She still couldn’t understand how she went from nobody, a vagabond on the streets, to a worldwide sensation in less than two years. She just remembered one day waking up and seeing her face plastered everywhere and everyone talking about her. Her head still reeled when she thought about it. But that was in the past, and now she could almost go out without even the slightest bit of fear. She remembered happily the first time she was able to go to the grocery store without being mobbed by anyone. It was just a typical day, nothing worth mentioning really, except that she had made it up and down the aisles without a single “hello,” “hey, aren’t you,” or an “oh my God.” Even as she went through the checkout, she could still feel that little bit of apprehension until she handed the cashier her card. Though she looked at it funny and then at her several times, the woman never said a single word. She just let her go on about her business as if she was just another customer out for supplies. That had been a wonderful day.
Now she was going to have to get comfortable all over again. She still couldn’t believe she was actually going to do this. Fear and uncertainty plagued her as she took her seat. Maybe this is a mistake, she thought. “I can walk right off this plane and go find some apartment somewhere. I don’t have to leave everything behind.”
Her palms began to sweat. Her heart started to race. “This was a bad idea,” she muttered. Shaking her head, she started to stand as thefasten your seat beltssign came on. She looked up and watched the stewardess shut and lock the door.
“Ma’am, do you need help with your seat belt?” another stewardess asked.
“No thank you,” Sarah replied, sitting back down and locking the lap belt. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “I can do this,” she whispered.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Sarah Mitchell?”
Sarah sighed and opened her eyes and smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I know I am not supposed to ask, but I just love your music. Could I please get your autograph? ”
“No problem,” Sarah replied and signed the napkin the stewardess handed her. She watched the women smile as she walked away. Sarah just pulled her ball cap down, closed her eyes, and prayed this wasn’t going to be a long flight.
By the time she opened her eyes, the plane had landed at Heathrow. Sarah enjoyed the cab ride from London. The weather was beautiful, and the scenery was as she remembered. Everything was all green and luscious. The rolling hills and full trees filled the hillsides with merriment. The soft, sweet breeze filled her lungs as she inhaled its scent. This place was magical, and she could feel the land welcoming her home.
The towns were small and quaint. Cobblestone drives and dirt roads made their way across the landscapes. Houses of plaster and teak were scattered throughout the area. The little villages were small but efficient, and as the cab headed toward her new home, she remembered all. She knew she was almost there as the cab made the turn around the curve in the road.
There, off in the distance, was her hill. Sitting atop of her hill was the small house that William had built. She couldn’t wait any longer.
“Could you please stop here? I can walk the rest of the way,” she asked the driver.
“Aye, miss, ’tis a walk, three miles, maybe more. I can take you the rest of the way,” he offered.
“I know, but I don’t mind walking.”
“Okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and pulling over to the side of the road. He got out and helped her remove her luggage and stood there, watching her walk the rest of the three miles. As she walked forward, her house was no more, but there nestled up on the hill was a cottage. Made with the traditional stone walls and thatched roof, the cottage was from a time that no longer existed. From a freshly painted green door to the frosted windows and the lush window boxes filled with fresh herbs and flowers, the cottage melted her heart.
“Beautiful,” she whispered as she stepped into her new home.
* * * *
Time moved slowly as Sarah adjusted to the solitude. She found solace in long walks through the hills. The quietness around her gave her the peace she was longing for as the beauty of the country began to help her heal. After a week she found a stream that flowed into a meadow on the property and was overjoyed to find that it was untouched.
A small meadow out of the way held the comfort she was searching for. There by the stream she watched squirrels rummage for nuts, deer prancing around playfully, and birds singing to all who could listen. The afternoon sun shone down through the canopy of trees above, illuminating this mystical place. Flowers of poppies, daffodils, and lilacs surrounded her haven. Smiling, she thought to herself, I have found heaven.
Moss-covered rocks led to a small patch of untouched earth. Sarah followed, laughing with a child’s heart. Making herself comfortable, she laid her head against the warmth of the earth and closed her eyes, letting all the sounds around her engulf her body.
There in her little piece of heaven, Sarah found peace.
Sighing as a serene calmness flowed over her, she reached for her iPod, placing the earphones in her ears as she hit the power button. Searching forLes Misérables, she scrolled until she found her favorite tune. Hitting play, she closed her eyes once more and began singing along with the birds, the trees, the deer, and the water.
Chapter 4
Texas, January 28th
The fire was still simmering as he rolled over in his bed. A low moan emanated from his lips as he touched his hand to his forehead. The darkness of the room aided the terrible hangover that he knew he was going to be nursing when he woke. He knew he had drunk too much, but it was a damn party.
He was exhilarated. After five years of trying, he had finally gotten that monkey off of his back. Now the real test, in two weeks, his team would be playing the game of their lives, and it all rested on his shoulders.
Or at least that was how it felt.
Drafted right out of college, Mark found himself the “newbie” quarterback with an arm like a rocket. He was wanted by many but ended up with the Texas Rebels. After three years with the team, and only a handful of times of actual play time, he thought he was never going to get his chance. Then what should have been a simple handoff to a running back turned out to be a nightmare for any quarterback.
