Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3

by MariaLisa deMora

  He opened his eyes, turning to where his pictures were taped to the wall. One was from Easter Sunday this year, Tabby standing between their aunt and uncle in her store-bought yellow dress, their cousins scattered in front and around, two of the little ones clinging to Tabby’s legs. A close family, from the looks of things, Tabby favoring their aunt enough so most folks didn’t question. Appearances matter in a small town. Everything always looked better from the outside. This was a holiday picture taken outside the church, sunshine streaming down making everyone squint as they looked at the camera, grownups smiling in spite of the glare. As ever, when forced into what the doc called gender-appropriate clothing, Tabby looked uncomfortable as anything, Aunt Loretta’s arm around her shoulder pulling Tabby tight to her side. A protective hold.

  There was noise from outside his quarters, footsteps of several men moving between the rows of containers that were masquerading as living space. A tap at his door had him swinging his legs off the bunk as he called, “Enter,” poised on the edge of the metal cot which took up one whole side of the room.

  The door pulled back and five men filed in, one after the other, crowding the space inside, the smell of sweat and dust rolling off them. Watcher stayed seated, looking up into the faces shrouded by darkness. He asked, “Need a light?”

  “Naw,” came the response from the man on the end and he swung his head that way.

  “Rawlins.” He greeted the soldier, and then observed, “Unusual location for a debriefing.” They would have barely returned from the ops he and the commander had been planning earlier today. After talking with Preacher, Watcher had bowed out of the boots on the ground portion, knowing his head wasn’t in the right space, but had painstakingly gone over the plan with the leaders of the two teams, needing to know they had all the tools to make it back alive.

  “Not a debrief, Watch. We were silk tonight.” That was good to hear, meant the mission had gone smoothly, everything working out as planned.

  “So then what’s the occasion?” If they weren’t here to talk about the ops, then he didn’t have a clue what they wanted.

  “Heard about what happened.” Rawlins thrust a hand forward, the unmistakable shape of a whiskey bottle dangling from his fingers. “Wanted to toast you before you go stateside.” He removed the lid, lifting the bottle towards Watcher by the neck. “You’re the man who watches our back, makes sure we’re good. Makes it so when we sleep tight at night, we do it with no worries. Makes it so our folks back home sleep the same way. We wanted you to know we’ll do the same for you, brother. Anything you need, we’ll bleed.”

  He sat there for a moment longer, elbows to his knees, then he slowly unfolded. In the small space, he stood nearly chest-to-chest with men who trusted him with their lives, men he trusted in the same way. He reached out and took the bottle, lifting it to his lips and taking a long, hard pull at the contents, feeling the burn as it moved into his still-unsettled gut. Standing with the bottle still lifted, he swallowed convulsively a time or two until he was convinced the whiskey wouldn’t be making an immediate reappearance, then leaned over and passed the bottle back to Rawlins. “Hooah,” he said softly, close enough to feel the outrush of breath as each man standing before him echoed the sound. “Thank you.”

  “Anything for you, Watch,” one of the other men said, and he looked in that direction, the corners of his mouth lifting on one side.

  “Opie.” So named because his ears hung off the sides of his blonde head like cab doors, but the man’s hillbilly looks were deceiving. He was one of the smartest men Watcher knew. Reaching out to tap his fist on the man’s shoulder, Watcher nodded. “Thank you, brother.” He received a return tap on the shoulder from Opie, and then down the line, one from every man as the bottle was transferred from hand to hand, each of them lifting it in salute before drinking and passing it along. “Means a lot, brothers.”

  Tucking his chin to his chest, he took in a hard breath, pushing down the pain as he had been doing for hours. In a voice thick with unshed tears, he forced out words that bound them together as a unit, using the creed to let them know their message was received. He knew what it meant for them to come to him like this, dust still on their boots from the ops. “I am a sapper leader, the cutting edge…”

  Each man joined in with the words memorized back at Fort Leonard Wood, the oath every army combat engineer gave, their voices ringing loud in the enclosed space until the door opened and there were even more men joining in. Selfless, honorable, a promise to each man who stood beside him, the creed was how he lived, how he had lived for the past eight years. With a shout, each man within hearing distance ended the recitation of the promise, “…sappers lead the way.”

