18

An awkward two-step led Pyper to the day of the Reach North opening. By then, she had pretty much adjusted to the shock of Mark Samuels’s arrival in Nashville, but as the hour of their unavoidable meeting drew close, her nerve endings vibrated and stabbed. Nothing, Amy and Tyler told her, would be gained by stewing, but that hadn’t eased Pyper’s anxiety about the day to come. Yes, this was out of her control. No, this entire situation was in no way Chase’s fault. Still, a layer of discomfort had distorted everything between them in the days that followed the interview with Petra. Doubts—real and imagined—crept through her mind and stole her peace. Yes, Chase seemed sincere in his convictions as well as his loyalty to her. Yes, she believed in him. But wasn’t she usually wrong about men?

Late that morning, she sat next to Chase, riding shotgun as he navigated the quarter-mile stretch of gravel that led from her family’s farm to the main road that would take them downtown.

She propped an elbow against the window frame of the vehicle, closing her eyes as a warm flow of air caressed her cheeks. “When we first decided to sing at this event, I remember telling my folks how excited I was to meet your sponsor, and thank him for everything he’s done to help you. Now, I’m not so sure.”

She delivered a quirked grin and tried to be easy-spirited, even a bit cheeky; no surprise, Chase saw right through the acting job. She knew he registered the flatness in her tone, the hesitance that betrayed her solid tangle of emotions. At the next stoplight, Chase reached forward, just far enough to trace a fingertip against the tight, achy spot between her brows. His touch felt cool and gentle. Heavenly. Pyper’s eyes fluttered closed and a whisper of air passed her lips.

“You still could, you know. The facts remain true, even if the player isn’t who you expected.”

How she wished she could refute that solid, if thoroughly unappealing piece of logic. Instead, she kept quiet. Stewing.

“Crash, I’m so sorry…I…”

Her eyes popped open. “We’ve talked about this. It’s not your fault. You had no idea. This doesn’t change…” She dipped her head, shy, tucking a tumbled curl of hair behind her ear. “It doesn’t change me and you.” She pushed back that sliver of uncertainty that prodded her to think she might be wrong about her feelings toward Chase.

She closed her eyes once more when Chase cupped her chin and tilted her head just enough to press a light, bone-melting kiss against her lips. Seconds later the light went green, and he surrendered to the drive. “Then have some faith. We’ll get through what comes.”

“But what about my mom? My dad? What about Zach? He’s been confused about everything lately. This isn’t going to help.”

“I repeat. We’ll get through. All of us. Together.”

The idea, the ideal, was appealing. Pyper made an agreeable sound, aiming to reassure him more than anything else, but she couldn’t find her way to his level of confidence.

Chase navigated his vehicle to a stop in a parking lot already packed with cars. The presence of several media trucks paid testimony to the interest to be found in a celebrity-endorsed life recovery center.

Pyper straightened and firmed her jaw. The mission, the objectives of Reach North were important. Lives and hope were on the line here. Healing. That’s what today was all about. Eyes on the prize, she coached herself. Eyes on the prize.

All the same, she clung to Chase’s hand like a lifeline when they walked through the entrance of the facility. Media personnel gathered fast and furious. Photographers captured the moment; they smiled and waved, but she spotted Petra Goode almost immediately, and Pyper’s nerves threatened to shatter.

A second later, her searching gaze came to rest on Mark Samuels.

When she saw him, Pyper experienced the strangest sense of transformation. In a blink, she froze, terrified. In a blink, she trembled and nearly ran. In a blink, she became that desperate, broken child, taken under by an ingrained, instinctive quest for self-preservation.

God, please help me. Please be with me.

Mark sat on the dais meant for speakers and board members of the facility, and he fidgeted nervously with a rolled up program, tapping it against his knee. His eyes roamed the crowd. As in her youth, Pyper wanted only to vanish from his sight. She ached to disappear into oblivion, into a time and place far away from this man and everything he represented.

