In Search of Solace (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “I—I don’t like storms much either.”

  Vanna pulled in a relieved breath. That’s not a no.

  “We’ve time. I’m going to go ahead and trot my happy hiking ass up the trail a couple of miles. I promised a friend to send photos of this tiny wet weather waterfall that’s not far. It’s dry right now, at least until that rain comes, and the rock formations are amazing. When I get back, we can pack you up and go grab a real lunch.” She shoved the rest of the protein bar into her mouth and grinned as she chewed. The girl smiled back, and the expression provided a glimpse of the kind of beauty that lay behind the bruising. Vanna swallowed, took a drink of water, and tipped her head towards the girl. “You’re welcome to walk with me if you want. It’s not a hard hike.”

  “I’ll stay here if it’s all the same to you.” The girl’s fingers danced over the tops of the clothing stacks again. She glanced up at the awkwardly tied tarp. “I can be ready whenever you’re back.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Stan.” Vanna stood and shoved her trash into the side pouch of her daypack. She slung it into place on her shoulders and grinned, tipping her chin up so a splash of sunlight struck her face, basking in the warmth for a moment. “I’ll be back in a bit. Shouldn’t be long.” Two strides towards the trailhead, she paused and partially turned back, looking at the girl over her shoulder. “Happy to call you Stan, but give some thought to trusting me with your name, honey?”

  “I’m Myrt.” The girl’s smile faltered and faded, chin dipping towards her chest. “Rhymes with dirt.”

  That had led them here, where a child-bride named Myrtle Sallabrook sat at her table. And now Vanna had to explain to Truck. Shoulda texted him. “Hey, there, you.” She snuggled into his side, hoping to pull his attention back to her, but his gaze stayed fixed on Myrt. Nothing for it, might as well dive in. “Myrt, this is my husband, Truck. Love of my life, this is Myrtle. She’s gonna stay with us for a few days.” Vanna had needed to argue hard with the girl to get her to agree to even that much. Convinced she’d be a burden, Myrt had persistently demurred, refusing to consider more than one night until Vanna had asked straight out for her to stay. No half-baked qualifiers about being company, or helping Vanna get through the storm—simply a plain offer to stay with no strings or expectations, and the girl had accepted with an almost regal nod. Someone prefers honesty over white lies. “I found her like a sprite in the forest this morning, and she agreed to grace our home.”

  “Who did that to you, kid?” Truck’s arm behind Vanna’s back was rigid, and Vanna had no illusions about the anger he was holding at bay. The man’s heart was big as Texas, and his caring way was one of the things she loved about him. He had an innate way with children and animals, too, as if they could see through to the gooey center of him at a glance.

  “My husband, sir.” His deft touch proved true once again, as Myrt answered his direct question, where she’d easily dodged Vanna’s sideways advances on the same information for the entire afternoon and evening. “And it’s good to meet you. You have a lovely wife.” Myrt lifted a hand in an awkward wave.

  “The hell he did?” Truck’s voice was low, growled from deep in his chest. “Motherfucker got a name?”

  “Ian Sallabrook. We’re not from around here. I’m just…passing through, Mr. Truck, sir.” Her shoulders rounded as she worked to make herself small. Truck caught the reaction as quickly as Vanna did, but he evidently didn’t notice her cautioning squeeze of his waist.

  “Myrt, look at me.” He’d changed his approach in an instant, voice now smooth as satin. The patience and grace that rose from his soul covered his words, and Myrt’s chin lifted until she was staring at Truck. “The things people do to us don’t define us, darlin’. We are carved from the whole of our experiences, and it’s only by those we learn how to change our future. Was your relationship with your husband one you chose, including his treatment of you?”

  A tear broke free from the corner of one eye as Myrt slowly swung her head side to side.

  Truck continued, “Did you learn from it and decide to change the direction of your life?”

  Her nod, a jerky dip of her chin, was quicker to come in response.

  “And are you determined to create what’s right for you from the opportunities you’re given?”

  Myrt stared at him for the space of two deep breaths, then slowly and purposefully inclined her head.

