Wings Of The Dawn

by Tracie Peterson

  Print ISBN 978-1-57748-066-2

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-928-9

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-929-6

  WINGS OF THE DAWN

  Copyright © 2008 by Tracie Peterson. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Dedication

  Author Bio

  one

  Everything remained unchanged. And yet nothing was the same. Cheryl Fairchild put down her small suitcase and stared at the familiar walls of her father’s house. Nestled against a mountainous backdrop on one side and the Denver skyline on another, this place had been their home off and on for the last ten years. But now Ben Fairchild was dead. Dead by his own hand. Cheryl still found it impossible to be-lieve. Any minute now he would surely call out from his office wanting to know what outlandish way Cheryl had spent money that day. Any minute now…

  But of course, Ben Fairchild didn’t call out, and Cheryl grimaced at the stuffiness of the closed-up house. For nearly four months she’d been in either the hospital or the private convalescent center, and during that time, the housekeeper had only come on Saturdays in order to keep the dust at bay. It’s evident that she never bothered to air the place or check the thermostat, Cheryl thought, sweltering in the heat of the July afternoon.

  Switching on the central air, Cheryl listened for the familiar hum of cool air blowing through the vents. When it came, it was like an old friend. Familiar. Comforting. Consistent. Forgetting the suitcase, Cheryl wandered aimlessly through the house, touching first one thing and then another, almost as if she had to force some memory from each article before she could move on to the next.

  Daddy and I bought this vase in France, she remembered, idly fingering the elegant Lalique crystal. We found it at that wonderful shop near our hotel. Daddy said, “If your mother were alive, she’d pick this one.” And so we did.

  A bevy of other objects received just as much attention until Cheryl had walked completely through the spacious first floor and found herself once again standing beside her suitcase. Her side ached a little. A constant reminder of the bullet that had been surgically removed some four months earlier. The scar was still there, while the one that had marred her forehead had been expensively removed with plastic surgery. For the first time in weeks, Cheryl let herself think about the shooting…and Stratton.

  No, she reminded herself, his name is Grant Burks. He wasn’t Stratton McFarland as he had told her when they first met. Nor was he really Stratton McFarland when he had proposed marriage and she had accepted. And he wasn’t Stratton McFarland when he had deceived her into believing that it didn’t matter what you did with your life—so long as it made you happy.

  She picked up the suitcase and made her way upstairs to her bedroom. Here, the heat was worse, and Cheryl thought only of a cool shower and lightweight clothes. She stripped down, leaving her designer jeans and flashy pullover on the carpet, and stepped into her private bathroom. The reflection of her hollow-eyed expression stunned Cheryl momentarily. Months before, she wouldn’t have been caught dead looking so unkempt and dowdy. Her blond, curly hair looked more askew than normal, and her collarbone and ribs stuck out in an anorexic way that was most unflattering. But she didn’t care anymore. There was no reason to care, because there was no one left to care for.

  She showered and dressed in an oversized T-shirt that had once belonged to her father. Long ago she had claimed it for her own and used it as her favorite nightgown. Now it was just one more reminder of her father, and for the present time, she needed it to help her through the loneliness that threatened to consume her soul.

  With a sigh, she sat down on her bed and noticed for the first time that a stack of mail lay there awaiting her inspection. There was something else there as well. A black book, an album of sorts, had been neatly placed beneath the mail, and it was this that drew Cheryl’s attention. Cautiously, almost reverently, she opened the book and found cutout headlines re-presenting the last six months or so of her life.

  Mary must have done this, she thought. The housekeeper was fond of cutting out any public announcements of her employer and saving them for his consideration. Now, perhaps, she felt Cheryl should take over that job as well.

  It seemed odd to hold the pages of one’s life in a single book. The headline announcing her father’s suicide opened the chapter and Cheryl forced herself to read the details aloud.

  “Ben Fairchild, cofounder of O&F Aviation Corporation, was found shot to death in his downtown office today. Police are ruling the death a suicide. Fairchild was the focus of an intense Drug Enforcement Administration investigation, and it is rumored that charges were soon to be leveled in connection with a national drug smuggling ring.”

  Cheryl fell silent. There was no way they would ever convince her that her father had been corrupt. Ben Fairchild had been a paragon of virtue. He had given liberally to charities, had received multiple community action awards, and had never failed to make certain Cheryl had everything she needed. He was a good father and citizen, she assured herself. He couldn’t possibly do the things they accused him of.

  She turned the pages and saw articles that laid out the foundation for the DEA’s suspicions toward her father. Those suspicions were only heightened when it was discovered that Ben had transferred everything he’d owned into Cheryl’s name some two years prior to the investigation. Cheryl had known nothing about this. The house, the cars, stock, money markets, bank accounts, even the businesses her father had built were all officially the property of Cheryl Fairchild. It was almost too much to consider.

