First and foremost, thank you to Keith and Julie and other missionaries whose stories are woven throughout this novel; for your love of all things Christ, and his peoples. Thank you not just for sharing with me the incredible stories of the peoples you served, but for your sacrifices you made to serve.
Thank you to my dearest friend, Mary, who I immortalize in the title character. Thank you for your friendship and your faith. This is my toast to you!
Thank you to Wiley Barnes, Publisher for White Dog Press who turned down the initial draft of The Missionary. You encouraged me to create something reflecting my Chickasaw roots—so, I did. In the process of rewriting The Missionary, Eddie became a better, stronger character with a rich history. Not to mention, it gave me plenty of ideas for additional books in the series.
Thank you to Sam Griffin, my accountant, who reminded me that I need to keep writing books so that I can make a profit, thus qualifying IRS status as a professional author versus someone who writes for a hobby, and…
thank you to my family, friends and fans who will help me keep Sam happy.
Thank you to Bobby and Kat Adair, without whose encouragement and wisdom, I couldn’t have begun to navigate my way through the self-publishing process
Thank you, Mom, for continuing to believe in me, and support all my writing endeavors.
Last and not least, thank you to my husband and best friend of forty years, Bryan, who continues to support me in every way, and who loves me through the ups…and the downs that come with being married to a writer. I love you!
The Ex Prologue
The old man jerked her violently by the forearm before pointing the glock at her chin—again. He turned to me. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
When I didn’t respond, he glared at me, his stare boring into my soul.
“It’s okay, sweetie. You still have me,” he declared, squeezing her face with his free hand.
I scoffed and shook my head, turning away. Only—he called my bluff. When I heard him rack a round into the chamber, I looked back. His eyes were suddenly dark again. Devoid of emotion—his finger frighteningly tight on the trigger.
“You think you’re better than me?”
“No, just different,” I retorted.
“A sin is a sin is a sin,” he reasoned.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? I’m going to hell for what I’m doing. Thou dost covet another man’s wife,” his voice deepened. “You think just because you don’t say the words that you’re innocent?”
His words cut me to the bone. But more than that, they pissed me off.
He stepped closer to me, dragging her with him. “Your eyes,” he taunted. “They give you away.” He looked at her before sneering at me. “See how he’s avoiding answering the question,” he mocked, pressing his cheek to hers. When they parted, he moved the muzzle of the Glock to her temple.
“You don’t have to do this,” I pleaded meekly, trying to control my breathing as I felt the anger rising.
“Admit it”, he snarled. “Admit your sin.” This was no longer a game of cat and mouse. “Say it out loud!” he demanded.
“Leave her out of this.” I glanced away once again to avoid his glare—to avoid her dark, penetrating eyes.
“Say it!” he bellowed emphatically, pressing the gun deeper; the barrel cutting red indentions into her skin.
Why was this so damned difficult? Answer the question! I swallowed hard, contemplating. Only—. “Yes,” I said flatly, my eyes intentionally holding hers. “I still love her.” I exhaled, adding a small shrug and shake of the head as a lame apology for my forced confession. Mere words, I told myself. Words without emotion; having buried them deep inside not so long ago.
He looked at Mary Beth. “You hear that, sweetie? He still loves you.”
She looked down, ashamed.
“And what should be the punishment for your sin?”
I stood upright, my eyes now determinedly on him, and smartly replied. “I don’t know. You’re the one holding the gun. You’re the one doling out punishments here. You tell me.” I barked, now seething; brazen with arrogance; angry that people had died. Angry that people were still dying around us. Angry that he’d made me say the words.
“You’re right,” he said flatly.
…and then he shot me.
Chapter One
Whoever thought of putting mirrors in bars was a sadist, he concluded, staring woefully at the person he despised most in the world.
Himself.
Arnold thought he knew what he was supposed to do—what he was called to do. Yet, now, everything was muddled. His mind. His life.
A bartender came by every few minutes to check on him; thankfully noting his desire to be left alone. It had been easily a half hour since last sipping from the bottle before him, and yet, it had never left his hands; the glass warm now—matching the temp of the flat liquid inside.
Countless souls had occupied these barstools through the years. Leo, the lead barkeep, had learned how to read folks before even talking to them. There are a lot of reasons for people to frequent a bar—drowning sorrows being high on the list. He had also learned when to pry, and when not to. This man had been here before, usually in the evenings. Always alone. Never talkative. Sometimes, like now, he was zoned out—as his grandson would say. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, Leo felt the man wanted—maybe even needed—to unburden himself.
As though hearing his thoughts the soldier looked up and met Leo’s gaze. Leo looked into the man’s eyes and felt—albeit briefly—that he could see into the man’s very soul. Leo saw turmoil. He saw pain. But more than that he saw something that he couldn’t quite explain.
