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Chapter 1
Kiera
The rain feels like it’s seeping into my skin through my coat and clothes. I shiver and look around the dark country road. I have music playing in one ear while the other listens for an approaching car. There are no lights this far from town. In the distance, I can just make out the shape of our old mailbox; it’s rusting and falling apart. My father, Leon, won’t replace it, and I can’t find it in my heart to care.
I stop to check for mail when I reach the end of our driveway. Leon has been marking my mail “Return to sender” lately. The man will do anything to screw with me. I slide my gloved hand across the bottom surface and out slides an envelope. In the faint moonlight, I can make out the words “Not at this address” scrawled above my name. I look at the return address and cringe; I’m so glad I caught this before it got sent back. It’s from an apartment management company in Chicago. I had emailed them my application a couple weeks ago. I can’t wait to see what they said. With my heart lifted, I make my way down the dark gravel drive, careful of the many potholes filled with rainwater. A light flashes in the darkness, and I trip and stumble into a puddle. My sneakers are now both soaked and I have to work early in the morning. Shit! I look up to see light flash across the darkness again. It’s coming from the television in the living room. Leon is waiting up for me.
I step off the driveway into the brush, hoping I can hide. I’ve tried to avoid him in the four days since my eighteenth birthday when he threw me out of the house, as if I had a place to go. Leon has been drunk and belligerent in that time. Every day from the time I was twelve, he’s made sure I know how much he hates me. He didn’t always hate me, though. My father loved me at one time. In fact, he thought I was the most perfect baby…until I turned a week old and my momma died. Then everything changed. Momma’s sister took me in and raised me. I only had to see Leon once a month when my aunt would make us have dinner together. I never got to know my mom, but I’ve been told by many people, including my aunt, that she was as artistic as I am.
My dream is to own my own studio someday. I’ll sell other artists’ paintings, as well as my own. According to my aunt, my mom painted many paintings, but I’ve only seen some of them…once. I had needed something of hers for a school project when I was fourteen. Leon had told me I couldn’t have anything, that I didn’t deserve any of her stuff because of what I had done. He reminds me every chance he can of my transgressions against her and God, as he calls them. I’d waited until he went to work and snuck into his bedroom where I figured he would have stuff of hers. Sure enough, the room had been full of paintings she’d done—all sceneries inspired by the area. My favorite had been one she’d painted of the nearby cornfields going on for miles. All I could think about at the time was how in the painting a person could get away from everything and everyone. And that’s what I’d wanted. I wanted to get away from the town that knew me for an act I had no control over. I still want to get away. Because of me, an artist is gone forever, never to touch the world with her beauty.
Leon had returned and found me still admiring the cornfield painting. He’d dragged me from the room, twisting my arm so hard it hurt for days. I thought he was going to beat me; his body had trembled with anger when he threw me to the floor in my room. My pale skin had been covered in bruises I had to hide for weeks afterward. No one in the town does anything to stop him from hurting me; however, now it’s only verbal abuse. He hasn’t touched me since that day. But when he sees me in public, he rants and lets everyone within earshot know what kind of person I am.
I haven’t been in Leon’s bedroom since. He keeps it locked now. When my aunt died, everything she had that was my mother’s, Leon took. I don’t even have a picture of her.
My feet squish in my soaked sneakers as I make my way closer to the house. Tomorrow is going to suck for work. Thank goodness I wear different shoes for my job at the country club. Light from the TV flashes again and I see him passed out in the recliner in the living room. A bottle of whiskey on the table next to him. He’s been drunk so much lately and his anger has gotten worse. At least he’s passed out, though. I breathe a sigh of relief at not having to face him tonight. I only need a couple more days of work, then I’ll get my final paycheck and be able to leave this place. I’m not giving anyone notice. I’ll just go to the bus station and buy a ticket. I’m so glad my aunt had set me up a bank account before she died that Leon never knew about. I’ve been saving money to go to art school and get away from here. It’s everything I have and all I’ve ever wanted.
