Storm Rising

by Rachael Richey

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Rachael Richey

  Storm Rising

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Watch for the next book in The NightHawk Series,

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  She really fancied a night to herself.

  She made a cup of tea, cut herself a slice of cake, carried them both over to the fire, and sat down on the hearth rug. A basket of logs stood to one side of the wood burner, and Abi opened the doors and tossed another log onto the already roaring fire. She gave a little shiver of pleasure. She really liked to be warm. She was going to enjoy the evening.

  She leant back against the sofa, extended her legs in front of her, and took a large bite of cake. No sooner had she done that than the doorbell rang. Abi rolled her eyes and tried to swallow her cake.

  “Come in, Chris, the door’s open!” she called, spraying crumbs in all directions.

  After a moment the door slowly opened and a deep voice said, “I’m not Chris. Can I still come in?”

  Praise for Rachael Richey

  “A real page turner with sympathetic characters. I liked how the plot was revealed with flashbacks to the past. A good read.”

  ~Jill Rudge

  ~*~

  “Storm Rising is an excellent first novel for Rachael Richey, cleverly written and well researched. I loved the suspense and the development of the characters, and I still feel a sense of excitement when I think about the way the plot develops. I was so glad to find there would be sequels, as I can't get enough of this kind of writing.”

  ~Julie Reeves

  ~*~

  “I love this! Was hooked from the beginning. I really loved the relationships developing between the characters and the mystery between them, as well. The story is full of brilliant twists and quickly becomes a real page turner.”

  ~Sophie MacKenzie

  ~*~

  “Rachael Richey has perfectly captured the vitality, excitement (and awkwardness!) of youth in her novel STORM RISING. What initially appears to be a straightforward love story quickly turns into something much more involved. The clever use of flashbacks adds an extra dimension, and there are hints of unfinished business surrounding some of the characters, which is intriguing.”

  ~Alison Coote

  Storm Rising

  by

  Rachael Richey

  The NightHawk Series, Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Storm Rising

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Rachael Richey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Historical Fiction Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-766-5

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-767-2

  The NightHawk Series, Book One

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my wonderful family,

  David, Francesca, and Ben,

  who were there to support me all the way through,

  and to my sister Julie,

  who was my first critic and proofreader

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday, 15th November 2005

  Abigail Thomson stood beside her father at the graveside, her dark grey coat pulled tightly around her, her mouth set in a thin line. The wind whirled the fallen leaves around her feet in a golden flurry, and the first drops of rain began to fall as the minister finished his last few words and gently closed his prayer book. Abi turned away to start off across the dismal churchyard towards her car, but her father’s hand on her arm halted her progress. She looked over her shoulder.

  “What?” she demanded shortly, her face hiding none of the dislike she felt for the man at her side.

  He recoiled momentarily, then, visibly plucking up courage, reached out his hand to her again.

  “Abi, please, come back to the house.”

  Abi turned to face him. She saw a broken man. Never very tall, he seemed to have shrunk to a caricature of his former self, his shoulders turning inwards, his worn hands clenched, his face showing all the tightly controlled emotions of the last forty years. She sighed.

  “Why, Dad? Why should I? You and—that woman tried to ruin my life and treated me so badly, you’re lucky I even came today. Why should I care for you now? You don’t need me any more than I need you.” Her words were hostile, and she stood poised for flight as soon as he gave the word. He stared at her, mute in his appeal, his haggard face white with stress, his trembling hands clutched together. Abi sucked in her breath and closed her eyes. “Okay, you win. I’ll come back to the house for the wake—but I’m not staying. I’ve got my own life now, and you’re nothing to do with it.” She turned away from him and strode off towards her car.

  She sat for a good five minutes before starting the engine. Anyone seeing her probably thought she was grieving for her mother, but Abi’s thoughts were far from that. As she finally turned the key, she glanced in the mirror. God, she looked awful! Her face was pale to the point of whiteness, and all her makeup did was enhance the black rings under her eyes. Even her hair appeared limp and lifeless. She scowled and mentally blamed her mother for her loss of looks. She was glad the woman was dead; maybe her own life would look up now. Angrily she put the car in gear and shot out of the churchyard towards her father’s house.

  Abi hadn’t been near the place since she left home more than eight years earlier, and her heart beat faster as she turned the familiar corner into the street of her childhood. The row of 1930s semidetached houses stared blankly back at her. They were neat and tidy, their gardens highly regimented, their paths newly swept. Her father’s house was no different. No different from the other houses; no different than it had been ten and twenty years earlier. The houses were—Abi searched for the right word—inoffensive. And that had been her problem; she had caused offence.

