MC BIKER ROMANCE: Bad Boy Romance: BETRAYED: (New Adult Motorcycle Club Navy SEAL Romance) (Contemporary Military Romance Thriller) (79 page)
Authors: Kate Shepherd
I took my gun and my bullets and went my way out into the wild. I happened upon an abandoned camp with a sleeping blanket, vittles, a journal, an ink pen, and a large knife. Someone had even gone to the trouble to gather kindling for a fire. There are a handful of sites here and there throughout the countryside. A man who forgets to wake up when men are skulking about nearby is a man who will soon have his throat slit. As often as not, the man’s possessions are left where they are on the off chance that someone might recognize those possessions and figure out what happened. There was no blood anywhere at the campsite, which I found passing strange. I tried not to question it, for the common wisdom of the frontier instructs a person not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I have spent the last week here biding my time, trying to think of what I will do next. I can’t go back to my family. I don’t know the way. I have no one to guide me to Boston, much less to provide me with enough supplies to last me until I got there. I was alone for the first time in my life. Solitude agree with me. I need to be around people. I need to hear the lively voices of animated conversation. I need the stimulation that only fellow human beings can provide. For that reason, I have decided to track down Father Blake. It might be that he can find a way to help me. I don’t like having to ask for help from anyone. My prideful nature balks at the notion. Yet I must, for I am a sociable woman bred to thrive in polite society who is alone in the wild.
I would have turned the gun on myself that day in the street if I had known the despair and misery that would follow. My appetite has left me. I must confess that I haven’t eaten very much at all. My strength is departing me, little by little. I must force some food into my belly before I become useless to anyone. As there are few pages in this journal remaining, I will use the rest of them to describe my meeting with Father Blake as best I can.
It took me a day to recover my strength sufficiently until I reached the point when I felt confident enough to walk back to town. As I did, what I had done shamed me. I had nearly killed a man. Then I had walked away from one of the two only places in the world that I have ever known. I might have starved, if I had not happened upon that camp. As I walked, I started wondering how it was that the food was left behind. Anybody who ambushed the campsite would have taken the vittles, ate them at the first opportunity, then left the cans to lay wherever they would.
I found Father Drake in his small church a mile away from the town. He fancies himself another Saint John of the Forest. His congregation is small, for he is a Catholic priest in a country that doesn’t hold much with any faith that comes out of the mouth of another man. I found him working in his garden with a pair of shears.
He got up slowly, struggling to stand. The years had not been kind to him. He had turned sixty just a year before. He walked like a man who was halfway to being crippled. He limped along, holding his hip. Wisps of white hair remained on his forehead where once uncombed black hair had been. His hands had become wrinkled, along with his face. In spite of all of this, however, his eyes remained as sharp and as clear as they had ever been.
He said, “My my, Mary Callahan. I must confess I did not expect to see you again.”
He had no need to explain why that might be. I could easily imagine how it might be that the townsfolk all thought that I had run away in shame. Indeed, it had almost transpired to be exactly that.
I said, “Father Drake. I’ve come seeking your help.”
Father Drake smiled. I expected him to give me a line about how only God can help people who are in need. Instead, he surprised me by saying, “I will do what I can. Would you care to come inside? I fear there is a slight chill in the air. Winter will be here soon.”
I said, “All right, Father. I have a lot to tell you.”
He patted me on the back while we walked. The touch felt comforting. He said, “As it happens, Mrs. Callahan, there is someone here that has been waiting to see you.”
I did not respond. I was too weary to respond. I hoped that it wasn’t anyone from the town, yet who else could it be? Unless, by some miracle, my father had come all the way from Boston just to fetch me back. If he had, there would have been no reason for him to do so. Even with telegraph wires springing up everywhere across the country. there would have been no way for him to cross the country so quickly. I doubted that my father. Even though I wished to see him again, it seemed unlikely that I would.
I passed through the doors of the church and into the vestibule. There was only a single row of pews in the entire church. Those sat directly in front of the pulpit. They were reserved for the elderly who had difficulty standing for extended periods of time. Everyone else had to stand through the entire two hours of Father Blake’s Sunday morning service. In one of the pews, I saw the head of a man with wavy brown hair on top of it. The head turned to see who had come in. My heart almost stopped when I saw who it was.
Luke Kingston, the one man other than Matthew who had courted me with serious intent in Boston, sat in front of the pulpit with both hands on his lap. He had a worn cotton shirt on his chest, together with trousers that had worn away at the knees. He did not have any shoes on. His feet were brown, caked with the mud that he had walked through. He smiled when he saw me.