I turn and make my way to the back of the property where a small shed Leon had built for my mother to paint sits. I found the key before he threw me out of the house; it’s where I’ve been staying. There is no power, and I sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor with a comforter to keep myself warm in the colder weather. It’s better than being homeless. No one in this town would help me if I asked. Unlocking the door, I make my way through the darkness. My eyes adjust and I quickly change out of my soaked clothes and shoes into a pair of sweatpants, a long T-shirt, and socks to sleep in. The chill in the air causes my skin to tingle, and I sigh at the thought of a warm shower at work tomorrow. I clean cabins at a local lakeside resort; they let me take a shower there in a room I need to clean. I dump my shoes upside down so the water inside can drain out. I won’t have time tomorrow to stop at the local laundry mat to dry them for my walk home tomorrow night. I’ll either have to wear my heels from my second job or the soaked shoes. I fall asleep thinking about my future and getting away from this damn town. Getting away from all the hate. You’d think Santa Claus, Indiana, a place where Christmas is celebrated year round, would be full of goodwill and support, but it’s the complete opposite. I’ve never really felt at home here, because I’ve never really had a home. My aunt had tried, but Leon made sure to remind her at every turn that I didn’t deserve one. I close my eyes and fall asleep quickly from exhaustion, and the nightmares come like they do every night.
?
Coal
Walking up to the car rental counter, I ask for any available SUV or all-wheel drive vehicle. The girl takes in my six-two frame and smiles. I smile back. I know I look good, but she does nothing for me. She’s cute but in an overdone way. She’s made up like she’s going clubbing instead of working at an airport. Her uniform is standard car rental attire, but I can tell the manager has left for the day because the girl has undone quite a few buttons, exposing the tops of her breasts.
“I can show you to the local hotel.” She offers as I sign the contract.
“Thank you, but I’m heading out of town.” I slide the contract back, and she folds up my copies and slips them in an envelope. I watch as she writes the car information on the outside, but it’s the phone number with hearts that causes me to grit my teeth.
“Well, if you change your mind…” She taps the phone number as she explains where the car is parked and the rules to refill it before returning it. I smile and turn away, pulling my duffle over my shoulder. I head for the exit hating that I’m back here again. Granted, Louisville isn’t my final destination, but it’s close enough to my home.
Fuck, home.
I haven’t thought about that word in eight years. I work, then I go to a small apartment I inhabit. But it isn’t a home. There’s a bed, a kitchen, TV, and my workout bench. I spend more time on base in the gym, or volunteering for every mission I can get on. Yeah, I could have stayed in the barracks, but I needed to get away from other people. I wanted my own space. No, I needed my own space.
I walk up to the large white SUV; it’s bigger than my Jeep Rubicon back in Nevada, but it’ll do. After I throw my duffle onto the passenger seat and adjust the driver’s seat to my taller frame, I set off toward the last place I want to be.
The drive from Louisville to Santa Claus, Indiana, takes just over an hour. I don’t have to meet the attorney until four this afternoon at the Christmas Lake Golf Course clubhouse. It’s about two in the afternoon now and I decide to drive around town getting to know it again. I expected changes, but I did not expect the large theme and water park combo. I turn down North Holiday Boulevard, passing the American Legion, and see the campgrounds my father has owned since I was a small boy. They have a light show celebrating Rudolph now. I shake my head. What happened to the town I knew?
The town is now ready for the Christmas season every day of the year regardless of the weather. I continue down the boulevard, passing a new doctor’s office, and take a left as the memories hit me. My mom’s gallery is just down the way. But as I get a look at the large parking lot with the post office, visitors bureau, and a small mall, I pull over and find a spot to park. I grab my mid-thigh length, wool black trench coat off the passenger seat and step out of the SUV. The temperature is cooler than what I’m used to in the desert. I put my coat on and pull it tight over my white button-down shirt to cut the chill.
Walking across the lot, I see the Ace Hardware store and a new boutique. I continue through the bank parking lot past them. There sitting like a lonely sentry is the small cottage shop my mother used to work out of. I jog up the stairs and walk across the porch to the front windows. The memories flash behind my eyes. I can almost see her standing there surrounded by artwork. She took such pride in the fact she was giving the locals a place to sell their wares. Sheets now cover easels and dust covers everything.
“Hey, man, that place isn’t open,” a voice says from behind me. I turn around and see a gangly teenage boy. He’s in torn jeans that barely fit him, hanging lower than they should be.
“Pull your pants up.” I order the kid. “I know it’s not open.”
“Mr. Bah Humbug doesn’t like people on this porch.” The kid smarts off, standing tall and letting his pants slide down more.
I want to chuckle at the nickname because that is exactly what my father is like.
“Yeah, well, let him come tell me himself.” I move toward the stairs. The boy takes me in more before throwing down the skateboard in his hand and taking off across the parking lot. “Pull up your pants, punk,” I holler at his back.
My phone vibrates from my pocket and I slip it out.
“Bridger,” I growl into the phone as I watch the teenager skate past another teen, who he smacks in the head and says something that I can’t make out. “Mother fucker,” I exclaim, forgetting the phone is in my hand.
“Coal, are you there?”
