The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan

by Michaela Wright

  Every cluster of words had been familiar, but they’d sounded like dreamspeak. Everything was like dreams – softened, near but covered in mist, like a veil hanging over the world.

  “Do you need anything, hon?”

  These words made sense, spoken in a gentle voice, like that of a woman.

  “No. Thank you, though,” a male voice responded. She recognized it, and felt herself smiling.

  “Catherine?”

  John said her name with a hint of desperation – a hint of hope.

  “I want a ginger ale,” Catherine said, her throat biting on every syllable. She was still unwilling to open her eyes. Her head was swimming on rough seas, and she felt nauseous and heavy.

  “Sweetheart!”

  “I’ll get the doctor,” the female voice said. “You got it honey. One ginger ale coming up.”

  Catherine could feel touch, a graze of fingers over the back of her own hand. She shifted her head, swallowing down the strange taste of metal and chemicals. She opened her eyes to the hatred of overhead lighting.

  “Oh man, am I glad to see you,” John said, a sad but affectionate smile on his face.

  Catherine turned to find John slunk down at her bed side, his arms propped on the mattress beside her. He was running his thumb over her hand, squeezing her fingers in his. He looked tired.

  “How long have I been here?”

  John smiled. “Just since last night. You tried to go Commando on all of us. Sexiest thing ever.”

  Catherine chuckled and both her head and her side protested by throbbing and searing with pain. She winced, and John moved closer.

  “Try not to move too much, baby. You’ve got a pretty decent hole in your side.”

  Catherine let her eyes focus on the ceiling as memory crept in; the darkness of woods, Grampy hurt, bears, guns - blood.

  She took the deepest breath she could, before closing her eyes.

  “They’ve let me stay since you stabilized. Apparently you’ve been trying to stop breathing in your sleep.”

  “My belly hurts,” she said, and tears spilled down her temples and into her ears.

  John leaned down to her, kissing her temple, then her cheek, then coming to hover just over her face. She tried to smile at him, but her attempt at a jovial gesture desperately wanted to be the harbinger of tears. She’d never responded well to drugs.

  “Here we go. Do you want to try to sit up a bit, sweetie?”

  Catherine turned to find her nurse there, handing a cup of ginger ale to John, an impossibly long straw dangling over the edge. The nurse was a little older than her, red haired with a turned up, Irish looking nose. Catherine nodded, moving her arms to help prop herself up.

  Both John and the nurse lunged forward. “No, no, honey. Don’t you move. That’s what this is for,” the nurse said, pulling a remote from the side of the bed. A moment later, Catherine was sitting upright, the icy ginger ale flowing down into her empty stomach, cooling her all the way through.

  “Welcome back, Ms. Calhoun. I’m Dr. Wayne. This is Officer Bradley.”

  John took the cup from her and set it aside as a tall, light haired man in a lab coat appeared in the room, a buzz cut clad State Police Officer in full uniform at his side. She swallowed. The last thing she’d ever wanted to encounter after her near brush in New Hampshire was a cop.

  “How are you feeling?” The doctor asked. His hands were in his pockets, a stethoscope dangling around his neck.

  Catherine nodded. “Like death.”

  The doctor smiled. “As to be expected. You got yourself quite the battle scar.”

  Catherine reached for her side, letting her fingers graze over the bandage that felt practically soldered to her skin.

  “The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, miraculously. Surgery went well – bullet held together. I’m sorry to say it is most likely going to be one hell of a scar, though.”

  Catherine shook her head, her words coming so soft, they were barely audible. “I don’t care about a scar.”

  “No, I didn’t imagine you would. You’re one of only two patients I’ve ever treated to walk away from such a shot. And the other guy was much bigger than you.”

  Catherine’s brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t say I walked away, exactly.”

  He laughed. “No, but you will. We’ll keep you a couple more days, and then send you home.”

  “Home?” Catherine said, but the doctor was busy conferring with the nurse now. She stared down at her belly. She didn’t have a home.

  “Sorry to disturb you ma’am, but I have a few questions, if you’re feeling up to it?”