A pair of guitars rested in position to the left of the raised platform, ready for her upcoming performance with Chase.

The performance of “Forgiveness”.

How in the world was she supposed to sing an anthem to extending God’s mercy when a slab of granite rested on her heart, preventing her from doing just that? She wavered to such a degree that Chase started to reach out, but she stepped away from his touch. Her skin was icy. The devastating sweep of a mental tidal wave thundered and roared within the darkness of her horrorstricken mind.

“Crash? You OK?”

Chase had leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. Still transfixed, Pyper managed nothing more than a faint nod, but she noticed now that she pulled slightly against Chase’s hold, resisting when he tried to move them forward and through the building onslaught of reporters, paparazzi, and fans.

Pyper squeezed his hand tight and fought for control, for the kind of poise everyone expected. Like Chase, she smiled and waved, greeting the enthusiastic crowd as would be expected of country-Christian music’s newly crowned “it” couple. But her motions were stilted, and though her smile spread wide, it didn’t reach deep. It pulled at her skin, made her feel waxen and posed.

“Remember, this is a different time, and a different place. You’re different people now. Stay strong, Pyp.” Chase kept close, his body a welcome source of warmth against her side. His whispered words were gentle. She tried to absorb the truth he offered, but failed.

Pyper’s mom and dad arrived, slipping in behind them with her brother on their heels.

“I’m going to check in with the musicians; catch up with you guys in a little while.” Eager and unaware of the drama set to unfold, Zach moved away to join band members who set up equipment on the dais.

People continued to crowd in, filling space until the room became claustrophobic. During the commotion of her arrival with Chase, Pyper noticed the way Mark’s attention fell on them and stayed put for a beat. He stood slowly and started to walk their way. Pyper craved an exit route, but none could be found.

When it became clear Mark was about to step into her path, Pyper decided to work an immediate preemptive strike.

“Hello, Pyper. I—”

Three tentative words were all she allowed him to say before cutting in with a low, discreet hiss. “Understand something clearly, and let there be no mistake. I do not want to talk to you. I do not want to hear anything you have to say. I want nothing to do with you. I’m going to sing, and I’m going to give my support to this facility. Beyond that, you stay away from me. And unlike before, I have the means to fight back if you cross the line. Now, step aside.”

“Pyp.”

Chase’s quiet admonishment held no weight. Neither did the way Mark reared his head and wordlessly backed off. But when she elbowed past him, blood simmering with hostility, their eyes met. Blue on blue. The sadness she detected slowed her steps some but didn’t keep her from walking away.

Once seated, she crossed her legs. Outwardly demure, she donned an attentive mask, one of politically correct behavior and interest. The crowd assembled and staff members prepared to kick off proceedings. Out of view, knowing the long flounce of her jean skirt masked things from view, she latched a booted ankle around the leg of her chair. Such was the only way she’d remain in place and properly grounded.

Petra Goode glided past delivering a plastic smile and wearing a too-snug powder blue suit. Silent screams pushed and beat against Pyper’s chest, her throat, her temples. She looked straight ahead, extending courteous glances toward the audience. Once she unclenched her tightly laced fingertips, she offered a wave of acknowledgment to a few members of the staff who were seated in the front row and encouraging smiles to the teens sitting close by. The kids had been working with Zach and Chase over the past few days and represented Chase’s freshly established music therapy program. The group would be joining them on stage shortly.

Soon she’d have to sing. Perform.

For a centering moment, Pyper bowed her head and prayed.

Father, on Your strength alone will I get through this.



The DJ of the Christian radio station’s morning drive stood at a wooden podium, addressing the assemblage about midway through the event.

“Before we enjoy a musical interlude and some refreshments, I’d like you to meet the director of Reach North, the man who’ll be managing the corporation’s new outreach center. He’s already staffed the facility and will both counsel and head up operations here in Nashville when it opens in a couple weeks. In fact, he’s the one responsible for recruiting the talents of Chase Bradington and Pyper Brock to lend support to today’s event. Please help me welcome Mark Samuels.”

