The Uncharted Series Omnibus

by Keely Brooke Keith

  Cold air gushed into the kitchen when he opened the back door. He quickly closed it and walked to Lydia’s cottage. With the plate of food in one hand, he knocked firmly on her door with the other hand to allow her one last opportunity to open the door herself. When he received no answer, he crouched to inspect the keyhole. He set the plate of food on a pavestone, took the two long nails from his shirt pocket, and proceeded to pick the antediluvian-style lock. With one nail he easily found the internal pin and with a quick turn of the second nail, the lightweight lock clicked open.

  Connor recognized the dirty dress on the floor as he stepped over it and walked into her office. He set the plate of food on Lydia’s desk and immediately forgot about it. Though already mid-morning, the overcast sky made the medical office dim and gloomy. He looked upstairs and saw the door to her bedroom was closed. “Lydia?” He stood still and listened but heard nothing. He took the stairs two at a time then pounded on her bedroom door. “Lydia?”

  “Connor?”

  He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  “Don’t come in.”

  “Too late.” He closed his eyes. “Are you decent?”

  “Yes, but you should not be up here.”

  He opened his eyes and saw Lydia lying in bed. Her room was dark and chilly. He stepped into the room and walked straight to the small fireplace embedded in the long windowless wall opposite the door. The fireplace was clean and had obviously remained unused since the previous winter. He pulled back its metal screen, opened the chimney’s flue, and set a quartered gray leaf log on the grate. He knew Lydia was watching him as he lit the fire. The flames reminded him of the sketches he had burned in Frank’s cabin the day before.

  “My door was locked.”

  “Your dad knows I’m here.” Connor glanced at Lydia. She was still lying in bed. Relieved to see that she appeared physically well, he closed the fireplace screen and meandered around her bedroom. Wanting to give her time to get used to his presence in her private space, he inspected the knickknacks on top of her dresser. Finally, he turned to face her. “Are you okay?”

  “I am fine, thank you. I simply needed rest.”

  “I understand,” Connor said, but he did not buy it. He put his hands behind his back and stood with his feet firmly planted beside her bed. He looked down at the woman he loved. “I was worried about you.”

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean to upset anyone by locking the door. I had to rest and… think.” Lydia sat up in bed. She held the covers under her chin. Her hair was loose and had dried in wild waves forming untidy tresses. Connor thought it gave her a thoroughly modern look, about which she would know nothing.

  He recalled the way Luke’s mother treated Lydia as they had left the beach the day before. Not wanting Lydia to think he was there to scold her, he lowered his voice. “I know this whole thing has been hard on you. I saw how Ruth Owens spoke to you and—”

  Lydia waved her hand as if it was nothing. “I am fine, really.”

  Regardless of her insistence, he could tell by her eyes she had spent as much time crying as she had sleeping. “No, you are not fine. You nearly drown trying to save those boys and now you’re hiding. You locked the door to the medical office, which you swore you would never do.” He sat on the edge of her bed. Surprise flashed across her face. Connor ignored it. “You’re in mourning, and there is nothing wrong with that. But you’re not the only one who was hurt by this. Your whole village is in mourning. They need you as much as you need them. Your dad has planned a memorial service for Luke and Walter this evening. He said the village would get through this together. You need to be there.”

  Lydia tucked her hair behind her ear, but it refused to be held back in its current state. She stared down at the quilt. “I cannot go.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No, I cannot face people after this.”

  He wanted to touch her but refrained, wanting her trust even more. “This was not your fault.” He caught her eye to make sure she understood. “You know that, right?”

  “I know everyone will see me differently now.” She dropped her hands to her lap. The bedcovers followed and revealed her buttoned flannel nightshirt. She folded a crease of the sheet between her fingers over and over. He watched her and waited while she formed her thoughts. “I have worked very hard to make sure people think well of me. I know this incident—being associated with Frank Roberts—will make people question my ability.”

  “I think people know that Frank was shady. If anything, they pity you because of what you have endured from him, but no one blames you.”

  Lydia lifted her chin. “What about Mrs. Owens?”

  “She was distraught. You can’t take that to heart.”

  “What about you? Do you blame me or pity me?”

  “Neither.”

  “Only because you don’t know the whole truth.” She looked down at her fingers. “When Frank first came to Good Springs, I liked talking to him. I desperately missed my mother and I felt like I had let her die. Frank did not know my family or me personally, and it felt good to talk to an adult who didn’t care that I wasn’t perfect. I was very young, and I didn’t realize his concern for me was corrupt. I just thought he was friendly. My father quickly recognized Frank’s true intentions and told him to stay away from me. It was the only time I ever heard my father call someone a bad word. Father said I was not to blame, but I knew that I had caused Frank’s attraction somehow.”

  “That’s ridiculous—you were a child and he was a grown man. Don’t excuse his depravity.”

  “I will understand if you no longer want to court me after this.”

  “Are you kidding?” Connor saw the humiliation the stalker had caused her. Fire burned inside him at the thought of anyone hurting her in any way. “I want to protect you.”

  “Even now?”

