“You’re not a priest, Reverend Mohr. What is said to you has to be told to the authorities, unless of course married to the woman, then it’s a whole other ball of wax that I don’t want to dip my fingers into today.”
This made Christian as mad as ever could be. “I may not be a priest, or married to Ms. Ruby, but I am still acting as an agent of God. And as such, what any of my flock might tell me in the strictest of confidence will not be told—even to you.”
“So what you’re saying is that it will take a court order to open up your mouth and spill her whereabouts?”
Christian’s brows rose. “Seriously?”
Chief Berken pulled the sealed envelope from his pocket. “Seriously . . . Reverend.”
He handed Christian the unopened letter.
Mohr yanked it from the man’s hands, ripping open the envelope. He unfolded the paper, and glared at the chief once he’d read the words through the blur of his fury.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” came out much too forcibly for real peace of mind.
“It is a court order to state we have the right to search your home, and when we catch her, for you to tell us and a judge what you might know about any evidence or confession to an open-case crime, Reverend Mohr.”
Damnit!
Christian hated the fact Chief Berken would not keep this visit cordial. “And if I know nothing?” he questioned firmly.
The cocked left brow of Chief Berken’s stated this as being a lie if ever heard.
Christian tossed the letter onto his desk in disgust. “Why are you doing this, Ceril?” He had thought the chief as a good friend—until now.
“She needs to go to jail, Mohr.”
“Why?” Christian probed, clenching his jaw.
“You really need me to state the reason aloud?”
Christian nodded his head. “Yes. I really need you to state the reason aloud.”
“She killed your wife. Isn’t that enough of a reason to arrest her?”
“I forgave whoever killed Beale—a long time ago. Why must it be brought up again? Besides, it was an accident; reckless and thoughtless, but an accident nonetheless. You made out the accident report yourself.”
“Thoughtless and reckless, yes, but for a man still affected by it, and you still able to claim it as an accident upon the strange disappearance of one Sara Ruby, I would then have to ask how you know this as still to be fact.”
Christian stood and looked down at his long-time friend judging both he and Sara falsely. Chief Berken was trying to trip him up.
“I know this as fact by how it feels in my heart. Had it not been an accident, I would’ve been the first one to push for justice. I would have been the first in line demanding an arrest made. However, because an accident, and because you of all people confirmed it on written evidence, I have let it go.”
“Have you?” Berken asked. “It seems to me you might not have let it go as you say.”
“Oh?”
“You’re hiding something, Christian. A court order will tell me what that is.”
“Are you trying to say you were wrong? You’d made out a false report?”
“Perhaps I am admitting to only being wrong on judging our friendship,” the chief replied.
“All I’m hearing is that you think I know who may have accidently killed my wife.” Christian had to check his fury over his friendship being questioned. “My God, Ceril. Are you willing to ruin our friendship over something that happened almost nine years ago?” he warned the man.
“Are you?” the chief ruled harsher still, standing up to face Christian across his desk.
“I guess I am.”
“Then I will see you in court once she turns herself in. Or once we find her before that happens.”
“Well, then . . . I guess this is how it will have to be,” Christian smarted.
Before the chief left the room he added, “And don’t do anything stupid, Reverend.”
“Such as?” Christian asked, hating the way he was taking his anger out on an innocent man who was only doing his job.
“Such as, warning the woman we’re close, or marrying her so you can’t testify against her.”
“Bloody Hell, Chief! I would have to know where she is . . . even to marry her.” Christian was losing his grip on any checked fury.
“You’re in a Church, Reverend,” Berken stated, as if Mohr unaware.
Christian slammed his fist onto his desk, rattling a coffee cup half-filled and a jar of pens next to the cup. “I know exactly where I am and exactly how I feel about this. And if you don’t like my saying Bloody Hell while inside my own damn Church, then perhaps I should not be here at all!”
“Jesus Christ, Mohr! I did not come here today to fight with you. I came here to warn you of what is going to happen, whether you want it to happen or not. One’s remorse and guilt has a way of catching up with want and need, and sooner or later she is going to turn herself in. And sooner or later justice will prevail.”
Christian made a hasty glance down at the court order that covered his desk. “No. You came here to hand me a piece of shit-scribed paper that says I am to confess aloud whatever a member of my church states to me in the strictest confidence.”
“Yes, that too.”
“Fuck you, Ceril!” Again his fist hit the desk. “Fuck you to Hell. Better still, fuck all of you. And since I can’t seem to control my fury, or my tongue, I might as well tell everyone in this fucking town that I know you’re having an affair and are about to leave your wife to whomever cares listening to such a tale.”
The chief’s face paled, as did Christian’s. Because, unfortunately, as these heated thoughts slipped out as spoken venom Harriet Thorn stepped through his open door . . . and heard every single one of them.
“Reverend Mohr and Chief Berken! What is the ungodly meaning of such disrespect?” she demanded.
Christian’s fury, from that moment forward, could not be contained. “Chief Berken handed me a court order to tattle on one of my flock.” He even pointed a finger at his friend.
