by Ciana Stone
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“It’s starting again.” Wyatt’s voice sounded slurred and strained. “I never should have…”
“What’s starting? Wyatt, what’re you talking about?”
There was no reply to her questions. She turned on the light beside the bed, glancing at the time on the alarm clock. It was just after three in the morning.
“Wyatt? Are you still there? Are you talking about some mission you were sent on?”
“Forget I called,” he mumbled. “Just forget…”
“No, wait!” she exclaimed, afraid that he would hang up. “Wyatt, please, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t get away from it,” he replied after a long moment of silence. “It follows me and I can’t escape it. I’ve tried.”
“Escape what? Wyatt, you’re not making sense. What are you fighting? Please, just tell me where you are and I’ll come. We’ll figure out something, I promise. But I need to know where you are.”
“No, forget I called.”
“Wyatt, don’t—” she exclaimed. “…hang up,” she finished to a dead line. She checked the caller ID to see where the number originated. All that displayed was a Unknown message, indicating that the number was blocked.
She replaced the receiver and leaned back to stare up at the ceiling. Her heart was racing to keep up with the thoughts that tore through her mind. What’s going on? He’s got to be in some kind of trouble. But how do I help him if I don’t know where he is? Damn! What do I do?
After a few minutes she turned off the light and lay down, but she was too troubled by the call to sleep. She got out of bed, threw on a robe and went downstairs. After she put on a pot of coffee she brushed her teeth and washed her face. The coffee was ready when she returned to the kitchen. She poured herself a cup and walked into the den, stopping in front of the window to stare out at the darkness.
She hadn’t heard anything from Wyatt for over three years, since Patricia’s birthday party. As far as she knew he was still in the Navy, part of their special forces, the SEALs. For him to contact her at all was a surprise. For him to sound so desperate was frightening.
Hearing his voice had caused feelings to surface she’d spent almost her whole life trying to suppress. She felt the all too familiar heaviness settle in her chest and fought to push back the anguish.
For a long time she stood frozen in front of the window, staring sightlessly out into the darkness. The forgotten cup of coffee grew cold in her hand. At last she sighed and turned away from the window. She put the cup down on the kitchen counter and returned to the bedroom. In the bottom drawer of the dresser was an old photo album, one she had purposely not looked at in years. She took it from the drawer, sat down on the bed and opened it.
The first thing that met her eyes was a picture taken twenty-two years ago at her father’s estate. It was of a tiny fair-haired girl with uncommonly light eyes and a dark-haired boy with eyes so black they appeared bottomless. The children were sitting on the back of a big bay horse, the boy’s arms holding the little girl securely as she smiled at the camera.
The children in the picture were she and Wyatt. It was taken only a couple of weeks after he came to live with her family. At the time she was almost five and he was ten.
After Chance was much older, she had wondered why Wyatt’s father and grandfather would have allowed him to come live with them. According to Adeola, the woman who raised Chance, Wyatt’s father felt that removing him from the place where his mother died would help him to recover from her death.
Chance smiled sadly and turned the page. The album was filled with pictures of the two of them. His childhood was recorded in the photos, as was her own. She flipped slowly through the pages, remembering the past. The last picture was of Wyatt and his third wife, Ashley. Wyatt was in his dress uniform and Ashley wore a flowery summer dress. They were standing on the deck of Chance’s family’s beach house. The picture had been taken on Patricia’s birthday, three years ago. That was the last time Chance had seen or spoken to Wyatt.
She ran her finger over his image for a moment then closed the book. Nothing good could come out of reliving the past. Much as she wished things had worked out differently, they simply had not. Wyatt had not shared her feelings then and didn’t now.
But he called, she told herself as she slid the album back into its drawer. He was obviously very upset so something had to be wrong. She couldn’t just forget about it and pretend that it hadn’t happened.
You mean you don’t want to, a little voice said in her mind. You want to think that he needs you.
She shook her head and stripped off her robe. He wouldn’t have called if he didn’t need me, she argued silently. I can’t turn my back on him.
Chance ignored the little voice in her mind that was telling her it was wishful thinking to believe that Wyatt could need her for anything. Somehow she had to locate him and find out what was going on.
* * * * *
Wyatt threw the empty liquor bottle on the floor and ran his hands back through his hair. The room swam, tilting from one side to the other.
He knew he was drunk, but not nearly drunk enough. He could not erase what he had done from his mind.
Of all the people on the planet, why in hell did you have to call her? he asked himself.
“Why is right,” he said aloud. “Like I need more hell right now. Wyatt, you’re one dumb son of a bitch.”
He climbed unsteadily off the bed and made his way downstairs, holding on to the railing as the alcohol robbed him of balance. He made it to the couch and flopped down, throwing his feet up on the coffee table.
He stared morosely into the fire, trying to dispel the images that came unbidden to his mind. “Chance,” he said without being aware he had spoken until the sound of his own voice surprised him. “Damn, I really screwed up. The last thing I need is her.”
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Chance Davenport was a closed chapter in his life. She had been for a long time. At least he had tried to make it so.
