Red Rose Bouquet: A Contemporary Christian Novel (Grace Revealed Book 2) Page 3

His head hung, and he nodded. “I know.” He looked up and made eye contact. “I know I didn’t, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. But, Cheryl, whatever it is that has your heart caught in this cage of ice, you need to know that there’s freedom. You don’t have to live—”

  “You know what?” She leaned across the table, her voice low. “Shut up, you hypocrite. You think that just because you’ve been sober a year or two that you’ve actually changed? Ha.” She settled back again. “People don’t change. We’re a product of our pasts—our choices and mistakes and the people who have used us. That doesn’t ever change. So don’t think that since you’ve gone through some overblown twelve-step program or whatever, and you’ve managed to hypnotize that woman into marrying you, that you’re somehow better than me. You’re not.”

  He stared at his hands lying on the table. “I know.”

  She stood, her fists clenched. The crumpled paper in her hand bit against her palm. “Don’t contact me again, Andrew. Ever.”

  “Okay.”

  She moved to stomp past him, but stopped when her name came from his broken voice.

  “Cheryl.” He looked up at her. “I hope someday, for your sake, you find out that you’re wrong.”

  Cheryl glared at him for a breath. She’d never seen him so sincere—or broken. Not once in the fifteen months they’d been together. He meant every word.

  Emotion clawed her throat. She swallowed it back, straightened her posture, and set her stride toward the door. Didn’t matter what he believed. He didn’t know.

  There wasn’t any way a man like him—or any man, for that matter—could know her hell. Or the fact that it would never change.

  ~4~

  The little car put all four cylinders into the mountain pass.

  The mountain was winning.

  She should have exchanged it before she headed up and over.

  She inched along at almost fifty miles per hour, the SUVs swishing past her to the left. Good thing the state had put some work into widening the highway, or she’d be getting the bird from every traveler stacked up behind her.

  At least the ride downhill would be fun. And the road was dry, so she could let it fly. Maybe the speed would whip away her residual fury.

  Probably not.

  Why couldn’t she let it go? She’d said what she’d gone to say. Andrew wasn’t absolved. The end. He could live with it.

  He would, too. Just fine. His life had carried on, smoothed out, and gotten good. She was still stuck with the rottenness. Granted, it wasn’t all from him. She’d had a good share of the load strapped to her back long before she’d met him.

  You don’t have to live like…

  How had he intended to finish that?

  Didn’t matter. He didn’t know about her life, her past.

  Cease and desist with the Andrew garbage.

  “Come on…” Cheryl leaned forward against the steering wheel, wondering if it’d help her little vehicle crawl up the final bit of incline if she rocked back and forth. How weird would that look? “Just a little bit farther…”

  The view opened on her right, and she caught a glimpse of the meadow stretching gently upward to the peak south of the highway, and the steep slope that flowed down toward Winter Park. Below, the highway snaked with wide switchbacks until it slipped out of view beneath the evergreens in the valley. One pass halfway done. The worst was behind her.

  If only that were true of life. At one point, that was exactly what she’d thought—that the worst was behind her. She’d be able to leave her biggest problems, and life would move on.

  She hadn’t banked on the fierce grip of captivity.

  Hard emotion locked in her chest, and a seething whisper pricked against her conscience.

  Unforgivable.

  A tremble shook her core, and she pulled in a breath to bolster against the surge of pain. Squeezing the steering wheel, she steeled herself against the voice, numbing her heart until the feelings died away.

  There is freedom…

  Maybe for Andrew—which wasn’t exactly fair. She gripped harder, letting anger drown the claim he’d made.

  Her cell, tossed onto the passenger seat, chirped. She glanced at the lit-up screen. Ethan. Again.

  She snatched the phone just as she approached the first hairpin turn, and accepted the call.

  “What now?”

  “Hey.” Ethan paused. “That’s how most civil people answer their phones. Or hello. Or what’s up? You know, so at least people get a good first impression before you go sinking your jaws into them.”

