17

The hushed serenity of a royal blue nightfall blanketed the undulations of land that comprised Pyper’s home. Birdsong quieted while insect chatter built, vibrating through the air in a steady cadence that lent comfort to her soul. She sat next to Chase on a padded wooden swing that was suspended from the roof of the wraparound porch. Resting her head on his shoulder, she forced herself to relax and find some measure of contentment. Cradled within the palm of this timeless spot, her heart mingled with his, searching for rest. Chase kept the swing in motion by pushing a booted toe against the wooden floorboards. The answering squeak of metal chains became a musical rhythm as comforting as sunset to her troubled spirit. She wanted nothing more than to snuggle into Chase’s embrace and drift into peace.

Instead, Mark Samuels encroached, seeping through her mind like a form of slow-acting poison. His reemergence snatched away her happiness and the passionate vigor that had coated every beat of her life since leaving Michigan, and his nightmares, behind.

“I’m so sorry, Pyper.”

“Chase, none of this is on you. Honest, and from the depths, that’s what I feel and what I know to be true.”

“I believe you, Pyp, and I appreciate it, too. I know that doesn’t come easy.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She swallowed hard, overcome on so many levels. She battled rage and bitterness toward Mark and an equally powerful sense of compassion and acceptance of Chase’s emotions and loyalty to the man who had obviously done well by him in rehab.

Chase squeezed her shoulder then leaned in to brush his lips against her cheek and nuzzle her neck. “I know you’ve been knocked sideways.”

“Not really. Mark means nothing to me. At. All.” Pyper clenched her hands, channeling tension away from already tight muscles. The veracity of her reaction instantly disproved that statement. Chase seemed to realize the fact because he initiated a soothing caress against her arm. “Tyler Brock is the first man of my heart—the man I consider to be my dad in every way but blood.”

“And that’s exactly as it should be.”

Buttery light bathed the space all around them. Beyond a railed set of stairs, darkness encroached, much like the darkness of her turbulent heart. Pyper nestled against his side like a life-sized puzzle piece, as though they had been grooved into alignment by the blessing of God’s hand. To her mind, that’s precisely what they were—the coming together of God’s will.

Except when it came to a slime bag named Mark Samuels.

She had to surrender the obvious. “Still, Chase, I know you’re torn.”

“In a way, but I’ll tell you what I told Mark. Your place in my life outweighs my gratitude and affection for him. I confronted him, and I listened to his explanations with a stone-cold heart. But when I left his office, and thought things through, it occurred to me that something important rang through his words. Authenticity. Regret.”

Pyper stiffened all over again. Sure, these first stumbling steps needed to happen, no matter how treacherous and rocky the terrain. That didn’t mean she had to like them. So, she bristled. “Authenticity. Regret. Let me give you my version of what’s authentic and what I regret.” She bit the words then sighed, sliding her fingertips against his arms in assurance. “I’m so sorry, Chase. Really. Please bear with me. I’m snapping at the wrong person.”

“Don’t worry about that—just talk to me.”

Pyper tilted her head, smoothing her hair to the side while moonlight drifted against the planes and hollows of his squared jaw and rugged face. Heat flicked, lit and built strong enough to burn away her fears about being vulnerable to the deepest, most lasting pain she had ever known.

“Let me tell you my side of the story.”

“That’s what I want most, crash.” He paused, angling her chin with a fingertip, which sweetly and effectively captured her full attention. “Not because of Mark, but because of you. Because of us.”

Tears sprang; her chin quivered, but she fought on. After nodding resolutely, following a fast, hard kiss to Chase’s lips, a determined stride carried Pyper inside and up the stairwell of the farmhouse. “Mama, are my scrapbooks still in the wooden secretary upstairs?”

“Yep.” The reply came from somewhere near the heart of the kitchen. “You’ll see ’em right behind the glass doors.”

“Thanks.”

She retrieved the two cloth-bound items she sought, the ones covered by flowers, crafty do-dads and her name in press-on script. Back on the porch swing, she settled in.

“These scrapbooks were a gift to me from my mama when I graduated high school. I’ve always thought of them as a roadmap of my life, full of memorabilia crafted by a woman who lost her connection all such precious and irreplaceable things. Because of him. For the longest time, my life was a wreck. Because of him.”

For nearly an hour she led Chase through page-by-age of her life, leaving nothing out—for now—except the missing puzzle piece that included her years between the ages of one and five.

The missing years, as she had always thought of them.

