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

by Michaela Wright

  The reservation was a quiet place, very few houses along the outskirts of the land. Yet trailer homes and old shacks betrayed their growing close the center of the rez. Deacon drove these roads many times, either as an aimless teenager, or answering calls as an EMT. He silently contemplated calling Lara, his old work mate, and seeing if the Machias Medical Center still had any EMT openings. It didn’t sound like Carissa was inviting him back south anytime soon.

  Don’t think like that, Deacon. Get this shit squared away, and then call her back. It’ll be alright. It’s all going to be alright.

  An impromptu parking lot was set into one of the fields surrounding the council building, the parking area filled to capacity with cars. Patrick’s truck was there, as was his mother’s Hyundai.

  “Jesus, Mum’s here?”

  John smacked his shoulder again as Deacon pulled into an empty space in the field. “You think she’d miss this? Hell no!”

  They climbed out of the car and both stopped. The energy of the place was strange, and the smell was almost offensive. Only bears would be able to smell each other, and the air was filled with their familiar scent, but something else permeated the very walls of the council building. As Deacon and John approached, the doors to the building burst open, and a woman with long black hair came barreling out, shrugging into a jean jacket as she stormed away. In the instant that the doors opened, the smell of conflict and agitation rushed from within.

  Deacon shot John a look. “What the hell is going on?”

  Deacon glanced back at the agitated woman, watching her disappear behind the cars, as the rain began to kick up. Then he followed his brother inside.

  “Is it so easy for the Talbots to step away from an agreement like this?” Patrick asked, pointing at the feet of Richard White Eagle.

  There were dozens of faces all around, their darks eyes turned to the floor in many cases, save for the few that stood at Richard’s shoulders – his sons.

  “We have other eligible females -”

  “But not bears. I worked damn hard with you, Richard. Damn hard. You hold up your end of the bargain or no deal,” Patrick said.

  Deacon’s heart leapt. The marriage might be cancelled? Holy shit! He wouldn’t even have to convince his betrothed against the idea; he would be free. Deacon glanced around the room at the faces of the many females gathered there. He couldn’t help but wonder which of these women had been his intended.

  Richard White Eagle puffed up his chest, but it was clear he knew himself in the wrong. “We cannot speak on it here, but perhaps we can discuss a suitable alternative when the tempest has passed.”

  Patrick straightened. “A suitable alternative? Explain to me how you intend to offer a suitable alternative.”

  Deacon felt someone squeeze his arm and turned to find his mother Janice at his shoulder. “Hey honey. Why don’t you head back home?”

  Deacon startled at this. Her tone was strange, as though she passed vital information to the communists in the middle of a White House dinner. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

  Janice Fenn stuck out like a sore thumb in the council hall. Her light brown hair was shorn short, and her face was pale as a cloud compared to the native faces around them. Though many of the tribe had married outside the rez, lightening hair and skin in many families, the Talbots had long refused to marry anyone outside the tribe, and they looked no different than their ancestors.

  Janice squeezed again. “In case it gets out of hand here, I need you to be elsewhere.”

  “Out of hand? No, Mom. I’m not leaving.”

  One of Richard White Eagle’s sons stepped forward as John took his own place at Patrick’s shoulder.

  “What the hell is going on?” Deacon asked.

  Janice took a deep breath. “Oh, a pissing contest. Naturally.”

  Patrick’s voice doubled in volume suddenly, echoing off the walls with enough power to make the entire room recoil. “You have three days to sign the deeded land back over to me, or you’ll have trouble on your hands. Do I make myself clear, Richard?”

  With that, Patrick Fenn turned for the door of the council hall with John at his shoulder. Deacon turned toward the door as much to get out of his grandfather’s path as to leave. Patrick didn’t speak as he plowed out of the doors and out into the cool autumn evening. He stormed around the corner of the building, handing John his keys.

  “Drive my truck home, will you? I’m going to ride with Deacon.”

