by Brea Viragh
TWILIGHT SUN
Cavaldi Birthright Book 4
Brea Viragh
Copyright © Brea Viragh 2018.
All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Copyright
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
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Two weeks until the eclipse…
It had been seven years since he last stood on the careworn stoop of the old farmhouse, looking out on the streets of his childhood. Seven years too long. Once he’d decided to leave, little had tempted him to return. He hadn’t set eyes on the old place once since the day he’d decided to pack up the car and search for the adventure he’d hungered for on the bustling streets of California. It was always California, wasn’t it? The wedges of beaches, the tightly pressed houses and sweeping mountains with deserts at their backs. There was drama in the cliffs and action on the streets. Opportunities he hadn’t had back home.
College. Surfing. Excitement.
The farmhouse he’d called home in Madison, Indiana had stood for years with its clapboard siding aging in the weather. How many times had he and his brothers raced around the porch to see who had the longest strides, the fastest legs? Or hidden beneath the brick pilings and squeezed their eyes tight as each hoped to win hide and seek?
The porch swing held the memories of summer, memories like strawberry lemonade made with more sugar than a candy bar and enough tart to have their lips pursing. His grandmother made the best and always from scratch. Memories like pumping their legs and arms then flying across the porch to see who could get the most distance. Memories like his first kiss with a girl.
Over the years, in his mind he’d been able to recall the windswept cherry trees around the property as they bent and swayed, their branches blooming with pink clouds of blooms. He could see the curve of the street at it turned away from the cul-de-sac with his house the end of the line. A sagging white picket fence surrounded the perimeter of the property and was echoed by the paint of the deck railing and shutters.
Yet when Brock Lockhart opened his eyes after several seconds, he was still in his car. He was hurtling down the highway at two miles per hour above the posted speed limit, determined to make it back to the house before sunset. There were still too many miles ahead despite the thousands behind him.
The pull had not surprised him. Not really. He thought it would. For years he’d wanted to go back and see the old place again and know he’d come home. A home with real roots. The reasons keeping him away felt inconsequential now, with college behind him.
Los Angeles had never been for him. He’d found his adventures. Those ephemeral ties to anywhere outside of Madison faded and he knew it was time to leave.
Some things went beyond his control and wound up in the hands of fate. Brock accepted this as truth. Accepted it and had grown up knowing it.
Now he recognized the insistence of the tug. Destiny would not be denied.
He was heading home with his infant daughter sleeping in the backseat and some good old-fashioned bluesy jazz crooning out from the speakers. Callie had nodded out a few hours ago, tired of seeing nothing but cows from her window.
Lucky kid.
But she’d been awake for the bizarre series of weather events they’d fought against on the road. The earthquake once they left Los Angeles. The rockslides in Arizona and the pouring rain in Missouri.
They managed to get through them all.
He spared a glance over his shoulder, not trusting the reflection of her sleeping form. Call it his fatherly instincts kicking up into overdrive. He hated even having her in the car and was well aware of the horrible things that could happen behind the wheel. Better driving than flying, yes, or trusting a moving company to handle his possessions. He hated it nonetheless.
Instead, Brock had sold off the big pieces of furniture and pared down until he was left with bare necessities. Unfortunately, most of the boxes he’d strapped to the roof were full of Callie’s toys. Toys she would probably refuse to play with once they got to the house.
Home. He couldn’t wait to show his daughter the beauty of his past. There would be walks in the woods, the state forest, swinging on a rope over the Ohio River and splashing through the ice-cold water. Of course, she wasn’t old enough yet for a rope swing. And once she was he would need to outfit her with every type of inflatable device money could buy. Better safe than sorry. How his grandmother managed to keep Brock and his brothers alive without the basics like floaties and cabinet locks, he’d never know.
He was doing his best for his daughter. Callie, his little sun. The light of his life, and the best pieces of him. Brock refused to think about the other donor of those genes. She was long gone anyway, preferring the company of drugs to him or her daughter.
He pushed his ex-wife out of his mind and continued the drive, knowing they were closing in on their destination. If he cracked his window enough he made out the scents of home. Pine trees and cold, because in March, it was still damn cold.
Yes, it was good to be back even in the midst of those memories. He flicked on the blinker and turned to the left, following the road down a slight hill.
Maybe there were other reasons for coming back. Prettier, more hot-tempered reasons from his past. Though surely, she wouldn’t want to see him. He didn’t expect any warm welcome from her.
If Nasira was still around. Who knew where the woman ended up. He’d always been the one with the wanderlust, not her, clearly, since she broke up with him before he left.