But, missing years or not, a messy recollection grabbed hold, poking at a piece of Pyper’s spirit she would have preferred to stay dead and buried. Instead, she surrendered to the path before her and took a dive into the rank, oily waters of her four-year-old self, praying for strength while a dark aisle of her heart opened to Chase’s care…

“Get out of my sight!”

Pyper’s daddy screamed the words and she quaked in terror. His face was all red; his eyes were big and bulgy with hate. Hate—toward her. Why didn’t he love her? Why couldn’t she find a way to make him treat her gentle and sweet like she saw with so many other daddies?

Actually, Pyper knew the answer. He acted this way because she was bad. Very, very bad. The realization struck her down, made her knees all wobbly and weak. Pyper tried to be strong, and not cry—daddy yelled even louder when she cried—but he was so mad that her face crumpled and her eyes stung. Tears rolled down her cheeks, big and wet and hot.

“Quit it, Pyper! Right now! Stop it!” The words were followed by a growl so loud and rough it vibrated in the air all around her and made the insides of her ears tickle. The growl scared her. The growl made her heart pound. Her tummy bounced and jiggled all of a sudden because just like a mean dog, when her daddy growled, he’d strike out. He’d bite and hurt.

What had she done wrong? How could she make it right? It felt like she was being chased by a monster from a scary story. Pyper scrambled when he moved closer and her widened eyes moved from spot to spot in the main room of her house. How could she keep him from getting so mad that he’d hit her?

That’s when she saw it. Of course it was her doll house. There were lots and lots of little parts strewn across the carpet. He’d call her sloppy, and a messy slob. He had done so before, and she always felt sick in her tummy, and so dizzy and awful when she let him down. Before Daddy started yelling, Pyper had been putting furniture in the bedrooms; she’d set tables and chairs in a dining room with walls covered by sunny decorations. Pyper loved to imagine a happy mommy and daddy and kids living in this beautiful house. Her mommy had given it to her for her birthday this year. She wanted that kind of life so very much.

Sure enough, he kicked the bed, and the whole house, into a busted, toppled-over mess on the carpet in the middle of the living room. Pyper’s sobs burst free—and she knew she would be in big trouble for crying and making sad noises—but that didn’t keep her from crying hard.

“Daddy…no…please! I love my house!”

“Shut! Up!”

His voice roared, mad and awful. All she wanted to do was make him feel better. This was her daddy. “Daddy, I sorry! I love you. I won’t be bad. I won’t be bad!” She spoke in earnest, falling to her knees to pick up lamps and couches and stoves. In desperation she grabbed doll house furniture as fast as she could and tossed it inside so it was out of his way. More tears rolled down her cheeks, they burst from her eyes like the streams of rain that pounded on the windows when storms hit.

“Stop it! Cut it out! Stop your crying and be quiet!”

Pyper hiccupped on dry air, trying with all her might to obey his command. She couldn’t. She continued to cry, knowing she had messed up all over again. She turned to look at him, wanting to be big and brave, wanting to tell him again that she was sorry. Her daddy erupted with another loud growl. He slapped her across the face and shoved her to the floor so hard her head banged against thin carpet and the wood floor beneath. Terrified, Pyper squealed and charged away, running for the safe-zone of her bedroom. She slammed the door in a hurry, continually gasping for enough air to fill her heaving chest.

Jesus, she pleaded, why did he have to come home early from work? Why did he have to wreck her daydreams of a family full of smiles and laughs and happiness? These days, Pyper only felt really safe when her mommy was near.

She heard her daddy stumble against a nearby wall and she jumped away from the noise. Her daddy didn’t seem to hear or notice. He cursed and she heard him pull open the doors of a cabinet in the next room. Trembling, she pressed her body against the door when she heard the clang and bang of glass on glass, the gurgle and splash of something being poured.

It had to be even more of that evil, awful gold stuff. Liquor. Oh, how she hated liquor, and oh, how she hated her daddy…

Pyper released the long-ago years when she realized she’d sunk against Chase’s side, when she realized she was crying in a way she hadn’t cried in close to decades. She released the rush of emotion that wrapped her in a vise. “That’s my side of the story.” Hard-edged and gravelly, her tone made her conviction clear. “Nothing will ever change it. Nothing will bring me, or him, back to what could have been. Ever. I want him gone. I want him out of my life. I want nothing from him but to be left alone. That’s the end, Chase, and that will not change. Ever. So don’t ask it of me.”