“And that gave you the right to attack the man while inside a Church? The very house of God?” Mrs. Thorn asked, livid and shaking.
Christian took a deep breath, tried to calm down, but failed miserably to all intents and purposes that any calming down was not going to happen in his immediate future.
“No. That gave me the right to quit!” he told both.
“Quit?” both startled members of his church blurted out. Their eyes had grown wide, as well.
“Yes. Quit! As of this moment, I am no longer your Reverend.” He opened his desk, pulled out his Bible, and set his hand atop the worn cover. “As God is my witness . . .” He paused, drawing strength from what had always been his solid rock. “—I will not be coerced into committing an even bigger sin than those already done, by forced into confessing what I may or may not know of Beale’s death and/or to the accident which caused it.”
When done, he grabbed his Bible and walked out, leaving a stunned Chief and town matriarch to clean up the sudden disaster left in their care.
Chapter Nineteen
Christian was so angry, he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or punch someone in the face. Since he wasn’t the macho-male, ‘Me Caveman!’ type, prone for violence by use of fists, he sat in his car shaking from limb to limb instead.
Ten long minutes of stewing in near rage, he knew he had to make the next move. But where did one start? He just quit his job. More importantly, he quit God. He might as well quit the living while so entrenched in despair that nothing else could possibly matter.
Yet Christian found the courage to start the vehicle. Once out of the church parking lot, his journey did not take him home. No. He couldn’t go back there yet. Ghosts and mistakes haunted him every hour upon the hour inside that particular dwelling.
Christian drove until nearly out of gas—vehicle and human. Refueling both, he put pedal to the metal and kept driving. West was
as good of place to lose himself. And this was exactly how he felt. So damn lost, well beyond the blinding light of despair. Without Sara, he’d been floundering for five agonizing long months, not knowing really what to do or who he was. Going through the motions, but not feeling their worth. A fish out of water, Christian, more than anyone, knew God was pissed at him. Chief Berken was pissed. And now Mrs. Thorn was angrier than he’d ever seen the woman. And that was saying a lot. She was old, with a lot of years stored up to share her anger.
As soon as the rest of Preacher’s Bend heard of what he’d done, he’d have an entire town pissed at him, as well. If not hate him altogether.
All he wanted was distance, because closeness was mocking him to where life held no real meaningful purpose.
Two hundred miles later, Christian would never be able to tell another exactly what possessed him to find the curve of the accident. He could only say he’d been pulled there by a very familiar force. He parked his car on the graveled shoulder, but didn’t cut the engine.
Christian sat in the vehicle, staring out the windshield. The tree she’d hit was no longer. Someone must have cut it down. Perhaps it died, same as Beale that fateful day.
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Coming here hadn’t helped at all. In fact, it did the exact opposite. All he could think about was what the chief and his deputies would be doing in the near future; search his home as though he a common criminal hiding someone evil under his care. It was Sara who’d done something wrong, something unforgivable, not him.
If only he hadn’t thrown her out that night . . .
No one, no matter how terrible the circumstances should have to feel the pain of being cast aside like yesterday’s trash.
He dragged in a deep breath, then set the gearshift out of ‘park’ into ‘drive’. He had nothing now. No job, no real friends, likely not even a home when all said and done. He would have to start over.
Three hours later and another couple hundred miles driven, Christian was too tired to go on. He found a small motel aside the road. Procuring one of the rooms, he chose to spend the night while sorting out his life come morning.
As he was just about to shove the key in the lock, out of the corner of his eye he caught a very familiar form.
Oh, hell no! Really? Now? When so drained of his ability to care?
Nevertheless, it was her. Long blonde hair, slender frame, bright blue eyes . . . Well, he couldn’t see the eyes from this distance, but knew their color from memory.
His breath caught up in the back of his throat. Why, after so many months, would he still feel the same impact upon seeing her? Why did it have to hurt so much?
He stuffed the room key into his pocket and started walking her way. She didn’t see him, ducked into her room and shut the door before he had the chance to speak.
Nervous as a school boy, Christian’s hand hovered near her door. He could hear moving about inside the room. Each of the rooms came with a kitchenette. She was likely making herself something to eat. She’d been carrying a small paper bag—probably groceries—and it was damn near dinner time.
His indrawn breath held, he gave the door a light tap. A few minutes passed before anything happened. Then, the small curtain at the window parted, slipping back into place heartbeats later.
She’d seen him. It was now up to Sara to let him in.
Instead, the words, “What the hell do you want?” came through the wood. Harsh, crisp, and not at all filled with any of the warmth he’d once known from this woman.
Christian leaned his forehead to her door, speaking through the wood. “Can we please talk?”
“No.”
“Sara, please? I have to talk to you.”
“Go away. And go to hell while you’re at it.”
His breath lodged in his throat. “I can’t go away.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you. Ever.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Agonizing seconds ticked by. Then the sound of the lock clicking registered, and Sara opened the door.
Mutiny clearly on her face, Christian thought she looked good enough to eat in spite of her obvious hatred of him.
“Can I come in?” he asked again.
