Copyright © 2018 by Jess B. Moore
Cover Design: GoOnWrite.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Green Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2018
Discover us online:
www.crookedcatbooks.com
Join us on facebook:
www.facebook.com/crookedcat
Tweet a photo of yourself holding
this book to @crookedcatbooks
and something nice will happen.
To my mom,
who probably thinks
this book is about her,
but really,
she was the one
who taught me
to be strong,
and set me free.
Acknowledgements
What is a book without readers? Big huge hats off to all of YOU for being the best!
Books don’t write themselves. And although I wrote this book, I couldn’t have done it alone.
Thank you Crooked Cat for taking a chance on me and for believing in my writing. Especially big thanks to Laurence for virtually holding my hand through the process, and for all the editing. All the CATS have been wonderfully supportive and helpful, and I couldn’t have done it without them.
Hugs and love forever to Cindy, who after reading TGoaS told me it was important. That I HAD to share it with the world. Without that push, it might have lived forever as a document on my computer. All the love and hot tea in the world to Alisha for inviting me over to read the first few chapters. Out loud. I thought I might choke on my tongue or forget how to read when the time came, but I faced my fears and did it.
To Stella and Kelly, I wish I could give you hugs. I wish I could sit with you to talk books and writing for hours on end. But we must live within emails. Without you both the book would have been a big fat mess. A girl cannot write without fabulous critique partners.
I wouldn’t be who I am if I hadn’t been raised by a strong and compassionate woman. Thank you for trusting me to be myself. This one is for you.
Amanda, love til dentures.
My life isn’t silent. I write with my kids around me, with music playing, with life being lived out loud. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Elijah, I always think of you when I write, because I know you’ll tell me the truth. I put Jerusalem Ridge in for you. Lincoln, you love books more than anyone, and I love that about you. Thanks for all the hugs when I needed them. Eric, I’m nothing without you. Your support is truly everything and I love you more than dark chocolate.
About the Author
Jess B Moore is a writer of love stories. When she’s not writing, she’s busy mothering her talented and stubborn children, reading obscene numbers of books, and knitting scarves she’ll likely never finish.
Jess lives in small town North Carolina with her bluegrass obsessed family. She takes too many pictures of her cat, thinking the Internet loves him as much as she does. She is a firm believer of swapping stories over coffee or wine, and that there should always be dark chocolate involved.
The Guilt of a Sparrow is her debut novel combining her interests in family, music, and small towns into a thoughtful tale of growing up and falling in love. Her second book, Fierce Grace, follows similar themes in a whole new way, and will be available later in 2018.
Please leave a review to tell other readers what you thought. Reviews are everything for writers!
Look her up on social media @authorjessb - she’d be thrilled if you followed her on Twitter, overjoyed if you visited her on Facebook, and filled with glee if you liked her Instagram posts.
The Guilt of a Sparrow
Chapter One
Magnolia
Independence tasted of frozen grapes enjoyed beneath the relative shade of my favorite Dogwood tree in the city park. A sweet tart antidote to the oppressive heat. The strap of my worn bag chair dug into my shoulder and I switched it to the other side as I navigated the growing crowd along the sidewalk.
Freedom sounded like the rushed twang of bluegrass as it made its way around the circle during the weekly jam. Swift jangly songs familiar from routine exposure. Tunes plucked and shared by the members of our community and enjoyed by all that came out to the shady little park to listen.
Escaping to the jam was my quiet and desperate bid for deliverance from the stronghold of my mama's grasp on me. A hard-won fight, although a minor victory, if I was honest. I suspected she gave me this one small prize as an effort to assuage me, to keep me from wanting more.
More.
I couldn't put a name on what I wanted, other than, more.
If my mama was known for anything, it was her hard stance on avoiding anything to do with Fox River, the nowhere town in western North Carolina we called home. Not to mention her strong-arm rule over her daughter. Her quiet unnoticeable daughter.
Me.
She had her reasons. We all had our reasons for becoming who we were; for staying that way.
If our family was notorious in town, it all came down to my older brother, Luke. He took his role as troublemaker seriously, running with it until Mama was positively drowning in judgment. When he died, the gossip only seemed to get worse, a dark cloud hovering above our heads.
I longed to stay invisible, to shrink behind the shadow cast by my family. At first, it was my goal to skate by without raising attention, without causing trouble, without garnering disappointment. When Luke was alive, Mama was too busy to see me, and it wasn't such a bad line to walk. His death left me the only kid in the house, and I walked a minefield. Either I was so good it was seen as a mockery of my troubled brother, or I wasn't good enough and only caused more stress for my family. My desire to disappear only increased as time passed.
An advantage of living below the radar was that I could go out and rarely deal with people approaching me. The phenomenon helped to manage my social anxiety. In fact, it probably fostered it. When folks did speak to me, it was to ask after my mama, to poke a stick at our loss behind the guise of concern, or to share their surprise at having noticed me at all. Fox River was a small town of the sort that everyone knew everyone and there was not much chance at hiding completely.
