A single woman battles to keep her foster child from his newly paroled father—a dangerous man she used to love.
Bridget Matawapit is an Indigenous activist, daughter of a Catholic deacon, and foster mother to Kyle, the son of an Ojibway father—the ex-fiancé she kicked to the curb after he chose alcohol over her love. With Adam out on parole and back in Thunder Bay, she is determined to stop him from obtaining custody of Kyle.
Adam Guimond is a recovering alcoholic and ex-gangbanger newly paroled. Through counseling, reconnecting with his Ojibway culture and twelve-step meetings while in prison, Adam now understands he’s worthy of the love that frightened him enough to pick up the bottle he’d previously corked. He can’t escape the damage he caused so many others, but he longs to rise like a true warrior in the pursuit of forgiveness and a second chance. There’s nothing he isn’t willing to do to win back his son—and Bridget.
When an old cell mate’s daughter dies under mysterious circumstances in foster care, Adam begs Bridget to help him uncover the truth. Bound to the plight of the Indigenous children in care, Bridget agrees. But putting herself in contact with Adam threatens to resurrect her long-buried feelings for him, and even worse, she risks losing care of Kyle, by falling for a man who might destroy her faith in love completely this time.
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Redeemed
Copyright © 2019 Maggie Blackbird
ISBN: 978-1-4874-2455-8
Cover art by Martine Jardin
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Smashwords Edition
Redeemed
Matawapit Family Book 2
By
Maggie Blackbird
Dedication
In memory of my precious niece, Katie May, and my godmother, Auntie Linda—two very special women who loved romance.
Thank you to the following people:
My husband and the Mals for your love and never-ending support.
Kim Gosnell, MSW, for being a wonderful friend and sharing your expertise.
The eXtasy Books staff: Emma, my editor, Martine, my cover artist, Bri, my proofer, Angela, Art Director, and Jay, EIC.
Chapter One: I Ain’t No Nice Guy
Lying was what Adam did best. He’d learned how to lie as a punk-ass kid. Believing the lie for the complete truth was key in confusing the cops, the Crown attorney, the judge—anyone trained to search his face, voice, or body language for signs of dishonesty. Only booze had tripped him up, nailed him good enough to send him down below because of his love for the bottle.
He wouldn’t lie today. He hadn’t lied during his parole hearing, either. Lying wasn’t a part of his new life. Neither was whiskey.
From now on, fatherhood was what he’d do best.
Other parents sat in the waiting room at Children and Family Services. One paced the floor wearing yesterday’s stubble. Another shifted in her seat, bleary-eyed, either from a hangover or crying. The tall guy with holes in his clothes crossed and uncrossed his legs. The girl, not much older than twenty, rocked back and forth, slurping coffee, while her legs twitched. A tweaker, probably.
The smell was the same in all government buildings. A lingering of something old and outdated, and the walls either a bland beige, faded white, or dull light gray. Off-white was the color of choice at Children and Family Services.
“Mr. Guimond?” The receptionist rose from behind the rounded counter against the wall. “Your caseworker’s ready to see you. Second floor. The fourth office on your right.” She used a pen to point in the direction of the elevator.
Adam stood. His feet remained rooted to the floor, and he forced his legs to make the ten-yard trek to the elevator. Once he was enclosed inside the stuffy chute no bigger than the drunk tank he’d been tossed in after coming off a bender, he fumbled for the second-floor button.
There was no turning back. He was going up.
He could face a judge sentencing him, cops tossing him on the hood of a cruiser to handcuff him, scouting his range for the first time while being sized up by the toughest of toughs, or a beat-out from the Winnipeg Warriors to drop his colors. He could face anything but a caseworker who’d decide if and when he’d see his boy.
He checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his hair that kinked this way and waved that way. Damned wind was to blame after his walk to and from the bus stop. Since t-shirts, jeans, and running shoes wouldn’t impress the caseworker, he’d borrowed a too-snug dress shirt and dress pants off a guy at the halfway house. The buttoned cuffs were silver bracelets locked around his wrists, and the starched collar a noose.
The doors opened. His breathing mirrored the rattle and hops when he’d been chased by the cops. The same for the hot pressure pounding at the back of his neck.
There were offices in both directions. Some doors were open, a couple of them closed. Voices carried out from the offices, workers either on the phone or meeting with a loser like himself.
He gave his left a try first and trudged down the hallway. The fourth door on the right was closed.
Show time. He’d done this lots—getting his shit together before his execution. He fisted and un-fisted his fingers while huffing and puffing three quick breaths of air.
He rapped his knuckles against the fake wood.
“One moment, Mr. Guimond,” a woman said in a stern voice.
