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

by Michaela Wright

  “Is she here?”

  Maggie stopped dead, turning to face the source of the voice.

  Papa struggled with his recliner, trying to stand as Karen Talbot lunged across the living room toward Maggie.

  “Go. Go now. They’re on their way.”

  Maggie’s jaw dropped as Karen hurried past her, opening the back door wide to let Maggie pass.

  “Stay away from the roads. Head up along the coast, but go now. Go now!”

  Maggie didn’t have time to speak, let alone make sense of what was happening, but she did as she was told. Maggie took off from the back porch, hauling across the lawn and into the brush, crouching low as she moved. She was no more than a hundred yards from the back door when another car rolled into her father’s driveway. Maggie dropped even lower, letting the high grass along the shore shield her from view as she ran away, the woods of the peninsula calling to her up ahead.

  Walking barefoot in the woods was nothing new to her, but her feet were getting cold after two hours and several miles along the old hunting trail. She was just passing the boundary of the rez when noon rolled around, the trees offering up an eerie jostling sound in the breeze. The leaves were long fallen now, leaving bare branches to clack and scrape against each other in an almost foreboding way as she trudged a path toward the south. These woods had long lost their appeal. These were the woods where Candyce and Beth disappeared years earlier. She remembered trudging through these woods with members of the tribe, calling names and unleashing dogs, trying to pick up the scent of her lost kin. They’d never found it; the scent died along the roadside that headed back to Blackrock Proper. In the few times that she’d returned to this portion of the woods, she still found the strange stick figures from time to time. She always ripped them down and stomped on them when she did.

  Though she often hiked barefoot in the woods, the allure of such a walk when she was younger was the choice of it. Not only was this walk not a choice, she had no idea when she’d next have shoes. She couldn’t call Papa and have him bring them, she’d left her phone on the kitchen table. Even if she could get to a phone, calling her dad while Richard White Eagle was at the house was probably not the best course of action.

  Exile meant severance. None of the Talbots were meant to communicate with her now. Even if a cousin were to drive past along the main road, acknowledging her could get them in trouble. She was as good as plague ridden now, and almost every one of her family members had been there to witness her banishment. Everyone save for Theron. Theron was like Papa, though. He would never disown her, would he?

  The woods opened up at the road side, and Maggie stood there a moment, staring across the street at a landmark that felt almost mocking with its mere presence.

  The gate to the Fenn property, closed up tight as it always was. It stood creaking in the breeze across the way. She’d heard stories of how unfriendly Patrick Fenn could be to unannounced visitors. Besides, she had no reason to go trudging onto Fenn property. What business did she have there?

  Maggie patted her hands on her pockets – the business card was sitting on her bedside table. She took a deep breath.

  What other choice do you have, right? She thought.

  Maggie trudged into the brush and around the gate, walking along the shoulder of the dirt road to avoid the sharp rocks underfoot.

  Where the hell are you going, Light Foot? You don’t even know his address.

  Despite the inner monologue of disdain, she marched on, the bottom of her foot catching on a shard of glass within the first mile of roadway.

  Nice, Mag. That’s a good sign. Now you’re bleeding all over their property. They’re bears, they’ll smell it when they pass, know you were here, come find you in the night.

  “Shut up,” she said aloud, as though her mind might listen.

  It didn’t. She was still berating herself with fervor as a house came into view up ahead.

  Maggie slowed. She recognized the woman kneeling by her rose bushes, pruning away the stems for winter.

  “Excuse me,” Maggie said, half expecting someone to jump from the bushes and shank her for merely being there.

  The woman from the council hall turned up with a startled expression. The expression quickly shifted, and the woman was on her feet, brushing her gloved hands on her pants as she approached.

  “Well, hello there. I’m Janice. What on earth are you doing out with no shoes on, girly?”

  The woman extended a hand for Maggie to shake, a warm smile on her face. Maggie took her hand, her brow furrowing as she searched for response. This sort of warm welcome was not something she was used to. She could only imagine her father glowering from the front window if a complete stranger were to come limping up to his door. This woman’s reaction to visitors was nothing like the rumors she’d heard of Patrick Fenn.

