by Delia Latham
He accepted the movies, but narrowed his gaze and raised a brow. “You’re gonna make me watch a chick flick, aren’t you?”
She grinned, and a little imp danced in her brown eyes. “Would I do a thing like that?”
“Uh, yeah, I think you would. Oh, well…” He handed her one, not even glancing at the title. “I guess I can take it, but be warned. Next time we’re watching real men do the things real men do.”
She laughed outright. “Got it.”
****
Aria lay in bed, going back, step by careful step, over the day.
She still felt completely blown away by the unbelievable discovery that, not only was the boy in her dreams real, but he was the man who’d been the proverbial fly in her ointment ever since she met him.
Someday, maybe she’d find a way to suggest Pastor David use his little “pray-for-each-other” tactic with great caution.
What had started out as simple obedience to that unwelcome request had turned into something much bigger. She wasn’t quite ready to put a name on it yet. How could she label something she didn’t understand?
But one thing was becoming clearer than she wanted it to be.
Something was brewing between her and the youth minister. Because, when she replayed the whole scenario in her head, it always rewound and replayed at exactly the same spot, like a damaged cassette tape.
That trouble spot was the moment when Corbin had pulled her into his arms.
She wasn’t totally ditzy—she completely understood that his embrace had been the desperate reaching out of a hurting heart. The need for human contact. Nothing more. So why did her heart rate increase to a delirious, dangerous, quick-step pace with every guilty recollection?
She might be able to convince Corbin if she needed to, but lying to herself never worked. The truth leered at her through the crystal-clear lens of recent memory.
She had liked being in his arms. She’d liked it a lot.
8
On the walk from Aria’s cottage to his own, Corbin’s unexpected immersion into a past he wanted to forget pooled with the prickly weight of humidity to create an overpowering sense of hopelessness that nearly knocked him to his knees.
Not seeing Andrew Hart puttering around the place didn’t help. He missed the old guy more than he’d expected to, considering the man’s crusty demeanor and habitual reticence. Now that he was gone, Hart’s strong influence became notable in its absence—even more so because his touch could be seen on every inch of the property.
Every possible square of ground boasted glorious banks of flowers and plants the landlord had tended with quiet dedication. Ivy and blooming trailers crawled up tree trunks and over stumps, while huge clusters of honeysuckle created gorgeous mountains of sweet-smelling beauty in colors Corbin had never seen until he came to Angel Falls. Periwinkle and passion flower vines meandered in and out of fence slats. Daisies, petunias, and impatiens—along with any number of other blooms he didn’t recognize—exploded from pots, barrels, tires…even an old claw foot bathtub and an ancient ringer washing machine.
Drowning beneath a crushing wave of melancholy, Corbin hated the overwhelming evidence of Hart’s green thumb. Stabs of fierce, unreasonable anger pierced his soul and coursed like molten liquid through his veins. He clenched his fists and clamped his teeth together so hard it hurt his ears. Breathing hard, he rushed through his gate, fleeing an unexpected and shocking need to rip the offending flowers out of the ground. All that brightness and glory seemed a mockery in the face of the sorrow that blanketed the complex.
Inside, too wound up to even think about sleep, Corbin plopped onto his favorite chair and picked up his Bible. He laid it on his lap, even allowed it to drop open, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
Memories he’d buried deep within himself clawed to the surface with razor-sharp talons, tore through his every defense, and churned like choppy ocean waves in his head. One after another, they surged to the forefront, slamming his mind with shattering force.
“God, why?” He whispered into the silence of his cottage, too drained to speak out loud. “Why rehash all of that ugliness now? It’s over and done. Please, can’t I just let it go? Can’t You just let me forget?”
He cringed, recalling the way he’d spilled his guts to Aria, right out there in the open, under the Texas sky. After guarding his emotions with iron will for what seemed like his entire life, he’d laid them completely bare today—to none other than Pastor David’s prim-but-pretty secretary, whom he’d thought would never be more to him than a thorn in his side.
But everything had changed. Now Aria knew what kind of mess he had grown up in. The charming face he presented to the world, his happy-go-lucky, suave man-about-town façade had broken in half and fallen at his feet in the presence of the last person on earth he wanted to see him as he really was: A weakling kid who lived in terror of his father’s drunken rages.
Maybe that’s all he’d ever be.
His hand clenched atop the Bible in his lap and a hot stream of salty moisture rolled down his face with no warning whatsoever, sparking yet another instant of white-hot rage. No! He had not shed a tear since the last beating he took from his dad. He’d promised himself then that he’d never cry again, never let himself be that soft. And he hadn’t…until now.
He lifted one arm and buried his face against the sleeve to dry his eyes. The raging fury burned itself out within seconds, leaving a steady, bitter anger brewing within his heart. How ironic that never in all the years since he left home had that inner fire been directed toward Kirby Bishop—only himself. He’d been a weak target for his father’s drunken insanity for far too long, especially considering he could have crippled the smaller, much weaker man with one well-placed blow.
Corbin’s body bore an ugly network of scars from years of demoralizing abuse, but it also boasted hard, rippling muscles toned by back-breaking labor on a farm that barely yielded enough profit to keep on the electricity. He never understood how his father paid for a never-ending supply of alcohol.