Arnold held the bartender’s gaze for many moments before looking away. Only, he made the mistake of glancing sideways, catching his reflection once again. Eyes once full of life and hope now seemed dead and distant. A fraction of a man. A stranger. A wanderer. A soldier lost.
Chapter Two
“Another ginger ale?” Fred, my well-meaning bartender offered, in a low voice—as though embarrassed by the asking—his broad smile bordering annoying.
If he was trying to make me grin or set me at ease, it wasn’t working. I simply nodded, emotionless, as he took my glass, added ice, before refilling it with the spray from the carbonated drink fountain built into the back of the counter. Then he stepped away, forcing me to face myself again. As I glanced up, I was met with the sad, lonely eyes of a pathetic man wearing a drab army t-shirt, shaggy hair, and an unkempt beard.
Do I sound like I’m feeling sorry for myself? You betcha! That’s why I came here. The plan was to drink away the misery. The memories. Only it wasn’t working. Why? Simply put—I don’t drink. Never have. Well, maybe once; after which I found myself in Honduras building bottle schools, with three of my well-meaning hung-over friends. That was over three years ago. Yet, after the year I’ve had, I was seriously willing to give it one more try.
I looked into the sea of alcoholic options, all lined up below the glass behind the bar. So many choices in which I could lose myself—in which I could forget—if only for a while. I peered at the old mirror curiously; random blotches of oxidation having formed in its corners, the result of the reflective silver mercury breaking down over time. A hundred years of judgment stared back at me. I didn’t always look like this. And, I certainly didn’t always feel like this.
Fred perfectly centered my drink on the napkin before me. “Anything else?” he asked, casually setting a menu beside my glass. “You know, the kitchen makes a pretty mean greasy-spoon burger.” When I didn’t respond right away, he added, “It’s on the house.” When I looked up, he winked. “It’s the least I can do. Thank you for your service, son.”
I nodded in acknowledgment, forcing an uncomfortable smile. “Thanks, Fred. I’ll check it out.” I gave the menu an obligatory once over. Then, I sensed someone’s presence beside me. Before I even
turn, I know it’s a woman. It’s the unconscious things one does that are telling. Fred’s facial expression softened ever so slightly—wearing a smile reserved strictly for the opposite sex; not another man. Or maybe it could be—but, I just don’t see Fred swinging that way.
And she’s tall. Not Amazon tall. But Fred’s posture changed. Suddenly, he stood a little more upright, as if trying to match her stature—his eyes looking upward, not down. She must be good looking, too, because Fred sucked in his belly, something reserved for the pretty ones. Lastly, there was the faint scent of Chanel Number Five, applied ever so subtly—maybe on the heal of her wrist or possibly behind her earlobe.
When she placed her order, her voice was deep. Sultry. Scarlett Johnsson-sultry. Fred, obviously under her spell, tripped all over himself to please her. I couldn’t help but grin. After centering a glass perfectly on the napkin for her, he turned to me. Though I tried to keep a straight face, he saw the smile in my eyes and met it with a quick reprimanding glare before turning back to the woman—a glint of hope in his own. I covered my chuckle with a cough.
“You decide what you want?” He inquired of me, obviously annoyed by my amusement.
I smiled behind the menu. “Grilled cheese,” I replied, ordering merely to satisfy his persistence. “To go.”
Fred nodded, immediately typing my choice into his point of sale system, assuring that the kitchen had the order seconds later. It’s not that nothing looked good. I simply haven’t had much of an appetite since getting back. And when I do eat, all I eat is junk. I mean, there’s no one to cook for me anymore—not that Amanda cooked much when she was there. Her favorite food? Anything she didn’t have to cook. Plus, there’s no place left for me to sit—except my recliner—since I gave her every last stick of furniture in the apartment. It seemed like the right thing to do, at the time. However, looking back, coming home to no one and nothing—except an old car that hasn’t run in years, and my beat-up pick-up truck—was the harsh reality of my existence. Home? Well, that used to be wherever the Army told me to go.
Used to be.
Now I’m done. Twelve years of serving my country and all I have to show for it is four scars, three medals, two broken down vehicles, and one empty apartment. I’ve been crashing at my friend Adam’s pad since I got back. (I don’t do alone well.) I put the truck in storage, the recliner in his living room and got out of my lease early.
Adam was my second closest friend in high school. He moved into the number one spot the day I caught my best friend in bed with my fiancé mere weeks before our wedding. Adam’s a good guy. Divorced, two kids. Only, the wife got the house and the kids. Luckily, he rents a three-bedroom apartment, so there’s a room for each of his boys when they visit. Therefore, I have a warm bed Sunday through Thursday. The rest of the days, I’m on my own.
