Theirs by Chance

by Karen Ann Dell

  Table of Contents

  THEIRS BY CHANCE

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  THEIRS BY CHANCE

  KAREN ANN DELL

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  THEIRS BY CHANCE

  Copyright©2016

  KAREN ANN DELL

  Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN:978-1-68291-281-2

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is dedicated to Jason Reisler,

  husband, father, soldier, hero.

  Acknowledgements

  There are many pieces that must be assembled before the reader holds the finished product. This is a short list of those who helped the book become a reality. M editor, Debby Gilbert, who provided gentle guidance and encouragement. My first readers, Darlene and Hilde, who plow through first drafts, and seconds, and, well, however many there are until I get it right. My writer’s group, whose members include awesome and award-winning authors. My critique partners Chris Kridler and Laura Freeman—also terrific authors in their own right.

  I’d especially like to thank Jason Reisler, a veteran of four deployments from Kosovo to Iran and Afghanistan, for background information and the answers to endless questions. Also Frank Avilla, Battalion Chief at our local fire department, who told me how to almost destroy a building and still rescue the leading lady. I have a spot waiting for him in another story.

  And, as always, my family and friends who continue to encourage and support me.

  Prologue

  April 1, 1985

  Corvalis, Oregon

  Sarah Beth sat on the bed next to her sister’s wheelchair. She’d closed the bedroom door, but the walls were paper thin, so she could still hear Mommy and Daddy arguing. She peered closely at Mary Jo, but there was no indication her twin understood—or even heard—their parents’ voices. She smiled a toothy smile, and with her green eyes and curly red hair, Mary Jo looked a lot like the Raggedy Ann doll that she hugged to her chest.

  Sara Beth had anticipated this day for weeks. Today was her eighth birthday, and she had dropped hint after hint about the bracelet-making kit like the one April got for Christmas. April lived next door. She was two years older than Sarah Beth and an only child. She had toys and games and dolls, even a bike, and she never let Sarah Beth forget how much richer her parents were. Sarah Beth knew that the care for Mary Jo took up most of her family’s money and almost all of her mother’s time. She understood, and so she never asked for any presents. Not for Christmas. Not for her birthday.

  But this one time she’d hoped . . .

  The voices in the kitchen got louder. Sarah Beth’s shoulders scrunched up. She clapped her hands over Mary Jo’s ears, just in case.

  “Carl, it’s the girls’ birthday today. I expected you home for dinner. I baked a cake and all.”

  “Shirley, I’m sorry. I had to work late. I couldn’t help it.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Carl. I can smell the beer on your breath, and your clothes reek of cigarette smoke. You didn’t even stop at the craft store and get that kit I told you about, did you? We don’t have enough money to buy birthday presents for your daughters, but we’ve got enough for you to go drinking with your buddies!”

  “You listen to me, woman. You spend every cent I make on that one pathetic, brainless . . . thing you call my child. Well, there is only one daughter of mine in this house, and that’s Sarah Beth. If you’d put the other one in that home and got yourself a real job, we’d have enough money to buy a few things around here.”

  “I am not putting my little girl in some, some . . . shelter, to have people who don’t have any kindness in them care for her.”

  “Well, I’ve had just about all I can take of your bitching and complaining about a few beers now and again. One of these days I’ll be gone altogether, and we’ll see if you like that any better.”

  Sarah Beth heard the door slam and her daddy’s truck start up a moment later. He hadn’t even wished her a Happy Birthday. She took her hands away from Mary Jo’s ears. A few moments later, her mom opened the door. Her eyes were red and puffy, but she had a bright smile on her face.

  “Come on, girls, there’s a birthday cake out here waiting for you two.” She pushed Mary Jo’s wheelchair through the doorway and glanced over her shoulder at Sarah Beth.

  Sarah Beth remained slumped on her bed, her head down. Her mother came back and sat next to her, wrapping her arms around her and hugging her close. “You’re the best daughter a mother could hope for, Sarah Beth. I’m sorry not to have a present for you today, but I got another client yesterday, and once I iron all those shirts, I’ll have more than enough to get you that bracelet kit you’ve been hinting about.”

  Sarah Beth just shook her head and folded her hands in her lap. “I know I don’t deserve a present.” She stifled a sob.

  “Of course you do, darling. If I had enough money, I’d buy you all the presents you want.”

  Yesterday, April had taunted Sarah Beth. “You’re not gonna get any presents for your birthday. You’re not ever gonna get any presents. And d’ya know why?” April had a smug smile on her lips and her hands on her hips just like a grown-up.

