Taylor

by Irish Winters

  Both Taylor’s parents looked well groomed, obviously ready for an evening event. The General in his dress uniform, the olive drab proudly displaying his awards including the Naval Aviator Insignia and Distinguished Service Medal.

  Judith stood smiling at his side, her short blonde hair impeccably styled. She was her usual nervous self, ready to accompany the General anywhere in her navy blue suit with matching handbag and pumps. Her teeth white and straight. Her smile radiant and warm. Down to her patent leather heels, she was the epitome of the perfect general’s wife.

  Same old shit. Different day.

  “Looks like you finally found him,” the General said when he spotted Taylor. “About time.”

  Taylor automatically assumed the correct posture for conversation with his father, eyes forward, back straight, hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, sir.”

  Alex nodded to him and closed the door on his way out of the Sit Room.

  The General looked Taylor over with a severe eye, one brow spiked. “You need a haircut. A shave, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  No shit. I’ve been kidnapped. Shot. In a damned fight for my life. Of course, I need a shave. I need a drink, too.

  “Where the hell have you been? What do you have to say for yourself, scaring your mother like that? You owe her an apology.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been kind of tied up.” If you only knew or cared. “Sorry, Mum. I never meant to make you worry. I do have another question, though.” Taylor stared straight ahead, daring to ask but already knowing the answer.

  “Well, what is it? Your mother and I have a charity dinner to attend. We can’t be late.”

  Taylor allowed his gaze to meet his father’s. “I’d like to know what happened between you and my mother, sir.”

  The General glanced sideways at Judith, his chin stuck forward. “Your mother’s right here. Ask her now. Make it quick.”

  Taylor nodded respectfully to Judith. “No disrespect intended, Mum, but I’d like to know more about Martha Catherine White Hawk Armstrong. My birth mother. The daughter of the great Mattaponi Chief, Peter White Hawk, if you don’t mind.” My real mom. The one who wrote a love song just for me.

  That changed the tight, military tone of the conversation. Judith took a step toward him, her eyes filled with compassion. She lifted her right hand like she intended to cup his cheek. He took a step toward her, wishing that once, just once, she would.

  “Of course. Why it’s only natural for you to be inter—”

  “Nonsense,” the General snapped. “Judith Armstrong is the only mother you need to care about.”

  Her hand dropped to her side. She stepped back into place. At his side. Whatever.

  Taylor stood alone again, only he wasn’t. Not anymore. The room had filled with all the benign ghosts he’d never gotten the chance to know and love in real life. He could almost feel his sweet mother’s hand on his shoulder, offering her strength, loving him from the other side of heaven. They were all there with him. Martha. Mary. Maggie. Patience. So close he shivered with their breath on his neck. The hair on his arms lifted.

  He faced the General, his confidence on fire at the strength of all that love standing fast and ready on his six. “I realize Judith has been my mother most of my life, but I deserve to know what happened with my real mother. Martha must’ve meant some—”

  “Shut up. I won’t discuss my personal life with you. Don’t ask again.”

  “But, sir.” Taylor dropped the military protocol bullshit of too many years and met his father’s steely eyes head on. “Whether you like it or not, Martha White Hawk was my mother. She carried me for nine months under her heart. She loved me, and God Almighty, I loved her. I still do. And you know what? I remember the day you had the fucking nerve to steal me! Peter White Hawk is my grandfather, and I love him, too. I will ask. Again and—”

  The General stepped up to Taylor’s face, glowering. “No. You. Won’t.”

  Eye to eye, but never heart to heart, they faced each other.

  “Listen up, you sniveling excuse for a son. What happened then is none of your damned business. If anything, you should thank me for taking you away from those... those thieving heathens.”

  “Heathens? You call the woman you loved enough to get pregnant when she was sixteen—”

  SMACK!

  Taylor never saw it coming. The stinging slap knocked his head to the side. He bit his lip. That was a first. The General had never hit him in Judith’s presence before. His ears rang. Warmth trickled down his chin. Blood.