Adam’s heartbeat slowed, and the ball of tension behind his neck vanished. A few more seconds. He leaned on the wall and folded his arms. At least he’d gotten the right door. He’d also made sure not to smoke outside. First impressions counted, whether at a parole hearing, before a judge, anything. Smelling like an old cigarette butt was the wrong impression, but the blood threading through his veins could use a dart right now.
“You may enter.” The woman’s supposed invitation came out as an order. She must have worked at the iron house or had a husband as a CO.
He opened the door to a hawk—a birdlike biddy in her sixties with gray hair pulled off her narrow face and twisted into a bun. Beady cold eyes looked him up and down with the scrutiny of a judge on the bench. Her nose, the shape of a beak, she held high in the air. She pointed her skinny finger at the chair positioned in front of the desk, square in the middle.
“You may sit.” She lowered her hard gaze to a neat stack of papers and started writing.
Adam sat. The chair was positioned too close to the desk. Even when he opened his legs, his knees hit the cheap laminate. Maybe this was part of the caseworker’s strategy to make clients uncomfortable.
“I’m Mrs. Dale. Your son’s caseworker.” She kept writing on the pad, her scrawny knuckles a bright red from how hard she gripped the pen.
There wasn’t a
smidgen of dust on the filing cabinet, desk, or bookshelf. One lone picture faced her. Pens kept in order of color sat in a tray. Even the essentials for an office were set square on the desk. There were no other files present but one manila folder which also sat square beside the paper she wrote on. The off-white vertical blinds were adjusted to keep the sunlight off her but allow the two blooming plants on a shelf to take in a tan.
With all this silence, she must want him to speak first. He swallowed a helping of saliva to keep his voice strong and calm. “I’m Adam Guimond. Kyle’s father.”
“I already know who you are and why you are here, Mr. Guimond.” The Hawk kept writing. “I have been responsible for your file since your incarceration.”
Double great. This old biddy had it out for him. Adam kept his arms unfolded. He stared at her rolled bun. He wouldn’t look anywhere else or shift in his chair.
After five more minutes, and Adam refusing to twitch, the Hawk raised her head. She laid aside the pen vertical to the pad of paper, which she rested her skinny fingers on. “Why are you requesting approval to see your son?”
Adam hadn’t expected this question. He continued to stare at her narrowed eyes tucked behind matching glasses. Again, he made sure to keep his voice even. “He’s my son.”
“I know he’s your son, a son you lost to care, because you not only abused alcohol, but also committed a serious crime while under the influence. Tell me, why are you requesting approval to see your son?”
She’d made a damned good point. He’d cut the old biddy some slack. The twelve steps of his recovery program, the Seven Grandfathers teachings of the Ojibway, and the anger management course he’d followed while in the iron house had prepared him for this moment.
“Saved up enough money working on day parole. Gonna use the coin to rent a small apartment. Got a plan.”
“What plan would that be?”
With her shitload of questions, her unchanging cold stare that was a block of ice, The Hawk was in the wrong line of work. Adam should recommend she become a detective instead of a caseworker.
“Good place for my kid.”
“Mr. Guimond, you are going to have to be specific and find your tongue to elaborate. We are discussing the welfare of your child.” Her voice remained the same stern tone.
She was good. Really good. Better than the too-many cops who’d hauled Adam into an interrogation room for questioning.
“You got the info on me. Came up with a plan in the pen.” He squeezed his toes, a great way to destress when under scrutinizing eyes and effectively hide the flicker of anxiety twitching along his spine.
“A plan?”
“Yeah. Got my grade twelve. Went to twelve-step meetings. Was part of the aboriginal healing program. Took my anger management class and passed. It was my plan. To change. Become a true dad to my son.”
“This is why you relocated from Winnipeg to Thunder Bay—again?”
“My boy lives here. I wanna live here.”
“Why else do you wish to reside here? As I said, you had better be more specific and talk.” She tightened her jaw and lifted her brow.
Adam kept the smile itching to stretch his lips tucked deep inside him. She’d broke first. Confidence swelled in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he stood a chance at getting his son back. “After my last rubbie bit, I dropped my colors—”
“This is not the federal corrections institution, Mr. Guimond. Proper English. Not street code.” Her voice rose an octave.
He’d broken her again. So he set his hands on his thighs and leaned in a smidgen. Crowding her space was imperative to force her to lean back. He kept his stare rigid and spoke in the same low monologue. “During my second last incarceration, the mother of my kid told me she was pregnant. I wanted a better life for my son. Stopped drinking and left the gang. Went to rehab. My back was against the wall. No protection anymore. Other gangs wanted a piece of me still. Moved here to start a better life. Didn’t wanna get in any more trouble.”
The Hawk failed to recoil into her chair. She remained a statue in her seat. “But you did when you first lived here with your son...”
“I shouldn’t have moved back to...” Nope, he’d better not say the ‘Peg. “... Winnipeg after things fell apart here. That was a big mistake.”