Pyper was used to being in the public eye, used to controlling her physical and mental responses no matter what the outward pressure. Nothing could have prepared her for this moment.

Mark moved slowly to the podium, visibly uncomfortable. He withdrew a short stack of papers from a cubby in the lectern, smoothing them into place so he could read. He cleared his throat, adjusted the mic.

“Hey, everyone. Thank you so much for coming out and for lending your support. I want you to know you’re looking at one of the thousands of reasons why Reach North is necessary.” He cleared his throat again. “They say the best form of witness is the story of your life, so, if you’ll be kind enough to spare me a few minutes, I’d like to share mine. I hope it’ll demonstrate the ways recovery, rehabilitation, and the support of community outreach centers like this one can turn death into life.”

He shuffled his feet. When he cast a quick, telling glance toward Pyper, she ducked her head promptly and focused on tightly clenched hands folded neatly in her lap.

“It was a sticky, humid day. The kind of day you see maybe half a dozen times during the course of a Michigan summer. The heat amplified my mood. My hate. My raging sense of injustice at the world. Sound familiar?”

Pyper focused on the crowd, anywhere but the podium. Some uncomfortable, understanding glances ran through the room like a circuit. Her attention returned to Mark. Visibly centered now, he no longer looked left or right. Instead, he re-smoothed the crumpled pages. Pyper steeled her back against the kind of care and effort of handwritten pages being crafted by him.

“I lost my job,” he went on to say. “I got fired that day, and instead of acknowledging the shame, the fault that was mine alone, I stopped at a liquor store on my way home. I pulled out a twenty and bought a pint of whiskey. I came home to my four-year-old daughter. Happy as could be, she sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room next to our sitter, Marcey. They played dolls, or house or some such thing. None of that mattered to me.”

His voice caught. Pyper gulped and simmered and seared him with a look he didn’t even see. He was traveling to the past? Oh, she’d love to shove him down its battered and broken pathway to reveal precisely what hell he had wrought. She itched to leave him somehow bruised and beaten the same way he had done to her and her mother. Monster. Sure, she couldn’t shout the word like she wanted, but releasing that toxic cloud of anger into the recesses of her mind helped steady her overly-frayed nerves.

“I screamed at them.” His fingertips brushed the pages from which he read. “I carried a bottle in my hand, wrapped in a brown paper bag, and I had one focus alone. One goal. Drunken oblivion. So, I shoved Marcey out the door with a handful of bucks and sent my daughter to her room for no reason at all other than the fact that I didn’t want to see her, and I didn’t want her to see me. She fought me. She wanted to play. In answer to that, I shoved her to the ground and when she cried, I slapped her across the face. I wanted her out of my sight. I wanted her gone. I didn’t want her kind of sweetness and innocence to interfere with me and a full-on quest to destroy myself, so I terrified her into submission.”

Desperate to maintain control, Pyper relived the moments he described, that backhanded slap across her face when she stubbornly, willfully refused to obey him. Odd how she could still feel the giant, rolling tears that had crested her lashes and worked soothing dew against the burn of a fast-swelling cheek.

In the here and now, Pyper realized, her tears weren’t phantom, they tracked down her face, silent and choking.

“I beat her.”

Pyper dashed shaky fingertips beneath her lashes.

“I beat that unsuspecting child. I yelled at her. I cursed at her, and I locked her in her in a room—”

Pyper gave a subtle jump when she absorbed the warm touch of Chase’s roughened hand settling atop hers. His tender caress caused a fresh push of tears, but she swallowed hard, she blinked, she battled the beasts and fought back discomfort as best she could, struggling to remain composed.