  Toward the end of the book, Cheryl came across an article that told of her own misfortune. “DEA Drug Bust Claims Victims,” the headline read. Cheryl held her breath for a moment, then let it out slowly. This was where her life had ended. This was where the love of her life had been killed and the baby she’d hoped to give him had miscarried.

  “DEA Officer Curtiss O’Sullivan…” She couldn’t read past the name. Curt had been an intricate part of her life. His father had been her father’s partner in O&F Aviation. They had wooed the country with aerial barnstorming shows and biplane exhibitions. Her father had maintained the business dealings, while Curt and his father had performed the actual flying feats. Cheryl and Curt’s sister, CJ, had become fast friends, while Cheryl had lost her heart completely to CJ’s gangly adolescent broth
er.

  They had grown up as one family, or very nearly. The O’Sullivans and Fairchilds were quite inseparable. They worked together, vacationed together, raised children together. And now, Cheryl thought, they are dead together.

  Cheryl’s mother had passed away many years earlier from cancer, and CJ and Curt’s parents had died in an airplane crash. It was that same crash that had left a sixteen-year-old CJ horribly injured. Cheryl had been engaged to Curt at the time, but he’d rapidly changed after the death of his parents, and now Cheryl knew why. The night of the plane crash, Curt’s father had telephoned him to say that he’d discovered cocaine on board one of the planes, and Curt immediately picked up the banner of what would become his private crusade. Their breakup had hurt, but not nearly as badly as knowing that Curt was responsible for the death of Grant, and in some ways, her baby as well.

  Cheryl put her hands to her flat stomach, and a shudder ran through her from head to toe. She’d known it was wrong to give in to Grant’s desires, but she’d been so confident that nothing bad could come of it. CJ had tried to warn her—to convince her that God had a better way in mind—but Cheryl wanted nothing of religion and rules. Grant showed her a side of life that said rules were unimportant so long as you had plenty of money. With plenty of money, you could buy new rules or make up your own as you went along. And Cheryl found that it worked. At least for a while.

  She tried hard not to think of the child who would never be born. She tried hard not to think of the emptiness inside her when she knew the baby was gone for good. She slammed the book shut and dropped it as though it had grown red hot. She couldn’t let herself think about the past anymore.

  “Ha,” she said sarcastically, “as if I could ever forget.”

  She shuffled downstairs, the T-shirt bobbing at her knees, her bare feet sinking deep into the plush, supple carpet. She had no idea what she was going to do with herself for the rest of the day, but even this seemed taken from her control at the sound of the doorbell.

  She pushed back damp curls and stared at the door for several mo-ments. Who could it possibly be? The bell rang again.

  “Who…who is it?” Cheryl called out nervously.

  “It’s CJ, Cheryl. Come on and open up.”

  Cheryl slowly opened the door and stared at the petite red-haired woman. “I’m not up for visitors, CJ,” she said flatly.

  “I was worried about you,” CJ said, seeming to ignore

  Cheryl’s tone. “I thought you were going to let me bring you home.”

  “I never agreed to that.” Cheryl noted the hurt expression on CJ’s face but continued. “I told you before, I can’t deal with you just now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It isn’t that hard,” Cheryl replied. “Your brother ruined my life.”

  “That’s not really true, Cheryl, and you know it,” CJ countered.

  Cheryl’s anger erupted without warning. “What would you know of the truth? You’ve lived in a shell most of your life. First with your picture-perfect family, then hidden away from the world in the misery you felt after the death of your parents.” CJ paled, but Cheryl was unrelenting. “You have your husband and your wonderful life, so please don’t feel like you need to show pity on me. I don’t want it, nor do I need it.”

  “I wasn’t offering you pity, Cheryl. I thought we were friends.”

  “Were friends,” Cheryl repeated. “We were friends.”

  “But not now, is that it?” CJ’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re going to throw away a lifetime of friendship because of what has happened?”

  “You say that as though nothing of great importance has transpired. As though you put a scratch on my car or a hole in my favorite sweater.” Cheryl looked hard at CJ for a moment and tried to feel something other than rage. It was impossible, however. She couldn’t stop the flow of words that came.

  “I have lost everything that mattered to me. My father is dead. Stratton—” She paused and shook her head. “Grant is dead. My baby is dead. Do you suppose I care very much that your feelings are hurt be-cause I don’t want your friendship? Do you suppose I care at all whether I ever see you again, knowing that just seeing your face reminds me of the man who murdered my loved ones?”

  CJ was now openly weeping. “Don’t be like this. Curt was only doing his job.” She struggled to keep control of her voice. “Curt didn’t want to kill him, but Grant pulled a gun and started shooting. Those were Grant’s bullets that struck you; did you forget that? He was trying to kill my brother.”

  Cheryl refused to be moved by the display of sorrow or by CJ’s words. “Curt didn’t have to start the whole thing.”

