Her Secret Shame
Black Hills Brides Book #3
Available Now From
Christine Sterling
Her Secret Past
(Black Hills Brides #1)
Her Secret Baby
(Black Hills Brides #2)
Wanted: Medicine Man
(Silverpines Series #5)
Her Secret Shame
(Black Hills Brides #3)
Coming Soon From
Christine Sterling
Her Secret Love
(Black Hills Brides #4)
Fall 2018
Lucy
(Heart of Gold Brides #1)
Summer 2018
Wanted: Gravedigger
(Silverpines Series)
Autumn 2018
Marty
(A Silverpines YA Novel)
Summer 2018
Buckskins & Bows
Summer 2018
Her Secret Shame
Black Hills Brides Book #3
Christine Sterling
Her Secret Shame
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblances to persons, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved with the exceptions of quotes used in reviews. This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or part by any means without written permission from the author.
Her Secret Shame. © 2018 Christine Sterling
Cover Art: Josephine Blake, Cupcakes & Covers
Editing by: Carolyn Leggo
Acknowledgments
Every good thing comes from the Lord. I praise Him every day – thank you for the words! I love you, Abba Daddy.
My husband, Daniel. I thank God every day for bringing us together. You mean so much to me. I appreciate your support and encouragement, even when things get difficult.
As always, to my daughters Rebecca, Nora & Elizabeth. I love you to the moon and back.
My editor, Carolyn, who makes sure that my writing goes out with minimal errors. I appreciate your eagle eyes!
My beta reader team, thank you for helping me write stories that my readers want to read!
For Auntie Susan
Your notes to Mummy telling her how much you enjoy my stories just make my day! Thank you for supporting me as I make my dream of being a full-time author a reality. I love you!
Table of Contents
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
Epilogue
Prologue
Misty, Thirteen
“Why is Mama crying?” Mary Fields asked her sister, Misty, as they were sitting on the floor, Mary playing with her dolls.
Misty turned towards her mother, who was in the kitchen fixing their supper for the night. Though her back was to them, there was no mistaking those sniffles coming from her. Her shoulders sagged, and she was wiping away tears from her eyes as she mixed the contents for dinner in a bowl. Misty had noticed her mother had been hiding her tears for a while now. Their father had unexpectedly died four months ago, leaving a devastating mark to their family. Mary had finally stopped asking when Papa was going to come home just a few weeks ago.
Misty reached over and patted her little sister on the head. “She’s just sad about Papa,” she said, trying to reassure her. But Misty knew it was more than that. Something was wrong. She had started to notice some of their household items were disappearing. A glass vase from the hallway, a large nature painting from the foyer, her mother’s prized jewelry.
Late at night, when her mother thought her daughters were fast asleep, there would be quiet chats with Mr. Harper, their father’s business partner. Misty had snuck out of bed one night to listen to their conversation and all she could glean was a few harsh whispers and a quiet, “how could he do this to us?”
Mary looked up with her big brown eyes. “Can we make her not sad?”
Misty solemnly smiled, shaking her head delicately. “I don’t think we can,” she said, taking her sister into her arms and holding her closely. Her sister was so small, she fit into her lap. “We just need to be brave for her. Can you do that for Mama, Mary?” She felt her sister nod her head as Misty tucked her head under her chin. She held her close, hoping the hug would make her feel safe and whole.
Mary was only eight years old, and Misty thirteen. She didn’t understand the predicament the family was in. And although her mother tried to keep everything under the surface as much as possible, Misty knew there was something terribly wrong.
There was a clacking of pans on the counter and the girls turned to the kitchen. “Wilhelmina? Can you please set the table?” their mother asked. Misty kissed her little sister and set the child down as she went to help her mother in the kitchen.
Misty despised her proper name; she had hated it when she was a child, as her cousins would tease her mercilessly. When she turned five she decided she would go by her middle name, Misty, and would not answer to anything else. Her father had indulged her, laughing about how his little girl was so forthright; her mother wasn’t so happy and refused to call her anything but her given name, a name, as Mama snidely reminded her, that had been a family name, passed down from generation to generation. That summer was a cold one, with the two fighting constantly; but once baby Mary started calling her sister “Misty,” Misty took this as a win and decided that if everyone else would comply, she could allow her mother to call her the name she had given her.
Misty took the dishes from the cupboards and set them down on the table, making three place settings. “Set another place down, as there will be a fourth person joining us,” said her mother, as she put a loaf of bread at the end of the table.
“Is Mr. Harper joining us?” Misty asked hopefully, turning around to grab another plate. Mr. Harper usually brought sweets with him for the girls. Misty suspected it was because he felt sorry for their predicament.