He closed his eyes and remembered it clearly.
“With seven seconds left of a tied game, Jones hands it off to Terrell Hines. Oohh! No! He’s down! Number 56, Ike Henley has tackled Jones! The refs have thrown the flags. Roughing the quarterback that will set the Hawks back ten yards. Wait a minute, folks, Jones isn’t getting up. They’re signaling for the trainers. This isn’t good.”And it wasn’t.
The team’s veteran quarterback was only thirty-four when his career was cut short that day. What looked to be a simple tackle ended up breaking Jones’s leg in three places. Still today, he walked with a limp. It didn’t take long after the word of his severe injury got around, that number 56, Ike Henley, retired, saying,“I will never play again.”
Mark lay there, letting the shiver run through him. He didn’t know why he still let that day bother him so much, but it did. Maybe because it was the first time in seventeen years the Rebels had made it to the playoffs, and after the accident, they went on to lose the game, or it could be since he took over the coaches were determined not to let that happen to him and took too many precautions, or it was because in one week he would be playing that same team once again for the coveted spot in the championship game.
He couldn’t figure it out. His head was hurting too much. He could only handle one problem at a time right now, and first in his playbook was this blasted pounding in his head.
Slowly moving toward the edge of the bed, he swung his feet over the side, and as he rose to sit, the severe drumming in his head sounded like a thousand drums beating all at once. “Dear God, just kill me now,” he muttered softly.
Even the sound of his voice caused him pain. Needing aspirin, he rose and staggered toward the bath
room. Flipping on the lights was a huge mistake, and he quickly turned them back off, but the damage was done.
Now his eyes hurt!
Fumbling around in the dark, he found the medicine cabinet and grabbed what he believed to be the bottle of aspirin. At least he prayed it was aspirin. Not taking any chances, he removed the lid and tasted the small pill with the tip of his tongue. “Ugh!” he moaned. “Can’t they coat this crap. It tastes awful,” he softly said as he poured about five pills in his hand and popped them in his mouth. He tried to swallow quickly, but his mouth was too parched, and before he knew it the rancid taste was all in his mouth.
Now he had that awful taste in his mouth!
Walking back to his bed, he reached for the glass next to his bed and took a drink, quickly spitting out the contents across the room. Bourbon!
Giving up altogether, he laid his head back against the pillows. He wanted to die as he pulled the comforter back over him and planned to spend the next three days in bed.
Ring…ring…ring.
The telephone echoed through the room. “Mother of God, please have mercy!” he mumbled and reached for the receiver. “I’m dying. This better be good,” he whispered.
“Get your ass out of that bed!” the woman shouted through the phone.
A small smile appeared across his face as he slowly placed the phone back on its hook. He chuckled a little and rolled over. He knew eventually she would call and she wouldn’t be happy. Oh well.
Ring…ring…ring.
“Bitch,” he cursed as he reached for the receiver once again. “What!” he shouted and wished he hadn’t. The pounding in his head grew tenfold.
“Don’t you ever hang up on me again! Have you seen this morning’s news report? Your ass is all over it, again!” the woman shouted.
Grabbing the television remote, he hit the power button. Flipping to ESPN, there it was.
“Bad Boy Armstrong has struck again. After the victorious Conference win over the Arizona Angels last night, Armstrong and his fellow teammates partied into the night at Club Marvelous. It didn’t take long before the club owner had to call the Phoenix police department. They converged on the club, where fifteen of the Texas Rebels were in a bar brawl with local patrons. From what this reporter was able to find out, Armstrong was getting a little friendly with the owner’s wife, and soon the fight ensued. Several people have been taken to local hospitals with minor injuries, while our own Mark Armstrong once again walked away without a scratch.
“Though one of his fellow teammates was not so lucky. Gabriel Bowden will not likely play. He has been admitted for three broken ribs and a broken wrist. With this latest fiasco, how can the Texas Rebels manage without their top running back? What punishment will the Commissioner hand down this time? But what everyone wants to know is when will Bad Boy Armstrong finally grow up? With the team heading to London today, we can only hope that a change of venue and the possibility of losing the championship game will focus the NFL’s wildest quarterback. This is Megan Cook reporting from Phoenix.”
Mark waited for her to start yelling again, but when a minute passed, he knew he had pushed her too far. So taking a deep breath, he apologized. “Bridge, I’m sorry. I guess I had a little too much to drink. I didn’t know she was married. Really, I didn’t.”
Nothing.
The line was eerily quiet. Thinking she had hung up on him, he hung up the phone and rolled over, pulling the comforter up over his head. But solitude was not in his cards today. It took all of three minutes before the door flew open and the lights were turned on.
She wasted no time with the yelling.
* * * *
London, Monday, January 31st.