By age fifteen, he’d been taller than his dad by at least a head and far stronger. Still, he’d never lifted a hand to prevent the brutal thrashings Kirby dealt out with increasing frequency.
Why hadn’t he? Because—to his shame, and despite everything—Kirby was his father and he loved him. Never having known the mother who died giving him birth, Corbin had longed with an almost physical ache for affection from his remaining parent. He did everything he could to please, deliberately sought out ways to bring a smile to his father’s dour face.
But nothing worked. When Kirby wasn’t lashing Corbin’s back, he either ignored his son’s existence or pretended they were best buddies, often encouraging Corbin to call him by his name, rather than Dad. But then, during the next exorcism-by-bloodletting session in the barn, he would deal out extra lashes for his son’s impudence in addressing him with such disrespect.
Mere weeks before his sixteenth birthday, Corbin had finally had enough.
The previous day’s torture session had stretched through the afternoon and into the evening, with Kirby requiring a number of breaks from his efforts to free Corbin of the devil inside him. During those rest periods, he slumped to the floor, propped against the barn wall while he sobbed and moaned, and downed more whiskey.
After one final slam of the triple-leather strop into his son’s shredded skin, he untied the ropes around Corbin’s ankles and wrists, and then bent low. He shoved his face so close that, even half-conscious, Corbin gagged on the reek of alcohol combined with bad breath from a sour stomach.
“That ol’ serpent’s hangin’ on real tight inside you, Cor. He’s got his slinky, snaky self wrapped around your soul, and he don’t intend to give it up. That’s why I do this, boy.” Kirby darted a bleary, half-frightened gaze over his shoulder, then back to Corbin. “The angel says it’s for your good, so I do it, even though I hate it. Gonna make you a better man, Cor. Just wait and see. Someday you’ll than
k me for this.”
Corbin groaned and turned his head away. The next day, he tossed a few clothes into a pillowcase and set off down the long dirt road leading away from the only home he’d ever known. At the highway, he stuck out his thumb and waited for a ride. He didn’t care which direction he traveled, as long as it was far from where he was.
Sitting in his Heart’s Haven cottage over a decade later, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase Kirby’s dirty, sweat-streaked face from his brain and force the never-forgotten stink of foul breath from his nostrils. Thinking about that part of his life never failed to send him spiraling into depths of depression. Today the deep soul-sadness seemed heavier and more oppressive than ever before.
He sucked in a deep breath and waited for his bleary eyes to clear so he could see the Bible on his lap. When they did, he gasped. One verse of Scripture seemed to lift itself off the page, dimming all the others to a mere blur and forcing Corbin to focus on the words that floated between him and the Book that lay open to Psalm 147.
“He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.”
Broken in heart? Corbin frowned. His heart wasn’t broken. He was way past caring enough to be hurt by his father’s actions.
His breath caught in his throat when the Scripture, already hanging in mid-air, seemed to grow and pulsate before his eyes.
“He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.”
Corbin closed his eyes against the words that made no sense anyway. His wounds were long since healed…nothing left but scars. They weren’t pretty, but they didn’t hurt.
Let Me work in you, My son. Let me wrap the oozing wounds on your heart in a bandage of healing love—My love for you.
Oozing wounds. A strangled cry pushed its way past Corbin’s throat as the gentle fingers of Love touched the deepest places in his heart…those dark corners that held horrors he’d hoped to hide even from himself.
“Oh, God!” He laid the Bible aside and slid off the recliner onto his knees. “Father, forgive me for not trusting You enough.”
Sobs wracked his body, but the sweet peace of Christ flowed over, around, and through him, smoothing over jagged scars and mending open, festering wounds of self-hatred and bitterness.
Corbin stayed on his knees a long time. Finally he stirred, in preparation to getting up off the floor.
A firm, unrelenting pressure against his back prevented the movement.
9
He stiffened, and something almost electric shot through his spine. What was happening? Undulating waves of unwelcome memory made him dizzy, and his heart slammed his chest as though trying to escape. Not since he left his father’s house had Corbin been physically prevented from doing as he wished.
“Fear not, Corbin Bishop.”
The words, though powerfully spoken, poured a quiet calmness into his soul, and he relaxed, though his heart still thundered in his ears. He’d never before experienced this kind of visitation, yet he knew he was in the company of a holy presence.
He waited, and once again the velvety steel brushed against his back, this time urging him off his knees and onto his feet. “Rise, and see.”
Corbin obeyed, despite the violent trembling of his legs. He turned to face his visitor, and gasped. Joy, tempered with the diminishing remains of his fear, coursed through his being.
Only an angel could be so perfect.
He’d chosen not to believe in them, and yet…what else could this winged creature be? A glowing aura lit the visitor’s perfect face, as well as the pure white wings that undulated behind him as if caught in a playful breeze. His eyes shone golden in the deepening gloom of a day drawing to an end. Corbin caught his breath when the angel smiled—a sight so beautiful he closed his eyes, unable to endure its power.
“I have come to bring you sight, son of the Most High.”