She’d been content to stay with her mother and find her adventures closer to home. Brock pictured her as she’d once been, the tall, elegant woman with her curly black hair flying in soft clouds around her face. Those odd colored eyes lit with joy and a smoky laugh greeting him after a long day.
No more, he thought as he took the road slowly and drove past an area of shops and offices.
It had been her choice to end things. And a hard pill to swallow at first. His high school sweetheart, his first love, the only woman besides Callie to wrap herself around his heart and refuse to let go. Now she would probably run at him with a scalpel and try to remove his manhood. She could do it, too.
She’d always had a temper lashing as hard and hot as a bonfire. He would surely come into contact with it, if he could ever get back into her good graces. After he settled in, he intended to. There was little he found quite as entertaining as getting under Nasira Khepri’s skin and watching her unleash the full strength of her ire. He wondered if she’d let him soothe th
e sting away afterward.
Not a snowball’s chance in hell, he thought with a grin.
He was lost in thought until he caught sight of a strange shape hurtling toward him. Sucking in a breath, Brock tightened his grip on the wheel, seconds before a bird slammed into the windshield.
The owl snapped its neck on impact and bounced along the roof of the car. Landing hard on the road behind them.
He told himself to breathe even when his heart plummeted to the bottom of his feet. It happened so quickly, there was nothing he could do. A wave of acid reflux rose from his gut. Poor bird. Slowly his heart rate slowed.
What was the damn thing doing out in the day time, anyway?
There was a smear of blood on the glass and he pumped the wipers until it disappeared. He didn’t want Callie pointing it out when she woke.
He spared a second look back at her before catching his own eyes in the rearview mirror. The dark hair he kept long, hanging down to his shoulders and dreading slightly. Growing up he had hated the texture, hated the maintenance of his roots. With skin the color of caramel, he presented the image of a man with astounding presence. The planes of his face were lean and hard, cheekbones high. Sharp enough to cut glass. His lips were a bit on the plump side but no one had ever complained.
The eyes he liked, although they had taken a bit of getting used to at first. A dark, startling hazel. Most people he met were surprised by the richness of the color.
Keeping those eyes alert, Brock made the last turn toward the farmhouse, his anticipation building and the owl forgotten. They were almost there. From the window, he studied the landscape. Winter was beginning to retreat, slowly relinquishing its grip on the land. Unlike others, including his brothers, winter was his favorite season. The world slept buried under a blanket of white only to rejuvenate in the spring. He felt the infinite possibilities of the season. Of a world holding its breath.
“Wake up, sweetheart. We’re here.” He kept his voice soft as they pulled into the driveway, the sight of the old farmhouse bringing tears to his eyes. Callie stirred, drawing in a deep breath. She stretched against the belt of her car seat.
“We’re home.
He sighed, hardly believing his own words. Home, he’d always heard, was where you made it. Not necessarily a place but a feeling. Yet here they sat, staring at the place where it began, and Brock couldn’t help but think how right it was. Like he’d made his way around the circle back to the start.
The two-story house was nestled comfortably at the end of a cul-de-sac, acres of trees behind it. He’d almost forgotten how lovely it was. The place was full of character with clean lines doing their best to disguise the years of abuse. The rambling structure had a classic white exterior and black shutters and bright red door. The weather had eaten away at the paint as the wind beat at the chimney, tipping it to the side like the hat of an old-timey dandy. The wide wooden porch rounded the entire house with doors opening up to it on all four sides.
Long planks of wood would need replacing there, Brock knew. There were loose boards ready to crack underfoot. He would have to be exceptionally careful with Callie until he made the repairs.
The surrounding lawn, with a little elbow grease, would be smooth and rolling. The house sat on a full two acres of open green with trees and outcroppings inching steadily forward.
The March air held a light chill. Flower buds had been coaxed into an early opening only to retreat at the change in weather. Everything waited, poised on the edge of spring. Here, the buds had begun to sprout from trees. Shoots of green grass reaching up through the dirt to awaken under a flawless sky.
“Yes,” Brock said to himself, and stepped out of the car. “Home at last.”
With his daughter on his hip, he crossed the porch and paused at the door. This was it. This was real. He hadn’t been back to the house since he was young and vital. Now he clutched Callie close and felt like he’d seen too much. It wasn’t asking much to take a moment. Right
Finally, he opened the door to the house. His grandmother would be in the kitchen. He’d called her when he was an hour away and she said she’d be there to greet him when he arrived. Yes, there was her shadow streaking down the hall: he would have recognized it anywhere.
