RHONDA LEE CARVER
UNEXPECTED HERO
(Book 1, Buttermilk Valley)
2015 Rhonda Lee Carver
Copyright 2015 Rhonda Lee Carver
All rights reserved
Published in the United States
Published by Rhonda Lee Carver
Cover art by
Rhonda Lee Carver
Edited by
Todd Tinker
UNEXPECTED HERO (Buttermilk Valley)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or distributed in any manner or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations used in articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book contains material unsuitable for readers who are 17 and under.
Dedication
Thank you Belynda for your great pimping skills.
Thank you Tanya S. for being a great friend.
Thank you to my support system, especially my family.
Table of Contents
Front Matter
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Back Matter
Extra - Cowboy Paradise (Book 1, Cowboys of Nirvana) Chapter One
Prologue
Grace Atwell looked through the rain-splattered windshield onto the busy street of Atlanta. The tall buildings and lights could be seen in the distance, but the shapes were distorted.
She blew a circle of warm breath on the side window then wiped away the moisture with her palm as Trace passed in front of the car. He stepped onto the sidewalk and waved, making a funny fish face. She laughed at his humor. He continued on his way and she tracked his blurred movements. He stopped at the post office box on the corner, pulled out a stack of envelopes from inside his jacket pocket and dropped them into the slot. Trace gave her one last glance and a smile before he headed toward the store where a flashing neon sign boasted cheap cigarettes. She hoped he wasn’t grabbing a pack, but she’d realized weeks ago that he’d taken up the habit again after being smoke-free for almost two years. She’d caught on to the subtle hints—especially his disappearing acts after dinner and his empty mint wrappers lying all over his desk.
He went inside and she thrummed her fingers on the door along to a Pat Benatar song playing on the radio.
Her husband had another habit of stopping and chatting with everyone who crossed his path. He enjoyed meeting new people, and mostly she found his outgoing nature a positive trait, but on occasion his chattiness got him into trouble with time management. If she complained he would tell her, “That’s why we get along so well. My extroverted nature balances your introverted personality.” What her husband didn’t know, once upon a time she was extroverted, but there just wasn’t enough room in the spotlight for the both of them. It wasn’t his fault he commanded attention everywhere he went. Six foot, two hundred pounds of solid muscle and dashing cornflower blue eyes, she didn’t blame anyone for staring.
Blowing a long breath through one corner of her lips, she leaned her head back onto the headrest as excitement bubbled up inside of her chest. They needed this time, alone, to recharge their relationship and to get away from Buttermilk Valley, a town of less than three-thousand people who knew everything about everyone’s business. When she found out Trace had planned a long weekend in the city to celebrate her birthday, she’d jumped into his arms and kissed every available space on his face. She’d expected another birthday spent at home where she would cook her own birthday dinner, and cake, for close family and friends, then top the night off cleaning up the mess that always took her longer than the entirety of the celebration.
Trace had changed it up for her and tonight’s entertainment included a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant, one that didn’t have chicken nuggets on the menu and a drive-thru window, and tickets to the theater. If Trace hurried and grabbed whatever he needed from the market, they might make their dinner reservations.
The last time they got away just happened to be on their honeymoon in Jamaica—what seemed like centuries ago, not that she counted the time—well, maybe she did. Five years, three days and two hours.
Everyone needed a change of scenery on occasion, and she loved Atlanta. Born and raised here, she didn’t get enough chances to visit. Coming back to her old stomping grounds gave her purpose, reminding her of a blissful childhood with a loving mother and a father who provided her with love and opportunities. Grace and her sister, Sophie, would share stories of growing up, but the best memories were the summers at the cabin by the lake. She met her first boyfriend there—broke up for the first time too. Met lots of friends and found a deep, abiding love for nature. That’s what she wanted for Daxton—great family memories.
Grace had finished college, met Trace right after, and her life had taken on a whole different spin, quite different than she’d planned. They’d had their son, Daxton, soon after they married and Trace had started his ministry. Countless days and evenings were spent at home alone with Daxton or at the church where a pastor wife’s presence was important.
Nothing had really changed in the last five years. These days, Trace spent more and more time helping others than spending time with his son, or with her. There was only so much understanding one could muster and she was expected to have triple the patience of the average human.
Loving her husband, she’d managed to paint rainbows on turds.
Her husband had a church full of people who loved him too, but at times she felt like the members got more of him than she did. He was a busy man, always doing good deeds and helping others. But a woman had needs too, parts which desired her man’s attention, and she’d lost count of the dry spells her body had suffered over the last several years.
Daxton kept her busy too. He was a typical five year old who liked getting his hands dirty and exploring everything around him—sometimes to a fault. At three, he climbed a tree and fell, breaking his arm. At four, he wrecked his bike into a barbed wire fence and now the scar across his cheek was a reminder of that day she’d carried him, blood soaking her white sundress, into the emergency room screaming hysterically for assistance. A mother was allowed to lose her head when her baby was hurt. Ten stitches later, he was eating ice cream and her nerves had finally relaxed.