  Gradually, Judith’s shrill concern registered through the ringing. And now she knew what she should have made it her business to know all along.

  “Michael! No. What are you doing? Stop it! He’s hurt enough. Look at his arms. His chest.” But as usual she did nothing more than wring her hands, afraid as ever to step in and defend her stepson.

  But that was the real joke, wasn’t it? She’d never been there for him. She’d just—been there. And who the hell needs that?

  For what Taylor truly hoped was the last time, he summoned the power of his negative energy. Anger curled his fingers beneath the clean white bandages on his hands. He prepared to go to war—until Martha whispered in his ear.

  There is no mountain high enough, no trench beneath the sea;

  Could ever keep my love from you, no matter where you’ll be.

  He stilled and let the strength of her simple words surround him. Swallowing the blood in his mouth, he cocked his neck to break the gripping knot of tension. He hurt from head to toe, but so be it. A warrior must stand for his own or he stands for nothing.

  Taylor took a step forward. The time had come. One last time he faced the man his foolish real mother had loved enough to give her heart and a piece of her soul to.

  God, what were you thinking, Mom?

  The General didn’t step back. Taylor refused to back down. He was old enough. Big enough. Man enough. But most of all, he knew who he was and what he wasn’t.

  “Don’t call my mother a heathen again.”

  “Or what? You think you’re man enough to—”

  “I am man enough, SIR.” Taylor spat the title with disrespect, wishing his father were dumb enough to take another swing. Or try. “I’ve been man enough for years. You beat the shit out of me for years, too. Maybe I had it coming. Maybe I didn’t. But hear this. If you ever bad mouth my mother again, either of them, I’ll knock your sonofabitchin’ head clear off.”

  Of all damned things, Judith’s fingers clutched his shirtsleeve. He glared down at her. She stood at his side, tugging at him with tears glistening in her eyes and begging him to—what? To not hurt who? The General? The bastard who’d literally pounded military doctrine into a little boy’s body for years? Into me!

  She had to have known what was going on in her own house all these years. She had to have seen the bruises. The welts. The limping. She had to have wondered why her little stepson’s urine was pink or why he couldn’t eat breakfast some mornings because his teeth were loose. But she’d done nothing. Just smartly saluted and agreed with everything that came out of the General’s ass.

  Taylor brushed her hand off his arm. Cry all you want, Judith, but get the hell away from me. You’re not my mother.

  He took an intentional step back and brought both heels of his boots together with a clip. With that simple act of will full rebellion, he let go of the thing that would never be and embraced Taylor Michael White Hawk Armstrong for the first time.

  The age of the General was over. The age of the White Hawks would never end. God, it felt good to breathe the air of a brand new day.

  He nodded respectfully to his stepmother, who stood there with a tissue in her hand, still too afraid to actually offer it for his bloody nose. He gave her the benefit of the doubt anyway.

  “Thanks for coming to see me, Mum. I hope you enjoy your evening. And thanks for saving Saint Michael for me when I was just a kid. I know you did it, and I know wh
o really gave it to me. That was kind of you to think of Martha like you did.”

  “Oh, Taylor—” She took a half step toward him before the General corrected her course with his hand at her elbow.

  “Is there anything else?”

  Taylor lifted his shoulders, shrugging off Michael Armstrong’s twisted version of fatherly love.

  This was the end. Never again would he respond with crisp military respect or the sniveling lies of a kid who just wanted to please. He nodded toward the Sit Room door. “Go. Don’t want you to miss anything important.”

  The General huffed through his nose, pivoted on his heel and strode out of the Sit Room, Judith at his side. He headed straight to the elevator that Mark and Harley had just exited, not offering Alex so much as a departing nod.

  It’s funny how it takes years for certain things to crystallize, but Taylor got it now. Judith was everything his father wanted. Slim. Good-looking. Blindly obedient. Subservient.

  Taylor stretched his back, filling his lungs with a deep breath of relief. Only when he’d exhaled and did it all over again did he see Alex nod toward his office. Taylor followed.

  “He looked glad to see you,” Alex commented as he shut his door.