  Her father’s old Saab stood in the driveway. It annoyed Abi that he hadn’t even changed his car in all the years she’d been away. She was sure the house would be the same inside, as well—the same wallpaper, the same stained carpets and smoke-smelling curtains, the same old photographs on the mantelpiece. She wondered if they’d removed the pictures of her after she left, or if they’d kept them as a shrine to what she used to be. Before
she’d met him. Before her life had begun and ended so quickly.

  Abi parked carefully behind a blue Mini she was rather afraid belonged to her Aunt Margaret, then picked up her bag, gave her hair a quick brush, and made her way slowly up the path to the front door. She felt so alienated from the house and its occupants that she could no more have opened the door and gone in uninvited than gone to the moon, so taking a deep breath, she rang the bell and waited. After a moment the door creaked open and a large, overweight lady hove into view.

  “Abigail, why on earth are you using the bell, child?” cried Aunt Margaret, noisily ushering Abi in through the door. “It is your home, after all.”

  Briefly wondering how on earth someone could have her head buried so deeply in the sand as her aunt appeared to, Abi gave her a look of intense dislike and followed her into the dining room. To her dismay the room was full of relatives, all wearing the look of those who were glad it was someone else’s funeral, casting furtive looks around to see who was going to be next. As Abi entered and stood awkwardly in the doorway, her father came over to her. He smiled slightly and drew her towards the kitchen door.

  “Thanks, love,” he said simply, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze.

  Abi accepted a glass of sherry from a passing cousin before retiring to a corner to sip it. She was prepared to give her father her support for the duration of the wake, but as soon as the last mourner was away she was off, back to her own life, and she would not be returning again. As her eyes flitted around the room, she noticed the pictures on the mantelpiece. There were some of her, but all taken before she was fourteen. They were happy family pictures. It was amazing how a photograph could lie, she thought to herself, shaking her head slightly.

  ****

  “For Crissakes, Gideon, you can’t do it!” Simon roared, his face suffused with anger towards the man striding ahead of him.

  They reached the door almost simultaneously, and Gideon swung round to face him. He thrust his face close to the other man’s, his angular features dark with fury.

  “I fucking well can, and I fucking well have!” he hissed, his piercing eyes narrowed dangerously. Simon almost stepped back and gave up the chase, but for the sake of a twenty-year friendship he had one last try. He put out a hand and grasped the sleeve of Gideon’s sweat-drenched white shirt.

  “Gid, please, for the sake of us, for our friendship at least. Sod everyone else, just do it for me,” he pleaded, running a chubby hand through his damp fair curls. Gideon’s eyes flicked momentarily to Simon’s hand, then back to his face. His long dark hair swung round over his shoulders as he leaned towards his best friend. There was a slight pause, and Simon held his breath. Then Gideon smiled his sardonic smile.

  “Get stuffed,” he spat out and slammed the bedroom door behind him. Simon stared in disbelief after his friend, then with a sigh, turned and faced the swarm of reporters rushing towards him like a tidal wave, cameras flashing and tape recorders hissing.

  ****

  On the other side of the door Gideon stood with his eyes shut, hardly breathing. The room was dark. A slight stale smell, reminiscent of tobacco, old clothes, and coffee, assailed his nostrils. Silently he flung himself down on the bed, his left hand groping on the bedside table for his tobacco pouch. Finding it, he leaned over, switched on the television, and rolled himself a joint. As he expected, he was the first item on the news. He lay back in the darkness and listened to his life story.

  “The main news story today is a real shock to everyone. At his concert in Central Park this afternoon, Gideon Hawk, founder, lead guitarist, and vocalist of the grunge rock band Nighthawk, announced he was leaving the band, taking a year off, and then beginning a solo career. The announcement came as a shock to the band as well as to the rest of the world. Gideon started the band back in 1992 when he was still at school in England, and one of the founder members, his best friend of twenty years, Simon Dean, is here with us now.”

  Gideon closed his eyes as Simon’s florid face appeared on the screen, sweat rolling down his neck and soaking his shirt.

  “So, Simon, tell us everything. When did you first suspect that something was wrong?”

  Simon ran his hand through his curls again and faced the camera.

  “I didn’t,” he stated bleakly, his voice aggrieved. “Gideon has always been close with his feelings, but if anyone should have known something was wrong, it was me. We’ve been friends for over twenty years—ever since junior school…”

  Gideon flicked the remote control and the picture fizzled.

  “You’re waffling, Simon,” he muttered, taking a long toke on his joint.

  ****

  As her father closed the front door after the last guest, Abi picked up her coat and began to shrug it on. Arthur took a deep breath and turned to face her. She tensed, turning away to pick up her bag.

  “Abi,” he began tentatively, “could you consider doing me a favour?”

  Slowly she turned towards him, her face set and hard, her eyes like flint.

  “What?” she asked shortly.

  He swallowed and took a step towards her.