  “Cute. Why do you keep calling me?”

  “I was just checking on you. How’s the drive?”

  “It’s fine, Ethan.”

  “Which way did you go?”

  She wanted to growl. They weren’t the chatty kind of siblings. This was ridiculous. “I’m almost to Winter Park. I should be there sometime between six and seven.”

  “Good. We’ll wait on supper for you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he mocked, using a sharp, girlish tone. “I’m your brother, not some witness you get to snap at. We’ll wait for you. How about you meet us at the Hi Way in town? Just text me when you get to Rabbit Ears.”

  There wasn’t a point in arguing. “Fine. Now can I concentrate on the road?”

  A drawn-out sigh hissed from Ethan’s side of the line. “Okay, Sherbert. Drive safe.”

  Stop calling me that. Ugh. Already this had been a long trip, and she hadn’t even reached her destination yet.

  ~*~

  “It’s been a good week, Brock. The kids all have that this place is magic glow.”

  Brock grinned as he wiped down the last of the eight tables. “Must be the cookin’. You spoil all of us.” He stood and turned to face Cammy. “You did save a piece of that Twinkie cake for me, right?”

  “Of course. I like my job—have every intention of keeping it.” Cammy winked.

  Like he could do without her.

  Cammy tilted her head. “So, that redhead…”

  Should have guessed. The female counselor with fiery hair had made no secret of her interest. From the moment she’d stepped off the bus, Brock knew she was the dart to avoid for the week. Seemed like more often than not there was at least one. Made him tired.

  “You noticed, did you?”

  Cammy’s laugh cracked through the mostly vacant main lodge. “Kind of hard to miss.” She turned serious with the next breath. “You’re never interested in them.”

  Yes. That was true. And obvious, which didn’t command a response. Brock finished with the table and backed his way through the swinging door into the kitchen.

  With a determined stride, Cammy trailed behind him, her hands jammed onto her hips. “Come on now, Brock. You can’t blame them. You’re a good-looking single guy doing a job that makes women all gooey inside. Maybe you should give one a chance.”

  “You forgot former Olympian. That’s why half of them come up for this little field experience.” With the rag still gripped in a few fingers, he framed field experience with air quotes. “Sorry. Not interested.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  No, he didn’t. Not for sure. But even the possibility of a woman hitching a ride with a bunch of foster kids, pretending to care just so she’d have the opportunity to flirt, was enough to make him keep to himself.

  Brock dropped the rag into the sink of hot water, rinsed his hands, and moved to pick up the plate of cake Cammy had saved for him.

  “One of them might be really nice.”

  He shoved a bite into his mouth and nodded. “Could be,” he mumbled around the oh-so-sweet confection.

  “You won’t know unless you give them a chance.”

  After brushing the crumbs from his lips, he nodded again. “True.”

  “So you’ll talk to her tonight at the bonfire?”

  “Nope.”

  Cammy’s shoulders slumped
. “Brock.”

  He chuckled and wrapped an arm around her. “I’ve got all I need, Cammy. You keep food in my stomach. The kids that come up here keep me humble and on my toes. Nothing’s missing for me, so let it go.” With one last squeeze, he dropped his hand and returned to the cake.

  “Mr. Kelly.” One of the male counselors popped his head into the kitchen. “You need to get out here. One of the girls just got hurt.”

  Great. Last night of her week, too. Poor kid. Brock set his empty plate on the stainless steel counter and moved for the door.

  “Let me know if I need to call Doc,” Cammy called behind him.

  “Give Brandi a heads-up.” He waved without looking back. Not their first rodeo.

  Following the younger man, Brock listened while he rattled an account of the accident.

  “She was running near the fire pit—the girls were playing chase.”