  “More now.” He felt strangely flattered by her worry—of all the possible fallout from the tragic deaths of three villagers, she was afraid that he would admire her less. “Is that what you have been up here worrying about?”

  “Mostly.” Lydia reached to the bedside table. She picked up the old journal Connor had left on her desk the morning before. Her fingers tapped on it in little drumrolls and she bit her lip, but she said no more.

  Connor watched her and became overwhelmed with the desire to hold her and kiss her and have her. He needed to leave her bedroom and immediately got up and stepped to the door. “Get dressed and come downstairs. I brought breakfast. You need to eat.” He stopped and put his hand against the doorframe. “Bring the book. You can tell me about it if you want. If you don’t want to talk… that’s fine too.” He looked at her for a moment and then went downstairs, where he waited in her office. He could hear her moving around her bedroom, and soon she appeared on the steps. She wore a pale green dress. Her hair was brushed and tied loosely behind her head. She handed the journal to him as she sat at her desk. Connor pulled a chair close to her desk and sat. He scanned the book’s cover and watched Lydia peel the napkin from the top of the plate of breakfast food. She selected a muffin and ate half of it. Then she put the half-eaten muffin back on the plate and cleared her throat.

  “Aunt Isabella gave me that book during the storm. It is the private journal of one of my ancestors.”

  Connor leaned an elbow on her desk ready to listen. He tried not to stare, but he could not look away. He would either spend the rest of his life with this woman or have to move as far away as possible and never see her again. One day without her solidified the fact that he could accept nothing in between. He laid the journal on her desk and waited for her to speak.

  “It was written by Lillian Colburn. She was my fifth-great grandmother and the wife of Reverend William Colburn, the man who orchestrated the departure of the eight families from America. She wrote this journal in her later years—her husband was already deceased. The journal is about a rift in the Colburn family that caused division and filled the settlement with str
ife.

  “Her grandsons, Isaac and Peter, had been rivals since childhood. They were brothers, two years apart but incompatible in temperament. To the other members of the family, neither brother ever seemed overly correct in their squabbles. The family attributed the brothers’ feuding to simple personality differences. By adulthood, as the elder son, Isaac, learned his father’s profession and grew in favor, the younger son, Peter, grew in bitterness. A raging sense of entitlement swelled within Peter. He surrendered himself to its powerful control and put all his energy into gaining the sympathy of others in the village. The wickedness of Peter’s heart became apparent to all and he found no ally—save one cousin. As Peter plotted revenge, a great storm grew over the ocean and battered the Land through the night. The rainless wind tore trees from the ground and ripped the roofs off houses.

  “When the elders learned of Peter’s evil plan, they emphatically believed the storm was God’s wrath and the destruction was His divine judgment. They commanded Peter and his sympathetic cousin to gather their wives and children and leave the village. They were to continue traveling until they reached the mountains. They left and were never heard from again. Lillian wrote of her great despair over the situation but kept the journal hidden, since the founders had demanded that the incident never be mentioned.”

  Connor found the notion of selective history-keeping unsettling. He lifted a palm. “Why didn’t the founders want the feud mentioned?”

  Lydia shrugged. “Aunt Isabella said they wanted to record only the pleasant and noble portions of their experience. I suppose since they had left America determined to create a peaceful society, they must have thought it was best to conceal anything that implied failure.” She looked at her hands for a moment. “I’ve always been inspired by the founders’ writings. But now I see how their practice of recording only pleasant and noble experiences shaped my expectations of myself. This journal has given me much to consider, though probably not in the way that my aunt intended.”

  “What made Isabella give it to you now?”

  Lydia turned her face toward the window, and the dim light trickling through the curtains highlighted her features. “My aunt thought the storm we experienced was similar to the storm in the journal. I think she was scared. She had held this family secret her whole life as if it were prophecy and had waited for the right moment to reveal it. There are not many disputes in the Land. Though not perfect by any means, most people here enjoy our peaceful way of life. The tragedy on the beach was the first Aunt Isabella had encountered since…”

  “Since your mother’s death?”

  Lydia nodded. “I am surprised Aunt Isabella did not reveal this journal at that time, at least to my father—I was too young.”

  Connor glanced at the old book. “It’s certainly an interesting piece of your history.”

  “Actually, it is more of an interesting piece to a puzzle that has long disturbed my family. When Felix intruded our home, I heard him tell my father he wanted what was rightfully his. He said he was a Colburn and he had the right to demand Colburn girls as mates for his sons.”

  “As in you and Bethany?”

  “No, probably my two elder sisters—they are closer in age to his two sons. Of course, my father refused him. It infuriated Felix and he started taking things. Mother tried to stop him and he shoved her.”

  Connor had heard part of the story before. “Yes, Levi told me about it after we fought Felix and his sons up north. Levi didn’t mention that Felix is a Colburn or that he had demanded your sisters, though.”

  Lydia sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Levi did not hear what I heard. I know he has always blamed Father for Mother’s death.” Connor remained silent and Lydia continued. “We knew Felix came from a group that lives near the mountains. It was rumored they had settled out there several generations ago. They rarely go into the villages, and when they do it usually ends in violence. I never understood the cause for Felix’s demand, but now I know. The rebellious brother in Lillian’s story is Felix’s ancestor. That is why Felix believes he has a right to whatever belongs to my family.”