The woman had a round face swallowed by glasses. Her movements had slowed and there was a halting jerk to her body. But Brock remembered the times she’d done the same thing to him, to his baby brother, to any of the neighborhood children who stopped by at random hours. He remembered the packs of youngsters drawn to the house by smoky fingers of fresh baked cookies and pies. Those sweet treats beckoning them forward and Odessa always happy to oblige. He thought it must come with the territory. One couldn’t be considered a real grandmother until you gave the kids enough treats to cause cavities.
She also dove head first into position as the neighborhood’s favorite aunt and remained at number one until being forced into retirement by a weak heart.
She’d raised the lot of them from the time Brock turned six. And because his Nan was probably in full on baking mode, he took a moment to admire the old place through the glass. The foyer was exactly as he’d left it those years ago. The stairs curved to a generous second floor with risers scarred from use. A small three-legged table to his right held an open bowl for keys and mail. Along with a healthy layer of dust. There was a cozy sitting room right next door, with two wingback chairs arranged around a fireplace with a neat hearth.
His lips quirked when Callie pointed down the hall toward the kitchen. Finally, the door opened and he drew air into his lungs.
Odessa set him with a look that made his heart flip over. “You better stop stalling. Don’t think I can’t hear you breathing out there. I might be old but I’m not deaf, Brock.”
“Hi, Grandma.”
“Don’t you grandma me, boy. You’re taking your sweet time and I don’t have forever to wait.”
He was rewarded with the sight of her smile. Odessa Lockhart sniffed once, skimmed her gaze over him, and found him acceptable. “You better give me a hug before I do something drastic.”
Her hair was the same gray and silver flecked mass he remembered from his childhood. Odessa cared little for societal pressures and kept it short. The strands curled haphazardly around her small, round face that puckered and pinched over the ears. Everything about her was small, from her nose to her hands and feet. She stood straight to his chest with wrinkles hiding her smile and tears lining her faded brown eyes.
Brock stepped forward, stooping and drawing her close, careful not to jostle her. She sniffed, rubbing her face on his shirt to disguise any evidence of her tears.
“You have an uneventful drive?”
Did he tell her about the owl? Or the damnable weather? He decided not to. “It was decent. Long.”
He reached in for a second hug only to have his daughter lifted from his arms before he made contact.
“And there’s my sweet girl!” Although he topped her by a good foot and a little bit, Odessa stepped forward and jabbed her finger at his chest, balancing the baby with the opposite arm. It made him feel six years old again. “I don’t want you to ever go far from home again. Do you understand me?”
“It’s good to see you.”
“Damn right it’s good to see me. And you would have seen a lot more of me if you hadn’t run out of here like some damn goblin was chasing at your tail. Where did you go again? New York City?”
“I was in Los Angeles,” he said with a smile.
“Nasty place. But you, baby girl!” She caught her breath and turned rheumy eyes back toward Brock. “Oh, look at her. Look at this baby. Look at those cheeks!”
“They are bite-able,” Brock agreed.
“How could you wait this long to bring her back? I could be dead in a week for all you care.”
Callie studied her great-grandmothers face, reached out a pudgy hand to grab her glasses, and opened her mouth in a wide grin. “Agh!”
“That’s right, baby.
You sure are something else, aren’t you?” Odessa swiveled around and waddled back toward the kitchen, reaching for the counter. “I’ve got a cookie for you.”
Brock followed. “You’re going to spoil her and give her a sugar rush before bedtime, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. You did good, Brock,” she spoke softly as she chucked Callie under the chin. “You did good.”
“Thank you.”
He fought the urge to reach out and take the child, a deep paternal instinct to always protect. Callie was in good hands, he reminded himself. The most capable hands he knew.
“I’m not going to ask you why you came back.” Though Odessa faced the child, she spoke to Brock. “I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” He opened his mouth to speak and found himself cut off. “You’re an adult now and entitled to do what you want when you want. But I expect you to enlighten me eventually. You understand me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Nothing to do with the pretty little veterinarian down on Waters, huh?”
Brock ignored the sparkle in his aunt’s eyes. “One of the many strings pulling me back to this place.”
Callie giggled from her perch in those thin arms. She pointed aimlessly at something in the ceiling and Odessa nodded. “I figured. This house is going to need a lot of work though, and most of your focus. It’s been empty for far too long, neglected after I had to go into assisted living.”
“I know. I’m ready to put in the man-hours to get it to normal. Back to where it used to be.”
Odessa seemed pleased with the statement. “Yes, right. So many things you’ll need to take care of. Wrinkles from the past to fix and iron. Don’t you agree?”
Brock supposed he did, although his gut told him they were no longer speaking about the house. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“Oh, I’m not worried.” She turned to face him with lips creased. “I’m making sure you understand the amount of work it’s going to take.”