  “Near the fire pit? I thought I made myself clear…” He’d built a fire as the kids were finishing their dinner. Final-night tradition. The kids had all been carefully instructed about his expectations, as had the adult leaders. Number one rule: don’t run near the fire pit.

  The counselor’s jaw tightened. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. She’s got a pretty good burn on her arm.”

  Brock ran. Nearing the pit that sat fifty yards off the pond, he assessed the gathering. The area buzzed with guilty silence, broken only by a small, girlish whimper. He finished his sprint at the edge of the circle, and without instruction the group broke to allow him access.

  The little girl sat in a huddle, her back to the woman clearly trying to help.

  “Don’t touch me,” she hissed, adding a salty name to the end of her command.

  Baggage often came out in a moment of crisis. Brock hoped the woman had been armed with that understanding. Didn’t look like it, given her narrowing eyes and the tightening of her jaw. Touching the counselor’s shoulder, he urged her aside.

  “Let’s see,” he said.

  “Good luck,” the counselor mumbled.

  Brock ignored her, focusing on the injured girl. “It was an accident, I know. I’m not mad, and I only want to help you.”

  “It wasn’t an accident. She pushed me! She’s always trying to do something.”

  “What?” the woman behind him stabbed the circle of silence with her irritation.

  Brock eyed the indignant leader, knowing she had done no such thing, but giving her a stern look. She snapped her mouth shut and took another step back.

  “Okay.” He squatted beside the injured kid, maintaining her safe bubble of space. That had been one of the first phrases he’d learned when he began training for this program. Safe bubbles—these kids needed that more than most. “Listen, you’re Sonja, right?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Do you remember my name?”

  She drew a breath and swallowed. “Mr. Brock.”

  “Right. How about you tell me where we are.”

  Her eyes, lit with a blaze of insult, turned up to him. “I’m not stupid, Stupid. I know where I am.”

  “Okay, good.” Brock sat back on his haunches. “How about you tell me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “We’re at some dumb mountain camp where we’re supposed to sit around the fire and sing and forget everything else that is crappy about our lives.”

  “Good. We know exactly where we are. Now, tell me what happened.”

  Sonja paused and looked at the fire. The hardness in her expression melted a bit, and Brock watched as she sorted through her realities. Most of these kids had a couple—the one where memories played and replayed without mercy, confusing what was presently real with what was history, and the one that was, in fact, presently real. Some had an added reality, worlds in their minds—worlds that were theirs alone, the places to which they escaped.

  Brock waited, and the crowd began to disperse. Within a few moments, only the redheaded leader was left standing at a distance that said she didn’t want to interfere but had reason to be in on this situation. That meant she was Sonja’s cabin leader, and more than likely hadn’t been doing her job.

  Brock set aside his irritation, focusing on the girl in front of him. “What happened?”

  Sonja sniffed. “It wasn’t Shaylee.”

  Shaylee…the counselor she’d indicted. Brock nodded.

  “We were playing tag, and I tripped.”

  “What hurts?”

  “My arm.”

  Brock held out a hand. “Can I look at it?”

  Sonja lifted her eyes to his, suspicion lacing her expression.

  “I won’t touch it.”

  “They’ll move me,” she argued.

  From her current home. He wanted to promise they wouldn’t. It wasn’t a promise he could keep. On average, a foster kid would spend at least two years in the system, many bouncing from one home to another for reasons as varied as the children themselves. Sonja may very well have had legitimate grounds for her fear.

  “How about we make sure that you’re going to be okay right now, and we’ll save other worries for later?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did you burn your arm?”

  She pressed her lips tight.

  “How does infection sound? We don’t treat it, bacteria has a party in the wound, and then you lose your arm. Sound good?”

  She huffed, glared at him, and then thrust her arm forward. “See? It’s fine.”

  Not so much. Brock caught her hand, careful to keep his promise not to touch the burn, and turned her palm up so he could examine her forearm. A long welt bubbled dark and angry against her light-brown skin. Second degree, at least.