  John agreed before Deacon could protest. He loved his grandfather, but the thought of being trapped in the tiny space of his car with the man in his current mood was about as welcome as a hangnail.

  Deacon shot his mother an almost pleading look, but she just shook her head, climbing into her own Sante Fe. Deacon watched Patrick squeeze into the passenger seat of his SUV and wait for Deacon to drive. He could only imagine what was coming.

  “I’m sorry that this fell through, son.”

  Deacon snorted softly. Seriously? He was apologizing? “Gramps, I’m relieved. Honestly.”

  Patrick shook his head, turning down the radio as the trailer homes and shacks grew scarce toward the outer edges of the rez. “They won’t give me a decent explanation for calling it off.”

  “Seriously, Gramps. It’s for the best. There hasn’t been an arranged marriage in this family since -”

  Deacon stopped. Generations? Decades?

  No. The last arranged marriage in the Fenn family was that of Patrick Fenn to his wife, Laurel – Laurel Long tooth Allen.

  Patrick scoffed, softly. “You talk like they’re indentured servitude.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  Patrick shook his head. “I wasn’t keen on the idea when my father sprung it on me, either, but I went through with it because it was what was best for the clan.”

  “But you didn’t marry a Talbot.”

  “No. I married an Allen. And I married the last Allen to ever live. And I miss her every god damn day.”

  The Allen clan had been as old as the Talbots, older than the Fenns. They’d come from further west and intermarried with Talbots to insure their bloodline continued. When the Allen name had all but died, their last living daughter was married to a Fenn, causing a rift between the Talbots and Fenns that was still felt in the council hall that very evening.

  Grammy Fenn had died before Deacon was born, bleeding to death during complications while giving birth to her youngest child, Alison Fenn.

  “I know it was asking a great deal of you, but I made the decision for more than just the Fenns. I made it for you. I know you can’t understand that, but you haven’t known the kind of love I’ve known. I loved your Grandmother from the moment I laid eyes on her. She was it from the day she was born until long after the day she died. I wanted that for you. I wanted you to have that kind of love.”

  “And you thought you were better equipped to pick the girl for me?”

  “No, but I thought fate might.”

  Deacon didn’t respond. They let the silence pass, Deacon catching a glimpse of raindrops on the windshield as they pulled up to the Fenn gate.

  “I can’t let the Allen line die, son. Her name might be gone, but she lives in every one of you kids. I can’t live forever, and who knows how many of your children will be bears?”

  Deacon took a breath, but didn’t speak. His grandfather’s tone was softening in a manner he’d never witnessed before. Patrick so rarely spoke of Grammy Fenn. They had three children together, Grammy Fenn wanting desperately to have as many girls as she could – girls who would give birth to more bears. She got two girls, though she didn’t survive to see the second one grow up.

  Deacon could only imagine how painful those memories were for his grandfather. To lose his wife to childbirth was heart-wrenching enough, but to then lose that very child to murder when she was only twenty-something – before she could have children? No one begrudged Patrick Fenn his foul temperament. No one.

  Deacon wanted to g
et back home, call Carissa and let her know the good news – make everything right. Yet, he couldn’t make such a call with his grandfather glowering in the passenger seat of his car.

  They rode along in silence to Patrick’s house. Deacon watched his grandfather climb out of the car with barely even a ‘good night,’ then watched him disappear into the house.

  “You’ve reached the voicemail box of Carissa Jinoski. Please leave a message after the beep.”

  “Hey, Car… I know you’re not happy with me right now, but I just wanted you to know that it’s all taken care of. The whole debacle has been called off. I’m still planning on coming home after the weekend, so – if that’s not something you want…? I’m here if you need. I’ll be here. Please call me when you get this.”

  Deacon hung up the phone, clutching it in his hand as he loitered in his grandfather’s driveway, waiting for John’s return.