“No, it is not Mr. Harper, and it is not polite to be prying,” she said, grabbing another bowl and setting it on the table. Their mother was always about keeping up with appearances. Misty was also chastised for doing and saying things that were unbecoming of a lady, as her mother so dictated.
Once, not long ago, when Misty had come home from playing outside with the boys from the neighborhood, with her dress muddy and torn, her mother exclaimed how her daughter was ever going to get married to a respectable man if she continued like that. Misty thought about her father that night, how he was sitting at the table reading the newspaper. He laughed, saying how it was so soon to be talking about such affairs and that Misty would be able to find a man that would love her no matter what she did or how she acted. Mama scowled and went back to preparing dinner. That was how her father always was; he was so kind to her, so open and understanding. He was always there to be the voice of reason between her and her mother, playing the peacemaker. But now he was dead, and she was alone.
Once the table was set, Misty retrieved her sister from the next room and sat her down at the table. As Misty sat in her seat, there was a knock at the door. Mama rushed out of the room and a man’s voice filtered from the doorway. As the voices came closer, Misty
couldn’t help but feel her skin crawl. The voice sounded like sugary molasses, slithering up and around her. Mary seemed to be oblivious next to her, swinging her legs under the table and singing a sweet song.
The man entered the dining room. He was large around the middle, with his hair thinning and sweat on his brow. He was holding a hat and coat, which Mama had quickly taken from him into the next room. “My, Rose, your daughters are so beautiful! They look just like you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carson,” she said, as she walked back into the kitchen motioning him to take the seat at the top of the table. Misty’s eyes went wide as he took her father’s seat. She turned to her mother, glaring at her. But if her mother had seen, she didn’t let her emotions show. Misty let herself bury the thought, tucking it away for a fight later, after this man left. “This is Wilhelmina, my oldest. And Mary, my baby,” she said with a smile. Mary smiled at the man, with not a hint of suspicion. Misty was about to open her mouth to correct her mother, but when she looked up and saw a flash of fury in her mother’s eyes, she thought better and turned back to her place setting, as her mother started to plate the food before them.
The conversation went on for a bit, with the two sharing pleasantries and talking about issues and items Misty had no interest of. If she was at dinner with her old family, with her father sitting where this man was sitting, she would feel free to speak however she pleased. But the way her mother was acting now, she knew it was not the best place to say anything, for fear of embarrassment. Mr. Carson took a swig of water from his glass, setting it on the table. “Rose, I am in such awe of you. You are so beautiful. Elias was such a lucky man.”
Misty turned to look at her mother. Even though her face was flushed, and she thanked him, Misty could tell her mother was visibly uncomfortable. She was trying hard not to show it, but her hands were slowly shaking as she used her fork and knife to cut her chicken. Her mother was beautiful; a regal, old world beauty, as her father had put it. She had long, fiery red hair that seemed to betray her calm attitude, with green eyes that looked like jewels. Her lips were full, and she had high cheekbones. She often overheard people around town talk about how beautiful she was.
Misty was secretly jealous of their words and comments; on many an occasion, the same voices would lament at how the only attribute Misty shared with her mother was the hair the color of fire. They all wondered how such a beautiful woman could have such a plain looking daughter.
Her mother smiled it off and continued their conversation. Misty, having lost her appetite, pushed her food around on the plate until Mary started to become restless beside her. The young girl couldn’t sit in her seat for long before she was playing with the napkins. Mama had noticed, looking over to Mary and then to Misty. “Wilhelmina, can you please take Mary to her room? Mr. Carson and I have matters to discuss.”
Mary seemed to protest, crossing her arms and pouting. Misty got up from her chair and grabbed the little girl, setting her on the floor. She clutched her hand and led her to their room. “Misty, why do we have to leave? I wasn’t finished with my meal.”
“Mama and the man have business together. Besides, don’t you want to play with your dolls?”
This seemed to perk up the little girl. She ran before, dragging Misty in her wake. “Oh!” she shouted, as she dropped Misty’s hand abruptly. “I left the dolls in the other room.”
“I’ll get the dolls. Why don’t you go upstairs, and I’ll be right up,” Misty said, as the little girl squealed and ran up the steps.
Thinking nothing of it, Misty walked to the room to retrieve her sister’s dolls. She didn’t think to announce herself as she walked through the doorway, as she didn’t want to disturb her mother. She would probably just yell at her for not doing as she was told.
She entered the small parlor, locating the dolls sitting on the rug in the middle of the room. When she bent down and collected them, the movement from the dining room caught her attention and she peered through the swinging doors.
Misty’s mouth dropped, and she quickly closed her hand over her mouth before the gasp could escape. Mr. Carson had moved his chair close to Mama; one of his hands lay on her leg while the other was on her side. His pudgy face was settled in the crook of her neck. Misty couldn’t see his mouth, but she could hear the sucking noises. Her mom’s eyes were closed, shut so tight it looked painful. She was holding the edge of her chair in a vice grip. After a few moments, he leaned back, his eyes hazy with lust and his smile lecherous. “Shall we go upstairs?”
