A Long Way Home

by Becky Doughty

  A LONG WAY HOME

  The Fallout Series Book Three

  Becky Doughty

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

  NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  A Long Way Home

  Copyright ©2015 Becky Doughty

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-63422-198-6

  Cover Design by: Marya Heiman

  Typography by: Courtney Knight

  Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

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  "Lift up your eyes on high and see who has created these stars, the One who leads forth their host by number. He calls them all by name; because of the greatness of His might and the strength of His power, not one of them is missing." Isaiah 40:26 NASB

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Author's Note

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dancing helped me forget.

  Forget the pain of what I’d left behind. Forget the shame of what I’d done. Forget the fact that my future felt as untethered as the caravan in which I traveled.

  “Mama?” Killian scampered across the sawdust-covered lane toward me, dodging peasants plainly dressed in their earth tones and muslins, persuasive merchants hawking their wares, and Puritans touting their signs, their voices raised in condemnation. His little Aladdin pants flapped around his dirty legs, and the muslin shirt and vest he wore had seen better days. But he was still the cutest kid in the world to me.

  I was up next, which meant I had less than three minutes to give him. Crouching down to his level, I asked, “What is it, baby?”

  Killian babbled away about something that was clearly noteworthy to a two-year-old child, if his animated features could attest. I listened and nodded, my eyes wide as I tried to figure out what he was saying.

  “I have to go dance, Killer.” I didn’t want to interrupt him, but he seemed to be just getting started. “Where’s Pella?” I glanced past his shoulder for the woman who usually had a tight hold on him whenever I took the stage. She stood just a few feet away, carrying on a conversation with another girl from our troupe, but her attention was clearly tuned in on the two of us, waiting for a cue from me to step in. I smiled before turning back to focus on Killian, who hadn’t let up on his diatribe, except to take a breath or two.

  I recognized “tree,” “big,” and “sing,” and knew exactly what he was trying to tell me. “Is Pella taking you to see Treebeard?”

  “Goot! I see Goot!” No matter how many times I told him about J.R.R. Tolkien’s Ents of Fangorn Forest, Killian insisted the huge tree character who roamed the Renaissance Faire was Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy. He’d never seen the movie, but Pella had given him a dancing Groot for Christmas and it was his favorite toy.

  The rhythm of the darbuka drum began to slow, indicating the song was coming to an end. I kissed the top of his tousled head, gave him a little hug, and then straightened. “Go with Pella now. Tell me all about it when you come back, okay?” Patting his little diapered backside in the balloon pants, I sent him running toward the woman who was like a big sister to me. I felt a momentary twinge of guilt over not putting more effort into potty-training Killian, but diapers were so convenient when portable toilets were the only other option. I’d wait until the holidays when we had almost two whole months in the RV park up north.

  I walked backward a few steps as I watched to make sure Killian was physically attached to Pella before I turned around… and crashed into a man in blue jeans and a black T-shirt. I stumbled backward, but he grabbed my shoulders to steady me.

  “Sorry!” I exclaimed, mortified, but now in a hurry as the last drum roll began. “Are you okay?” I lifted my eyes to his face and froze.

  Jordan Ransome. Jordan Ransome! What was he doing here?

  “I’m fine,” he assured me, laughing a little. “I should have been paying more attention to where I was walking.”

  I couldn’t seem to come up with a single word to say. I simply stared, wide-eyed, terrified, with a sudden and acute aching for home piercing through me.

  “Hey,” Jordan said, his brows now furrowed in concern as he cocked his head to look at me. He still held onto me, his hands gentle now. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

  I swallowed hard and shook my head. He didn’t recognize me. Thank God, he didn’t recognize me. But then, my own mother wouldn’t recognize me right now. “I’m fine,” I murmured with a slight accent, slipping into character, just in case. “I am so sorry I ran into you. I was only surprised, that is all. But I must hurry now. I am next to dance.” I twisted out of his grasp and stepped back.

  “Whoa!” He grabbed my hand this time, pulling me up short. “I think maybe the walking backward thing might not be a good idea for you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder as a group of women in peasant garb shot me dirty looks. “So sorry,” I called after them before directing my next words at Jordan. “Thank you, kind sir.” It came out just above a whisper. “I must go now.” I pulled my arm free and skirted around him, glad for the heavily beaded veil that covered most of my face, except for my kohl-lined eyes.