  The rain was coming down in sheets now, tearing at his face as Deacon hopped out of the SUV to open the road gate. It was creeping into the evening, the sky an angry gray that betrayed massive thunderclouds overhead. Still, Deacon couldn’t sit still. He’d dropped John at home and taken off, barreling past his Mum and Dad’s. He caught sight of Dad’s eighteen wheeler in the back of the house, but didn’t stop to greet him. He simply wasn’t in the mood to hear familial questions about his well-being.

  How is our Carissa doing?

  Have you two settled into a new apartment, yet?

  How’s the job hunt going?

  Shite. Shite, and shite.

  Only job he could find was working at a convenience store, and that didn’t pay enough to cover half of the rent on Carissa’s apartment. They hadn’t found a new apartment together, so Deacon still lived out of a suitcase in Carissa’s place, pulling his weight however he could. He did all the housework, gave her his entire paycheck, and constantly kept an eye on the local hospital job postings. How could an entire city like Boston not be hiring EMTs?

  Despite feeling somewhat emasculated by the whole scenario, he was doing his best. He wasn’t sure if his best would look all that great from the outside.

  The road up ahead reflected the headlights cars coming around the corner, and Deacon slowed down, his radio blasting the harshest tracks by Ministry that he could find on his phone. He was riled up and frustrated, still waiting for a call back from Carissa, wishing he hadn’t left at all. He could take off now, drive six hours to get to her and try to fix this, but – what if he arrived to the end? He’d be stuck in Massachusetts with nowhere to stay, not enough cash to get a hotel and pay for the gas to get back home to Falkirk’s Seat, and he’d be brokenhearted to boot. Perhaps it was better to be brokenhearted in his own bed, with woods out back to shift in and hunt something down just for the sake of feeling it tear between his teeth.

  Headlights glinted off the windshield, obscuring his vision as he careened around another corner. He slammed on the brakes, squinting to make out the road ahead just as a figure came into view on the side of the road. Deacon swerved away from them, his tires spinning on the slick asphalt. He felt his blood boiling. What the hell were they thinking walking in this weather? They’d get themselves killed!

  Deacon pulled over on the side of the road, threw the SUV into park, and climbed out of the car.

  He turned toward the figure. “What the hell are you thinking being out here? Are you out of your -”

  Deacon stopped as the woman came toward the SUV, her black hair plastered to her head, her jean jacket now almost black from the rain.

  The woman from the reservation.

  Deacon stared at her a moment. They were five miles away from the rez now, and it was clear she’d walked the whole way. Where the hell was she going in this weather?

  “Are you alright?” Deacon finally said, trying to pretend he hadn’t just wanted to tear her a new asshole.

  She stared at him, then smiled. “Yep. I’m absolutely fine.”

  Despite her cavalier demeanor, he didn’t believe her. “Are you – where are you going?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Are you a cop?”

  “No,” he said, half chuckling. “Just curious.”

  “No? Just enjoy interrogating random people on the street?”

  She continued walking, passing the SUV as she moved along the shoulder of the road.

  “Do you need a ride?”

  The question came without warning, a symptom of a lifetime of good manners.

  She glanced back at him. “Do I look like I need a ride?”

  With that, she marched onward, the distance between them growing with each passing moment. Deacon hopped back into the SUV and pulled up alongside her. “Yes. You do look like you need a ride.”

  The woman stopped, turning to look at him from the passenger window. The rain was dripping down her face, her black hair clinging to her forehead as droplets of rain pooled and fell from the tip of her nose. She stared at him for a long moment. “I’m going a long way.”

  Deacon shrugged. “I don’t have any plans.”

  She furrowed her brow at him, glancing into the interior of the car. “Are you a serial killer?”

  “Definitely,” he said, deadpan.

  She laughed. Then she stood there a moment, staring off to the road ahead. Deacon watched her, fighting the urge not to press her.

  “If you’re from the rez, not sure if it will help my case, but I’m a Fenn.”

  Her eyes widened just so. “Are you now?”

  He nodded. “Yes sir. I was the guy they were planning to hitch to some poor girl down at the council hall.”