The barstool squealed under my butt as it rotated. Adam asked me to meet him here after stopping by his girlfriend’s place. I’m not holding my breath, though. My guess is that she deliberately distracted him from going out for “drinks with the boys,” by offering him dessert at home—if you know what I mean. They’re probably knocking boots right now. Hopefully, at her place. She’s a screamer. It’s hard enough sleeping alone—harder when the bed next door is beating in rhythm against your wall, and she’s moaning in ecstasy with every thrust. I’m a single guy who hasn’t been with a woman in more than three and a half years. Some things are too much, even for the strongest man, to bear.
I rubbed my temples. It’s been a rough year. I mean, I almost died on my last mission. Some people would call surviving what I went through, luck; others would call it fate. A hand landed on my shoulder, startling me. I turned.
“Hey, man,” Adam said excitedly.
I glanced past him to Winnie, his girlfriend—uninvited, and clad in a silky crème colored blouse and jeans. No bra. Don’t judge! It’s not that I was intentionally looking, but hey, I’m a guy. There are certain things we notice. That just happens to be one. Okay—maybe two. I grinned; my gaze slowly traveling to meet hers. Winnie looked at me knowingly, a sly smile on her face. I felt mine getting hot. Busted. Damn, I never blush. I turned to my friend, hoping he’s none the wiser.
“See, I told you he’d still be here.” Adam leaned onto the counter, tapping it with his key to get Fred’s attention. “Two Miller Lites?”
Adam sat on the stool beside me as I stared at the perspiring glass in my hand. Cool silk brushed my bare forearm as Winnie insinuated herself between us. I refused to look up. “Winifred,” I said to the bottle in my hand. I could feel her cutting her eyes at me. I smiled to myself.
“Edward,” she replied playfully—with a hint of sarcasm thrown in for calling her by her given name. She leaned so close that I could tell you what toothpaste she used.
“So, I’ve decided,” Adam said over the music from the electronic jukebox by the furthest wall. “You’re going with us this weekend.”
I leaned forward, looking past Winnie as though she weren’t there.
“High school reunion man,” Adam added, as though I should already know. He notes my bewildered look. “Where’ve you been?”
“Afghanistan,” I replied flatly.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Adam took several gulps of his beer then gasped.
Adam’s a good guy, but a little dense. He calls it being forgetful. Personally, I think he’s been hitting the medicinal weed a little more than prescribed since coming home himself. PTSD. Four letters diagnosing a malady that’s been around since Cane and Abel and acknowledged thousands of years too late, if you ask me. Coming home to find his wife in love with someone else didn’t help matters.
“Still—it’s not too late to RSVP.”
I looked down at my drink, contemplating. I was tempted to tell Fred to add a shot of anything to it. The idea of showing up at a high school reunion where everyone has someone else and is successful in whatever they have endeavored to do just doesn’t appeal to me at this stage in my life. “I’ll pass.”
“C’mon man. They say everyone will be there.” He paused for effect. “Emily will be there.”
At the mention of her name, I looked up.
“Ooh, Emily,” Winnie cooed playfully. “High school sweetheart?” she leaned closer to me, her soft bosom pressing against my arm. I side-glanced her as she grinned mischievously—teasing me mercilessly with them. Unable to bear it any more, I stepped away from my stool, taking my near-empty glass with me.
“Yeah,” Adam continued, close on my heels. “They were the hottest couple all four years.”
“Really? So, what happened?”
“She got married,” Adam interjected, oblivious that he’s just poured salt into an old wound.
“To someone else,” I clarified.
Winnie’s smile faded as she took my arm, pulling me closer. “Poor baby,” she added compassionately before embracing my arm in an awkward hug. I looked quizzically at Adam, who merely downed the rest of his beer.
“It’s no big deal,” I replied nonchalantly, attempting to remove myself from her grasp. “She went her way. I went mine.”
“That’s too bad,” Winnie added, with a pouty face, her hot breath on my chin.
I wriggled from her grip; side-stepping her as I finished searching the room for nothing and no one in particular, arriving where I started. At the bar.
“Rumor has it she’s changed,” Adam added, unconvincingly.
I finished my soda and tossed enough cash onto the counter to cover our drinks plus my meal and a good tip. Fred was ready for me, handing me a paper sack as I passed by.
“She’s divorced,” Adam called out. When I didn’t look back, he added. “She’s gonna be there, man.”
I breathed in deeply as I contemplated how to respond. “Good for her,” I replied dryly, trying to appear unmoved by the news. Then, I walked to the door, not wanting to look as shaken as I felt—not wanting them to see the pain in my face. In my heart.
* * *
Text Copyright © 2018, Margaret Ferguson Books
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.
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