  “That would be the day.”

  “He’s a busy man.”

  “I guess.”

  “You’ve never once called me sir.”

  “You’re not an asshole.” So don’t start now.

  “Do you know why I hired you?”

  “Marksmanship. Ex-Marine. Scout sniper,” Taylor recited precisely what he thought Alex wanted to hear. What else is there?

  “Not even close. I hired you because I saw a young man with discipline and heart. Your father’s a hard man,” Alex stated without malice. “Sometimes a warrior forgets to stop fighting when he gets home. He’s still fully loaded for battle. It takes a while to disengage from the war fighter. To remember he’s not dealing with battle hardened warriors.”

  Yeah, and sometimes a kid just needs someone to teach him how to fish for the best salmon in icy waters. Sometimes a kid doesn’t understand a damned thing about the God Almighty war fighter. You ever think of that?

  He looked away instead of voicing those thoughts. “My father took me from the White Hawks because he couldn’t stomach an Indian raising his flesh and blood, not that he intended to do it himself.”

  “You might be right.”

  “I am right. I might’ve gotten a little roughed up the last few days, but for the first time in my life someone was glad to see me. Someone was proud of me. Someone called me grandson and nephew and... and...” He choked. Someone actually said she loves me.

  Alex stood and extended an arm to Taylor. “You’re coming to my place for dinner.”

  “No, thank you, but—”

  “But what? You got a goldfish you need to feed at that fixer-upper you call a home?”

  “I shouldn’t. It’s been a long day, and—”

  “You should,” Alex insisted. “The last thing you need to do is sit in an empty house tonight. You’re injured. Besides, Kelsey’s already prepared a ham and a big batch of German potato salad. We’ll stop for a bottle on the way home. Some beer. Come on. It’ll do you good to be among friends.”

  “She doesn’t care if you bring company home?” Taylor asked, still trying to find a way out of spending the evening with his boss. He wanted Gracie. Not The TEAM. Certainly not Alex.

  “It was her idea. Come on. I’ll drive.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At least Taylor woke in his own bed for a change, although the events of the evening before were still plenty fuzzy. Too much beer at night meant he needed a strong cup of coffee in the morning. No doubt about it. It felt good to be home, but lonely. Too quiet. He and his old house were a perfect match. Beat up. Worn out. Empty.

  He vaguely remembered dinner at his boss’s house, most likely because of the beer Mark and Harley kept offering. They’d gotten him drunk, an easy thing to do on an empty stomach and an emptier heart. Izza joined the impromptu party with Connor and their little girl, Jamie. Steven showed up, alone as usual.

  He stumbled to the head where he got a good look at the wreck in the mirror. If she were there, Gracie would be concerned. She’d give him that no-nonsense look of hers, bite her bottom lip, fix him up and he’d fall in love all over again.

  “I miss you, Gracie Fox,” he said out loud.

  The gauze had to go. Loop after loop fell to the floor as he examined his wounds. He hadn’t realized how deeply Harley nicked him until now. The welts from the bed restraints were still sore, but his chest wound worried him the most.

  Maybe Kelsey was right. She’d told him last night he needed to go to the hospital. Taylor thought about that for all of a nanosecond. Then he stepped under the shower until his hands and fingers started to bleed. By the time he located his first-aid kit, he and the bathroom were a mess. Of course, the doorbell rang. Didn’t it figure?

  There stood Mark and his wife, Libby, on his front porch. Taylor groaned. What a sight he must be, his hands semi-wrapped and bloody.

  Mark nodded at Taylor’s hands. “That’s why we’re here. Kelsey thought you might need help this morning. She called Libby to check on you. Looks like she’s right.”

  He waved them in. “I thought I could handle re-bandaging by myself, but it didn’t work out so good.”

  “Have a seat so Libby can get you squared away. I’ll drop her at work on our way to the office.”

  “Not here,” Taylor said. “There’s a table in the kitchen. Come on.” He ushered them into the recently completed kitchen at the back of the house.