  “That was you?” She asked, her jaw dropping.

  He couldn’t help but laugh at this. “It was. I know. Poor girl dodged a bullet, huh?”

  The woman opened the passenger door and climbed into the car. “Alright then. Drive me, Jeeves.”

  “Of course, Madam,” Deacon said, pulling away from the curb and rolling down the slick roads. He waited a moment for her to speak. When she didn’t, he extended his hand to her. “I’m Deacon, by the way.”

  She nodded, shaking his hand. “I’m Maggie Light Foot.”

  Deacon nodded. “Man, that’s a great name.”

  Maggie laughed. “Glad you think so. So, we’re just gonna head north, if you don’t mind?”

  Deacon nodded, thinking better of asking for any specific destinations. He wasn’t in a rush to get back home, anyway. They drove along in silence for a good while before she finally spoke.

  “So what kind of guy let’s his family arrange his marriage?”

  Deacon snorted, softly. “The kind of guy who had no clue it was happening until yesterday morning.”

  “No way!”

  “Yup. My grandfather got me up here with ‘I could use your help with something, if you’re free.’”

  Maggie chuckled as she fought with her long hair, pulling the wet strands over her shoulder to braid them. “Really? The Fenns don’t sound so different after all. You know they’ve been in talks for that marriage for months?”

  “Have they really?”

  Deacon’s phone buzzed on the console, and he snatched it up, recognizing the ringtone – Carissa had texted him. Despite his better judgment, he opened the text to read it. He quickly realized it was too long to read while driving.

  “Fuck,” he said under his breath.

  “You alright over there?”

  He grumbled to himself. “Yeah. No. I don’t know. I think my girlfriend might be breaking up with me.”

  He could see her staring at him from the corner of his eye.

  “You have a girlfriend, and you were getting engaged to someone tonight?”

  Deacon tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, flustered at being unable to read Carissa’s response. “Yeah. That was my comment when Gramps informed me, as well.”

  The two drove on in quiet for some time, conversing over the next song choice, or what direction to take, but little more. When they finally arrived at the
Hess Station just outside Machias, Maggie suggested they pull in, offering him a few bucks for gas. Given the unfortunate state of his bank account, he wasn’t going to turn the offer down.

  Deacon watched her hustle across the gas station parking lot and into the store, then took a deep breath, reaching for his phone.

  I don’t know what there is to say, Deacon. You said yourself, when you find the right person, you just know. Though I still think your whole ‘arranged marriage’ thing is a lie, if it is true, then perhaps that’s worse. Because if you thought I was the right person, you wouldn’t have even humored the idea. You would have just said no. I’m sorry, Deedee. I think you should stay up there for now. Be safe.

  Deacon’s stomach was in knots. He wanted to call, protest with everything he had.

  He did say no, and he was going to say no, but damn it. He couldn’t just walk away from his grandfather. There were rules. They had their ways. God, if she knew what he was – if he’d just been brave enough to show her what he was, maybe she’d understand. Maybe she could see why he couldn’t just walk away.

  Deacon clutched the phone in his hand, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. For the first time in his life, he regretted being a Fenn.

  “I grabbed you a Snickers, in case you were hung – everything alright?”

  Deacon straightened, turning to Maggie as she climbed into the car. He shut his eyes tight against tears, trying to hide the state he was in. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

  “Girlfriend broke up with you, I take it?”

  He took a deep breath. “Yep.”

  They sat there in the parking lot a moment, an awkward silence stretching between them. Finally, Maggie reached over, settling the snickers on the console beside him and patting his hand.

  “Hey. You’re probably better off. Anybody who breaks up through a text is a special kind of hag.”

  Deacon snorted, shaking his head, but he didn’t speak.

  “Sorry. Not helpful?”

  “Yeah, probably not.”

  It was Maggie’s turn to startle at the sound of her phone. She scrambled for it, pulling the older flip phone from her pocket.