by Jenni Moen
Dearborn
Jenni Moen
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Thank You!
About the Author
Other Books By Jenni Moen:
Copyright © 2015 Jenni Moen
All rights reserved.
Published by Jenni Moen
[email protected]
Editing: Jenny Sims with Editing4Indies
Cover Design: Jennifer Munswami
Cover Photo: Deposit Photos ®
ASIN: B0172RPX8M
ISBN-13: 978-0-9908519-3-6
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
Acknowledgments
This—thanking those that helped make Dearborn what it is today—is the easy and most important part:
To my alpha readers, Vanessa Marie and Josie Bordeaux, who read this book one chapter at a time as it was being written and never once flinched when I said, “Oh I added in a new scene. Can you start over from the beginning?” Seriously. You two. When I think of you, I’m chest bumps and teary eyes. Our co-dependencies are everything. WTB, ladies.
To Jennifer Stevens, my queen bee beta reader, confidant, and friend. Thank you for being a walking encyclopedia and for talking me off a cliff when I nearly lost my vision on this one. Thank you for calling in your personal troops when I needed them. Thank you for entertaining me every single day.
To JM Miller and Brandy Rivers for your mad beta reading skills. Your thoughtful comments and constructive criticism were exactly what this book and I needed.
To Emily Avants, Lauren Battles, and Elizabeth Ward for pumping me up with your crazy excited text messages as you read and especially after you finished. You ladies are my rocks.
To Jennifer Munswami for putting up with me through multiple versions of this cover and repeated redesigns. Everyone knows the cover is almost as important as the words inside—some would say more so—and I appreciate your patience even when I didn’t know what I wanted.
To JB Avants for doing an amazing turnaround on some speed editing. That first pass through is so important and I (and my beta readers) certainly appreciate it. Because of you, I’ve started my list of ‘Just-Don’t-Use-Them Words’ and ‘just’ is one of them. When I finally stop talking like a valley girl, I’ll have you to thank.
To Jenny Sims of Editing4Indies for your amazing work on this book. I’m so completely impressed with your skills and so happy to have found you. Thank you for making it bleed, and thank you for being so flexible when this book was three weeks late and twice as long as it was supposed to be. You were a trooper and I’ll never forget it.
To Daniela Prima, for your detail-oriented OCD mind. You’re at the end of this list because you were the last to get Dearborn in your hands, but you belong up there somewhere around the top. I know you poured over every single word, second-guessing, looking things up, double-checking, triple-checking, etc. You forgave me for my constant misuse of wrack and rack and shined my sentences without complaint. For all of that, I thank you. But, most of all, I thank you for being my friend.
To my family, for giving me up for hours and hours and hours. For eating a lot of pizza and grilled cheese sandwiches. For being supportive when you could just be annoyed. To my son, Dylan, for your love of paranormal and fantasy and for being my plotting partner.
Finally, to my repeat readers, who are taking a chance with this one simply because it’s a little different than what I’ve written in the past. This was definitely an adventure. I took on this project to force myself to step outside my usual box, and I’m thankful that you are willing to come along. I hope you find that I’ve grown a little as a writer. Enjoy!
A THIN LAYER OF ICE covered the snow and crunched with every footfall. The air still hung heavy over Woodland Creek. This marked the beginning of months and months and inches upon inches of dismal cold. More would fall overnight. I welcomed it though I couldn’t tell you exactly why.
Always on a mission, my feet traveled fast over the frozen surface. They’d run on more treacherous terrain than this. The mountains of Afghanistan had prepared me well for my current task. And this time, no heavy boots. No weapons. No packs. I’d never felt lighter on my feet. A branch slapped me in the face, and I barely felt it.
I am free.
I ran to quiet the noise following me day after dreaded day. It was a sweet relief after enduring the awful, clanging, never-ending racket that came with the memories. They wouldn’t let me go. I was bound to them as I was bound to the people in them. It was only recently I’d found a better therapy.
I leaped over a stream and found my footing. It would be a skating rink soon, making it harder to find water. Something instinctual told me it should concern me, but it didn’t tonight. Nothing concerned me as I neared the spot where I’d seen her last.
She is here.
Somehow, I could feel her presence ahead of me. I burst through the last line of trees and into the clearing with more gusto than warranted. My feet pounded across the ground until I slid to a stop by the big cedar tree.
Big brown eyes peered at me curiously from across the way. Her hide, a rich coppery color, hadn’t turned gray for the winter. She looked out of place against the snowy backdrop and perfectly at home all at the same time.
Just as I had remembered, she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Dainty but still somehow powerful. Graceful and lithe. Long, thin legs looked as if they could snap under the weight of her, but I knew they were stronger than they appeared. They were made for running and leaping. I longed to watch her run.
Large, pert ears stood tall on her head, not missing a thing. She blinked at me and then cocked her head as if to size me up. I knew you’d come back, she seemed to say.