It was my best friend Alyssa's idea to drag me to the weekly bluegrass jam. She helped convince me it was worth the effort; to win a battle would eventually help me win the war. Small victory in getting past my social anxiety, in getting past my mama's fear of town judgment, and in hoping I would see bluegrass music circles as super fun. So far the results were inconclusive. Yet I kept showing up near about every week.
In a town as microscopic as Fox River, meeting on Friday nights to play music was a capital-E Event. Food trucks lined the bordering streets. Exhaust mingled with food smells, heat churning the mix into the air so that it clung in a haze up and down the streets. Exotic spices, savory meats, over-salted snacks, snowy white sugared treats. Young and old alike came out. Families sprawled on blankets, plates balanced on knees, babies crawling into the grass to taste it in fistfuls, toddlers squealing and dashing as far away from safety as they dared to return in a hurry. Teens in tight groups meandered, cell phones in hands, snapping photos and swapping insults, calling to each other in brazen tones. Adults in work clothes, top button released and sleeves rolled up, socialized and caught up on the past week in hushed voices, eyes tight in judgment when an offensive teen passed too near. Conversation flowed through the gathered crowd as swiftly as the music. People found comfort in the familiar faces and routines, excited another
week was at a close, their ears turning to catch the songs playing in the background.
The evening was hot of the unrelenting sort. Late June in the mountains held astonishing heat levels and staggering humidity. The air was thick and my skin sticky. The scent of fried foods and cotton candy clung to me and turned my stomach. I could never eat in that sort of heat. I wrapped my thick hair into a knot on top of my head, anything to keep it off my sweat slicked neck.
Whomp. My uplifted elbows and downturned head smacked into a solid mass. As I braced my hands outward, the bag chair slung over my shoulder slid unceremoniously to the ground. As I braced my hand out in front of me, my hair fell free from my fingers, effectively shrouding my face.
“I am so sorry!” I blurted the words before I could assess the victim of my accidental run-in.
“Whoa. Hey, Maggie.” Strong hands steadied me, thick fingers wrapping around my upper arms. Mint and something warm and sweet like cookies tickled my nose. I recognized his voice immediately.
Dominic MacKenna.
“Hi.” I panted and stepped back to free myself from his grasp. “Sorry. Again.”
“No worries.” His smile was wide, his eyes mischievous, and his expression curious, as I finally looked him over.
I busied myself with my hair, allowing it to be a distraction, and securing it up and out of the way.
Dominic scooped up my chair, in a thoughtless motion, smile still stretching his lips. Rather than return the burden to me, he slung the worn strap over his own shoulder. He studied me as if he found me interesting, while I remained standing before him like an idiot.
“I haven't seen you in ages. How're you?”
Sure you've seen me; I'm here every week, same as you. Difference being that I didn't typically smack right into him. Rather than voice those thoughts, I smiled and focused on the loose circle of men and women arranging chairs, tuning up instruments, and preparing to jam.
“I'm good.” My shoulders lifted in a shrug, going for nonchalant, while my pulse hammered. “You?”
While avoiding looking too closely, I kept him in my periphery. He was tall and broad, strawberry hair bright in the sun, an undying smile on his lips. I could still picture the way he looked as a little boy, lanky and gap toothed, friendly as could be.
“I'm good, Maggie. May I carry this chair somewhere for you?” His voice was smooth as silk, slow and distinctly southern.
“No.” My hand thrust out to snatch the chair back from him.
“No?” I chanced a look at his face, at the amusement painted there in his eyes and his smile. Mingled with disbelief that I had turned down his simple offer.
The MacKenna clan was one short of a six pack of boys. The five of them ranged from thirty-one to twenty-four years old. Dominic being the youngest. My age. We'd gone to school together. They were all well-known in the community, if only by reputation. I knew him best of the bunch, though not well. Some people loved them, for their good humor, musicality, and generosity. Others hated the lot of them, for their pranks, talent, and popularity. I had yet to know of anyone that didn't agree they were each and every one of them highly attractive. The general consensus was that Denver was the best looking of them. He was also the oldest, and the most standoffish. He was either brutally shy or plain anti-social, which I couldn't be sure. Beau, the middle child, was outgoing to the point of obnoxious.
Dominic was popular, quick with a smile, and known for his rampant flirting. He attracted attention, people pulled into his orbit, glances catching on him rather than sliding past. A group of women in their early twenties paused at a polite distance from us and pretended they weren't waiting to catch Dominic alone.
“No, thank you,” I amended.
His laugh was good natured and infectious. A breath of laughter snuck past my own lips, and I gave in. No harm letting him carry my chair. Not that I needed the help, but that wasn't the point. He was a southern gentleman, and he would be insulted if I put up more of a fight.
“I usually sit under the Dogwood tree.”
I looked at him again, not able to help myself. Soft azure blue eyes studied me, scanning my face. Perhaps hung up on my having said usually, pointing out that I had a regular spot and was therefore in regular attendance. I was hit with a wave of guilt. I hadn't meant to throw it in his face or make him feel bad for not having noticed me.