  “Oh, I left in a bit of a hurry. I’m Maggie Light Foot, by the way.”

  “Yes, yes. I remember that,” Janice said, then startled, glancing down at Maggie’s feet. “Oh, jeez! You’re bleeding. Come on inside. Come on, now.”

  Janice led the way into the house, holding the screen door open for Maggie to enter.

  Maggie paused by the door, fearing to track blood across the kind woman’s floors. Janice cast her worries aside, pulling Maggie to a kitchen chair and demanding she display her feet. A moment later, Maggie’s feet were soaking in a bowl of warm water and Epsom salts, and Janice was on the hunt for a pair of warm socks.

  It’s official, Maggie thought. First Old Blue Eyes, and now this woman. Clearly the rumors of the Fenn family were complete bull shit.

  “What do we have here?” A male voice said behind her.

  Maggie turned to find a man smiling in the doorway, folding a newspaper up as he entered. He wasn’t tall like the other Fenns, but he had piercing blue eyes. Seeing them in this more mature face startled her speechless.

  The man approached her, glancing down at the bowl under her feet. “I’m Carl, Janice’s husband. And you are?”

  Maggie introduced herself, unable to tear her gaze from the man’s eyes. He made some small talk about the reservation, the distance she must’ve walked. Finally, he turned for the fridge as Janice marched back into the kitchen wielding a pair of heavy wool socks.

  “Here we are. I found these in Deacon’s old room. I’m sure he won’t mind you borrowing them.”

  “Deacon?”

  Both Carl and Janice stopped, watching her a moment. She’d said his name with a little more excitement than she’d intended.

  “Yes. Deacon is our son,” Carl said, his eyebrow raised.

  Maggie’s stomach clenched instantly. She’d marched onto his family’s land without plan or pause, but now that she sat in his family home, her blood tracked across his mother’s welcome mat, she felt like a lunatic.

  What will he think when he hears I just marched into his mom’s house to shoot the shit and bleed everywhere? He’ll think I’m crazy. He’ll think I’m a stalker. Oh my god, Maggie! What were you fucking thinking?

  “Honey, this is the girl Deacon was meant to be engaged to.”

  Carl scoffed openly. “Oh, don’t even talk to me about that.” He gestured toward Maggie in apology. “No offense to you, of course. Just – I just think that was -”

  “Hush up, you. It’s not your tradition, you’re in no position to have an opinion,” Janice said, checking on Maggie’s feet.

  “Uh, he’s my son. I think I have some right to an opinion, wouldn’t you say?”

  Carl shot Maggie a quick wink as Janice continued to gently berate him. All Maggie could think about was fleeing before there was any danger of Deacon discovering her there.

  “There, all set,” Janice said, unleashing Maggie’s newly bandaged and socked feet.

  Maggie nodded her gratitude, glancing toward the door.

  “Now, Deacon will be here for supper tonight, if you’d like to stay.”

  “No, no!” Maggie said, cringing at the fervor of her refusa
l. Bad manners, Maggie. Bad manners. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to impose.”

  “It’s no imposition,” Janice assured her, marching across the kitchen to the phone without another word. Before Maggie could decipher her intention, Janice smiled into the phone, greeting her son with a warm tone.

  “Deacon, honey. I have someone here you might like to meet.”

  Oh my god, no!

  Maggie waved her hands in Janice’s direction, but the woman was distracted by her phone call.

  This can’t be happening, she thought. I can only imagine what he’s saying.

  “Her name is Maggie. I’ve told her you were coming for supp – Oh? Oh, that’s right, you’re working tonight! I forgot. Well, oh - oh, you’ll come now? Well, if you’re not busy,” Janice said, glancing toward Maggie with a smile. Maggie rubbed her socked feet together, weighing whether or not they’d be enough to take off running in.

  Janice hung up the phone and ordered Carl to the garage for firewood. “Well, it’s a bit early for supper. Have you eaten lunch?”