“Then why did you move back to Winnipeg, again, if you knew trouble awaited?” The Hawk’s tone shifted to her natural sternness.
Adam kept returning her stare. “It was a mistake. Told you already. Things fell apart here.”
“You mean your ex-fiancée, who’s been responsible for your son for almost four years now, ended your engagement and you couldn’t handle the rejection.” The Hawk’s mask of plaster cracked into a half-smile of part sneer and part triumph.
So this was her game, huh? She did want Adam to fail. Authority. They were all the same. Good thing he’d come in here with the right kind of attitude and game plan. “My ex-fiancée had every right to do what she did. I started drinking again. She gave me the boot.”
“What about your drinking now?” Mrs. Dale redonned her mask of plaster.
“Kept sober while doing my time. Attended twelve-step meetings at the jail in Winnipeg while I was on day parole. A guy from the outside came in and chaired them. I’m still sober. First thing I did when I got into town was check where all the meetings are. Attending one tonight.”
“And when your parole term is finished?”
“I don’t plan on going back to drinking. I’m done with that.”
Mrs. Dale clucked her tongue and crooked her narrowed brow in a we’ll-wait-and-see manner.
She didn’t have to wait and see. He’d tell her right now. “My old boss lined me up a job here. Chain restaurant. He called his buddy here at the Thunder Bay chain.”
“When do you start?”
“He’s gonna call me. Once I find out, I’ll let you know what my hours are.”
Mrs. Dale sat back in her chair.
Confident, much? She could take her confidence and shove it. She’d lose. Nothing was stopping Adam from getting his boy back.
“I see men and women like you every single day in my office, Mr. Guimond. I also visit the homes of people like you to remove your children whom you are not providing adequate care for. Do you know how many times people such as yourself regain custody of your children, and then lose them again?”
“I thought the purpose here was to care for the kids until we...” He couldn’t say get our shit together. “... until we’ve taken care of biz, made our lives better?”
“I will recommend to my supervisor one hour per week, supervised visits in the family room.” Mrs. Dale sat up in her chair and began writing again.
One hour? One measly hour to see his boy after he hadn’t seen Kyle in almost four years? “Why?” The word flew from Adam’s mouth.
He squeezed his toes. Careless. Fucking careless. Dammit, she’d broken him. Now she knew his weakness. How to get under his skin. He’d failed.
“Mr. Guimond...” The Hawk’s half-sneer returned. Even her cold eyes glimmered. “I am considering the welfare of your child. Not your welfare. Your son has not seen you in almost four years. He recently celebrated his seventh birthday. This means he was extremely young when you were institutionalized. He has only known the care of his foster mother. Don’t you think reacquainting yourselves should be the priority so he can make the emotional adjustments he will require to have you back in his life? Or do you not care? Is this about what you want, instead of what your child needs?”
Adam’s gut burned. She was right. This meeting wasn’t about who played a better game of chess. Kyle’s feelings came first. “Whatever you recommend,” he managed to grunt out.
If he had one measly hour to give to his boy, he’d make their time the best hour possible.
I’m coming, kiddo. Daddy’s here. He’s made a lot of mistakes. A lot of bad mistakes that you’re paying for, when you shouldn’t be. I won’t let you down this time. That’s a
promise.
He ran the tip of his tongue along the roof of his mouth. But from the day he’d kicked and clawed his way from the womb, whenever he challenged authority, he’d lost.
* * * *
Bridget slammed the door shut and stormed to the building. She smacked the button on her key set to lock the truck. Nobody had to tell her what this meeting was about. Nobody had to tell her Adam had raced back to Thunder Bay once the son of a bitch had finished his day parole. Nobody had to tell her he’d overlooked informing anyone about his intentions. Adam only thought about Adam.
She stomped into Children and Family Services and huffed to the front desk. “I have an appointment to see Mrs. Dale. She’s my caseworker.”
“One moment.” The receptionist picked up the phone. “Ms. Matawapit’s here... Okay... Thank you... I’ll send her right up.”
The receptionist set down the phone. “Go on up. She’s waiting.”
“Thank you.” Bridget stamped to the elevator and got in. She used her knuckle to punch the button for the second floor.
Adam was going to try to gain full custody of Kyle, after she’d looked after the boy for almost four years, after she’d refused to allow Adam to take Kyle to Winnipeg, after agreeing not to call Children and Family Services on him when the bastard had fallen off the wagon. After all she’d done for the loser.
The elevator doors opened. Bridget trounced to Mrs. Dale’s office and rapped on the door.
“Enter, Ms. Matawapit.”
Bridget opened the door and flounced to the chair in front of the desk.
“I am grateful you could come on your lunch hour.” Mrs. Dale shuffled some papers. “What I have to say merits a face-to-face meeting. How is Kyle? Did he enjoy his birthday party?”
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