  “You mean let the murder of my parents go unpunished?” CJ questioned, sobering a bit. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’d rather my parents’ murder be swept under the rug so that the business could go on as usual. Ben could have kept his little drug-ring secrets, and Grant or Stratton or whatever other name he used could go on deceiving you.”

  “If it meant bringing back my loved ones, then yes,” Cheryl answered coldly. “Now I’d like for you to leave. I told you before that I haven’t the energy to deal with this.”

  “But I care about you,” CJ said, wiping her eyes. “I know that you’re just using your anger to camouflage the pain. I want you to know that you aren’t alone. I still care and so does God.”

  “Don’t give me that religious song and dance you’re so fond of. God didn’t care enough to keep my baby from dying or protect my father from your brother’s slanderous accusations. And God certainly didn’t care about Grant.”

  “But you’re wrong,” CJ replied. “God cared for each of them. Is it His fault that Grant and Ben wanted nothing to do with Him?”

  “Get out.” Cheryl’s voice was deadly calm. “Get out and take your God with you. I don’t have to listen to this now or ever.”

  CJ turned to leave but hesitated for just a moment.

  “Cheryl, I want you to know that when you are ready for a friend, I’m here for you. I won’t stop caring about you just because you say mean things, so if you’re using that to push me away, it won’t work.”

  A strange sensation coursed through Cheryl. Looking into CJ’s eyes, Cheryl could read the sincerity and love her friend held for her. But just as quickly as she recognized this truth, Cheryl pushed it away. To see the truth of CJ’s concern meant that her own beliefs of needing to endure injustice and suffering alone were invalid.

  “There’s nothing more to be said, CJ, unless it’s to make clear to that brother of yours that if he ever sets foot on my property, I’ll personally even the score.”

  CJ’s eyes widened in shock at the threat, but it mattered little to Cheryl. She watched CJ go and slammed the door hard. Closed doors were all she would ever give CJ from this moment on. It was a promise she made herself, and for reasons beyond her understanding, it gave her a moment of peace.

  two

  But you don’t understand,” Erik Connors told his sister and her husband. “Cheryl Fairchild is, in my opinion, suicidal. No doctor in his right mind should have released her, even if her physical wounds were healed.”

  “Erik, it isn’t your concern,” his sister Christy offered. “If the doctors okayed her release, then you can’t interfere with that. Besides, Cheryl allowed herself to be mixed up with Grant Burks, and now she’s paying the piper. Don’t forget, she was the ‘other woman’ in our little sister’s short married life.”

  Erik nodded, knowing full well that their sister had suffered greatly because of Grant’s infidelity. Candy had barely been old enough to marry when she’d fallen in love with Grant Burks, and in spite of both Christy and Erik’s misgivings, she had married him and found herself almost immediately pregnant.

  “But, Christy, Cheryl didn’t know he was married to Candy. She had no way of knowing that he had a wife and baby on the way. To my way of thinking, she was just as duped as Candy was.”

  Curt O’Sullivan nodded. “I
think that’s true in many senses.” He exchanged a brief apologetic smile with his wife. “I don’t think that it makes what happened justified or right, however. Cheryl has always lived life in the fast lane. Her father taught her that, and he lived the example right up until the end. It was one of the biggest reasons I had to cut off my engagement with Cheryl.”

  “Good thing, too,” Christy said with a loving smile.

  “Well, despite her fast-lane approach to life,” Erik said seriously, “she deserves forgiveness for her mistakes. God isn’t going to hold a grudge against her, and I don’t see where we have the right to, if God Himself doesn’t plan to.”

  “She has to want to be forgiven,” Curt interrupted. “She has to seek repentance, recognizing that she was wrong in the first place. So far, I don’t see that Cheryl feels she has anything to confess.”

  “But given all that she’s just come through, she’s got to be doing a great deal of soul-searching.”

  “Erik, that is a matter of opinion, and not only that,” Curt added, “but what makes you think Cheryl’s brand of soul-searching includes wanting to hear about God from a complete stranger?”

  “Who better? I don’t hold anything against her, so it isn’t like you or CJ going to see her. Cheryl has no past with me through which she might just feel even more ashamed, and she knows me from the hospital.”

  “I can’t help but think she’s going to feel a very strong past with you,” Christy interjected, “even if you don’t want her to feel that way. Once you explain the connection and she realizes that you’re Candy’s brother, she won’t want anything else to do with you.”

  “Christy’s probably right,” Curt replied.

  From upstairs came the cry of a baby. “Well, that will be Sarah expecting to be fed,” said Christy, getting to her feet. Sarah, the baby Candy had given birth to shortly before succumbing to a brain tumor, had come into Christy’s life much in the same way her husband Curt had. Most unexpectedly, yet most welcomed. Erik knew his sister held a deep abiding love for both of them, and he’d never seen her happier.