Unbeloved (3 page)

Like
the woman, he too was crying and his lips were moving, but still there was no sound. I tried to lift my arm, to reach out to him, to . . .

My vision
began to blur, distorting and warping the faces around me. I blinked furiously, trying to see, trying to understand.

Something awful was happening, I knew that much, something horrible
. And these people, whoever they were, I wanted to help them.

But I couldn
’t move, I couldn’t hear, and black spots floated over me, quickly growing larger, taking over my vision.

I was tired.
So, so tired.

I just had
to . . . close my eyes . . . for just a second . . .

Darkness enveloped me.

And then, there was nothing.

Not even darkness.

Seven
years later

I missed the snow. In Montana, it always snowed on Christmas.

In San Francisco, it rained instead. And rained. And rained.

Curled up on my living room couch, a cup of coffee in one hand, my cell phone in the other, I watched the rainwater
as it sluiced down the glass in thick rivulets, distorting and blending all the colors of the outside world into one gray mass.

A sort of symbolism in relation to my life,
a little too colorful of a life, I mused, twisting my lips sardonically. A life that had started out naive, full of pinks and blues, but as I grew older became full of brilliant reds and yellows, and then later filled with stormy, sorrow-filled grays.

Since my recovery I
’d done what I could to wash most of that color away, leaving behind my chaotic life in Miles City, Montana, and starting over in San Francisco, California.

A necessary step in letting go, forgoing the brilliance for softer colors, neutral, relaxing shades. Because when you
’d lived through nearly dying, you learned to appreciate the quiet, calmer colors of life.

Letting my cell phone fall into my lap, I lifted my hand, pushing back my thick mane of wavy red hair to finger the long
, thin scar that ran the length of my skull.

The lone bullet meant to kill me and the child I
’d carried inside me had failed. My son, Christopher, and I had thankfully survived. Christopher had been unscathed, but the trauma had left me with a blank canvas. For a long time, I’d had been without the knowledge of my life, who my children were, even my own name.

Thanks to my great doctors, therapy, and a strong dose of luck, I
’d eventually regained the knowledge I’d lost. And when I had, I’d wished I hadn’t.

They say that
what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and while that might be true for some, for me it had the opposite effect. At first I couldn’t face what I had done, the pain I had caused so many, let alone face the people my actions had directly impacted.

For shooting me, Chrissy had
been convicted of first-degree attempted murder and had been sentenced to prison. And Jase had nearly taken his own life while in the throes of grief. Their three daughters had subsequently been left without their mother, with an incapable father, forced to transition into adulthood on their own.

And Hawk, after finding out I
’d been shot, flew into a very public fit of rage that had shed light on Christopher’s true paternity. His disloyalty to his brother now exposed, Hawk retreated even further into himself, and his visits home to Montana became more infrequent.

Unable to deal with the
overwhelming sorrow and the crippling guilt I felt, unable to figure out how to move forward, I simply hid myself away, going so far as to feign ignorance even after my memories had returned to me.

It had taken another near tragedy, this time involving
Tegen, for me to finally see past my own nose, to realize that I’d spent my entire life in hiding. Hiding from my past, from my present, and any sort of future I might hope to someday have.

Refusing to
let history repeat itself, and done with hiding, I moved my son and myself to San Francisco, not only to see my daughter through her rough patch, but to start fresh.

My wish was for the three of us to become the strong and solid family we always should have been,
to live in such a way that didn’t cause anyone any pain, and for the opportunity to make new memories for us all, this time ones that would be worth remembering.

It took some time, but eventually I got my wish.

Since then, Tegen had moved back to Miles City, was happily married to Deuce’s son, Cage, and Christopher was living the peaceful and carefree life of a seven-year-old. Despite whatever resentments still lay between Hawk and me, he was a regular in Christopher’s life, which was all that mattered.

Our son had that effect on us, no matter how strained our relationship with
each other. Christopher was our Switzerland, a span of untouched land covered in wildflowers that stretched between two crumbling cities.

Both my children were safe, they were happy, and they were surrounded by those who loved them. T
here really wasn’t much more a mother could ask for.

But like a glass that ha
d shattered, while you could glue it back together, it would never again be what it once was.

I was a shattered glass, glued back together.
And my children, while their wounds had healed, had been cut by my jagged edges.

Sighing, I turned my attention away from the window, back to the cell phone in my lap.

It was Christmas morning. Christopher would be waking soon and yet Hawk wasn’t here. The last text I’d received from him had been days ago, informing me that he’d be here by Christmas Eve. There’d been nothing since, and every call I’d made had gone unanswered.

However strained our relationship with
each other was, Hawk had never ignored my calls, and he’d certainly never missed an opportunity to spend time with his son.

S
omething was wrong.

Setting my coffee down on the windowsill, I quickly typed out
a text on my phone.

I
’m worried. Please call me.

Pressing
Send
, I held the phone in my hand and waited. And waited.

Ten minutes went by and still no answer.

I glanced at the clock on the wall, which was silly since my phone told me exactly what time it was, but old habits die hard and I’d been checking clocks long before I’d had a cell phone to tell me the time.

Six thirty
a.m. Which meant it was seven thirty in Montana. Deuce and Eva had two young children, and considering it was Christmas morning, might be up already.

I typed out another next, this one to Eva
’s cell phone.

Have you heard from Hawk? He
’s not here. He hasn’t responded to my calls and I’m worried.

Then I waited, clutching my cell phone, staring at the lit screen so intently that when it brightened even further,
flashing
Unknown Caller
, followed by the ridiculously loud and obnoxious ringing I hadn’t yet figured out how to change, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“
Hello?”