When they were young she had fooled him into feeling like he was her hero, always looking up to him and praising everything he did like he was something special. As a child he had thought she was the only person in the world who truly cared about him. But things changed. They grew up and he found out the truth. She was no different than all the other rich white people. She had used him and betrayed him. Her betrayal was the worst thing he had ever experienced because he had never seen it coming.
“And so now you call her!” he growled as he pulled a quilt over himself.
So? a voice inside him asked. What difference does it make? She’ll laugh it off and forget it—forget you. Get over it and get on with your life. Chance Davenport is poison. She always has been.
Wyatt nodded in silent agreement with the voice and pulled the quilt up higher around his shoulders. Moments later he was out cold.
* * * * *
Chance had been pacing the floor for hours by the time the sun came up. Unable to be patient any longer, she picked up the phone and called her father’s house. Abbott Macdougal, the butler, answered the phone. “Davenport residence. May I help you?”
“Abbott, hi! This is Chance. When you spoke to Wyatt, did he say where he is?”
“No, I’m sorry. He didn’t.”
“He didn’t give you any idea? Think, Abbott. It’s really important.”
“I’m sorry, but he didn’t say.”
“Okay,” she relented with a sigh, then an idea occurred to her. “Abbott, I need to talk to my father.”
“Mr. Davenport has not yet come downstairs, Miss Chance. Shall I have him ring you when he awakens?”
“No, I need to talk to him now. Will you put the call through to his room, please?”
“Very well. Please hold.”
Chance listened to the music that came over the line. She waited quite a while before her father answered. “Chance? Why in the world are you calling at this
ungodly hour? Is something wrong?”
She ignored his questions. “Father, have you heard from Wyatt?”
“What?” Irritation was clear in his voice. “You call and wake me up to ask if I’ve heard from Wyatt?”
“Well, have you? I need to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”
“Chance, there’s nothing you need to talk to Wyatt about. How many times do I have to tell you that you and Wyatt are from different worlds? Surely by now you realize that he just doesn’t belong with our kind of people. He—”
“Don’t start!” she interrupted him. “I didn’t call for a lecture and I know how you feel. But that’s not important right now. All I want is to find out if you know how I can get in touch with him.”
“No,” came his sharp reply.
“Okay, sorry I bothered you. Bye.”
Without waiting for him to say more she hung up the phone. Sometimes her father really annoyed her. All the years Wyatt had lived with them, Maurice had treated him well. Wyatt had been the star of the football and basketball team in high school and Maurice had acted like he was really proud of him, bragging to other parents at the games about Wyatt’s skills. Now he acted like he couldn’t stand Wyatt and she didn’t understand it. She had a suspicion it had something to do with Patricia but no evidence to support it.
Dismissing thoughts of her father, she called long distance directory assistance and asked for the number for Wyatt’s father, John Wolfe. As soon as she scribbled the number down she severed the connection and dialed.
It rang many times and she was about to hang up when a man’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Mr. Wolfe? Hi, this is Chance Davenport. How are you?”
“Fine, Chance.” His voice was strong and clear. “And you?”
“Just fine. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’d like to get in touch with Wyatt and I don’t know where he’s stationed. Do you have a phone number or address for him?”
There was a momentary pause before he replied. “No, Chance. I don’t have a number for you. I’m sorry.”
She sighed in frustration. “Okay, well, thanks anyway, Mr. Wolfe. If you hear from him will you tell him I called and ask him to get in touch with me?”
“Yes, I’ll do that. Goodbye, Chance.”
“Bye.” She hung up the phone and paced back and forth for a minute. There had to be someone who would know where Wyatt was. The question was, who?
Chapter Two
Swain County, North Carolina
What felt like a giant drum pounded in his head, waking Wyatt from a drunken sleep. With a groan he opened his eyes. From the level of light in the room it appeared to be just after dawn.
Sitting up made his head pound harder. The horrible taste in his mouth made him grimace. “Must’ve drank a river,” he mumbled. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Alcohol seemed to be the only way to keep the dream at bay.
He could almost hear Digger’s voice in his mind. “Come on, man, you gotta get over this shit. Hell, turn on that woman magnet and find yourself another honey.”
“Yeah, that’s just what I need,” he murmured, making a face as he thought about his nickname. His SEAL team had nicknamed him Magnet a long time ago. It was short for Woman Magnet. Wyatt had never seen himself that way but all his team gave him hell about the way women came on to him.
He could remember overhearing his commander talk about him to another SEAL team leader who was interested in getting Wyatt transferred to his team. “The big Indian? Hell, that’s Magnet. Motherfucker’s too good-looking for his own good. Attracts women like flies to shit. But you won’t talk me out of him, you cocksucker. He’s the best scout we got. Can sneak up on anything. Anything. Son of a bitch’s so quiet he’ll be on your ass before you know he’s there. Not only that, the fucker fights like nothing you ever seen before. He’s a one-man squad all his own. So you keep your fucking hands off Magnet. He’s mine.”
When Wyatt had heard that he had felt an odd sense of pride. Not at being considered a woman magnet but at his commanding officer’s brusque compliment on his performance. Now he found himself wondering if that was really what he wanted to leave behind—the fact that he was a good killer.