  In between the shouts of “hooah” filling the air, Watcher recognized the voice of one of the medics and grinned, this one more heartfelt than any other today. Danielson—the Aussie they all called Bulldog because once he got it in his head to save a man, even God himself couldn’t pull him away—had joined the men standing in between the container units and was shouting, his distinctive accent mixed in with the American drawls and clipped consonants. “Bloody hell, you noisy lot are a pain in my arse.”

  “Sorry, Bulldog,” Watcher called, and the men standing in front of him shifted, letting the man through. He reached out, taking the bottle from where it had made it back down to Rawlins, and then offered it to the medic. “Drink me out of the country, yeah?”

  “Too right, I will. You shoulda gone out yonks ago.” Bulldog lifted the bottle and set it to his lips, then pulled it back, wiping the rim with the hem of his shirt. “Fair enough.” He took a drink, brought it down and gestured with it, setting it swinging from his fingertips. “You cashed up or need me to kick it in for ya?”

  “I’m set for home,” Watcher responded, shaking his head as Bulldog swigged at the whiskey again. He heard the men outside moving away, headed back to their own bunk assignments. “Thank you,” he said, retrieving the bottle just as Bulldog was about to drink again, handing it back to Rawlins. “Thank you all.”

  ***

  Standing in the windswept cemetery, Watcher frowned as he looked across to where his aunt and uncle sat in chairs underneath the funeral home’s awning. Something didn’t add up. Aunt Loretta was genuinely grief-stricken, her eyes nearly swollen shut with the crying she had been doing. She was suffering, having loved Tabby like a daughter, raising her these past years alongside her own kids. When he got home last night, her hands had trembled as she’d reached out to him, folding herself into his arms like she was the one returning home after a long time away.

  His gaze swung left, and he stared. Gabriel, his oldest cousin, stood at the end of the row of chairs, boots to the dirt instead of on the fake grass carpet the funeral director had laid, topping the raw ground beside the open grave. Bright red hair like his momma, Gabriel was staring at his own father with open dislike.

  This was one of the things bugging Watcher most about this scene. None of the family wanted anything to do with Uncle Ezra. And Ezra looked as if the entire proceedings had been conceived to interrupt something of dire importance that he needed to get on with. This event, Tabby’s funeral, was clearly an inconvenience to him.

  Cutting his eyes right, Watcher saw the local pastor approaching, Bible in hand. As the man opened the Book, preparing to begin the service, Ezra stood and said, “Hold on, preacher. We’re waiting on the Masons.” The pastor nodded, folding his hands over the Bible as he pressed it to his chest, taking two respectful steps back from the grave.

  Watcher’s chest compressed. He never wanted anything to do with the Masons after their associate pastor had hurt Tabby. Davy was different; he’d already been gone when everything happened. Watcher wouldn’t have minded seeing him today, but for Ezra to put a pause on this service, a moment so painful for family and the ones who loved Tabby more than breath, so others of that clan could attend—it didn’t make sense.

  Before Watcher could ask anything, Loretta spoke u
p, drawing his attention back to her. “Bethy was her best friend, Mikey. It don’t seem right to do this without her here.” He stared at her a moment then dipped his gaze to the toes of his boots, deliberately setting aside the emotions evoked by her words. Tabby never mentioned being friends with Davy’s little sister. He thought she told him everything. Might not be—

  Watcher swallowed, staring at his boots, somberly considering the shine and noting it was already dulled with the splatter of red clay. His dress greens fit well, comfortable but hot, and he reached up to adjust the beret he wore, tipping it a centimeter forward. Isolating silence spread through the small group until a few minutes later when a pickup pulled into the parking lot of the church. Watcher looked up from his study of the ground to see Irving Mason and a slip of a brunette girl climb out.

  As they approached, he saw the girl’s face looked a lot like Loretta’s. All the pain she felt worn on the surface, her expression reflecting a devastating grief. His aunt opened her arms and the girl—he assumed it was Bethy—threw herself into them, landing half on Loretta’s lap. The two women held each other, sobs breaking through and filling the air, creating a space around them as people, including his uncle, moved away, uncomfortable with the show of emotion.