‘Of course,’ I wanted to tell her. ‘I came to thank you.’
I wondered how close she would let me get today. I took a tentative step, and she watched me.
She seemed to blink her submission. Go ahead. Come closer.
It was delusional to think she was actually speaking to me. Obviously, no audible words were exchanged, but in my head, I could hear her as clearly as if her thoughts were my own. It was almost as if there was a direct line between her soul and mine. Some thread tethered our hearts and gave me access to her thoughts. Is it okay?
&
nbsp; We can’t stay. It’s not safe.
I took a few slow steps in her direction and waited. She followed my lead and then stopped. We repeated the dance until less than a few feet separated us. As she circled around me, she suddenly seemed unsure. She craned her long neck as if listening to something behind me.
Shhhhh. Her fear was tangible. Yet, even as it struck, I didn’t comprehend the danger. The arrow pierced her flesh with a thud. It shouldn’t have sounded so hollow for the damage it was causing. It sliced easily through her chest and protruded awkwardly. Instantly, she was gone, bolting away from her attacker and away from me.
Until that moment, she had been my peaceful place. If there was no peace with her, then there was none anywhere, and I would surely lose the last remaining shreds of my sanity. I followed because I had no other choice. The invisible line tethering us pulled me along behind her as she ran, her previous words echoing in my head. Come closer. Come closer.
‘I am coming,’ I wanted to call to her. ‘I will take care of you. I will help you somehow.’
She jumped the fence line, and I winced at the pain in my chest as she landed. She ran north through the western part of the cemetery. I followed, losing sight of her from time to time as she wove in and out of the trees. She crossed the road near where my truck was parked, and I followed.
Flashing lights marked the scene of an accident to the west, but she didn’t get close to it. We ran for what felt like miles, parallel to the major roads but far enough away from them to remain unseen. Even when I couldn’t see her, the pain in my chest never abated, letting me know instinctually she was there.
The same instinct caused me to stop suddenly just before I got to the creek. She stood on its banks, unable to make the final leap over it. An all-too-familiar house loomed dark and empty behind her.
Not like this.
Before I could get to her, her knees buckled. She wobbled for only a second and then fell to the ground, rolling on her side so the arrow pointed up at the milky gray sky. Her chest rose and fell with every labored breath. Those beautiful, soul-searching eyes blinked at me. I listened for her voice but heard nothing. Maybe it had only been in my head all along. Maybe she didn’t exist at all and was the creation of my fragmented mind.
A familiar whomp, whomp, whomp intruded on our moment. I closed my eyes and wished it away. It grew louder, and I imagined it was the sound of her heartbeat, assuring me she was going to be okay. I had myself nearly convinced when it became harsher, turning into something that didn’t belong here.
As I had so many times before, I looked up to find the bird in the sky. It flew low, and within seconds, it disappeared over the treetops. The sound of the rotating blades faded but left in its wake the debris of my life. All of the noise I’d successfully evaded had found me again.
I pushed and shoved against it, trying to rid my head of it all. I had to keep it together. She needed me. Our roles had reversed, and I was her only hope. I stared at her, trying to come back to the here and now, all the while knowing the better parts of me were still lost on a continent thousands of miles away.
The doe in front of me let out a bleat that sounded like a plea. It triggered something in me—a survival instinct I thought I’d lost forever—and lifted the fog the helicopter had dropped over me. In its place, the brittle evening air reflected the glitter of the snow.
She shimmered and shook in front of me, and I dropped to the ground beside her. My heart thumped out a beat of shock even louder than the blades of the helicopter.
It was incomprehensible. A complete annihilation of what I thought to be true.
I was naked and bleeding, and my beautiful doe was gone.
WILLOW
“MARRY ME, WILLOW?”
Ryan slid table number four’s plate and ticket through the window toward me. He rang the bell—a move intended to annoy me since I was standing right in front of him—and then tapped on the piece of paper with his index finger. I knew without looking what it said, but I peeked anyway.
I grinned at him. His notes never got old even as ludicrous as they sometimes were.
It was a game we’d played our entire lives. One that began in second grade when a gangly boy had abruptly turned around in his seat during a lesson on double-digit addition and slid a note across my desk. Will you go with me? it had said. The options had been the same.
At the time, I’d been unsure about him. He’d sat in the desk in front of mine for almost two years without uttering a single word to me. I didn’t understand where he wanted to go.
Where? I’d finally written below the answers before shoving the note back at him.
Be my girlfriend, he’d written in response.
I’d started to circle the big blocky NO, but he’d ripped the note away from me. In a huff, he’d turned back to his desk. He didn’t look at or speak to me again until the next day when he slid a new note across my desk.
Will you go swimming in the creek tomorrow? YES, NO, MAYBE.