  Catherine glanced up at the Police Officer and nodded.

  “Alright, can you tell me why were you in the woods last night?”

  John stayed at her side, still holding her hand.

  “I was looking for John.”

  The Officer nodded. “And what brought you to the conclusion that he might be in the Parkhurst Lake area?”

  Catherine closed her eyes a moment, her head getting swimmy again. “Because I found his brother in my Uncle’s shed.”

  “And that brought you to Parkhurst?”

  She nodded, which only exacerbated the woozy feeling. “Yes. That’s where Uncle Bodie liked to hunt. And it’s where they found Mrs. Fenn when I was a kid.”

  The Officer jotted down a couple notes. “Alright – now I know other witnesses said you were already unconscious when Bodie Calhoun was shot, is that correct?”

  Suddenly Catherine was in a panic. Oh God, Bennett. What’s going to happen to Bennett?

  She opened her mouth – and she lied. “Bennett saved us. I know that. Bennett didn’t do anythi -”

  John was reaching for her, trying to still her sudden upset movements.

  The officer held his hands out to her, trying to calm her. “Bennett isn’t being charged, Ms. Calhoun. All witnesses corroborate that the gunshot was in self-defense, I’m just trying to get a clear picture.”

  Catherine exhaled, searching for how to explain away what happened – that Bennett had walked up to his unarmed father, and blasted a hole in his face.

  She swallowed. “I didn’t see everything that happened. It was flashes. John kept trying to talk to me and get me to stay awake. The last time I opened my eyes, I saw Bennett with a gun. Nothing else.”

  Officer Brady nodded, his hat tucked politely under his arm. “Alright. We might have a detective come by to ask you a few more questions, but you rest up for now.” With that, the officer shook John’s hand and took his leave.

  John produced the ginger ale before she’d even asked. She forced a smile up at him, sipping greedily. He seemed to notice her dower mood.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh my god! My baby! My poor baby!” Catherine turned toward the door of the room just in time to see her mother barreling into the hospital room, her eyes red with tears. She was at Catherine’s bedside instantly, and despite Catherine being almost three decades old, her mother dropped down to the bedside, kissing her forehead, being careful not to touch the bandage between her brows.

  “Jesus, look at you. I told you not to come up here, didn’t I? I told you.”

  Catherine scoffed. “Right, because you knew Bodie was gonna shoot me.”

  Her mother’s face fell, and she stared at Catherine a moment, unable to speak. When the spell finally broke, tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, honey. We’ll get you all better when we get you home.”

  Catherine glanced back toward the door of the hospital room, fearful that another figure may be there. “Charlie didn’t come, did he?”

  Linda Calhoun shook her head, urgently. “No, no. He’s not here. It’s just me. Jacob’s on his way up from Vermont as well.”

  Catherine sighed in relief.

  “The doctor says you’ll be able to come home with me in a couple days, yeah?”

  “No.”

  Catherine and her mother both turned to look at John, confused by his sudde
n interjection.

  “What? She won’t be ready to go in a couple days? On the phone, he said -”

  “No, I mean she’s not going home with you. I’ll be taking her home – with me.”

  Linda shot a glance between the two of them. Catherine didn’t have the mental fortitude to compute what was happening, let alone respond.

  “She needs to be in her own home, with the people who can take care of her, John. I don’t think -”

  “She’s mine, Linda. Her home is with me.”

  Linda moved to protest, but Catherine stilled them both. “You should leave him, Mom.”

  Linda turned toward her daughter, frowning. She set her brow, her hand involuntarily moving toward her left cheek, where despite years of practice covering bruises with makeup, her tears were uncovering the tinge of yellow purple under her eye.

  “Catherine, now’s not the time.”

  “Grampy needs you. He’s been up here alone, he’s needed someone to be with him. He’s going to need someone now.” Catherine was gaining strength, the words flowing as quickly as she thought them. This is it, Mom, she thought. You have a place to go now.