That smile brought back memories of warm days with flowers and cold days sitting by a fireplace. At the time, I had longed for the frontier. When I saw Luke sitting there, as calm as can be, I realized that I had not valued what I did have. I had only ever set my eyes on the future. I had thought that by going west, I would have a better life than that which I would enjoy in Boston. For the first time, I wondered if I had been wrong.
Luke stood up. He said, “Mary.”
That one word was all he needed to say to make me run towards him. So focused on him was I that I didn’t see Father Blake duck out of the church to return to his garden. He had left Luke and I alone in the church. I would have ran to Luke even if Father Blake had been watching. I clasped my arms around his neck. He was exactly my height, which made him a short man. I felt his warm breath on my cheek and on my earlobes.
I said, “Dearest Luke, it has been so long.”
Luke said, “Don’t you want to hear how I got here? It’s been a long journey.”
“You can tell me later. Not right now. Right now, I just want to hold you. I can’t believe you came all this way.”
He said, “I came for you, Mary. Your husband sent a telegram to Boston. He said that you and he would be having a divorce within a month’s time. That telegram was meant for your father. He gave it to me. He thought I might be interested.”
I put my forehead against his forehead. Having him so close overloaded my senses so that I had to close my eyes. I listened to the steady cadence of his breath while his hands pressed against the small of my back. I said, “I’m glad he did. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve never needed you more.”
He let out a soft laugh. The sound made me happy in a way that I hadn’t expected. It didn’t matter to me that I was clinging to the first port I found in a storm. He had come for me. He cared enough to come across the continent for me. He cared enough to wait in Father Blake’s wilderness church for me. That was all that I needed. I needed someone who cared.
He said, “I’ve missed you. These last twelve years, I’ve missed you so much. I never married anyone else. It was you or no one. You wouldn’t believe how much my heart has ached to see you. This is a dream that I never dared to dream. It is-”
I didn’t need to see his face to know where his mouth. I stopped his speech by planting my lips against his own. His hands gripped my shirt. The kiss invigorated me. It made me feel young again, as though anything was still possible. It made me feel like a twenty year old girl again with a head full of impossible notions. My mind whirled as I thought of all the time that I had spent married to Matthew. I tried not to think of him as Luke’s tongue rolled along my teeth. A shiver shot through my spine. My body trembled for a moment before I forced myself to become steady.
Had I been a candle, I would have melted on the spot. His kiss was passionate. He let himself go, not caring that he stood in the middle of a church, not caring that I had been cold to him twelve years before when he asked for my hand in marriage. Then, I had seen him as anchor that would keep me rooted to Boston. Now, I saw him as my strange, unexpected, happy salvation.
A warmth spread through me that I could not explain. Some people like to say that they experienced something when they never did. That’s not me. While we walked into his wilderness church, I felt- for the first time since Matthew handed me his papers- that there was enough sunshine in the world for the smallest ray to fall upon my face.
Sylvia shrank down into the train’s seat, wishing that she could simply disappear. Surely this apprehension would fade, would grow smaller and smaller with each mile that she traveled from the only home she had ever known. For now, though, the train still sat in the station and she tried to make herself invisible.
Yes, everyone would realize come tonight when she didn’t come home what she’d done. She just didn’t want to face them, to see the shock and judgement she was sure would fill their faces. It was cowardice, to be sure, but surely in the face of the courage it had taken to make this decision a little cowardice could be permitted.
She had, after all, just walked away from everything she’d ever known with nothing more than the clothes on her back and a whispered prayer that the future could, perhaps, be brighter than the bleak path that had lain before her. No, there was no guarantee that this change would be for the best, but at least it would be change. Sylvia couldn’t, no matter how much she wished she could, stay in her home.
The tight-knit Amish community which she’d seen through her entire childhood as a place of refuge, as her entire world, had become smaller and smaller. Some days it seemed as though the rules, the neighbors, even her own family were closing in on her, constricting around her until she was no longer able to draw a full breath.
It was that feeling, that stifling hopelessness, that had led up to her answering the ad she’d found in the dispatch. It hadn’t been a rash decision, but rather a resolution that was months in the making. When she first tore the clipping from the newspaper, when she’d been in the mercantile trading the quilts she and her mother had made for a few grocery items, she’d never believed she would answer an ad herself. It had been a fantasy, nothing more.
Sylvia had felt unbearably guilty, both for entertaining such fantasies and for taking the page that contained the ads, but from that moment it seemed almost as if her present course was inescapable. It was as though admitting her unhappiness somehow gave it more weight, made it an almost tangible pressure that overlaid everything that she did. She kept the page, read the ad every day. It didn’t say much really. It just advertised that a man from Texas was searching for a bride, and that he would pay her expenses if she were to agree to wed him.
Sure, on a logical level she understood that if she were to answer that ad—or one like it, because that one had been printed months ago and she was sure someone had answered the request—there was no guarantee that life would be any better. In fact, if she were honest with herself, it was entirely likely that the situation she found herself in would be worse.