  Sarah simply stared at the older girl who seemed to know everything.

  “Cause you’re the reason Mary Jo is all messed up.”

  Sarah Beth’s eyes went wide and she shook her head. “No.”

  April nodded with assurance. “My mom told me when you were born, you came out first and were fine, but your bellical cord got wrapped around Mary Jo’s neck and she was stuck inside your mom too long. You got all the oxygen and she didn’t get enough,” the older girl finished triumphantly.

&n
bsp; Sarah Beth turned around and ran inside.

  It was true that sometimes she got mad at Mary Jo because she got all the attention, but she never, ever would have done anything to hurt her. She didn’t remember being born, but she was sure she couldn’t have done anything as terrible as what April said. Could she?

  Sarah Beth looked up at her mother, her cheeks wet with tears. “April told me, Mommy.” She hiccupped.

  Her mother frowned. “What did April tell you, sweetie?”

  “She told me it was all my fault that Mary Jo, that Mary Jo isn’t, isn’t right. She told me I stole all the oxygen when we were born and Mary Jo didn’t get enough.” Tears streamed down her face. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I didn’t mean to.” She buried her face in her mother’s lap and sobbed.

  Her mother shifted Marjorie onto her lap and rocked her. “Oh, baby, April doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You are not the reason that Mary Jo is . . . the way she is. Sometimes, when babies are born, there’s a chance things won’t go well. And with two beautiful babies coming into the world, there is a little bigger chance that something might go wrong. But, darling, you didn’t cause things to go wrong. You were every bit as innocent as Mary Jo. I’ve asked our Lord hundreds of times why it happened, and Reverend Michael always tells me it’s not our place to know the reason for things; it’s our place to make the best we can of what the Lord dishes out to us.” She took some tissues out of her apron pocket and blotted Sarah’s face. “Tomorrow, I will explain to Miss April exactly what happened when you were born and make sure she understands that nothing was your fault. So let’s forget about April for now and go have some cake, okay, darling?”

  Sarah Beth nodded. She hoped her mother hadn’t made things up to make her feel better. But no matter how she thought about it, it always came down to the fact that if there had only been one baby, everything would have been okay.

  Chapter 1

  Marjorie closed the door on her kiln and activated the program that would fuse the pieces of dichroic glass inside. There was nothing to do now but wait, something she was not particularly good at. She checked her watch. Nine a.m. It would be at least five p.m. before she could even peek through the narrow opening to see if the pieces came out the way she hoped. She couldn’t rush the process or peek too soon or she’d wind up with an ugly pile of cracked glass shards.

  Marjorie ran Blue Point Cove’s only B and B, a large Victorian mansion that faced the town’s main square. The quaint resort town on Maryland’s eastern shore owed most of its allure to its sheltered harbor on the Chesapeake Bay. Most of her summer business was folks interested in sailing, fishing, and power boating. Innkeeper was her primary job, and main source of income, but jewelry making was her love. She considered herself halfway between hobbyist and craftsman, and during the winter months when she had few guests, she concentrated on improving her skills.

  She went to her workbench and turned off the tumbler that had run for the past three hours, took the plastic cylinder to the sink, and dumped its contents into a colander to drain. The silver castings she’d finished yesterday sparkled amid the duller variegated shapes of steel shot. Happy with the way the silver leaves and flowers had turned out, she set them aside, rinsed the shot, and spread it on a tray to dry.

  The buzzer connected to the front desk’s bell startled her. She had no reservations pending, and since it was early March, she hardly expected any walk-ins. Her Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt and baggy jeans were not the attire in which Marjorie usually greeted guests. She shrugged. It was probably the UPS deliveryman anyway. She quickly gathered the mass of wild curls she’d left untamed this morning into a knot at the base of her neck and put on her prescription-less glasses. Her brown contact lenses were already in place.

  She dried her hands and hurried up the stairs from the basement. Just as she started down the hall, the bell at the desk rang again. “Okay, I’m coming. Don’t get your—”

  The morning sun streamed through the beveled glass of her front door and outlined her visitor.

  Male. Tall. Broad shoulders. Muscular.

  Adrenaline shot through her bloodstream, drying her mouth and sending her heart racing. Her steps slowed. The man wasn’t wearing a brown UPS uniform.

  Get a grip. It’s been six damn years.

  She forced herself to continue, squinting against the bright sunlight flooding the foyer. She reminded herself of the panic button she’d had installed under the desk when she had the house wired for security.