He pushed aside the thoughts as he got off the bed and slowly walked into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror over the sink seemed to confirm his suspicions. He looked like he had drunk a river. He brushed his teeth then stuck his head under the cold water, sucking in his breath at the chill.
The water cleared the cobwebs in his mind. With a towel draped over his hair he went into the den and added a couple of logs to the fire then went to the kitchen. He put on a pot of coffee and sat down at the table. As he dried his hair, he tried to remember the events of the past evening.
He remembered going to Ralph’s Bar and having a couple of drinks with Jimmy Martin and Billy Hawkes. They were talking about taking a trip up to West Virginia to ride the Gauley River. A couple of girls came over to the table and asked them to come to a party the upcoming weekend at Fontana Lake. The girls hung around for a little while and one of them suggested that she and Wyatt take a ride.
He had considered it, but passed. She struck him as the kind of girl who was looking for a husband and he was definitely not in the market. After three wives and far too many live-ins he had decided he was not suited for marriage or long-term relationships.
About nine o’clock, trouble walked in the door in the form of Greg Holling and his cadre of followers. Greg was the son of the richest man in the county, one of the richest in the state. His father, Winston Yale Holling, practically owned the town of Bryson and most of the county. Many of the Cherokee looked to him for their jobs.
Greg was three or four years younger than Wyatt. He was about six feet tall, slim, with blond hair and a perpetually arrogant expression stamped on his handsome face.
Billy nudged Wyatt with his elbow and nodded in Greg’s direction. “Looks like the rich boy’s come slumming.”
“I’d like to stick my fist in that little prick’s uppity face,” Jimmy barked.
Wyatt put his hand on Jimmy’s arm as he started to stand. “Let it go, man. No need to look for trouble.”
Unfortunately, trouble did not have to be looked for. Greg strutted over to the table where Wyatt sat. Behind him were his friends, what the Indians called “the country club cubs”.
“Don’t I know you?” Greg looked down at Wyatt.
Wyatt shrugged and took a drink of his beer. “Do you?”
Greg smirked and looked back at his friends for a moment. “Aren’t you Wyatt Wolfe, old man Wolfe’s boy?”
Jimmy and Billy both bristled at the way Greg said “boy” but Wyatt just looked up at Greg without expression. “That’s right.”
“Well, well,” Greg sneered. “I hear you’re in the Navy—SEALs or something. I guess you think you’re some kind of badass, huh, Redskin?”
“Nope.” Wyatt took another drink of his beer and looked across the room.
“That’s not what I hear. The way I hear it you think you’re better than everyone else.”
Wyatt continued to stare across the room without speaking. Greg leaned over in his face and jeered. “What’s the matter, Indian? Chicken? Look at me when I talk to you, boy!”
Wyatt turned his head and pinned Greg with a cold stare. Greg immediately backed up and Wyatt stood. He towered a good four inches over the smaller man. “What is it you have to say?” he asked coldly.
Greg backed up another step. “I don’t have shit to say to you, trash. Stay outta my face and outta my town or you’re gonna wish you had.”
Wyatt’s expression didn’t change. He simply looked at Greg for a moment then walked over to the bar, got a bottle and left. Anger was seething inside him. He knew that the Holling family had been tormenting the people in the county, just as he knew they had chosen the Indians as their special targets. His father had talked of little else the past week since he had come home. He said it w
as like history repeating itself all over again.
Wyatt told his father that the people should seek legal recourse to stop the harassment, that was what the law was for. Inside he churned with suppressed anger. He hated people like the Hollings and the way they treated others. They were another example of the way the rich white man stepped all over everyone else. But he had sworn that aside from his duties to the Navy he was not going to fight anymore and he meant to keep that vow, even if it meant he had to feel like something was eating him up from inside.
Wyatt got up and poured a cup of black coffee. He didn’t remember much that happened after he left the bar except for cracking open the bottle and tilting it up to his mouth. After that there was a blank.
He took his coffee upstairs, put on an old sweat suit and laced up his running shoes. He left the coffee unfinished on the dresser when he went outside. The air was cold and crisp. Icicles sparkled like diamonds and the snow looked soft and pristine.
After a long deep breath, he started running. He headed north, along the bank of the Tuckasegee River toward Fontana Lake. His thoughts turned to the situation between the Holling family and the Indians. It was not something new. The trouble had started a long time ago, even before he was born.
His eyebrows drew together in a tight frown. Lately he had been drawn to old memories. The memories were not complete, but hazy and fragmented. He could not even consciously call them to mind, but when they did come they filled him with a rage and fear he didn’t understand. He started up a steep hill and suddenly his mind carried him back, back to the day his mother died.
A heavy-set man was laughing as others held Sarah down and ripped her clothes off. Another man watched from the shadow of a thick cedar. Wyatt screamed and struggled against the man who held him immobile.
“Get your hands off her! Leave her alone!”
The man holding him laughed. “What’s the matter, boy? Ain’t never seen a real man do it?”
Wyatt fought harder to free himself but the man hit him in the side of the head and lights danced in front of his eyes. Sarah was screaming for them to let Wyatt go, but the men only laughed at her pleas.