Somehow though even ‘worse’ sounded better. At least she could, if only for a time, have the hope of a better future, the excitement of the unknown. As it was her entire life was mapped out for her. Her parents hadn’t chosen her a husband yet, but it was only a matter of time. Once they did she would settle down with him and raise children in the same small village she’d grown up in herself. Sure, life as a mail-order bride didn’t seem much different, but at least she wouldn’t feel as though the world was passing her by while she had to live apart from it all. To even speak such thoughts might get her shunned, if the wrong person heard…of course she’d more that taken care of that.
Sylvia took a deep breath as the train began to rumble down the tracks and tried in vain to keep the tears that threatened from leaving cold, twisted trails down her cheeks. No, there was no looking back now. There was nowhere to go but forward. With shaking hands she removed her prayer cap and apron. Sylvia smoothed her hands over the starched white fabric.
She reached back then with one hand to touch her uncovered hair. It was a lovely golden shade, though it was a sin for Sylvia to admit her pride in it, even to herself. The prayer caps were donned to prevent emotions like the ones she always felt anyway about her hair.
Her other features weren’t as admirable, in her estimation. She wasn’t unseemly, to be sure, but neither was she a great beauty. Still, with clear blue eyes and a healthy flush to her cheeks, surely her future husband could do worse. She hoped that her future husband wouldn’t be terribly disappointed with her…
Vanity or no, it felt strange to be out in public without her hair covered.
She’d never dared to be seen outside the house without the cap and apron on before now. Even though she was the only person sitting in the passenger car at the moment she had to fight the urge to fold her hands over the dark blue fabric of her dress to hide herself.
The cool air that lingered from the time the train had stood open and awaiting more passengers that never came seemed to sting against Sylvia’s scalp, a soft reprimand for the sin of uncovering her hair in public. She shook off the notion though. She’d grow used to it soon enough.
She began to put the garments aside, but in the end some small, sentimental part of her refused to let that final tie with her old life go. Instead she folded them up, as small as they would go, and shoved them into the bottom of her bag. With an effort she banished the thoughts of home from her mind, but there was no stopping them from returning once she’d closed her eyes.
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like, Helen? To just leave, to never have to wear this prayer cap again, to be able to speak with whomever we want, to—“
“Hush, Sylvia! You mustn’t say such things! What if Papa heard you? He might even consider shunning you, and then where would you be?”
Sylvia had swallowed the curiosity. Back then a shunning had actually seemed like the end of the world. Her mother and father were harsh, with little enthusiasm for life and even less love for the two daughters they’d brought into the world. Sylvia didn’t doubt, as shameful as the thought was, that she could walk away from them without a backward glance. But Helen? She could never walk away from her little sister.
Sylvia woke with a start and dried the tears that had formed on her face during the dream. Even though it had seemed so real, some part of her must have realized that she would never be faced with the choice of walking away from her younger sister. You couldn’t leave someone who was already gone.
Dispassionately Sylvia stared out the train’s window as the scenery passed her by. After some hours had passed the mountains gave way to flatter territory that was no less green. Still, no matter how pleasant, no matter how novel the new sights that she was presented with, the sadness of her dream still filled her. As the miles went by, one after another, with nothing beyond the sights outside the window to fill her mind, sadness began to give way to a much darker emotion.
Sylvia tried to tamp down on the anger that rose up in her at the thought of her younger sister. When Helen had fallen ill her father had refused to seek medical help outside their community, even though it was not against their beliefs to do so. He’d claimed to place his trust in ‘divine providence’. He had said that if it were God’s will her sister would be healed.
While she didn’t doubt a higher power, Sylvia didn’t quite buy into divine providence in her sister’s case. Her beliefs fell more in line with a saying she’d heard repeated often by men and women in the mercantile: “God helps those who help themselves.”
That was what Sylvia was doing now. She wasn’t walking away from faith as a whole as much as she was leaving behind her a family that would stand by and let her waste away to nothing if she were to fall ill. Surely self-preservation couldn’t be wrong. How could wanting to know that your life was truly valued be a sin? The direction Sylvia’s thoughts had taken steeled her resolve. As the last remnants of her earlier tears dried on her cheeks she vowed to only look forward rather than behind.
Even steely resolve, however, cannot fight off boredom. Over the next several days Sylvia spent her days traveling by train. The seats in the passenger cabins were far more comfortable than they could have been, and certainly more comfortable than anything Sylvia usually sat in. Still, though, after sitting there for several hours every day only to disembark, seek a room, and do it all again the next day…Sylvia thought she might never want to sit again after this journey was done, no matter how inviting the cushion.