  I hurried to the platform just as the percussionist began the throbbing, pulse-like rhythm—my cue. I hated rushing into a performance, especially for a dance that started so fluidly. So even though I knew I’d hear about it after, I paused just behind the curtain that hung across the arched opening of the stage backdrop and took several deep, cleansing breaths. In t
hrough the nose, push the diaphragm out, fill up the lungs, then breathe out, slowly, controlled, through O-shaped lips.

  In. And out.

  In. And out.

  I could feel the stress of the last few moments slipping away, my shoulders relaxing, my mind settling. I sank into the character of the beautiful Salome who danced with abandon before King Herod Antipas, a girl portrayed in some circles as the ultimate femme fatale; in others, a foolish child so anxious to please her mother, she ultimately cost an innocent man his life.

  The Dance of the Seven Veils. It was a dance of seduction, portraying the power of lust. It started slow and almost organic, with me holding two veils together high so they fell like curtains around me, one in front, one behind, as I walked onto the stage with slow, languid movements. Over the next few measures, I eased the veils lower and lower, my arms out to my sides, keeping the lower half of my face covered. I always picked out a few of the rowdier men in the crowd to focus on—the younger and brasher, the better. They liked to imagine I danced for them, and the harder I worked to convince them of that, the faster my tip baskets filled.

  With the sheer veils held high in front of me, I had a few more moments to compose myself. Jordan didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would sit on the hay bales set up in semi-circles beyond our stage to watch a couple of Gypsy dancers. But then, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who enjoyed spending a day at the Renaissance Faire, either. Regardless, I’d seen his curiosity when he studied me, the flicker of something… not quite recognition, but a visceral knowing that there was a connection between us. I needed to be prepared to find his face in the audience.

  Which meant I needed to be prepared for that knowing to become recognition. And then to become shock over my lifestyle, followed by disgust. Or worse, that gleam some men got when they assumed my dancing meant more than what it did. I’d learned early on how to steer clear of lecherous, grabbing hands while making my way through the crowds in between performances.

  Oh, God. He’d seen me with Killian. Had he heard my boy call me “Mama?” I faltered just a little, but not enough for anyone to notice except for Latiana, the woman who’d taught me how to move like a Gypsy. “You’re a natural, Savah,” her chiding always began. “And because of that, you slip out of the dance here,” she’d point to her temple, “and then here.” She’d press a hand over her heart. “And then your body follows right behind. You need to stay inside the dance with every part of you—body, mind, and soul. You must make every movement count, every motion worthy of your audience’s applause, of their tips.” Without fail, she’d take me by the shoulders, press her forehead to mine so our eyes were less than two inches apart, making me go cross-eyed, and say, “Keep your thoughts under control, child. Do not let them run away with you.”

  If Jordan were in my audience, I’d have to figure out a way to get through the next four minutes without letting thoughts of him run away with me.

  He wasn’t there. My eyes scanned the rows of seated people, the groups standing in the back, even to the vendors across the way where shoppers gathered around racks of scented oils and incense cones, hand-carved walking sticks, and pewter sculptures of dragons and other mystical creatures holding crystal bobbles. He wasn’t there.

  I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, so I threw myself into the ages-old story.

  As I danced, my movements becoming more sinuous, the percussion picked up like a reacting heartbeat. In a flourish, I pulled the two veils apart, spinning and twirling with them in my outstretched hands, and dropped them to the floor near the back of the stage. Two down—five to go. Four more veils were wrapped around my torso, and as the music played and the rhythm accelerated, I spun and swayed, each one fluttering away from me one layer at a time. Until, at last, I collapsed face down… only to rise up once more for a grand finale, the beaded triangle that had covered my face swept aside in the ultimate unmasking of a woman’s beauty.

  Although the original Salome was said to have danced naked before the king, in the version I performed, I remained fully clothed beneath the scarves, in a cap-sleeved cropped bodice and a low-riding, flowing silk skirt. But when done right, the dance felt more provocative than a full-on striptease, and I’d been trained by the best. Latiana taught me how to dance like a Gypsy, while Marek taught me how to stir a man’s passions.