I’d chewed my lip and considered his offer. I was spending the weekend with my grandparents while my parents celebrated their tenth anniversary in nearby Louisville. I loved my grandma more than moon pies, but there wasn’t a lot to do at her house. Watching her knit blankets for her church prayer group was a little like watching paint dry.
“Come on,” he’d whispered when I didn’t answer fast enough. “I know you don’t have plans.”
I’d wondered how he could possibly know that, but I circled YES anyway. The fact that I was severely lacking in friends had won out over any hesitation I had about hanging out with a liar.
Since that day, I’d answered affirmatively to almost every harebrained idea Ryan Balere threw at me. For nearly two decades, we’d spent every day together, and I’d watched the skinny boy turn into a beast of a man. He knew me better than I knew myself and usually knew what I wanted before I did. But we were not a couple, and my answer to his farce marriage proposals would always be a definite and resounding, NO.
As much as his warm chocolate eyes should have made me all gooey inside, they didn’t. It would have been the most convenient and natural thing in the world, but love didn’t work like that. My best friend filled my heart to the brim, but he couldn’t make it skip a beat. And that was what I was holding out for. I wasn’t settling for anything less than sudden and chronic arrhythmia.
I didn’t want anything less for him either.
“Awww, I love you too, Will.” He slapped his chest with his hand. “Can you feel it?”
I rolled my eyes at him in answer and slapped my hand down on the order ticket, pulling it to me. “Get back to work, Balere. You don’t want to get caught slacking on the job again. It’s bad enough you were sixteen minutes late this morning.”
He groaned. “My boss is such a bear.”
“Don’t you wish,” I teased him.
“I do wish. It would certainly make my problems go away.”
Ahhhhh. My bear-shifting friend was having girl problems. Again. That was why he was handing out marriage proposals he had no intention of honoring.
“No, it wouldn’t, and you know it, but hold that thought. I need to deliver this before it gets cold or there’ll be hell to pay.” I nodded at the plate still sitting under the warmer.
“Is that for Old Man Hansen?” He turned back toward the fryer before I could answer. I grinned at his back, knowing he didn’t need one anyway. Most of the people who came into Creek Café were regulars. Ryan knew their orders before I even took them.
Clive Hansen was our best customer and a creature of habit. He shuffled up to the restaurant at the exact same time every morning. He tied his dog, Aristotle, to the exact same tree. He always sat at one of the only three tables that provided a good view of what I suspected was his only friend.
Even our conversations were ritualistic.
“This morning’s special is blueberry pancakes,” I’d say before he cut me off and bark his order at me. During my thirteen years in the
diner, his breakfast had never varied, and I suspected his streak went back further than that.
There was only one exception to the rule. Once a year, he ordered a side of birthday hash browns for the mutt outside. It was the only sign of softness I’d seen in Clive. He was a grouch who wanted his breakfast the way he wanted it, when he wanted it, and with as little conversation as possible. We accommodated him, not only because he was a loyal customer, but also because he was different. Neither Ryan nor I could get a read on why that was or even what he was. There was no way of knowing what the old codger was capable of, so we fed him.
It didn’t matter anyway. There was a lot of different in Woodland Creek. I was different. Ryan was different. Janice, who’d owned the diner before me, had been different. Our diner catered to the different because different was not necessarily a bad thing.
Until it was, of course.
Ryan slid a foam to-go container through the window, and I looked at him curiously. “It’s not Aristotle’s birthday yet.”
He nodded and pushed it a little closer. “They both need a little extra love today. Seems that Aristotle may not make it to his next one.”
It explained the tremendous sadness I’d felt while going through the perfunctory but necessary task of taking Clive’s order. “So I should sit down and see if Clive wants to chat?”
Ryan barked out a laugh. There wasn’t a chance in hell the old man was going to spill his guts to me. He wasn’t a talker, but we didn’t need him to be today. Ryan obviously already had Clive’s number.
Ryan’s ‘intuition’ was one of the reasons I could never be with him. His ‘special gift’ was more than I could handle. Not that mine was much better. Between his ability to read minds and my ability to feel others’ emotions, the fact we weren’t attracted to each other was actually a sweet miracle. Any kind of normal relationship would have been impossible.
I slid Ryan’s note into the front pocket of my apron with the intention of discussing it some more after we closed for the day. With a heavy heart and both hands full, I worked my way through the small dining room. It was a classic 1950’s diner. The décor was legit, dating back to when Janice Crabtree and her husband had opened the diner in 1952. Black, white, red, and perfect all over. My sneakered feet made no noise on the checkered tile floor as I slipped between the red pleather-covered stools lining the counter and the row of two-seater booths opposite it. A half wall provided the façade of privacy between them and the larger booths on the other side. Four top tables bellied up to the plate glass windows overlooking our small but quaint parking lot. Filled to the max, we could seat fifty people. On mornings like this one, we usually got close.