  Which I won’t need, because this is not . . .

  “Good morning, ma’am,” the stranger said.

  . . . him. Marjorie let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding, manufactured a smile, and pasted it on her face. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

  “I hope so, ma’am. I was told I might be able to rent a room here?” The man glanced around as though he wasn’t sure he’d been given accurate information.

  “You certainly can, Mr.?”

  “Fisher. Lance Fisher.”

  Mr. Fisher was younger by a good ten years than the man who had given her nightmares for the past six. Younger, and much more handsome. He wore khaki slacks and a blue polo shirt under a brown leather bomber jacket. Although his physique resembled Lenny’s—strong and fit, and, holy crap, quite well developed, Mr. Fisher’s face was leaner, with chiseled cheekbones and a square jaw, two straight dark eyebrows over light-brown eyes, a slightly skewed nose, and a broad forehead. His sandy brown hair was so short she doubted she could grasp a handful if she tried. Not that she wanted to.

  She liked men’s hair just long enough to run one’s fingers through. And, were it not for the fact that she’d put her libido on ice six years ago, she’d be willing to overlook the short hair, since the rest of the package was so yummy. Yep, this is a guy I could fantasize about, even if his rigid politeness is a bit off-putting.

  “Well, Mr. Fisher, you’re in luck. Since I have no other guests at present you can have your pick of my rooms. How long will you be staying?”

  “I hope not too long, ma’am.”

  Marjorie’s eyebrows rose at the implied insult to her establishment.

  “No. I mean, I have a job interview at WMES this evening, and if it works out, I’ll need to find an apartment to rent. I’m not sure how long it will take to find a place, so . . .”

  She smiled at his rush to amend his first statement. “I see. Well, that won’t be a problem, since at this time of year I don’t expect many guests.” She slipped a key off one of the hooks behind her. Since he might be staying a while, she’d give him the larger bedroom that had a cozy sitting area and en suite bath. Considering he was a new hire and she had no other guests, she quoted him the price for her smallest room instead. He seemed a bit surprised at the amount. Too much? Or not enough? “That’s for a week’s rent, but if you find a place sooner, I’ll return the unused portion. Will that be all right?”

  He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Let’s get you settled in.”

  He picked up a duffel bag covered in shades of tan and gray.

  The Army’s standard desert camo. Now the rigid posture, precise politeness, and hardened physique made sense. He must be military. So, he and Lenny had one thing in common. They were both acquainted with killing people. Lance defended his country. Lenny’s motives were less altruistic. He merely obeyed Bryan’s orders.

  She led Mr. Fisher up one flight and toward the front of the big house. Her three-story Victorian had four bedrooms on the second floor. At the end of the hallway, she opened the door to her nicest room. It faced east, and the three large windows had a good view of the bay and let in plenty of sunshine. The king-size bed faced a fireplace flanked by two easy chairs. A desk sat in front of the middle window. She crossed the room and opened the door to the bathroom which held a pedestal sin
k, toilet, claw-footed tub, and separate shower.

  The man stood stiffly in the doorway, his duffel bag held in a clenched fist. He did not appear happy. In fact, Marjorie suspected he might be considering bolting back down the stairs.

  “I can see this is not what you expected, Mr. Fisher. Perhaps if you tell me what you had in mind?”

  “Ma’am, this is a very nice room, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but do you have a room that’s . . . smaller? And maybe not so bright?” He backed slowly out into the hallway.

  Now, there’s a switch from my usual clientele. You want smaller? Okay, I can do that.

  She eased past him and closed the door, then went down the wide hallway toward the back of the house to the room she generally held in reserve as a ‘last resort’ space. She opened the door and stood back to let him enter.

  This room had only one window, a double bed, a dresser, and a single easy chair with a floor lamp for reading. The bathroom was tiny, with a sink, toilet, and stall shower. If you leaned into the corner, you could just catch a glimpse of the bay out of the window over the toilet.

  Mr. Fisher walked to the window and peered out, then glanced into the bathroom. Marjorie noted a slight limp as he moved around the room. She guessed his age at a few years north of thirty, so she figured he’d been in the Army for longer than a single four-year stint. No doubt whatever caused that limp also ended his military career. She watched as the man’s shoulders settled and the death grip on his duffel bag relaxed.

  “Yes, ma’am, this room will be fine.”

  “I’m sorry there isn’t a better view.” She gestured toward the window, which faced her backyard with its big oak tree and garage. “This room faces west, so it doesn’t get much light until the afternoon, and the oak tree blocks some of that.”