Following the recent trouble at Moonlight Sanctuary, the Paenitentia enclave several miles outside the city, and the popularity of Nardo’s video games, there had been an upsurge in young Paenitentia men signing up for long-unfilled positions within the Guardians of the Race. This House had become a clearing house for these recruits where they were put through a rigorous initial training meant to weed out those who didn’t have the right stuff. Those that passed would be sent on to other Houses to complete their instruction.
Faith wasn’t sure how Canaan, the Liege Lord of this House, had earned this dubious honor, but there it was. There were eight new recruits living here now along with the seven people who called this House their home. Add to that number her sister Hope and Hope’s Guardian mate, Nico, who lived across the alleyway and the old, but harmless vampire, Otto, and his mate Manon, and you had quite a crowd around the dinner table and none of them were quiet.
The place was like a damn bus station with people running in and out, in and out and like those in the bus station, most of them, most of them were strangers. Faith hated strangers. They frightened her and she'd had enough fright in her twenty eight years to last a lifetime, thank you very much. It was her problem, she knew, and no one else's fault, but there it was; strangers coming in waves of two or three or four. She would no sooner get used to one batch than another would be flowing through the door, coming upon her unawares, bumping her with the door while she was doing laundry and they came in, laughing or shouting to each other, from the garage. It was a good thing she had no voice or she would have spent half her time screeching from startlement.
And that was another thing, she thought as she stripped the sheets from one of the guest rooms' beds, guests. At least that's what everyone else called them. Faith thought of them as cattle buyers coming in from out of town to get an up-close look at the House's current stock of muscle bound bulls. Every week or two, someone new arrived.
None of the other women seemed to mind. Grace, Lord Canaan’s Lady and pregnant with their first child, fussed over them all like a mother hen, clucking over the recruits' injuries and stuffing the visitors with the goodies that constantly flowed from her oven in the huge kitchen at the back of the house. Hope spent her days taking care of the business end of Nardo’s games. She closed her office door and didn’t come out until it was time to set the table for supper. JJ, Faith's best friend and the only known genetic mix of Paenitentia and Daughter of Man (other than the child Grace carried) was Nardo’s mate. She worked beside the men in the gym, training recruits. For Faith, it was the only thing she enjoyed about the comings and goings of the House; the look of shock and awe on the faces of the new recruits when JJ set them on their all too macho asses.
She smoothed out the wrinkles of the fresh sheets and pulled up the blanket, making sure it was perfectly even on either side of the bed before pulling the downy comforter into place. She dusted the dresser and night stands, straightened the pillow on the overstuffed chair and resolved to vacuum later when she did the hall. This was all she was good for; hotel maid for a House of Guardians.
Faith felt her job as healer was superfluous. Yes, the golden glow from her fingertips aided the healing process, but the Paenitentia were remarkably fast healers to begin with. Unless a bone was broken, or a wound was particularly deep, her services weren’t really necessary. As a matter of fact, things outside the House had been so quiet lately none of the Daughter’s talents were necessary.
Like Faith, all the women were Daughters of Man, an ancient collective of women whom some called blessed and others called witches. No one knew how many Daughters still existed in the world. History had not been kind to their numbers and many succumbed to insanity or death if their powers weren’t fully realized. Faith tried not to think about that too deeply. There was a time, not too long ago, that she would have preferred death to the life she was forced to lead.
“Why the pensive face, poppet? Have the Terrible Two been leading their band of miscreants on another rampage?”
Broadbent, also known as the Professor and the Guardian Faith felt most comfortable with came down to stand beside her, his long beaklike nose preceding his head around the corner to look into the parlor and then down the hall to see why she hesitated at the foot of the stairs. There was no one there.
“What is it, then?”
Faith sighed, smiled and signed. “Nothing unusual. Too many people. Too much noise. Wondering what I’m doing here. What purpose do I serve?”
Her body had healed and so had her mind, but her voice was gone. Sometime between her rescue and her return from her emotional exile, her voice had disappeared. Working with JJ, her best friend among the women, she developed a sign language, part American Sign and part her own, that allowed her to communicate with the members of the House. Even the recruits caught on quickly.
“You’re our healer.”
“Cuts, bruises and broken noses. They heal themselves.”
“You help Grace with the cooking and cleaning and I know she finds it a great comfort that you’ll be here when her time comes.” He lifted his hand to touch her shoulder and winced inside when he saw her flinch. “I beg your pardon,” he said as he drew back.
“No.” Faith caught his hand and brought it to her opposite shoulder so that his arm was around her. “My fault. I don’t mean to do it and I know I hurt you every time I do. I’m sorry.”
“Hush now, poppet. I feel privileged that you allow me the honor of touching you at all. I know how hard it must be and I admire your bravery.” He led her into the parlor and when he had her seated on the antique settee, he closed the door to give them privacy to talk. He settled his long body next to her tiny one, angling his long legs so that their knees were almost touching. Almost.
“I’m not brave,” she signed. “Hope and Grace have stood up against Demons. JJ hunts them while I…”
“Survived. Lived. And I am so very glad you did. Every day, I admire your courage in facing your fears and overcoming them. You are gentle and kind, a true lady.”