  Connor thought of the three men he and Levi had fought and wondered if he would ever encounter the Land’s biggest outlaws again. He tapped the cover of the old book. “Are you going to mention this to your dad?”

  “Not right now. I don’t see what good it would do. This ordeal has probably reminded him of losing Mother. I should not to add this to his sorrow.” Lydia looked at the journal and back at Connor. “This piece of history has made me think about the demands I put on myself—striving for perfection—and how it only makes things harder for me. And no matter how hard I tried, I still failed.” She looked down at the journal again and sat silently.

  Connor put his hand on top of hers. “Lydia, your family loves you. Your village loves you.”

  “I know.”

  “Good, because when you know you’re loved, you know it’s okay to fail.”

  Lydia’s eyes darted to Connor’s. She seemed instantly awakened, and he wondered what she was thinking. He was in love with her and felt his heart bang in his chest. He wanted to tell her but decided to focus on her needs first. “Will you be all right?”

  Lydia slowly nodded. “I will be.” Then the corners of her mouth curled up. “Will you?”

  Connor felt relieved to see her smiling again. He chuckled. “Yeah, I’m fine. This is nothing compared to what I’ve seen. And that’s good… I don’t want that for you. Ever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Connor realized he had said more than he meant to and pulled his hand away. He noticed Lydia’s eyes widen just enough to indicate that his action had deepened her curiosity. “I only meant that this situation will make history in the Land, but where I’m from… tragedy is everyday life—right now anyway. It didn’t used to be that way.” He waited for her to question him and expected her to prod and wondered if she would sulk if he chose not to answer. He leaned back and rubbed both hands over his face. He wanted to keep her removed from the atrocities of a world at war, insulated by the inexplicable bubble, safe in the Land.

  Connor let out a breath through pursed lips and gazed at the woman he loved. She did not seem the least bit annoyed by his silence. She looked back at the plate, picked up the half-eaten muffin, and finished it off while he thought of how to tell her the outside world reeked of despair. Maybe he didn’t have to tell her everything. But he wanted her trust and knew that would require him to remove any mystery that may cause her doubt.

  Lydia wiped her fingertips on the napkin and folded her hands in her lap. She searched his face with her eyes, making him feel exposed. He wanted to go back to worrying about her and trying to protect her and rescue her. More than that, he wanted to love her well, and that meant allowing her to love him. He had never felt so weakened in his life and was unnerved that an unarmed woman accomplished it.

  “I know you are a warrior, and I realize that war spans the continents or you would not have fallen here so far from your home.” Lydia’s voice was soft but confident. “You have been kind to spare me any ghoulish details of life outside of the Land. I’m sure my father had some persuasion in that.” She smiled and looked at the window. “Many women in the village find your mysterious past intriguing. However, I am far more inspired by the knowledge you share than by your silence. When I ask a question, you may remain silent if you prefer not to answer, but you should understand silence will only hinder any possibility of intimacy.”

  He respected her forthrightness. It would be wise to take her advice to heart. He reached for her hand and rubbed his thumb lightly across her fingers. “What do you want to know?”

  She raised her shoulders slightly as if the matter was not choosing a question but a chance for him to prove his willingness to trust her. “What is the cause of the war?”

  With one finger he mindlessly traced her hand. Mentally he searched for a simple answer to her question. There was no simple answer. “There are ba
ttles raging on every continent. Each nation would probably cite a different cause for the war and would name multiple enemies. I can only tell you my perspective—and it’s limited. My country’s government gives information on a need-to-know basis.” Connor glanced at Lydia, and she tilted her head confirming her attention. He thought of when the war began. “It started three years ago. I was finishing my flight training and had already signed a six-year service contract. The government of my nation—like most nations—is a much bigger part of society than it is here. We have monetary systems that are complicated and interwoven with other nations. Our economy is built on debt—at least it was before the war. Other nations figured out how to use investment against us, and when they demanded repayment, it was too late. In a hurried response, our leaders basically bankrupted the nation. They changed the country’s name and nullified our constitution in the process. This cleared our debt but angered our creditors and plunged our society into fear and chaos. At the same time, there were groups who purposed to inflict terror on our society, and they found a way to poison the fresh water supplies of North America and Europe. Millions of sick people needed medical attention, but there was no way to meet the demand. There were also tyrants who ruled in many places in the world, and their populations were weakened by starvation, disease, and slavery. It only got worse for them as the once-wealthy nations seized what few resources were left. After three years of war, there are few clean fresh water supplies left on earth. Millions of people die daily. My last few missions involved securing fresh water supplies for the Unified States. Now the battle is simply for survival, and that’s why it is so important to keep the Land hidden.”

  Connor swallowed hard and waited for Lydia’s reaction. It was a heavy load to hand someone from a society with a council of elders for a government, a bartering economy, no contagious disease, and a forest full of medicinal trees. He braced for her to react with shock or even disdain because of his part in the war. “What else would you like to know?”