At the podium, Mark swiped a kerchief beneath his reddened nose. He squared his shoulders. “My wife came home.” His gaze darted to Amy, who clung fast to Tyler. “We argued with words. We battled physically. I shoved at her. I beat her and yelled at her and locked her out of our home. That moment, my blackest moment, paved the road to this podium, to the promise of this facility and everything good that can be accomplished within its walls.”

All over again Mark danced nervous fingers across battered notebook pages. He shifted from the top page to the one beneath. “I had lost my job, but that was no excuse. I was a drunk. I was an out-of-control alcoholic, but that was no excuse. Let me tell you about the end of that day. While I thought I had won, while I strutted, guzzled, fumed and stormed through the house like some kind of self-righteous fool, while I thought full-well that I had won the battle, I lost a war. A war for my happiness and peace of mind. I went to my daughter’s bedroom, intending to make sure I had her right where I wanted—imprisoned. I wanted control. I wanted her restrained like a possession. Squashed beneath my thumb.”

Mark’s tears rolled into a flood, dotting the paper. That’s when Pyper stopped to consider the words he had crafted. Did those sentiments come from tears? From regret? She stared at him now, brows puckered, head pounding as her stomach rolled and her heart turned over and over again while bile rose in her throat.

“I opened the bedroom door and found the window screen had been torn away. My wife refused to leave our daughter. She had climbed through shrubs and she had ripped metal netting from its frame on the window with her bare hands. She had hauled our baby over the sill to keep her protected. To get her away from a man who had already done serious damage.” Mark ignored the pages, looking straight ahead.

Pyper could barely breathe.

“My wife had nothing to her name. I saw to that. She had no purse, no money, no phone, only a church, a pastor, a group of friends and renewed bonds with her family to bring her back to God and to life again. And she did so with my daughter in her care. That’s my shame. That’s the sorrow I’ve fought to overcome, and even though I know I’m forgiven and redeemed by the grace of God, it eats at me every day. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’ve become a counselor, and that’s why I’ve completely changed the direction of my life. I know I can never atone for what I did. I can only rely on God for forgiveness, for mercy, and the second chance that places like Reach North can provide to others in need.

“My wife, my daughter, they found salvation and happiness with a man much better than the one I was back then, but the message I want to convey today is this: I also found salvation. I found a way back to goodness, to God’s love. You can, too.”

Mark’s passion, his power of conviction, drew Pyper’s reluctant focus until she broke away briefly to glance at her mom. Her mama’s chin trembled and her eyes sparkled against what Pyper could only assume was the shattered crystal of broken dreams.

“Don’t walk the same road I did. If you do, you’ll suffer the same way I did. You’ll lose the same way I did. Don’t let it happen. Please. Hold on to your soul. Live, don’t destroy. Let us help you find the miracle you need right here, in this haven for battered souls looking for redemption. You’ll find help here. You’ll find safety here. You’ll find a second chance here. All you have to do is surrender the darkness. Thank you for letting me share my story.”

Pyper’s ears rang. Accompanied by crashing applause, Mark returned to his seat and the emcee claimed the podium.

“Thank you, Mark, for a powerful sharing of what can, and will, be accomplished through the work of Reach North. Now, we’d like to welcome Chase Bradington, Pyper Brock, and a wonderful mix of their bandmates along with some gifted musicians who are part of the recovery program here at Reach. Chase, come on up!”

Chase stood right away and Pyper blinked when she heard their names. Zach slid a pair of stools into position while a stage tech moved mic stands into place. Somehow she stood. She sank onto the closest stool and Chase took over from there, slinging on his guitar, addressing the crowd with a warm smile and those clear, vibrant eyes.

“Hey, y’all. Thanks for the warm welcome. You know, I’m a lot more comfortable on a tall stool, with a guitar in my hands than I am talking to folks at the head of a reception room so I hope it’s OK for me to talk to you from here.”

Whistles and applause rang out. Pyper settled, gripped her microphone stand and made a height adjustment. All the while, she trembled to the core.