  “I can’t ask Dad to put me up like that, after all this time? No,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Bodie was hurting him, Mom. I’ve seen the bruises.”

  Linda’s face contorted instantly. Catherine knew this fact would hit her mother hard. Linda couldn’t acknowledge what was happening to her, couldn’t truly accept that what her day to day life was like was a crime – that it wasn’t love. Still, if Linda couldn’t see her own turmoil from within, perhaps hearing that her own father had been suffering the same treatment, helpless in his old age – maybe that would make her see from the outside looking in.

  Catherine’s mother covered her face, trying not to sob openly in front of them. “I knew Bodie – I knew he had a temper. But Dad’s so strong. He’s so big, how could Bodie do any real harm?”

  “Grampy’s hands shake too much now. He can’t cook for himself anymore. He needs help with day to day stuff. Bodie wasn’t cooking for him, wasn’t doing his laundry.” Catherine watched her mother’s chin tremble, but forced her own voice to remain steady. “There are other ways to hurt someone that don’t involve lifting a finger, and you know it.”

  Linda tucked a strand of highlighted honey colored hair behind her ear, the back of her hand touched gently to her bruised cheek.

  Catherine continued. She could see her mother wavering – a mother who willingly lied to police about her own daughter in an effort to protect her abuser. If there was ever a moment to get through, it was now.

  “You should have seen the way his face lit up when he saw me, Mom. When he heard me say I wanted to stay. He’d be the happiest man alive if he had you. Please, Mom. Just stay for a week, maybe two. Then you can decide.”

  When Linda spoke, it was barely audible. “He’d be so angry with me.”

  She wasn’t talking about Grampy.

  Catherine tried to shift in the bed and winced. Suddenly, her head and her side rallied the still tender bruise on her ass to tag team her with pain for even thinking of moving. John came to her, helping her shift her pillows.

  “You’ll be safe, Mom. I promise.”

  Linda shook her head. “He has Bennett, doesn’t he?”

  “Mom -”

  “I don’t think Bennett is at 100% right now,” John said. Then he bowed his head, and took his leave, letting the two women have a moment alone.

  “Why? What’s wrong with Bennett?”

  Catherine stared up at her mother, searching for the words to share a detail she’d thought her mother already knew. “Mom, Bennett was the one that shot Uncle Bodie.”

  Linda slumped down into the nearest chair, her hands shaking as she pressed a tissue to her eyes. “Jesus Christ. Poor Benny.”

  Catherine sat there, unable to move more than her arms or her head. She didn’t want to anger her body any further, but it seemed it was angry enough without provocation, and growing angrier by the second. The pain medication seemed to be wearing off at a decent clip.

  “Bodie shoots you, Bennett shoots his own Dad - and you’re telling me you want to stay here?” Linda was actively sobbing now, her resolve was melting away.

  “More than anything. And I want you to stay, too. You don’t have to go home right away. You don’t have to go home ever.”

  Linda sat with her hands in her lap, staring at her fingers as though they’d only just sprouted. “You know, there was never any violence in our home when I was little. Never. Dad never hit us, never raised his voice at Mom. It wasn’t until Bodie turned thirteen that he started getting mean. He used to tear my hair out, threaten to cut me when Mom and Dad weren’t home. I thought he’d grown out of it.”

  Catherine sighed. “No, it seems he grew into it.”

  The two women sat there in silence a moment as Catherine reached for her remote. She grit her teeth against the searing sensation that was building in her abdomen. Despite the discomfort of the pain drugs on her head, she’d take nausea over this pain, any day.

  She pressed the call button.

  Two minutes later, Sharon appeared in the doorway. “Hey trooper, how are we feeling?”

  Catherine pursed her lips and exhaled. “Not good.”

  Sharon swept to the bedside like an Angel gone to war, inspected her IV and pulled a syringe from her pocket, injecting the clear sorcery into her IV drip.

  Catherine inhaled.

  “There we go sweetheart. That’s better, yeah?”