  The sound of a throat clearing drew his attention, and Watcher turned to see the pastor had stepped back up to the head of the grave, the scuffed toes of his thrift store shoes sticking out over the hole. Watcher glanced down, eyes tracing the shape of the casket already partway lowered into the opening, the spray of yellow flowers draping over the curved sides. Yellow, Tabby’s favorite color. “If we can begin?” The question was directed at Ezra who nodded impatiently.

  Watcher drew in a hard breath, holding it for a couple of seconds before he allowed it to trickle out through his nostrils. Then he took another one, deliberately blocking out the words of the preacher, words he was sure were intended to be comforting, but hearing someone who didn’t know Tabby saying anything about her seemed wrong. Just wrong.

  Glancing around, he again felt a sense of isolation. Darrie hadn’t been able to make it home in time for the funeral. He would be here in a couple of days, but once the coroner’s office released Tabby’s body, the funeral home pushed for a fast burial. They weren’t set up to hold a body for long, and as soon as they got the go-ahead to plant her, they wanted to make it happen. Watcher and Darrie would have their own memorial for her, a jar of clear moonshine already in place in the back of the truck he’d borrowed from Judge Zonder.

  Over the years he had stayed in touch with the judge, who was present, seated two rows behind Loretta and Ezra. He didn’t know why, but there was bad blood between Zonder and Ezra, so it was no surprise the look Zonder turned on the back of Ezra’s head was thick with something like disgust. But as Watcher saw Zonder’s gaze swing to the man who stood at the foot of the grave, the look turned to something darker, more like hatred, and that caught his attention in a big way. What the hell?

  Mason, the patriarch of the clan that lived up the mountain, was a fire and brimstone preacher and had his own captive congregation living in their extended family compound. Word was he had turned off bitter with age, driving off first his woman and then his boy, Davy, leaving him with only his daughter at home, but a plethora of family on the land.

  Watcher looked at the girl, taking in how her thin body leaned into Loretta. Dark head to the older woman’s shoulder, Bethy had her cheek pressed to Loretta’s breast. Arm around her stomach, holding tightly just as Loretta’s arm was around her back, securing her in place. She had been Tabby’s best friend, according to Loretta, but Tabby hadn’t mentioned her to Watcher. Not once.

  Something flashed to the side of where he stood, and Watcher spun, his attention jerked back to the preacher. He saw the man bend over, coming up with a fistful of wet red clay, and Watcher dialed back in on what he was saying, “…and we commit Tabitha’s body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. They will rest from their labors, for their deeds will follow them.”

  Watcher looked back to the grave to find the coffin had been lowered while he was distracted with his thoughts. As he stood there, unable to do anything to make things right, he saw a clump of clay fall into the hole near the head of the coffin, but off to the side. Respectful. Keeping the shining surface free from marks for a moment longer.

  Staring into the hole, he saw another small clump fall to the side, knowing it came from Loretta. Another small one came to rest at the base of the casket, and he glanced up, seeing Bethy staring at her own hand, smears of red marring her palm.

  Then there was a loud thud, and Watcher looked back down, seeing a large clot of dirt that hadn’t been tossed, it had been thrown. Thrown hard if the splatter all around where it lay was any indication. To see where it rested pushed all the air out of his lungs, and Watcher nearly lost his balance, staggering sideways with the punch that hit him to see the yellow of the roses marred in such a way. Petals knocked from the stem were scattered everywhere with the force of the blow, the entire arrangement askew in a way which made him want to jump down into the hole and fix it, make it right for Tabby.

  When he could tear his eyes away from the obscenity he looked up, expecting to see Ezra wiping his hand, but his uncle still clutched his clod, head angled towards the end of the grave and Watcher’s head turned, too. He stared at the tall man standing there, chin lifted high. Mason was proud of his accomplishment, red bandana calmly moving over his palm, between his fingers, cleaning off any trace he had touched dirt, that it had been him to violate Tabby in this way. “Daddy!” a shocked female voice whispered, and Watcher glanced at the girl still standing in the circle of Loretta’s arms.