  Maggie had eaten at least half of her breakfast and couldn’t imagine eating a single bite, especially with the thought of Deacon on his way. Still, she knew her manners.

  “Honestly, I don’t want to impose.”

  Janice Fenn was already heading for the refrigerator, seemingly oblivious to Maggie’s concerns.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I was wondering where you’d run off to.”

  Deacon slumped into the old recliner, sipping on a bottle of Sam Adams as John raided the fridge. Deacon didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Confessing he’d met the girl he was supposed to marry was one thing, but how much did he want John to know about her? And did he want to confess that he’d practically stalked the poor girl, following her limping dad home just for a chance to speak to her again.

  “Was she cute?”

  Deacon startled at this question. No, he thought. She wasn’t cute. She was beautiful. She was timeless. She was Mother Nature in human form. He couldn’t explain the way Maggie looked to another person. He imagined anyone else would see a native girl – dark hair, dark eyes, and creamy, coffee colored skin. Yet, when Deacon sat on her father’s porch, watching her red eyes as she confessed her secrets to him, he imagined hundreds of years passing while she watched. She felt like she’d watched the tides shape the shoreline, seen the white people come and gouge their way into the landscape. She hadn’t, of course, she was only a year older than him, but still. She had wise eyes, and that familiar stoicism of the Passamaquoddy, with a hint of wiseass just beneath.

  “Have you heard from Carissa?”

  Deacon shook free of his trance, halfway through a lunch time beer he opened to quell the last hints of a lingering hangover. He glanced at John, frowning. No, he hadn’t heard from Carissa, and at the mere mention of her name, he felt guilty.

  Maggie Light Foot was a welcome distraction, but not a distraction he was proud of. Damn it, he’d only just met her and the blood wasn’t even dry from Carissa.

  John just shrugged. “Well then, I say go for it.”

  Deacon startled. “What? Go for what?”

  “For Maggie. She sounds like a pretty cool girl.”

  “Jesus John, Carissa just broke up with me.”

  John glared at him, a skeptical look on his face.

  “What?”

  “Girls don’t just suddenly end relationships, pal.”

  “Oh really? Do tell, source of sage life advice. What does that even mean?”

  John shrugged, slumping down onto the couch and slamming his booted feet onto the coffee table. “Something I read once. When a girl ends a relationship, chances are she’s been planning it for a long time – processing, you know?”

  Deacon swallowed. “Ok.”

  “But when a guy does it, he’s more likely to do it on a whim. Then he has to do all the processing after. That’s why they say girls get over breakups faster than guys.”

  Deacon thought of Carissa out on the town, sipping on cocktails with her office pals, flirting with some new guy named Brett or Chad or some other shit. Despite the recent distraction, these thoughts hurt all over again. No matter how welcome these thoughts of Maggie might be, he knew full well that he was too fresh from a relationship to be eyeing another woman. Besides, she’d already turned him down as a fiancé – technically.

  “Is that supposed to be helpful?”

  John shrugged. “I have no idea what it’s supposed to be. I’m just saying, the girl broke up with you. Don’t feel bad for finding another girl attractive. If she wanted to have a say in who you were boning, she shouldn’t have broken it off through a fucking text. Jesus, that’s something a dude would do.”

  Deacon’s kitchen phone clanged to life, startling them both.

  “Jesus! You still have that thing!” John said.

  “Hey man, it’s Gramps house. He likes house phones. Hello!”

  Deacon struggled with the phone, almost losing hold of it as he tried to press it between his chin and shoulder.

  “Deacon, honey. I have someone here you might like to meet.”

  Deacon shot John a confused look, as though he’d heard their mother’s comments as well. “Oh yeah? Who’s that?”

  “Her name is Maggie.”

  Deacon dropped the phone, slamming his beer onto the kitchen counter as he scrambled to snatch the receiver before it hit the floor. “Mom. Mom, I can’t do dinner. I’m working tonight.”

  “Oh, that’s right!”