  “Then you aren’t passing through, child. You’re home.”

  Vanna was overwhelmed with emotion at his oh-so tactful handling of the girl, how he'd settled her when she’d been ready to bolt. God, how I love this man.

  Chapter Two

  Myrtle

  Soft light filled the room as Myrtle blinked awake. It took her only a moment to remember where she was and how she’d come to be living in a fairy tale, a made-for-TV movie of rescue and redemption.

  Born in the type of deep backwoods in Eastern Kentucky that the rest of the world had forgotten, the seventh of fourteen children and female, she’d always known she was disposable. Her mother had been her father’s fourth wife, and when she’d passed on, Myrt had understood her time within the family was limited. When Mr. Sallabrook’s wife had died from cancer, it had taken him a single day after shoveling dirt on top of her casket to come to Myrt’s daddy and ask for a helpmeet. Clearly defined duties marked the boundaries of expectation. Cleaning, cooking, working the garden and barn animals, and—unspoken—holding tight to the rails of the footboard as he took her from behind.

  In the years she’d lived with him, they’d never shared a bed. Sallabrook was shepherd for a holler flock of fundamental holdouts, their beliefs a far cry from the gentle Jesus teachings of the white-steepled church Myrt had attended as a child. Cohabitation was against his God’s laws, and without much room in the small cabin perched high in the slope of a mountainside, her sleeping pallet was most often constructed on the porch or in a barn stall. Myrt found herself happier the farther away she was from the old man, and his peculiar way of interpreting the Bible had made that easy.

  It hadn’t been bad for the first couple of years. She and Mr. Sallabrook had settled into a routine easily enough, and as long as she followed his rules, everything had seemed fine. It was just sometimes the rules changed, and she’d fall afoul of them before knowing the ground had shifted underfoot.

  The final year had been different. People had been moving away from their family hollers in greater numbers than ever before, and there’d been less money tithed to Sallabrook as their spiritual leader. The current bruises decorating her body all stemmed from an innocent question about an unexpected blank space in his home where a sewing machine had always stood. His first wife had been a skilled seamstress, turning out all of her mister’s suits by hand.

  He’d drunk a quantity of ’shine from a parishioner one night and talked for hours about the myriad ways his first missus had cared for him. How her quilts and handmade clothing had sold for hundreds of dollars up in Louisville, her skills turned towards supporting him and his causes. Then he’d looked at Myrt, the edges of his lips curling up, the expression he wore telling her without words how lacking he found her.

  That’s why she’d known better than to ask about the sewing machine. It had held a continued place of reverence in the cabin, and she’d carefully dusted the casing dozens of times, ensuring the wooden panels shone with polish from her efforts. The empty space where it had stood seemed larger than it should have, divots in the floorboards pressed deep from the steady pressure of the machine’s weight. The words had tripped off her tongue, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  And Sallabrook had lashed out. And lashed out. And then lashed out again with feet and fists, fingers tangled in her hair as he dragged her from one side of the room to the other and back, Myrt’s feet trying and failing to find purchase against the floor. He’d shoved her legs out wide, and for the first time since her father had passed her into his care, rose above her as he thrust hard, tearing his
way into her while face-to-face, his reflexively contorted expression terrifying, all teeth and eyes and hard hands holding her down.

  Before that day, she’d toyed with the dream of freedom. Keeping nickels and dimes in a sock she’d wedged into a cubbyhole in the barn stall she’d considered hers, Myrt had slowly built a cache of money that had felt unimaginably huge. Riches galore.

  She smoothed the fabric of her nightshirt, trying not to roll her eyes at the ignorance under which she’d labored. Sallabrook had kept her isolated on the mountain as much as possible. He’d allowed regular if infrequent visits with her family and siblings, but what little interaction with outsiders was permitted had always been limited to others in their close-knit community. She’d been a child the last time she remembered going into town with her mother and hadn’t realized the true changed state of the world.