  “Would you help me sort out her stuff? I just can’t face it on my own. I know how you feel…felt about her—and me—so maybe it wouldn’t be so hard for you…” He tailed off under the scrutiny of his daughter and stood, small and cowed, an awkward figure, out of place even in his own home.

  Abi sighed. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she placed her hand on the doorknob.

  “Goodbye, Dad,” she said, turning the handle slightly. “I’ll come back tomorrow at eleven. I can give you a couple of hours, but that’s all. Then…that’s it.” She opened the door and stepped out into the cold November air. “I’ve got a life to live, Dad, and I suggest you start trying to do that too.” Then she strode down the path and climbed into her car.

  As she reversed out into the silent road, Abi was acutely aware not only of her father standing on the doorstep forlornly watching her go but also of the row of twitching curtains that followed her as she drove away.

  “Fuck the lot of them,” she said out loud as she accelerated out onto the main road.

  Driving fast, Abi headed out of Newbury and booked into the local motel for the night. She was cold, tired, and very angry, and wanted nothing more than a long soak in the bath followed by an early night of alcohol-induced sleep. She let herself into her room and flung her bag onto the bed. Then, kicking off her shoes, she padded into the bathroom and began to run a bath. A long soak beneath a sea of bubbles would go some of the way towards relaxing her, and as the bath slowly filled up, she opened the bottle of Muscadet she had picked up at the local Spar shop. Pouring herself a large cupful, she grinned wryly at the limited choice of drinking vessels. She pulled her dress over her head and slithered out of her underwear before carrying her wine to the bathroom and adding some bubbles to her bath. The room had filled with steam, and the gentle warmth had Abi relaxing even before she stepped into the hot fragrant water. With a long sigh, she leaned back and closed her eyes, letting her body slide beneath the hot foam, wiggling her toes and fingers as she unwound.

  Half an hour later she was warm, dry, curled up on the bed dressed only in an oversized T-shirt, and making good inroads on her bottle of wine. A large bar of nut chocolate lay open beside her, and she was casually flicking through the channels on the TV. Suddenly a familiar face caught her eye, and she sat bolt upright, her finger urgently turning the sound up. Simon, his anxious face red and sweaty, filled the screen. He was standing outside a hotel in Manhattan, surrounded by reporters. Abi wriggled forward to the end of the bed and peered intently at the TV screen.

  “God, Simon, you look dreadful,” she muttered as her brain tuned in to what he was saying.

  “Yes, it’s true. I don’t know what else to tell you—Gideon has left the band.” He leaned towards the flocking reporters to catch a question, then shaking his head he took a step backwards and held up his hands. “Look, I don’t
know any more than you do. He didn’t tell me anything. He announced it on stage, and that was the first I heard about it. I tried to talk to him, but, well, he was tired and wanted to be on his own.”

  “I bet he bloody did,” murmured Abi as she watched in amazement, her thoughts racing. Apart from photos of the band on stage, Abi hadn’t seen Simon for more than ten years, and she was shocked by his appearance. He had put on several stone in weight and looked ten years older than his twenty-nine years. Naturally her thoughts strayed to Gideon—surely he would look the same as he ever did? Mentally shaking herself, she flicked through the channels again to see if there was any more about the band, then pressed the Text button on the remote control to see if it was reported on any of the pages there. She found only one small section, repeating the conversation with Simon she had just seen and giving a short biography of Nighthawk.

  With a sudden movement she leapt up from the bed, turned the television off, then picked up the wine bottle and took a long swig. This was all she needed after the day she’d just had. Being at her father’s house had already brought back memories she’d tried to bury—and now this. She sat down abruptly on the bed and picked up the chocolate. Then she put it down again and got to her feet. Wrapping her arms around her thin body, she began to pace the room, her mind vividly reliving events of ten years before. Eventually she sat back down on the bed and reached for the phone, her hand hovering uncertainly over the receiver for a moment, then dropping back onto the quilt beside her. She sat for a moment in silence on the side of the bed before picking up the wine bottle and finishing it in a single gulp. Then she slid under the covers and turned off the light.

  ****

  Three thousand miles away, in a smoky hotel bedroom, Gideon Hawk was lying in the dark watching TV. An open can of beer was in his right hand and an unlit joint in his left. He hadn’t changed his clothes since the gig ended, and he was beginning to smell bad. His once white shirt was stained under the arms, and his fashionably ripped designer jeans were covered in unidentifiable and very questionable stains. He was twenty-nine years old and at that moment felt about a hundred. He was tired. Very, very tired. And full of hatred and unfulfilled dreams. And…her. Why had she suddenly come back into his mind? Why could he not rid himself of the image? The image of the child she had been and the woman she must surely have become. What did she have to do with his decision to leave the band? Had he gone mad? Had the legacy of the last ten years of hard living finally taken its toll? Gideon lay back and closed his eyes. He would probably feel different in the morning. Then he would make his decisions. That would be time enough.