“Reach North, like other Reach facilities across the south, will be about reclaiming a life that’s good,” Chase continued. “It’ll be about community outreach and community service projects for young people. We need to catch problems at the start, through referrals from schools, from churches, through family intervention. We need to do whatever it takes to break the cycle of addiction. I’m another witness to the power that can be found in recovering from the war that destructive choices can cause, and I appreciate your support here today.”

Chase stopped there and his eyes sparkled, sheened by moisture. Pyper was a confused mess at the moment, but nothing diminished the empathy that swept through her, the love and gratitude for Chase’s rebound.

Why couldn’t she feel the same way about Mark Samuels?

There was no time for analysis.

Chase strummed the opening chords of “Forgiveness”. “I’d like to share the best piece of advice I ever received in therapy, and it came from the man sitting directly to my right, the one who just spoke, my sponsor Mark Samuels. He once told me, ‘The past is the past and nothing can be done to change it. The future can never be fully known, but readiness depends entirely on what we do in the here and now.’ Heed those words. Take them to heart and let them change your life like they changed mine. They’ll bring you to God’s hand, and they just might save you. Thanks.”

On cue, fighting for control, Pyper picked it up from there. “In honor of those who fight the good fight, who push hard for healing, promise, and hope, Chase and I would like to dedicate the following song. It’s called ‘Forgiveness’. We hope you enjoy it.”

Applause became a warm vibration that worked around all the turbulence and gave her strength enough to sing. She started out OK, but for some reason she kept glancing toward Mark. When she did, her throat and heart would squeeze and her pulse would race. The melody built, the song hit an impassioned crescendo and the words jammed in Pyper’s throat, tears building against her lashes as she closed her eyes, fighting desperately to keep going as the song took her under and carried her away.

Chase, bless him forever, covered strong on the last verse when her voice went weak and began to fade. She hit the closing harmony, and they ended fine, but she had nearly lost it. When they took a bow and acknowledged the response of the crowd, Pyper knew Chase tracked her carefully, but her response couldn’t be helped. Stiff shoulders and edginess were punctuated by numbness, by a deadness of sensation that caused her to fold her arms against her mid-section.

Chase leaned in and whispered, “You gonna be OK?”

His breath brushed against her ear, skimmed her neck, warm and lush enough to chase off a building chill. Her heart fluttered through her chest, so many ribbons sliced and torn. She turned just far enough to catch the light of his eyes and longed to lean into him. Pyper shook her head and literally bit her tongue.

“Hang tight, crash. We’re in the homestretch.”

Not by a long shot, she thought, but she delivered an agreeing smile.



After the bulk of the audience disbursed, an informal press conference took place. Board members of Reach North were joined by key staff members, by Chase, Pyper, and a few of the more prominent financial contributors. Most of the questions had to do with specifics about Reach North—how many employees, how many patients were expected to cross the threshold, a bevy of supporters were mentioned and thanked.

After that, Petra Goode stepped to the forefront, and Pyper’s blood flowed to a bone-chilling standstill.

“Mark, this question is directed to you. First off, I want to congratulate you for not only an inspiring turn around in your life, but your mission to help rehabilitate troubled individuals and help them find a way home.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m a little surprised, given the roadway of success you established, that you didn’t acknowledge your daughter by name.” She hesitated, but Mark offered no comment.

Petra plowed ahead. “Especially since she sat not more than a few feet from the podium.”

Pyper’s skin flamed. Mark glanced her way, lines carved deep against his mouth and eyes. She braced.

“The story you shared left a good many of us in tears—your daughter included. Isn’t that right, Pyper? You seemed genuinely moved by your father’s story, and who could blame you.”

She dropped the explosive information so casually a few seconds of stunned silence beat by. But then, chaos erupted and nearly two dozen reporters launched into a feeding frenzy.