Faith shook her head. “You don’t know me, what I’ve done, who I was before.”
Her life had become a series of Before and After. Before her mother died and After, when she saw what a cruel man her father was; Before she ran away to avoid her sister’s fate and After, when she ran wild in the city; Before she was captured by a demon and forced to be his plaything and now, another After. The other Afters had held hope and plans for the future. Faith saw no future now.
“My dearest Faith.” Broadbent reached for her hand, but waited until she nodded before taking it in his. “Who you were doesn’t matter. Who you are does.”
Who am I? She asked herself and answered. A scarred husk of a woman who has nothing to offer. She had her healing touch but what good did it do here where no one needed it and she was too terrified to leave this House of Guardians to offer it to those who did.
The other Daughters, Hope and Grace and JJ, had left lonely, unhappy lives to come here and discover new ones with purpose and men who loved them. There was none of that here for her and yet, she was afraid to leave. The city terrified her and where else did she have to go.
“Faith.”
Broadbent’s voice called her back from her maudlin reverie.
“There’s something I wish to speak with you about, something over which I have thought long and hard.” He slid to his knee in front of her. “Faith Parsons, it is my consummate desire to have you as my mate. I promise you I will care for you and shelter you and protect you from all you fear with every breath in my body, every beat of my heart. I will be loyal and faithful and I will share with you all that I have. You will never be in want.”
Faith’s eyes widened in shock and Broadbent misunderstood.
“I understand, dearest, that consummating such a union would be too much to ask, but I am willing to wait until you find it in your heart to trust me with such a precious gift. You needn’t share my bed unless you choose to. My par
ents have spent their mated lives in separate bedrooms as do most others of their social set. It wouldn’t feel unusual to me. Please, my dear sweet Faith, consider my proposal. I offer it with the most honorable of intentions.”
How she wished she could say yes and be what he wanted her to be. If she’d met Broadbent when she first came to the city, she would have laughed at his gangly body and funny clothes. She would have made fun of his flowery speech. Faith was glad she hadn’t met him then. If she had, she never would have gotten to know this gentle and generous man. She never would have heard the stories of his bravery and loyalty from his fellow Guardians.
Sometimes, on her worst days of mental withdrawal, it had been Broadbent’s voice, kind and always cheerful, that brought her back from the depths. He read Jane Austin to her and it was just what she needed; gentle stories of another time, where civility ruled. Jane Austin would have liked Broadbent for his courtesy and honesty. She also would have frowned at the offer of a marriage without love.
Broadbent loved her, but not in the way a man should love the woman he asked to be his mate. And she loved him. How could she not love this dear and noble man? But she couldn’t be the mate he deserved. She couldn’t love him in that way and she wouldn’t torture him with waiting for her to change. That part of her was dead. She ran her fingers along his cheek down to his chin and then she signed.
“You flatter me beyond measure,” she told him and hoped he heard Miss Austin in her words, “To think a man so honorable and good should make such an offer to one such as I is a compliment beyond any I have had before or likely will hear again. But I would be remiss to accept such an offer from a man who does not love me.”
Broadbent started to protest, but she stopped the movement of his lips with her finger.
“Nor I him.” She smiled to soften the blow. “We love each other as brother and sister should, but that is not the kind of love to bring to your mating bed. You know it’s true. Not once in your proposal did you offer me your love. You couldn’t, you dear, sweet man, you couldn’t lie about something so important.”
“Strong matings have been built on less.”
“But you deserve more.”
“Is this where you ask if we can still be friends?” Broadbent asked as he moved back to the settee and settled in with a sigh.
“Can we?”
Broadbent smiled sadly. “I don’t have so many I can afford to turn one away. I did mean it, though. We could make a go of it. We wouldn’t have what the others have, but we would have each other. It’s awkward being the lone wolf.”
“You’re not alone. Dov and Col aren’t mated either.”
“Ah, you wound me. First you turn down my offer and now you lump me in with the irritating idiots.”
At that moment, one of the irritating idiots was banging on the parlor door. “Hey Faith! You in there? Gracie wants to know what happened to the sweet potatoes.” He jiggled the locked doorknob.
Faith sighed and signed quickly.
“They’re already in the oven,” Broadbent called her message. “She hid them behind the roast so you and your band of heathens wouldn’t eat them before dinner.”
“Broadbent? Hey Col! Broadbent’s tryin’ to put the moves on Faith in the parlor. He finally found one that couldn’t scream. Don’t worry Faith,” he called through the door. “We’ll have you out before he figures out what to do with it. Canaan can snap this lock open just looking at it.” There was the sound of a scuffle. “Ow! Jeez JJ, I was only having a little fun. Let go my ear!”
Broadbent stood and offered Faith his hand.
"I'm truly sorry if I've hurt you," she told him and couldn't stop the tears. "And I meant what I said. I'll carry this in my heart, always. You'll find someone, someday. I know you will." Faith smiled through her tears. "And then you'll happily bless the day that I said no."