  That beating had been so severe, Myrt had been crippled by pain for weeks. There’d been no self-recrimination from Sallabrook, no expression of regret or concern. He’d scooped her off the floor and stalked to the barn, throwing her to the dirt floor just inside the door and turning on his heel without a word. She’d dragged herself to the stall and curled into a ball on her flannel-covered pallet of hay. Four days later, Sallabrook had come out to harangue her for not properly preparing his suit for Sunday services. His only glancing reference to the things he’d done had been a cutting comment about her bruised ugliness making it easier for him to resist Satan.

  All of it had set the tone for her life for the next year.

  For twelve months, Myrt had wobbled from beating to beating, none as out of control and severe as the first had been, but all tied in some way to that sewing machine. The uncertainty ate at her, and she’d hated how she had come to flinch at any quick movement. She’d quickly learned to study every setting for weapons that could be used against her. And she’d become acquainted with the holler’s witch, an old woman who’d handed down a recipe for an effective herbal tea. Sallabrook might not have cared about leaving his seed inside her, but Myrt was determined it would never take root.

  Throughout the year, Myrt’s resolve to leave had strengthened, and she’d gotten even better at finding opportunities to add to her stash of cash. Quarters and paper bills replaced the pennies and other small change. It turned out Sallabrook carried enough money on him on any given day that he didn’t miss a dollar here and there. Or he didn’t think her smart or bold enough to steal from him directly. That year had seen a change in him, too, with his visits to the ’shine man coming more frequently. His drunken snores would fill the cabin as she crept in from the barn to rifle through his wallet, plucked from his back hip as he lay sprawled across the bed.

  She cleared her throat gently, quietly, scooting up on the mattress so her back was against the headboard. The window was open, and a light evening breeze had set the sheer curtains into a slight sway. Looking around the room she found herself astonished once again that she was here. Such a far cry from her previous life, where even the luxury of the headboard was strange. The bed was tall, mattresses unbelievably soft, so different from the hard, cotton-ticking one Sallabrook had. The stripes of welts across her back ached, but it was the kind of pain that helped center her, so instead of avoiding it, she leaned into it, pressing harder, stirring up more pain to go with the memories plaguing her. At least she didn’t have to worry about her littlest sisters getting sold to Sallabrook or a man like him—one of her older sisters had taken them into her household years ago when she’d married.

  That last day hadn’t started out as anything memorable. She’d been up at dawn to milk the cow and gather eggs from the chickens, prepare a hot breakfast for Sallabrook, then swing into the normal flow of chores and tasks. He hadn’t spoken to her as she moved around where he sat at the kitchen table, hadn’t looked at her as she served his food. He hadn’t given any indication of anything other than he’d been in the grip of his now-normal hangover state. Eyes bloodshot, jowls loose underneath his unshaven chin, Sallabrook had gripped his knife and fork in trembling hands to eat his meal.

  He'd been nearly to the end when it happened. He’d reached out for the last biscuit at the same moment she’d gone to refill his mug with hot coffee. His hand had scarcely brushed the metal, but the explosion had been immediate, giving her no time to react. Pot ripped from her hand and hurled against the wall, he’d secured his hold on her with fingers twisted in her hair. With her physical reactions controlled in that way, he slammed her head against the wooden table, stunning her. From there, things began to blur, the memories choppy as they skipped and stuttered through her head. The blood-covered tabletop coming towards her face, again and again, strands of hair stuck in the rich red liquid. Sallabrook hadn’t screamed or shouted, hadn’t reminded her of her place, hadn’t sermonized at her—the only sounds were the blows against her skin and his grunts of effort. His hands had fumbled at his belt. Then came the blistering pain of the leather coming down on her bare bottom and back, her flour sack dress flipped up, panties ripped away.

  At the end of things, he’d left her where she fell. Crumpled in a heap on the floor of the kitchen, she’d been only vaguely aware of the door opening and closing, his exit conducted as silently as his attack on her had been, booted footfalls angling across the porch, the echoing cough of his truck’s engine as it caught and ran, then the humming decrescendo as he drove away.