“
Dorothy.” Deuce’s deep, rumbling voice filled my ear. “You fuckin’ know better than to text shit like that to an unsecured line.”

“
Merry Christmas to you too,” I said dryly, unconcerned with Deuce’s texting protocols. “Now, where’s Hawk? Why hasn’t he responded to any of my calls?”

“
What do you mean he hasn’t responded to your calls?”

For such a smart man, Deuce could really be dense at times.

“What I mean is
just that
. He hasn’t responded to any of my calls or texts. Not since the day before yesterday.”

Silence followed my words, only serving to worsen the sinking sensation in my
stomach.

“
Deuce?”

“
I’m here. I’m thinkin’ . . .” Another long pause followed, then, “I gotta go, I’ll have Eva call you if I have news.”

“
Wait!” I cried, but I was too late. He’d already hung up.

“
Dammit!” I shouted, squeezing the phone in my hand with frustration.

Why had I even bothered calling?
The Hell’s Horsemen and their seedy business dealings were never something I’d been privy to. And getting any sort of information out of Deuce was the equivalent of demanding answers from a brick wall. Utterly impossible.

“
Mom?”

My
gaze jerked across the room. Leaning heavily against the hall entranceway, Christopher regarded me with sleepy eyes and a crooked smile.

Tossing aside my phone,
I jumped up off the couch. “Merry Christmas, baby,” I said softly. Smiling, I gestured toward the tree and the brightly wrapped presents piled underneath it.

His little face, still slack wit
h sleep, instantly brightened. His green eyes widened, and then he was hurtling across the hardwood flooring. Just as I thought he would run right past me, he skidded to a stop, whirled around, and threw himself at me.

I caught him, but just barely. Only
seven years old, but he had the strength and build of a baby bear. Much like Tegen, the color of his eyes and hair were his only resemblance to me. He was every inch his father’s son.

“
Merry Christmas, Mommy,” he said, squeezing my waist. In answer, my heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t called me Mommy in years.

I might not have remembered being pregnant when he
’d first been presented to me as an infant, but it hadn’t stopped me from loving him instantly.

Regardless of all my confusion, the pain from my head injury, the resulting surgery, and my emergency C-section, the moment I
’d laid eyes on him, I’d felt instantly connected to him, knowing he was mine.

While everything else around me had felt foreign and new, while my family and friends tried desperately to force my memories,
Christopher was the exception. He was as new to the world as I was, expecting nothing from me but love.

Grateful for that, and for him, I
’d returned the emotion in spades.

“
Merry Christmas,” I whispered, running my hands through the unruly mass of long red hair he’d vehemently insisted on growing.

Tilting his h
ead back, he returned my smile. “Where’s Dad?”

Keeping my smile firmly in place, I
softly brushed a few locks away from his eyes. “He’s on his way,” I lied. “He said not to wait for him.”

“
But he’s coming, right?”

Not knowing how to answer him, I changed the subject instead.
“Your sister sent you that big box over there.” Releasing him, I gave him a gentle push toward the tree and pointed to the ridiculously large present Tegen and Cage had mailed out weeks ago.

With an excited shout, the absence of his father temporarily forgotten, Christopher bounded
forward. Grabbing the large red bow from the top of Tegen’s gift, he tossed it over his head and began quickly stripping off the brightly colored wrapping paper. Knowing them both, I was fearing the worst. A drum set, a dirt bike, something that would undoubtedly make Christopher ecstatic and me miserable.

“
Mom! Look!”

It was even worse than I
’d feared. Like a beacon on a foggy night, the words “Tactical Paintball Gun Mega Set” glared ominously at me. And I glared right back, silently promising retribution against my daughter and her husband. One day they would have a child and I would be the doting grandmother, buying my grandchild gifts that will surely leave its parents as equally horrified as I felt right now.

Setting the paintball gun set aside, Christopher began tearing into his presents with happy abandon.
Grabbing my coffee, I took my seat on the couch to watch him, smiling when he smiled, nodding excitedly each time he showed me a newly opened gift.

But my heart wasn
’t in it. Every other minute I was checking my phone, hoping to find a message from Hawk, or Deuce, and coming up empty.

I had grown so accustomed to our quiet life, to our dependable routines, that this glitch, this unexpected change was more than unsettling.

In fact it was much worse than even that, the anxiety and worry coursing through me . . . it was all too familiar.

“
This is for you, Mom.” Christopher appeared in front of me, a small wrapped box held in his outstretched hand. “From me,” he said proudly.

The
bitter coffee sloshing around in my stomach congealed into a hard ball of dread. A present from Christopher meant a present from Hawk, more than likely something they’d bought together during Hawk’s last visit.

Setting my mug down
, I took the little box from Christopher into my trembling hand. As I turned it over, noting the messy wrapping job, my lips began to curve in a genuine smile.

“
Thank you,” I said softly as I did my best to release the wrapping paper without tearing it. It was the little things, like my son’s shoddy wrapping job, that I wanted to savor and remember. Thing I’d never done with Tegen.

I
’d been too caught up in myself, desperate to be loved, unable to see past all the things I didn’t have that what I did have—Tegen and all her love—had gone unnoticed.

Now I kept every drawing, every note, every little trinket or memento
, all of them tucked safely away inside the chest beneath my bed.

In a lot of ways, Christopher represented my redemption
as a mother, but even more so as a person. Without him, without the circumstances that his conception had brought about, I might never have realized the extent of my mistakes, and thus would have never had the chance to make things right.