Excerpt from Changing Times
A Hidden Mountain Romance
Contemporary
Coming in 2013
Cob Thornton eased his way through the town he hadn’t seen in twenty years. There were a few more vacant storefronts, a few more boarded over windows. His mother had written of Doc Hanson’s passing. Murray’s store was gone, too, but he smiled when he saw the lights on in the corner diner. Someone must have taken it over. Much to his childhood dismay, the Brinsons had closed it when he was eight. How he’d loved sitting at the counter with Rollie, ordering coffee and pie as if he was one of the men. Mrs. Brinson always left plenty of room for sugar and milk in his cup, but that hadn’t mattered back then.
He was tempted to stop, grab a cup of coffee and see how the place had changed and it must have. Everything changed. He only hoped his home hadn’t changed too much.
His uncle sure as hell hadn’t changed. They’d argued twenty years ago when Cob enlisted and hadn’t spoken since. His mother had written though, and he’d called her once a month until the letters stopped and his calls went unanswered. The bastard hadn’t even bothered to tell him his mother had passed.
Well, the old man would have to get used to having him back. Half that house and half that land was his mother’s and now it was Cob’s and he had plans, big plans. He’d scraped and saved and invested his money for twenty years. He’d dreamed of coming home to the mountain for twenty years, too, though that wasn’t the plan when he left. Now he was back and no one was going to stand in his way.
Cob passed the Post Office, also new, and noted the mailbox marked ‘Tolliver’ seated on a post of rusty tire rims welded together. He wondered which Tolliver it was. When he was a kid, every other person you met was either a Tolliver or related to one.
It wasn’t Dan’s. Cars were too damn fast for Dan. His mailbox would sport a wagon wheel or a horse head.
Instead of narrowing, the road widened and was paved. This was new also. Rollie had given John Preston right of way through his land, but would never allow a public road. Things changed.
The lane to the house hadn’t changed. It was as overgrown and rutted as it was when he left. The yard, however, was completely different; no cans, no bottles and holy shit! Were those baskets of flowers hanging from the porch?
He parked the truck and retrieved his duffle and his mother’s lessons kicked in. Front doors were for guests. Cob headed around to the back. As he rounded the rear corner of the house, debating whether he owed his uncle the courtesy of a knock, he was brought up short by a sight he never thought he’d see, a woman other than his mother hanging clothes in his uncle’s backyard. It couldn’t be.
He paused to watch and think. Her back was to him and her long, brown curls bounced along her back as she pegged a towel to the clothesline running between two posts. She was tall and slim as far as he could see. Her legs, extending from a pair of modest shorts were long and as finely shaped as any he had seen. Her shirt was sleeveless and showed a pair of muscular arms, but it was one of those wide, smocky things so he couldn’t get a good idea of her waist.
Her line was sagging and she bent to pick up a wooden prop at her feet and Cob got a good look at a rounded behind, a little wider than perfect, but eye-catching just the same. She picked up a man’s shirt from her basket and that’s when everything clicked.
The clean front yard, the flowers, a woman hanging laundry in the mowed back yard. He looked beyond her and saw a vegetable garden, something Rollie would never keep, but Cob’s mother always did.
Things change. Some other family was living in his house and that could only mean one thing. His uncle was dead.
Cob was surprised at how hard that hit him. How many times had he wished his uncle to burn in hell? He never once thought the old bastard would actually do it. His mother was always frail, but Rollie was like Big Rock; granite hard, immovable and eternal. He was looking forward to having a knock-down-drag-out with the old man. Cob was no kid anymore. He had plans and ideas and the money to make them happen. He’d rehearsed the scene so many times in his mind and now it would never happen. His shoulders sa
gged.
"Oh God, not Rollie." Rollie was at the bottom of all his dreams. Rollie taught him everything he needed to know and some of those things had saved his life a time or two. Rollie was his only living kin and the best damn distiller of illegal corn whiskey in the mountains.
Cob dropped the duffle and leaned against the house.
Lorelei heard a dull thud and a quiet groan and dropped the wet overalls back into the basket. She looked up at wooden screen door that led to the kitchen.
“Rollie? Rollie honey? You okay?” If the old man fell again because he refused to use the damn walker, she’d kill him herself. It was hard enough to pick him up last time and it niggled at the back of her mind that the old fart did it on purpose, just so he could cop a feel while she helped him up. He never fell when she was at work or if he did, he picked himself up. “Rollie?”
“Godammit woman, can’t a man have a minute’s peace? What do you want?”
Breathing a sigh of relief she called back, “Nothing. Sorry.” She bent to pick up the denim pants from the basket.
“He’s alive?”
Lorelei eeked and spun. She held the overalls out in front of her like a shield. “Who the hell are you?”
“Cob Thornton and this is my house, so who the hell are you?”
“This is not your house, buddy.” She took a step back and toward the stairs. “Rollie?” she called as loud as she could. “We got company! Now!”
“You live here? With him?”
“What if I do? It’s his place.” She dropped the pants and took another quick step toward the porch and safety. She hated showing this guy her fear, but she’d been in this place before; alone and at the mercy of a strange man and she wasn’t pregnant then. “Rollie!”
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