for. I haven’t prayed in years, not since my mother passed, but tonight I am clutching rosary beads and reciting a hundred Hail Marys, promising God I’ll be an upstanding Christian if he returns my baby home safe to me. The police told me to stay at home, just in case he shows up. I hate being here not actively looking for him; it feels so wrong. I feel so helpless. I enter his room, searching for clues or anything to give me the slightest hint of where he is. I sit on the edge of his bed and touch the cool sheet his warm clammy body should be tangled up in. This time last night, he was in the spot where I lay my hand—yesterday, he was sleeping soundly, safe, and today he is gone. My heart begins to flutter; cold beads of sweat pop up on my forehead. Where are you, Brent?
I push myself onto my feet, my thoughts firing from one extreme to the next. I’m waiting to hear his overenthusiastic voice boom through the house, stomping up the stairs with the rest of his friends. The four of them have been inseparable since kindergarten, always together, always in trouble, but never in a malicious way. It surprises me Shelly, Amber, and Tammy aren’t here—why are we not trying to put the pieces together and find our missing boys? Then it suddenly dawns on me they must be out searching. I am the only one sitting at home, waiting, doing nothing to find my boy. I straighten my body and spin on my heel, my eyes frantically searching for one last clue before I leave this house and join the search party. I ignore the pulsing headache building up around my temples as I fly downstairs; I ignore the bile building up at the back of my throat as I search for my car keys. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push away how unwell I feel. I need to find my son.
When Brent was little, I always encouraged him to play outside. Being a fresh air enthusiast myself, I didn’t want him to spend hours in front of the TV playing video games; I wanted him to learn through real play, being outdoors. I didn’t stop him from jumping in mud, I encouraged dirty play, and I wiped away his salty tears when he cut and bumped his knees, sending him on his way again. I always reminded him cuts and bumps were a sign of a good time. Even after his daddy left, I continued to allow Brent to have his freedom to explore. I knew our split was hard on him, and having just turned eight, I knew he blamed me; I must have been the one who sent his daddy away. I bore the brunt of his pain; there were times over the past few months I have found myself staring into the eyes of an angry child, as if time fast-forwarded and he’s already a teenager. I’m certain I have a few more years before he screams out loud he hates me. The police asked me if Brent had any changes in his life that would entice him to run away from home. I told them about my divorce, I told them he missed his daddy, but I quickly followed up with the fact his friends offered him escapism. I told them we hit a rough patch as we tried to find our groove, just the two of us, but we were fine now—he started to let me kiss and hug him ag
ain without squirming away. I’ve finally made it out of the door; I get in my car and adjust my seat, hands on the steering wheel, focusing ahead: it is my job to find my son. The radio booms to life, I catch the tail end of a song, and then the local news floods the speakers:
Search underway for four local missing boys Colebrook
The full weight of my headache kicks in; hearing the news on the radio terrifies me. Bad news happens to other people, not me, not my boy. I have a strange nagging feeling he won’t be found tonight. I try and push my negative thoughts out of my head, but there is a lump in my throat I cannot swallow—an instinctive gut motherly emotion flashing around me like a police siren, a warning I am about to step into the worst period of my entire life. I turn the radio up, hoping the newsreader might have received information I haven’t, since she is reporting at the search area, but her report abruptly finishes and moves on to the weather forecast. Maybe this means they aren’t concerned. Maybe it means they have a lead, and the boys are safe. I try and stick with positive thinking on the drive to the woods. My hands start to tremble as I steer the car into Salber Creek, the charcoal grey road suddenly disappearing from the dark canopy of trees above me. I keep moving until the flash of blue and red lights illuminate the area; police, reporters, faces I know and some I don’t form a large circle—the search party. I pull my car to the side of the road and step out onto the over-grown grass. I see the detective who was at my house a few hours earlier. The area is concealed with yellow tape. The air is thick and humid, but no sounds of nature, no singing crickets, or wildlife scuttling through the bushes. There are so many people, all there in search of my child and his three friends. It gives me a feeling of comfort, knowing so many people will be able to cover the density of the woodland, flashlights will illuminate dark hidden places—maybe the boys are trapped behind a fallen rock? The more people searching, the more likely their voices will be heard. Brent and I were at the woods together just a week ago. I took him here so we could tell him his daddy was moving away for good. I didn’t want to be at home when I delivered the news. I wanted home to be his safe place. Here out in the open, we kept walking, kept talking, and home offered a refuge after the blunt blow of words I’d been left to deliver. I remember the night so clearly, I tucked him up in bed; he’d grown so much over the past few months, the sweet chubby little boy is now a tall, thin, angular child, his once deep auburn hair had lightened from days spent out in the sun, bleached to a pale red; his freckles deepening around his nose and forehead. One of the officers tries to deter me away until I step out of the car and let my shaky voice tell him: I am Brent’s mother. Leaning my body against the hood of my car, I glance across to the detective; she’s seen me too. She waves across to me, gesturing she’ll be right over. I try to read her facial expression, searching for hints on whether she knows something, anything!