“Pyper…Pyper Brock is Mark Samuel’s daughter?”

“Pyper, over here!

“Tyler, any comment? Pyper? Amy? Zach?”

Zach—poor Zach! Pyper turned toward her brother, reached desperately for his hand. He held on fast, but looked like the clichéd deer caught in headlights. Their physical connection was instinctive, but leagues away from soothing.

“Mark, have you seen Pyper before today? What have you said to her? Are you reestablishing contact?”

“What’s next for y’all?” Smug as could be, Petra positioned herself toward the front of the pack and dragged her photographer along with her. “Let’s get everyone together for a photo.”

A hungry band of photographers maneuvered Pyper and her family—Mark and Chase included—into alignment in front of the podium which bore the logo of Reach, the spot where Mark had stood and plead his case for understanding, for love and mercy. The thought launched, then dissolved like a crushed skeet target as questions continued to be lobbed.

“Pyper, how does it feel to be reunited with your father? Is this the start of a new chapter for the two of you? Tyler, are you pleased by Mark’s arrival in Nashville?”

Petra pushed sideways, deliberately blocking the reporter who had just spoken. “Pyper, your biological father, a remade, rededicated man who helps others conquer addiction, and the one who took Chase Bradington under his care at Reach. How much of a thrill is this? Hollywood couldn’t script a more eloquent storyline. How do you feel right now?”

Flashbulbs split Pyper’s vision into strobes. Overly-bright camera lights left her blinking, causing her adrenaline to push and rush at high octane.

Smile, she told herself. Don’t say a word, just smile, turn away, and vanish into private space ASAP.

“Thanks for coming out, y’all.” Tyler stepped to the front line of the battle zone, giving a wave, a smile full of easy warmth that Pyper knew masked a thousand shades of emotion. “We’ll have a formal statement later. For now, please keep spreading the word about Reach North—these folks are going to work miracles for troubled souls all over Nashville. That’s the newsworthy and important thing here.”

Space cleared fast as reporters chased deadlines with an incredible story to tell. Meanwhile, Pyper and her family were taken under the wing of Reach board members who led them to an empty conference room mercifully free of windows.

Tyler closed the door and rounded on Mark. “Quite the debut, Samuels.”

“Tyler…please, listen to what I have to say.”

“No, you listen to me. I’ll smooth this mess over with the press, but hear me loud, and hear me strong. Your story featured a pretty message about moving on in life, and I’m all for it. But I have a story of my own to tell. A story about two beautiful women you shamelessly battered. Twenty years ago, I spent a summer afternoon on a boat with Amy, Pyper, and my pastor, Ken Lucerne. We paid a visit to Lake St. Clair. It’s a spot I think you know well, right? That day is set in my mind with concrete because that’s when Amy told me everything. She told me all about the wretched way you treated her and an innocent girl. Your daughter, Samuels. It was evil, and for the first time in my life I couldn’t find strength enough to pray for a fellow human being. Didn’t even want to. I’ve come a ways since then, because Amy and Pyper have bloomed. But don’t expect me to welcome you in any way, shape or form. I said to Amy then, and I say to you now, eye-to-eye, you don’t deserve one precious second of the time God gave you with them. Steer clear of my family, Samuels. Steer. Clear.”

Pyper’s entire body quaked. She glared at Mark and couldn’t repress a closing shot of her own. She motioned to Tyler—her daddy. “Protection. Unconditional love. Absolute conviction of spirit. That’s what a father’s love looks like.”

She burned to reached up and strike Mark with a resounding slap; she stilled that impulse. What would change if she inked a red splotch of anger and recrimination against his skin? Nothing. She’d be lowering herself to his level. Curse it all.

All the same, she was on fire. Pyper’s chin wobbled; her eyes filled with hot, stingy tears. Spinning on a booted toe, she escaped the room with nothing but her dignity intact. The rest of her massacred heart scattered as dust across the ground upon which she fled.