He led the way to the Dogwood tree, offset to the left of where the musicians set up. It was only marginally cooler under the shade of the tree, temperatures lowering only enough to be tolerable. Sweat had gone well past beading on my skin to sliding down between my breasts.
I stood aside while Dominic made quick work of setting up the chair, angling it to the best advantage to see the gathering players. I placed my small cooler beside the chair. With empty hands, I didn't know what to do with them, and my fingers entangled and twisted.
“Dom, man, you coming or what?”
Cotton MacKenna sauntered up to his brother. His long-legged stride and heavy sandals eating up the ground between us quickly. A couple years older than Dominic, all hard lines and no excuses. He was the scary one. No, not scary. Intense. Which is sometimes the same thing.
I couldn't stop my eyes from finding his. They were the most startling blue, with facets like cut stone, hard and sharp in his handsome face. How many times had I found my gaze trapped by the sharp edges and beauty of those eyes?
Chapter Two
Magnolia
I stood there in a beautifully strange alternate universe, in which I was flanked by not one, but two of the legendary MacKenna brothers. What the heck was happening?
Cotton had only come over to collect his brother. Who was only with me because I'd bumped into him and he'd insisted on carrying my chair after he collected it from where I'd dropped it on the ground. It was a series of accidents and didn't mean anything.
“Course I am.” Dominic's smile didn't falter a bit. He looked to his brother, offering him an invitation to stay and be friendly. Then to me, in an apology for knowing his brother wouldn't do any such thing. “It was good to see you, Magnolia Porter.”
I nodded. The words, likewise Dominic MacKenna caught in my throat, an easy reply ensnared by nerves.
He lingered, after his words, not stepping away quite yet.
I heard Cotton grunt and my eyes skipped back to him. He had the reddest hair of the bunch, the truest orange red. When I looked closely, finding it easier to study the strands of his hair than to look at his face, I saw every shade represented. Dark auburn, copper, blonde, everything in between. It made no sense comparing the individual strands to the overall head of hair. He cleared his throat, probably aware of my uncouth staring, and I shifted my eyes to the ground.
“Cotton, you remember Maggie?”
“Yes.”
I could feel him looking at me, those eyes studying my downturned head. My scalp prickled under his scrutiny. Their exchange had been outwardly polite but hid something else underneath. I couldn't put my finger on why it struck me as odd.
Growing up, I had often gotten the impression that Cotton avoided me. I figured it all came back to the epic fights between him and my brother. Schoolyard quarrels through the years. But even after Luke died, Cotton was never in the same vicinity as me. So much that it seemed intentional, a careful avoidance. That or my infatuation with him made me spin fantasies to explain things that didn't exist.
“Hello, MacKennas four and five.” A distinctly feminine, and decidedly playful voice rang out and broke the spell of awkward. “What are you two doing, ganging up on poor little Maggie?”
Alyssa's ability to crack a joke that was all-inclusive was one of her best qualities. She never laughed at me. Yet, she was nearly always laughing in a way that included me and made me laugh along with her. Also the way she pitched her voice, the delivery of her words. They were never mean.
“We were doing no such thing now, Lyss.” Dominic was a joker as well. A flirty teasing type. He and Alyssa were fri
ends of the sort that spent too much time trying to one up the other. I braced myself. “My mama raised me to help a lady in distress. Miss Maggie here needed a hand with her chair.”
Alyssa released a peal of laughter to the sky. I rolled my eyes, swallowing my protest. Distress? Not quite. I hated the attention that gathered around me. As it built, my lungs shrank until they wouldn't accept the proper amount of air, my haywire brain turning my anxiety into something physical.
“You are a chronic flirt. If you helped her, with that little teeny chair, it was a ploy.”
“Are you two done?” Cotton clearly had no patience for their verbal games. His gruff response pulled me out of twisting unease that tried to claim me. His words, not even directed at me, softened my lungs so that I could breathe again.
“Never.” I answered for my friend. My lips pulled into a smile, a silent offering, a secret revealed for him.
Cotton directed his gaze my way again. That time I was ready and didn't look away. His lips pulled into an almost smile, which took me by surprise. I got hung up looking at his mouth, the fullness of his lips, and the way they twitched as if hiding away that smile.
“Not true.” Alyssa stomped her foot and placed her hands on her hips. The picture of defiance wrapped up in mirth. “We are in fact done. It's time to jam, fellas.”
“Where's that husband of yours?” Dominic asked Alyssa. “He promised me a Jerusalem Ridge showdown.”
He and Alyssa fell into a conversation involving Dom's mandolin and Jacob's guitar, and a song I'd heard a thousand times yet couldn't quite place. If I was honest, most of the fiddle tunes sounded the same to me. They had a well-worn quality lent to sounding commonplace, each one plucking at familiarity, but they ran together.
The Guilt of a Sparrow Page 1