  “I’ll come now. She’s there now? I’ll come now.”

  What the hell was Maggie doing at his mother’s house?

  His mother hung up with him in her usual jovial tone, and Deacon shot across the living room to his bedroom. He had to change his clothes. Should he wear cologne?

  No, you shouldn’t wear cologne, he thought. For fuck’s sake, you’ve only been single for a week. You’re not wearing cologne.

  “What’s going on, pal?”

  Deacon leaned out the bedroom door. “Maggie’s at Mom’s house.”

  John’s eyes went wide. “Are you fucking serious?”

  Deacon gave him a confused and exasperated look.

  John’s face seemed to go completely stoic.

  “What?” Deacon demanded.

  John stared at him, a smile traveling across his face. “Dude. This is it.”

  Deacon’s brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “This girl’s the one, man.”

  “Oh my god, shut up.”

  “I’m telling you! The same thing happened with me and Catherine.”

  Deacon pulled his sweater over his head – the gray crew neck that Gracie assured him was the most flattering thing in his closet.

  I might not wear cologne, but I can wear my sexy sweater.

  Deacon watched John a moment, fighting his curiosity and failing. “What did?”

  John’s eyes went wide and he threw his hands up just so. “We found each other again. I couldn’t get her out of my head, and within twenty four hours she was at fucking mom’s house. Same deal. Swear to god.”

  Deacon pulled a belt from his closet and began weaving it into the loops of his jeans. “Seriously? What’s your point?”

  John tossed his empty beer bottle into the recycling bin and stood by the door waiting. “Tell me you don’t think it’s an interesting coincidence.”

  Deacon stuffed his keys and phone into his pocket. “Coincidence, yes, but nothing more. Don’t go picking out our kids’ names because she’s at mom’s house. Seriously. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

  “Sure. Says the guy who just put on his ‘date’ sweater to go over to his mom’s house.”

  Deacon’s face grew hot. “Dick.”

  They pulled up outside Mom and Dad’s house ten minutes later, John absolutely insisting that he come along and meet the girl. Deacon felt his face burning, the nape of his neck getting sweaty and ho
t as he marched toward the door of his parent’s house.

  Play it cool, Deacon. She’s probably here on some formal business. Official refusal, maybe? Tribal apology? Would they send her alone for that? Would they do that at his mom’s house?

  John shot him a strange look, and Deacon realized he was making strange expressions with each new thought.

  Great, you’re acting like a god damn crazy person. Fantastic.

  “Ah, here they are!” Janice said, hopping up from her favorite chair to greet her sons. She made a point to remark on Deacon’s appearance. He blushed all over again.

  Then he spotted the dark head, turning to face him as he entered the living room. Her eyes weren’t red this time, but she carried the lingering scent of fear about her. He moved across the room to shake her hand.

  “Nice socks,” he said, gesturing toward her feet.

  She frowned. “Yeah. At least they’re comfortable.”

  Nice socks? Really, Deacon? You fucking prick.

  His mother hustled into the kitchen and began fretting away over a meal that filled the house with the familiar savory smells of Janice Fenn’s cooking. Even Dad groaned his approval from the couch in the TV room, demanding to know when soup was on. Deacon sat down beside Maggie, doing his best to assess her without drawing attention to himself. She didn’t give off fear now. Whatever fear he smelled was passed. Instead, she smelled warm and smokey, and as Deacon slumped down beside her, he thought he caught a hint of something else – pheromones.

  Couldn’t be, he thought. If those were her pheromones, they didn’t smell like the pheromones of any other woman he’d ever encountered.

  Still, when Maggie finally looked at him, her expression cracked, and she smiled.

  Holy shit, he thought. Holy fucking shit.

  “So, do you regret calling off the wedding, yet?”

  Everyone turned on John, Janice throwing her napkin at him as they scolded him for his comment.

  Maggie just exhaled in a half laugh. She shot Deacon a sideways look. He was the only one who knew why she’d acted as she did, and he wasn’t about to share her secret.