Then, before she’d even reached the Texas border, Sylvia changed modes of travel. The rest of her journey would be completed via stagecoach. She’d spent plenty of time riding to town in an open buggy. If someone had told her she might suffer from motion sickness she would have laughed them off quickly. She would have been wrong.
Something about the small, closed in cabin of the stagecoach, the scent of dust and a hundred travelers before her…it just turned her stomach. Rather than enjoying the scenery as it changed around her, so different from the hilly, green land back home, she spent most of each day with her head tilted back and her eyes closed.
She breathed through her mouth in order to avoid the unpleasant scents, only to find it dried and coated with dust. The cold air left her throat aching and, though she bundled up as best she could, her hands and feet numb.
Though she normally preferred her space, particularly around people that she wasn’t well acquainted with, Sylvia found herself hoping that the coach would be full each morning when they set out. Surely it wasn’t inappropriate to sit closely when there wasn’t room to do much else. It was certainly warmer with more people riding in the stagecoach alongside her.
Sylvia hadn’t thought things could get much more miserable. Then it rained. The going that day, while less bumpy, was painfully slow. Still, she shouldn’t complain. Those who had paid a lower fare had to get out and walk when the wagon got too bogged down in the mire. And those who had paid less still had to push until it was freed again. Only then were they able to climb back into the wagon, mud logged and completely exhausted. When they passed into a region that hadn’t seen wet weather recently Sylvia had felt ridiculously thankful for the dusty, bumpy ride she’d taken for granted only days before.
Though it was preferable to the rain, the bumpy rides had their problems. Her dress was grimy and travel worn, and it hung more loosely on her frame than it had at the beginning of her journey, which wasn’t exactly a good thing.
Sylvia had never been a large woman. She wasn’t exactly tiny though, not like some of the delicate girls in her church. She’d been more athletic, although she was still slender. Over the days traveling with an almost empty stomach—a necessity if she hoped to avoid losing its contents during the day’s carriage ride—Sylvia’s slight form had diminished until she was border line bony.
It was a shame that she couldn’t rest of for a week or so to put a bit of meat back on her bones before she met her husband to be. Her betrothed had certainly sent enough money for her to do so, if she desired, but she felt as though he would probably rather that she spend the money frugally and return as much as possible to him upon her arrival. And do, she thought with a sigh, it would be skin and bones for her, brought on by day after day of half starved, half sick rocking, bouncing torture.
Sooner than she would have thought, though, her days fell into a rhythm. She learned that the seat beside the driver was best, for it didn’t seem to bounce quite as hard as those around it. Though she couldn’t read to take her mind off the trials of the journey—she’d tried once and ended up with double the motion sickness and frigid hands for her trouble—she could occupy her mind by picturing her new home in her mind, and by pretending to describe the journey to Helen.
She would paint it as a grand adventure rather than the grimy, wearing travel that it was. If she were to tell Helen about the trip the plain fare at many of the stage coach stops would be made to sound exotic and fun. Finding a room in a new location every night could be made to sound like an opportunity to meet amazing people rather than an exercise in patience when she was already weary from the day’s travel, all the way down to her bones.
The rocking of the coach, however, would not be romanticized or even minimized in her tale. Some things were simply too miserable to lie about. And the cold, there could be no lying about that either. Sometimes at the end of the day it seemed that she would never be warm again. It was such a relief at the end of the day to settle down in a warm room. Unless the room wasn’t any warmer than the stagecoach had been. On those nights Sylvia shivered beneath her blankets and tried to be thankful that, while it might be chilly, at least the room wasn’t rocking to and fro. Running away from home, she concluded, was a business best done during warmer weather.
Sylvia was jolted from her reverie when a stranger plunked down next to her. She’d noticed that the stage was stopping. Somehow, though, even knowing that it was the last stop didn’t entice her enough to make her leave her seat. Eating would only make the rest of the day more miserable, and somehow warming up just made the cold that much sharper when she went back into it.
“Excuse me, Ma’am.”
Sylvia opened one eye to see who had jostled her, half expecting to see the gangly boy that had been sitting next to her that morning even though the apology had obviously been spoken with the voice of a grown man. Instead she found herself staring into an arresting pair of blue eyes.
“I…um…excuse me too…I mean that’s perfectly…yes. You’re excused.”
Well…That was just mortifying.
Sylvia felt a blush warming her cheeks against the cool winter air.
She reached back to touch her prayer cap, a nervous habit she’d formed at some point during her youth, only to realize that it was absent. That made her blush even more deeply, even though there wasn’t anything indecent about a stranger seeing her hair. Logically she knew that…Sylvia stared at her hands, which were encased in thick woolen mittens. She just wouldn’t engage him further. There was probably no salvaging this conversation anyway.