  She’d stolen boots from his closet and a pair of dungarees he’d complained were too small and had ransacked his small library, filching the larger bills she’d previously shied away from between the pages where he’d hidden them. Riches expanded in unexpected quantity, she’d stuffed the toes of the boots with newspaper, added smoked meat and cheese to her stash, and shoved everything into an old oat bag. Then she’d cared for the barn animals, detoured through the garden to pluck some ripe produce to add to her bag, and taken a deep breath. Standing at the edge of the clearing opposite where the driveway entered, she’d looked around the place she’d spent so many years, isolated from family and the few friends she’d had, her life nothing like the fairy tales her mother once read to the children on long winter nights. Myrt had fixed each thing in her head, turned on her heel, and strode into the woods, headed downhill.

  Myrt took a slow look around for what felt like the hundredth time since Vanna had brought her upstairs and showed her to the guest room. It was huge, about half as large as the entire cabin had been. A sturdy dresser stood against one wall, a mirror attached to the top. It angled so if Myrt wanted, she could look at herself, even though the piece of furniture was nearly as tall as she was. One glance into the glass had her changing the position with a gasp. In the days since she’d walked away from the cabin, she’d only captured tiny glimpses of her countenance in reflective surfaces. The full scope of the damage Sallabrook had done hadn’t been clear to her until that single look. Satan sure wouldn’t tempt him now. The reactions of the people she’d met along the way, wavering between shock and sorrow, made more sense now, and Myrt hated thinking they’d felt sorry for her. Not Vanna, though. Vanna hadn’t given off the vibe she’d taken Myrt in out of pity. Everything about the woman spoke towards her caregiver personality, and even in the way she’d introduced Myrt to her Mr. Truck, had looked beyond the awkwardness of the moment and into the future where she expected Myrt to be well and whole. I bet she picks up all kinds of strays.

  Myrt’s lids sagged briefly but jerked wide when her brain painted an image of a fist headed straight towards her face. She’d been suffering through the same kind of flashbacks since she’d walked off the mountain.

  She’d stumbled into a highway directly in front of a sedan arrowed straight at her, the inevitability of impact seemingly the same as Sallabrook’s knuckles. The elderly man navigating the highway that day was a courier and hadn’t hesitated to give her a ride. That driver had taken her more than ten hours straight south. There’d been no destination in mind when she’d climbed into the car, just…away. The b
ruises hadn’t all surfaced by then, not when she’d gotten into the car. The ripening of the colors had bloomed under her skin slowly, drawing sidelong glances, then more direct stares, from the male driver.

  The farther they’d driven, the more signs she’d seen for Gulf Coast beaches, and an idea had been born.

  After growing up in the slow-moving backwoods, she’d quaked with frantic anxiety watching the flow of traffic in the cities. A pretty lake, with it’s lapping wavelets, would be just the thing to ease her mind. She’d imagined the Gulf of Mexico as something like a big lake, an expanse of water that drew the eye out to the horizon, and the calming sounds of waves. The driver had been doubtful about her description, trying in a kind way to explain how the water was different, and then he’d been beyond doubtful about leaving her at the beach, her only request of him not to tell any authorities, but on a deadline, and with his route already disrupted, a few reassurances from her had settled his nerves. He’d been the source of the tarp and warmer articles of clothing, a kind stranger drifting through her life.

  Vanna was another one.

  Myrt had been on the beach for only a few hours when an incoming storm had driven her back inland, the rising fury of the waves startling and unsettling. By the time she’d slogged through the sand and back to a road, the rain had begun in earnest, and she’d found getting a ride in bedraggled and soaked clothing was more difficult. Finally, a woman had stopped and lectured her about the evils of men—as if Myrt couldn’t have told her a few things—and taken her to a women’s shelter. They’d been full, and Myrt had watched as the other women turned away at the door had melted back into the darkness, somehow able to merge with the environment like an owl in a tree. She’d attempted the same, searching for a safe place to lay her head, and walked all night. Morning sun rising had shown her the road she’d been following had taken a curve into the wilderness. At the next intersection, when she’d been unsure which way to go, she’d decided that like the poems her mother had once read to her, she’d take the path less traveled.