  Catherine smiled at her beautiful nurse, reaching for her hand. Then she smiled at John, who appeared directly behind her. Then she just smiled – at the lights, at the window, at the sound of gurneys being rolled down the hall. Then Catherine smiled at sleep.

  CHAPTER TEN

  John crept along the dirt road, meandering around potholes and divots at a creeping pace, careful not jostle his passenger. Catherine leaned against her passenger door, stiffening with each bump.

  “I don’t know if I want to do this,” she said, unable to look at John.

  “Don’t say that. You said you’d love to come home with me -”

  “This isn’t about coming home with you, baby. It’s about surviving the murderous rage your grandfather’s gonna throw my way when he hears I’m back on his land.”

  John chuckled to himself as they rounded another bend in the road toward his house. The ocean came into view, bright and blue today under a sunny sky, and the driveway to his house – filled with trucks and figures milling about.

  “Oh my god, they’ve come to lynch me.”

  “Oh, hush up, you,” John said.

  John rolled his truck into the driveway, and the figures parted and pushed forward, coming toward the truck like it was about to sell them ice cream. Janice Fenn hustled toward the passenger side door, her lip trembling slightly as she tried to hide her emotion.

  Janice tore open the passenger door. “Come on, sweetie! I got you, do you need help, honey?”

  Catherine shook her head as Janice pulled in closer, offering her hands and her shoulder to help Catherine down from the truck. Catherine was on her feet before John even had a chance to get around the truck.

  “Come on sweetheart. We’ve got everything set up inside for you.”

  Catherine walked at a slow pace, letting Janice dote as Deacon Fenn stood just a couple feet away, grinning at her, raising an eyebrow at his mother’s behavior.

  Catherine glanced around at other faces that were present, many only softly mirroring Janice’s comments of ‘anything you need,’ and ‘don’t worry about a thing.’ Uncle Terry was there with his kids, Gracie, Tiernan, and Kirk; and another couple faces she’d never met. Kirk was the oldest of John’s cousins – of the one’s she’d met in her lifetime, and he came forward to shake her hand. She smiled at him, her brow furrowed. Why was everyone being so damn nice all of a sudden?

  The only face missing from this cavalca
de of concern was Patrick Fenn, and her stomach turned at the thought of what would happen when he finally showed up.

  “Mom. Mom! Let me get her up the stairs. Come on, Mom.”

  “No! I got her. You go set the pillows on the couch. You want to go to the couch or to bed?”

  Catherine swallowed as she lifted her right leg to step up the stairs and her abdomen screamed. “The couch would be fine.”

  Janice managed to get her up to the door and inside John’s house. It smelled of a woodstove, and baked goods, a cinnamon broom tucked into the corner by the door.

  Catherine was lowered onto the couch, each pillow shifted and reshifted until perfection was achieved by the doting mother of John Fenn. John stood by, waiting to have something to do. He offered up an expression to mirror Deacon’s. The expression read – welcome to the world of Janice Fenn.

  Catherine leaned back, hissing gently as she did.

  “Now, I’ve brought over some extra blankets for you, because the air gets a lot cooler out here by the water, and there’s a Lasagna and a Roasted Chicken in the fridge -”

  “Mom, are you serious?” John asked, exasperated and excited at the same time as he took off for the kitchen.

  “They’re for her, you shit!” She hollered after him, but John just moaned appreciatively from the kitchen. Catherine gave as much of a laugh as her pain would allow. “I also brought over a couple batches of my cookies. I wasn’t sure which kind you preferred, so I made with and without nuts.”

  John whooped from the kitchen again, the sound of the cabinet doors slamming betraying his fervent search for the cookies.

  “Now, you have my number, so when he starts to get on your nerves, you can call me. Any time, day or night. Ok? If you need anything.”

  Catherine smiled at the woman. “I’ll be alright. I’m sure John can get whatever.”

  “John is not to leave your side! You hear me young man?”

  John appeared at the end of the couch, his mouth and his hands full of cookies.

  He grimaced at her. “No army could get me away from her.”

  Catherine’s face flushed at these words.

  “Good,” Janice said, standing up beside the couch.