  The old colonial was in desperate need of restoration when he’d bought it, but work on it was slow and for now, the kitchen and the upstairs master bedroom suite were the only rooms finished. Every other room had gotten stuck between the altered stages of new sheetrock, new flooring, or bare studs with electrical wiring, either coming or going. Too much lath and plaster in the old masterpiece meant every wall had to be stripped, reinforced, the outdated cloth wiring replaced and new sheetrock installed.

  Libby directed him to sit at the table while she opened her bag. “I really like this kitchen, Taylor. You’ve done a great job remodeling.”

  With the red clay floor tiles and black walnut cabinetry, it was a warm and comfortable family-sized room. The matching walnut picnic-style table he’d found at an estate sale fit the decor he preferred perfectly.

  “Mark.” Libby motioned to the double built-in ovens. “How cool are those? Don’t you just love this place?”

  “I do.” He ran his hand up the door jamb. “You did all this by yourself?”

  Taylor relinquished his bloody fingers to Libby’s gentle care. “It keeps me out of the bars. Hey, umm, I’m sure sorry if I said anything inappropriate last night, ma’am.”

  Her cobalt-blue eyes sparkled. “Please call me Libby. Mark told me what he and Harley did to you. Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen a few drunk guys in my life.”

  Mark smirked back at her. “Yeah. My bad. You looked like you needed a good night’s sleep so Harley and I kept the booze coming. Sorry.”

  Libby shook her head. “That Harley. He shouldn’t be anywhere near alcohol.”

  “You’re right, but he couldn’t resist anymore than I could,” Mark explained. “Besides, Harley’s a root beer kinda guy. That’s all he had to drink. You know that.”

  “I swear these two turn into high school pranksters when they’re around each other,” Libby complained, but Taylor caught the light in her eye.

  He looked away. I miss Gracie. “So who brought me home last night?”

  “Harley. I told him I’d bring you into work today if he’d take you home. Kelsey would’ve rather you stayed there, but you didn’t seem too happy with that suggestion.” Mark had already wandered into the front room while Libby gently re-bandaged Taylor’s fingers. “Where’d you find this banister?”

  “I made it.�
�

  “You what?”

  “Yeah. I made it. No big deal.”

  The banister itself was basically a straight piece of fitted walnut that curved at the bottom of the staircase to join with an elegant, freestanding newel. The walnut newel was the real eye-catcher. A fine piece of craftsmanship all by itself, he’d turned it on an industrial-sized lathe that accommodated its slope from the five-inch ball at the top to its twenty-two-inch base. Still unstained, the grain of the dark wood glowed despite the dust covering it and everything else.

  “It’s got to come off. One of the spindles cracked when I set it.”

  “You do all of this by hand? For fun?”

  “Sure. It’s a hobby.”

  Libby interrupted their guy talk. “You need stitches, Taylor. Some of these cuts are deep.”

  “Why don’t you let us run you by the hospital on the way to work?” Mark asked. By then, he’d come back into the kitchen and checking out the backsplash above the pumpkin-colored enamel sinks. “Libby knows a couple of good doctors. They’ll fix you up.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Taylor winced as he stood up. Today was one of those days when everything hurt.

  After thirty-three stitches on his fingers and hands, the emergency room doctor got around to checking the arrow wounds. “Are you that guy in the paper?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Mark handed Taylor a folded copy of the morning news. “You made the front page. I forgot to give this to you.”

  There in black and white was the story of the events as they’d unfolded at Quantico, complete with pictures of Crosland Webster, Arnold Steele, and Peter White Hawk. Written by a trustworthy reporter of a reputable newspaper this time, it announced an investigation by the Virginia Attorney General’s Office into the link between the Chronicle Killer and the assault and rape of Mary White Hawk.

  The state of Virginia had no statute of limitations for sexual offenses. If he weren’t already dead, Crosland Webster would’ve been charged and prosecuted for the assault and rape of a minor. Held as accomplices after the fact were Officers Craft and Atkins, as well as the fathers of the rapists, Detectives Robert Hemmings and Clive Webster.