  “Get in the truck, daughter,” Mason said, his voice low with threatening meaning but the girl didn’t move, she just stood there looking at him. She was studying him, like Watcher studied maps and plans, trying to plot out the safest routes for himself and his men. Safe, but still accomplishing the mission. Achieve the assignment. Target is clear.

  You could see the moment she made her decision, when she came to a choice. And for her, Watcher hoped it was the right one, because from where he stood, he knew her life’s road just took as abrupt a turn as any dogleg on a wooded path. It would be up to her to decide if it was good or bad. “No,” she said, and with this statement, her back went straight. Resolute. Firm.

  “Go get yer ass in the truck, daughter.” Mason’s voice vibrated with anger and menace, and Watcher saw the color leech from the girl’s face as she shook her head.

  Then she said something which didn’t make sense, but from his reaction, Mason must have known exactly what she was talking about. “No more.” Two words, spoken softly, made her father draw back and then push forward with one shoulder and hip, his posture so aggressive it could not be mistaken as anything other than a threat. “You’ve done your worst, Daddy,” she whispered, soft voice still ringing loud through the pall of silence gathered over their small group. Watcher fancied it rang past where they stood beside an open grave in a cold, windswept graveyard situated on the side of a mountain in eastern Kentucky, echoing through towns and into nearby mine shafts. “Done your worst, took her from me. You’ve taken everything.” She shook her head violently, the movement pulling her bare inches from Loretta’s side, but even as Bethy moved, hair flying all around her head, Loretta’s arms tightened, bringing her back, holding tight.

  Bethy whirled, looking at Zonder, and her next words were even more nonsensical than the previous ones, even as things began to make sense to Watcher. “I’m sixteen. You’ve been a judge here my whole life. You know how that man is, sir.” She paused, and Watcher saw her throat work as she swallowed. “You know what he is. Emancipate me. Make it so I don’t have to deal with him anymore. Ever again. He made me marry a man last year, Taylor. Mr. Zonder, Taylor’s worse. Please. Make it so I feel safe.”

  Watcher saw her hands tremble as she mo
ved her hair, reaching to tug at the collar of her dress, showing the judge something hidden from where Watcher stood, but it couldn’t be good because Zonder’s features got hard in a way that Watcher knew it had to be bad. “Emancipate me.” Her demand was breathy now, because she also had seen the change sweep across Zonder’s face. “Don’t make me go back.”

  Twenty minutes later Watcher was in Zonder’s truck, Bethany Mason on the seat as close to the passenger door as she could get with it still closed. They were driving down the mountain to Zonder’s house, where the judge had decreed all parties should retire so the proceedings would have at least the veneer of normalcy.

  Watcher’s mind wasn’t on the girl in the truck but stuck in the hole in the ground he had just driven away from. His gaze staying on the rearview mirror until he lost sight of the three men, bent over, shovels working methodically to shift the dirt from the mound beside where the pastor had stood. They were shoving it back into the hole a scoop at a time. Watcher knew there would be too much dirt, so there was sure to be a pile remaining after they were done. Even after they packed it down with boots and the backs of the shovel blades. Even after the rains came, settling the dirt and packing it more. For a long, long time there would be a body-sized pile of dirt placed on top of the filled grave, mounded up as if it hid the child resting inside the box deep in the hole.

  Since he was focused on his own pain, it surprised him when Bethany spoke, shocked him so his hands jerked the wheel, the truck swaying on the rutted dirt for a moment. “She was my best friend. My very best friend.” Without saying anything in response, he nodded, still coming to grips with Tabby having a friend she didn’t talk about. “I heard what they said happened. I don’t believe it, Mike. She’d want you to know she fought it back. She tried hard, and fought for a long time.” These words stole his breath, made darkness flood his vision so he could hardly see the road. They pointed to the truth of the clear weather calamity being less accidental than he could stomach. “She’d want you to know, Mike. That she fought it back. She loved you, hated what she’d done to you—”