Gentle fingers made a feathery path across both of his eyelids. “Open your eyes, Corbin Bishop, and see.”
He obeyed, and found that his living room had vanished. He now stood in the midst of an active battlefield. A war was being fought before his eyes.
By angels. An army of them.
Shocked and awed, Corbin’s gaze swept the scene, trying to take in every detail. Many of the creatures appeared much like the one in his living room, and yet they were clearly individual beings. They moved and circled around him, never for an instant taking their eyes off the enemy. Loud war cries echoed across the battleground; the clang of clashing swords provided a discordant accompaniment. Despite the gloom of nightfall in the earthly realm, here—wherever “here” was—bright sunrays danced across the battle scene and flashed off the tips of swinging blades.
Opposite the white angels, so clearly akin to Corbin’s winged visitor, other beings fought with equal determination. These dark-robed creatures lacked any kind of beauty. Scaly black wings pounded the air, creating an abrasive racket that made Corbin want to bury his head in the sand. Spine-tingling screams of fury turned his blood to ice, even as shrieks of maniacal laughter shuddered his entire body. Sweat erupted from his pores to run down his back in a hot stream. One of the dark spirits turned to look his way, lips peeled back from fanged yellow teeth. Repulsed, Corbin fought to keep from vomiting. Spittle flew from the creature’s mouth as it released a hate-filled hiss that sent Corbin scrabbling backward.
“What—?” He swallowed hard and tried to push his voice past the knot of terror in his throat. “Why are they fighting?”
“There.” The angel pointed.
Corbin’s gaze followed the long finger. Swords still clashed behind him, and angry cries sliced through the air, along with shouts of triumph as enemies fell. But off to one side of the battlefield, Pastor David sat slumped over a desk Corbin recognized as the one in the minister’s church office. After a moment, David raised his head to look heavenward, revealing bloodshot eyes and a haggard, barely recognizable face.
The angel’s golden gaze met Corbin’s. “They fight for him. For you. For Angel Falls.”
“But…why?”
“The Father will not allow His children to battle evil on their own. As long as evil exists, we will fight to protect God’s people against it.”
As they watched, David raked a hand through his hair. He groaned, and then cried out in a voice wracked with intense sorrow. Corbin turned away, unable to bear the agony.
“Help him! Please!” He blinked back the sting of tears, feeling the pastor’s pain with every heartbeat.
The angel waved an arm toward the ongoing battle. “We are.”
Corbin covered his face with both hands. “No more. Please. I’ve seen enough.”
“Almost.” Placing his hands on Corbin’s shoulders, the angel turned him in another direction and nodded toward yet another scene.
Corbin flinched. He wanted—tried to look away, but found that he could not.
He now stood in the center of the barn that had for so long been his torture chamber.
As if time had ceased to pass since Corbin’s final beating, Kirby Bishop sat slumped against the wall, a bottle in his hand. Tears coursed down his unshaven cheeks. One of the abominable leather-winged creatures danced and cavorted around him, screaming insults and urging its human target to douse the fire of his misery with more whiskey.
Or to take his life and end it forever.
Corbin took a step toward his father, and then stopped, remembering. None of this was real.
“It is real.” The angel spoke in what seemed to be a direct response to his thoughts…but Corbin didn’t think they had access to the minds of human beings. “Kirby Bishop faces this tormentor every day. He sees the hideous demon, and believes himself insane because of it.”
“The creature…” Corbin shut his eyes. Opened them again. “How long?”
Pity softened the angel’s perfect features. “Since the day you were born and your mother died. He loved her completely, but he might have healed had this creature left him alone.”
Anger, pure and hot, surged through Corbin’s blood. Twenty-nine years? He gestured toward the ongoing battle going on around them. “Then why this battle? What good does it do?”
His visitor shook his head, sadness evident in the golden eyes. “Kirby Bishop refused God, Corbin, and blamed the Father for the death of his wife. He chose not to be covered by the Blood of Christ, and therefore has no defense against this evil.”
Crushing sorrow drove Corbin back to his knees. “Oh, God, please forgive my blindness. Please…help my dad. Let me help him find You. I must see him covered by Your blood and delivered of his torment!”
After a few moments, the angel visitor delivered one last piece of instruction and then bade Corbin goodbye.
Corbin blinked, and the winged messenger was gone, as was the war scene of a few moments before.
He returned to his communion with the Lord, grateful to be free of the battle cries, clashing swords, and shrieking demons. When he’d found some measure of peace, he got up and prepared himself for bed. Bone-deep exhaustion pulled at him, and he fought to stay upright until he could crawl between the sheets and, with God’s help, sleep. Despite all he had witnessed…despite the weariness that now sapped his strength…and even though he ached for his father, a quiet peace he’d never before experienced reigned in his heart.
His heavenly Father loved him. That love formed a shield against any evil Satan might cast his way. An entire army of angels fought for him even as he slept, although he’d been—until now—unaware and disbelieving of their existence.
But Corbin found the most comfort in knowing that, after all these years, he had found forgiveness for his earthly father.
He plummeted almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep, but in the moment before it claimed him, a thought zipped through his mind that brought on a sleepy smile.
Tomorrow he could tell Aria that he believed.