  To me, Salome was a mixture of both versions people claimed her to be—a child who longed for the love and approval of those in authority over her, and a girl on the brink of womanhood who naïvely toyed with the power her untainted, yet sultry beauty endowed her with. A power that could so quickly be used against her by those same people she intended to please. I understood that version of Salome. I knew exactly what it felt like to push the limit, to go all out in order to prove oneself, only to have the rug pulled out from beneath me in a treacherous act of domination and manipulation. That Salome, the one who lay alone on her bed at the end of the night, who wondered what in Heaven’s name she’d just done and how on earth she could ever make it right again, knowing she never, ever could…

  That Salome, I embraced.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I scooped up one of the fancy tip baskets set along the front of the stage, heading out into the audience with it while young Sasha collected my scarves and waited for me off to the side of the stage. A group of four men moved into position to perform a rowdy call-and-response dance, and Sasha and I skirted the stage to the back to wait for my next performance

  “It was so pretty, Savah. I love to watch you dance.” Sasha was a willowy eleven-year-old whose parents were musicians in our little band. Her father played the round-bellied Saz lute, and her mother was a wicked Riqq player, the tambourine/hand drum moving so quickly in her hands she could make it sound like a rushing wind.

  “Thank you, Sash.” I gave her a quick hug, smoothing my hand down her long, silky black braid. The girl was already an incredible little dancer, but she had yet to grow out of the awkward stage of development so many girls go through between childhood and the teen years. So her moves, although smooth, felt contrived. She simply lacked the fluidity of a dancer with a woman’s curves. Another two or three years, though, and she’d have her audiences eating out of her hands. “Your compliments make me so happy.”

  I had two more dances before I could go looking for Pella and Killian—one with a whole group of us women, a dance of joyful celebration similar to the one performed by Miriam and the Israelite women relishing their freedom from slavery after following her younger brother, Moses, on a mass exodus out of Egypt. The other was a rather sultry courtship dance performed between Marek and me.

  Marek. Just Marek. “One name is all I need. Everyone knows Marek.” Marek of the bronzed skin and the sea-green eyes. Marek with his long curls that flipped dramatically when he threw his head back, with his arms thrust high and wide. Marek, the Gypsy King, and his traveling caravan of dancers and musicians.

  Marek and the Gypsies. That was what we were called.

  And as far as Marek was concerned, we all belonged to him. Especially me.

  Behind me, the rustle of skirts and the tinkling of tambourines and zills, the finger cymbals some of the women used, told me we were almost up. I turned and smiled at the group of seven women and girls gathered around, Sasha among them. They whispered quietly, hands moving constantly in communicative gestures. So much was conveyed without words in our group. Supposedly, having eight of us on stage would bring our troupe financial gain today, which translated directly to good tips. I wasn’t going to question Latiana’s beliefs in her numerology, at least not to her face, but I thought it probably had a lot more to do with how hot the day was, which translated directly to how much our audience had indulged in the refreshing meads and ales on tap at every corner. There always seemed a direct correlation to me.

  We sashayed out onto the raised platform as the previous group of dancers headed out into the audience with the tip baskets. Sasha’s mother, Minda, began
a slow rattle on her Riqq. The moment we were all in place, Latiana released a sweeping tongue roll and a whoop, and we were off, hips swaying, skirts held wide, as we twirled and dipped, weaving in and out in figure eights to the rhythm of the flamenco-style music. Our tambourines and zills clinked and tinkled, keeping time with the ancient song, as much a part of the dance as our fluttering costumes.

  This one was my favorite dance of our repertoire to perform. Women of all ages celebrating, rejoicing over freedom from bondage and slavery. There was something about women dancing together, communicating through motion and music, like a bodily manifestation of the old quilting circles. Our movements told stories, the music set the tone, and our audience couldn’t help but cheer and clap along with us, the joyful celebration bubbling up and spilling over the edge of the stage to overwhelm those watching. The dance ended with us giddy and laughing, unable to quench the spirit of joy that moved with us as we thanked each tipper with wide smiles and shy curtsies.

  My dance with Marek was another story altogether. It started out lighthearted and sweet enough—a young girl with a basket on my arm, gathering flowers to bring home to my mother. Then a low pulse began, a throbbing beneath the melody being played by the nay flute and the mizmar, and I’d spin and sway, pulled by an invisible cord toward the edge of the stage, toward the audience… toward the man moving hypnotically up the middle aisle from the back of the crowd. A black silk scarf encircled his head, eyes lined in smoke and mystery, his long hair falling loose and wild down his back. His billowing white shirt splayed open to the waist. Around his hips was tied a scarlet and gold scarf over tight blue pants. He lifted his hands, pulling on that cord, drawing me to him as he swaggered toward me. When he joined me on stage, the dance became a push-me-pull-you battle of wills, a man’s dominance and a woman’s resistance to submit played out before the enthralled audience.