The rain was pelting the windshield as his car drove through the early morning London streets. Sitting in the backseat going over the playbook, he was lost in thought. Mark knew he should be thinking of the practice this afternoon that needed his full attention, but he found himself thinking of other things. Something was nagging him. As he sat there trying to figure it out, his gut was telling him something was amiss. The feeling buried itself deep within his gut. A warning maybe? he thought, but he just knew something was about to happen. What? He had no idea. One thing he was sure of was his gut had never let him down yet.
It didn’t take long to get to the stadium. Mark Garret Armstrong had waited for this moment for his entire life. He was here to play the game of his life and nothing else. All of his hard work and focus had finally come down to this, one game.
Just one simple game and everything he worked so hard for would be over, and he would have that coveted ring upon his finger. He wanted that ring, and nothing was going to get in his way, not even some little nagging bug that was bothering him. Quickly riding off the feeling as nerves, he smiled as he saw the horde of reporters waiting.
The car pulled to a stop in front of the blue-glass stadium. He was greeted by his personal assistant, Bridget.
Bridget Pearson had come very well recommended. Being well connected with some of the largest and most successful sporting agents in the business, and having an uncle who just happened to be the commissioner, made Bridget the best lady for the job, and Mark was used to getting what he wanted. He had met her at a party over five years ago, and after eight months of begging, bribing, coercing, and then finally getting down on both knees pleading, she had given her notice and agreed to work for him.
Since then, she had managed to keep him focused and on track. Mark was never a stickler for details, but that was where Bridget excelled. Out of all his female acquaintances, she was the only one that he was not physically attracted to. Bridget Pearson was a twenty-six year old woman with the world’s biggest temper and a mouth to boot. She could ream his ass up one side and down the next and not give a damn. Mark had to admit that Bridget actually scared the shit out of him. A small thing, with shoulder-length curly blonde hair and the prettiest hazel eyes south of the Mason-Dixon Line he had ever seen, she tried to keep his ass in line. She had a firm grip on reality and a head for the game in her own right, and Mark adored her.
“Mark,” Bridget said, miffed as he exited the car. “I have canceled all your interviews this morning. Don’t forget you promised to attend the children’s wing at the hospital and sign some autographs. Your brother has been calling since six this morning, so please call him back or the next time he calls and yells at me, I quit. Your housekeeper wants to know what you want done with Margaret,” she said, drawing out the name and shaking her head at him. “The auto shop called, and they said that monstrosity of yours should be ready by three today. I will have Frank swing by and get it for you.”
“It’s not a monstrosity. It’s a classic,” he rebuffed.
“It’s an accident waiting to happen,” she said and continued on as they walked into the stadium. “Anyway,” she began again, “Miss Abigail sent you her birthday invitation. Shall I make the arrangements?”
“What has the little demon asked for this time?” Mark asked, smiling.
“She wants a pink riding saddle with the British flag on the seat. She has also asked that you not be late this time.”
“Little brat! I was two hours late. At least I wasn’t a day late like Mason,” Mark huffed, remembering her last birthday.
At two years old, Abigail Mason Armstrong was on her way to being the most stubborn Armstrong out of the whole bunch. Of course, it didn’t help having Rachael as a mother, either.
The family had all gotten together to celebrate her second birthday, in Cedar Creek, Texas. It was a beautiful day, that was, until Mark showed up late and had to contend with a very angry two-year-old. He thought his father had a temper, but that little monster was something else. She tore into him, as if she was the queen bee of the universe. What made matters worse was that Michael and Rachael just stood by, laughing and fueling that little girl’s fire, though Mark did admit, after the tongue-lashing Abby gave him, it was nothing compared to what she did to Mason.
Th
e poor man never saw it coming!
Mark smiled as he remembered.
Mason arrived the day after the party with a baby doll in hand to find Abby sitting on the porch crying. Walking to her, he sat down next to her.
“Hey, little bit. What’s with the tears?” he asked, concerned. “I didn’t come all this way to see you cry.”
“Go home!” she shouted.
“Abby. Is that anyway to talk to your Uncle Mason?” he said, shocked at the little girl’s fury. Abigail stood and placed her little hands on her hips and looked Mason right in the eye.
“My birthday you not here, I hate you!” she fumed.
“Abby, come on, darlin’. I did try to get here quick.”
“You didn’t!”
“Abigail Mason Armstrong, I won’t allow you to talk to me that way. I have apologized. Now it’s your turn to forgive me.”
“No!” she shouted back, hitting her uncle in the shoulder.
“Abby, I’m sorry,” he said, trying to curb the building frustration within her.
“No! You not sorry!” she shouted, stomping her little foot and walking into the house. Mason stood to follow her, but the little minx slammed the door and locked it behind her, leaving Mason alone standing on the front porch.
“Abby!”
“Go away!” she screamed.
Mason stood there for about a minute and turned to leave to find all of his brothers laughing near the side of the house, watching everything.
“She sure told you!” Matthew laughed.
“She’s right, though. You didn’t say you’re sorry, Mase,” Mitchell replied, laughing so hard he was holding his stomach.
“What the hell? I am only a day late,” Mason fumed.
The Texas Rebel [The Armstrong Brothers of Cedar Creek 2] (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 4