Sara closed her eyes. The words, “No, you can’t. I have nothing to say to you. Can’t you understand that?” seemed almost painful to her.
“Sara.”
She was about to slam the door in his face, but Christian put his foot across the jamb to make certain this did not happen.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked crisply. “You told me to leave . . . and now you’re following me? Don’t you have a flock to save from damnation, sins to forgive, others to throw out of your life when it suits your mood?”
Christian shook his head. “I wasn’t following you. I took a long drive, got tired, and found myself pulling into the parking lot. As God is my witness, Sara, I did not follow you. Nor did I search for you. I just happened to come upon you. Perhaps a sign from . . .”
She quickly held up her hand to force these words back down his throat.
“Don’t you dare say finding me was a sign from God. He and I are still not speaking.”
Christian tried giving her an easy smile, hoping to draw hers out, because whenever she smiled, it lit up his heart and right now he needed that kind of light more than life-giving air. But her glare said it all.
“Get your damn foot out of my door jamb, Reverend Mohr.”
“Are you going to slam it in my face?”
Sara blew a single wayward hair out of her eye. “I was going to unlock the chain and let you in, but push it some more, and I might change my mind into slamming it in your face, or better yet, bruising my knuckles against your arrogant nose.”
Christian stepped back; Sara undid the chain, and she reopened the door for him to step over the threshold.
He checked his grin upon seeing her uncurling fists.
A hastily darted glance forward, Sara’s motel room looked as though she’d been here for the entire five months. A waitress uniform hung on a hanger from the bathroom door. There was garbage piled up in the wastebasket and overflowing on the worn carpet. The bed wasn’t made. Pennies, nickels and dimes had been sorted into small piles on a table set in the corner, along with a pile of ones and fives. Probably tip money from her customers.
She’d been heating up a microwave dinner when he’d first knocked. It sat on the table near the money, plastic still covering the part that was supposedly the meat.
She motioned him to a chair at the small table.
Christian chose the bed instead. He was too damn exhausted to sit on an uncomfortable wooden motel chair. But the instant his ass hit the mattress all of Hell’s gates opened up to let him into their fold. Sara was far too beautiful to ignore. He stood, moved to her, and wrapped his arms around her waist.
She put up the walls of defense by placing her hands to his chest. This would give her the leverage to push him away—if she wanted to. She didn’t do it.
Unable to stop his actions, or react to them, Christian lowered his head and set his mouth to hers. He tested the shark-infested waters before diving full in with his tongue.
Sara didn’t groin him, so he made the next move, parting her lips wider and searching deeper for that one thing they’d once had.
She moaned into his mouth, then gave him the expected push, backing away.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered.
Christian flared his nostrils. He would have to say it fast, get it all out in the open, or keep most of what was stuck inside his head from coming out, and then hate himself for the rest of his life for staying mute.
“The second I told you to leave my entire world crumbled. I have never felt so much pain watching you go, as I had within that one single moment when you walked off my front porch. If I could change the past, I would. If I could see into the future, I would let you know exactly what it will be and how gr
eat it might be. But I can’t stop wanting you . . . and every time you’re even near me this want grows by damaging seconds until it chokes the breath from my lungs.”
Sara lowered her eyes. Her smile was quick. “I can see that want quite clearly, Reverend.”
“Damnit, Sara!”
Her gaze rose. “No. Damn you. I was fine with you hating me. I was quite used to being cast aside.”
Christian openly groaned. “Well, I wasn’t fine with it.”
“So where does this leave us now?”
He ran a hand through his hair, hoping it would settle his thoughts. Nothing worked. His thoughts could not be settled within one lousy day, or even one very sinful night.
He sat down on the bed again, hoping she’d join him.
This time, Sara accepted his presence, knowing he wasn’t going to leave her room without a fight.
God, she smelled as good as the first blooms opening in early May. Lilacs, if not mistaken. Perhaps hyacinth the sweetened scent that would be his downfall out of Grace.
He set his palm to her thigh. She did not remove his hand, or balk at where he’d put it.
Her face turned to his and Christian could no longer stop time. His hands went to her cheeks, he pulled her head then her mouth to his, and he left nothing behind in one, violently demanding kiss.
The next words that formed inside he whispered against her velvety soft lips. “I so badly need to make love you, Sara.”
“Now?”
Christian chuckled. “Yes, now. Why not now? Have you got something better to do right now?”
“But we . . . we haven’t even seen each other for—” She couldn’t finish the rest.
Besides, he wasn’t going to let her say it. He wasn’t going to let Sara even think it. He wasn’t going to allow her to stop him this time. This was what they both needed, what they’d both wanted five long months ago, and what had to be done now.
He could not walk away from her. He could not pretend Sara did not exist—as he had for five months.
While he’d sat inside his car on that deadly curve, and saw with his own two eyes the possibilities of why it happened, against how it must have happened, he’d been quite able to see the tragedy as if only yesterday. A blind curve anyone could have had an accident at, if rain in the equation and disaster almost always inevitable due to the circumstances of what he knew of Sara’s past done only hours before.
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