“No,” Mama said, a little too forcefully, that it took the man by surprise. “My daughters are upstairs; we must do it down here.”
He regained his composure, touching her mother by her shoulders, dragging his fingers down until they rested on her waist. “Of course, but I cannot guarantee they will not hear anything,” he added, with the most wicked chuckle Misty had ever heard. She felt chills crawl up her spine and her stomach twisted into knots as she attempted to keep her supper in check.
Misty saw her mother get up from the table. Fearing she would get caught, she got up and ran away, not stopping until she was safely inside the room she shared with Mary, slamming the door behind her. As she was huffing, Mary looked up from where she was sitting, a teddy bear between her legs on the floor. “Misty, where are my dolls?”
In her haste, she had dropped the dolls onto the floor. “I didn’t want to interrupt Mama. Let’s just play with Mr. Teddy Bear. How about that? Then I’ll go down later and pick up your dolls.”
The little girl didn’t flinch at her admission, only shrugging her shoulders and taking the bear into her arms.
Misty sat on the floor with her sister, as she tried to reconcile the images she had seen downstairs. Her parents had only exchanged intimate affections with each other at times when they believed no one was looking. Though, it was nothing to the extreme of what she had just witnessed, and it didn’t give her the disgusted feeling that she was experiencing at that moment.
It would be a year or two before Misty would understand what happened to her mother, but it would be years too late for her to do anything to stop it.
Chapter 1
Misty dabbed her eyes, as she sat on the back steps behind the hotel. She wiped her hands on her long skirt as it pooled around her legs. Looking around, she couldn’t see anyone for miles, only dirt and boxes strew around. Letting out a sniffle, she wiped her face again with the back of her hand. Why did she let those men get to her? She had been through so much in her life, leering and lecherous men shouldn’t damper her spirits. Misty had always prided herself in being a strong woman; she had to grow up at such an early age that she had no time to really dwell on unnecessary matters. Still, there was always a trigger in her that never failed to resonate and bring her to tears.
She pushed back her fiery red hair, getting up to look at her reflection in the tall water barrel next to the stairs. As her reflection defiantly stared back at her, she spared a thought to her mother. As she was growing up, she always wondered if she would ever have anything of hers, besides her long beautiful hair. She bore the brunt of everyone’s jokes, and comparisons how her pudgy face and thin lips would never amount to anything other than a pale contrast of her mother’s regal beauty.
Yet, as she looked back at the face staring back at her, she could see hints of her mother. Would she be proud of the woman she had become? They had had fights about what kind of woman she was destined to be. Her mother had wanted her to be quiet and docile, attributes Misty herself had never aspired to be. She thought of herself as a bright flame and all her mother wanted to do was douse it with water.
She pushed the thoughts to the back of her head. She never liked to dwell on her past; if she thought about her mother, it would lead her to think about all she had left behind. She chanted to herself, how all her decisions she had made up to this point, were for one common goal: to keep everything that she held dear safe.
She walked up the steps and opened the door
leading into the back kitchen. Mr. Higgins was standing at the stove, his back to her, adding some spices to a large pan and stirring it. Misty went to the counter to lay out a few bowls. When he turned around, he looked up to see her. “Girl, where have you been?”
She didn’t look up to him, as she placed more bowls on more trays. “I just needed some fresh air.”
Mr. Higgins waved his spoon in her direction. “Some air? You have been gone for half an hour! What in tarnation were you doing?”
Misty ignored his comment and went to the cupboard on the side of the room to grab fresh linens to fold into napkins. “How is the gentleman doing?”
“You mean the one you gave the bloody nose? I had to give free breakfast just to get him calmed down, which I will be taking out of your wages,” he said, as he rested the spoon down, gripping the counter before him for stability. “If it wasn’t for the sheriff, I think he wouldn’t have been as amiable.”
Misty stopped, leaving the cabinet doors slightly ajar. John. Butterflies flew through her stomach, but she willed them away. She would have to thank him when she saw him. “I’m happy it worked out.”
“Misty, my girl, I can’t have you hit every man who looks at you cross. You have to try to ignore them.”
Misty felt her blood boil. “He didn’t just look at me cross. He grabbed me!” she shouted, turning around to slam the linens on the table, making the porcelain bowls clink against the trays. “He wanted something I wasn’t willing to give.” Realizing she was overreacting, she tried to slow her breathing, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear.
“And how would he get that impression?” Mr. Higgins questioned. “I don't run that type of business here.”
Her Secret Shame (Black Hills Brides Book 3) Page 1