  “Ouch, kid.” He let her hand go. “That burn is pretty bad. It needs a professional, Sonja. We have to go see a doc.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, tell me how you think we should treat it.”

  “I told you—I’m fine.” She huddled away again, tucking her injury close to her body.

  “I heard that part. Did you hear the part about losing your arm?”

  “Did you hear the part where I said they’d kick me out?” Preteens had such a universal way of coating their voices with a jerky tone that grated, and Sonja employed it with precision. “Doctors are expensive.”

  Brock wondered if she was replaying real conversations—the possibility of which sent a flare of rage streaking through his mind. Foster kids fell under Medicaid, so that was crap. Or maybe she was reflecting on pre-foster events. Or she was inventing fears, because those things had a breeding program that rivaled the bacteria he was worried about. Hard to know.

  “This visit is on me, okay? I’ve got it covered, and I’ll be the only one who sees the bill. Promise. I’d really hate to see you lose a limb.”

  “What makes you think your promise means anything to me?”

  He shrugged, pretending her words didn’t hit his heart like shards of broken glass. What kind of world jaded a kid like this before she was even twelve years old?

  “Doesn’t have to mean anything to you, I guess. But it means something to me. I keep my promises.”

  Another girl crept out of the shadows, where apparently she’d been listening, and crawled toward them until she reached Sonja’s side. “He’s not the lying kind, So-J,” she whispered. “Remember, I have a superpower. I can see their hearts. His is good.”

  So-J. Good name. Brock locked gazes with the other girl. Her velvety dark skin reflected the dancing firelight as he watched her take Sonja’s good hand.

  “Felicity, you didn’t tell me you had a superpower.”

  She only looked at him.

  Brock shifted so that he could sit on the ground. His knees popped as he moved, reminding him that he’d officially moved another step closer to forty years old next month. “What do you see in my heart?”

  “You want to help, even if you don’t always know how.”

  Maybe she did have a superpower. “How can I help So-J?”

  Felicity looked at
Sonja and then back to Brock. “Let me go with you.”

  He looked from Felicity to Sonja and back again. “Done. Is that a deal, So-J?”

  Sonja leaned toward Felicity, and Brock could see Felicity whisper to her friend.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Good. I’ll get the truck.” And the redhead. Because he’d need another adult with him as standard protocol, and Cammy would have to stay at the camp in his place until Ethan and Brandi could get out there.

  Guess he’d end up talking to the woman after all. Not the conversation Cammy was shooting for though. At all.

  When we first met, I felt lost.

  But then you noticed me. In a lecture hall filled with smart, ambitious students, you noticed me. It was heady. Who was I? This small-town girl in the middle of a big-time school, studying to be something I felt was way beyond myself—why would you waste your attention on me?

  That attention built, and somehow we became entangled. But you never told me about your family. Your commitments. You said you loved being with me. I took that as you loved me.

  It took the truth hammering my soul before I knew how badly I’d misunderstood.

  ~5~

  Cheryl drew a deep breath as her small car came around the last curve. The valley opened below, wide and amazing. Steamboat Lake glittered in the evening glow, and the Yampa River wound wide, graceful curves through deep green pastures, the scene framed by peaks on all sides. Breathtaking. She almost forgot why she left.

  Driving through the town of Steamboat, she felt the familiar sense of home—the one that she didn’t want. This quaint ski town had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember, all the way up until she was twenty-one. Until the day she’d decided to remove Colorado from her bloodstream. Apparently, even after ten years of purging the valley from her existence, she hadn’t been successful.

  She continued through old town, noting the minimal traffic. Late May was part of the down season, although the area never really had a dead time. It was too pretty and too family friendly not to have at least a handful of tourists at any given time. As she passed the tourist area, the businesses and homes thinned, and Cheryl’s stomach knotted. Twenty more minutes. That wasn’t much to prepare herself, but at that point, it was way too late to turn around.