A roll of thunder brought her chin up and she looked through the window. The rain came down harder and lightning flashed, illuminating the sidewalk. Mother Nature could bring what she wanted, tonight would be special. Grace would enjoy every second until they had to return home and take up reality again.
The car’s digital clock reminded her that if Trace didn’t hurry, they’d be late for dinner.
The air was getting moist and the windows were clouded. She turned the dial on the AC to high and a blast of cold rushed over her face. Pushing the seek button on the radio, she stopped at a familiar country song. She sang along to the catchy tune—the only time she allowed herself the pleasure was when she couldn’t be overheard.<
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The song ended…another started. This time about an angry woman taking a baseball bat to the headlights of her ex’s truck. She switched the station, settling on a talk show.
Digging into her purse, she pulled out her cell phone. No messages or missed calls. Daxton was with his grandmother and, knowing her, she was spoiling him rotten with ice cream and cookies.
Pop! Pop, pop, pop!
She sat upright in her seat, her phone dropped from her hand and landed at her feet. Turning off the radio, she listened closer, wondering if she’d imagined the popping, like firecrackers. The fourth of July had passed. Who would be lighting fireworks in the middle of August? In the middle of the city?
Horns beeped and a truck’s engine hummed. Nothing unusual.
A scream ripped through the night. Grace jumped, her heart picked up speed and her cheeks burned as she twisted in her seat, looking up and down the sidewalk. Her breath fogged the window and with trembling fingers, she wiped the mist from the glass, staring through the distorted shadows. Lightening lit the black sky, yet giving her little visibility. Lowering the window, the cool rain splashed her skin, but didn’t ease the heat burning her insides. Her breathing grew louder in her ears as she curiously watched and waited, looking for any sign of her husband coming back.
The sidewalk was eerily empty, yet a crowd had gathered in the doorway of the market.
Staring so intently, she didn’t realize the shadows on the sidewalk moved until the person, dressed in all black, was within a few feet of her door. A squeal barreled up her throat and she quickly covered her mouth to block the sound, jerking back into the leather seat. Her heart pounded so hard, so fast, she wondered if it would burst out of her chest. The dark frame was broad and intimidating…a man—taller and heavier than Trace. A toboggan was pulled low on his forehead and she couldn’t make out his face. Something shiny glinted in his hand, and he raised it. Was it a gun? A knife?
Did this person mean her harm?
Holding her breath, she waited, seeing Daxton’s innocent face flash before her. Who would take care of him? Would her son remember how much she loved him?
Heavy footsteps pounded the cement. Could it be Trace?
The man in black backed up. She knew without seeing that he was staring at her. She squirmed away from the window, her breath catching in her aching lungs. Goosebumps prickled her flesh and the soft hairs at her nape lifted. With shaking fingers, she pushed the lock button on her door and the loud click echoed in the small space. Little good it would do when the window was down.
He took another step deeper into the shadows as the activity from down the sidewalk grew louder. She wanted to look but was afraid to take her attention off the man. Seconds passed until he turned and ran into the alley. She dragged in a ragged breath, forcing her lungs to work again.
Dread climbed her spine, making her head woozy. Something terrible was wrong, she could feel it in her bones—in her heart. The loud noise she’d heard wasn’t fireworks, but the sound of a gun being fired. Had the man in black shot someone?
Pulling the handle, she pushed open her door as several passersby raced by. She heard someone yell out, “Call 9-1-1!”
A blast of summer heat mingled with the fresh scent of rain, smothering her, making her legs weak. Beads of water splattered her face, not giving any relief from the scorching sensation traveling through her limbs. Her senses were heightened. A strong smell burnt her nostrils—an odd odor she’d never smelled before. Gun smoke? She barely registered the people rushing by her, pushing her. Her heels clomped loudly on the cement of the broken sidewalk as she blindly followed her husband’s earlier path. A loud whirling splintered the air. Sirens were now heard a few blocks away.
Time seemed to go into warp speed. She concentrated on her breathing and each step she took, taking her closer to the mob in front of the store. She knew she was walking, but it seemed like she wasn’t reaching the corner. Once there, she stood outside of the throng. “Excuse me.”
No one moved.
With the force of adrenaline, she pushed her way through several people until she finally reached the open glass door leading into the store.
A pool of blood looked stark against the floor.
Shoes. Polished loafers. Trace’s favorites.
Another scream broke through the eerie darkness.
She realized it came from her…
Chapter One
Gunnar Knox slid into the booth at the roadside diner and ordered a strong, black coffee and an omelet from the gum-cracking, busty blonde waitress. She gave him a toothpaste ad smile before heading back behind the counter. He relaxed into the cracked vinyl cushion and stared through the window at the man standing in the parking lot holding a sign. It read, “Please help. I’m homeless”. When Gunnar had passed, he’d deposited a twenty in the can and wished the other man safety. After sleeping in the woods and on park benches for the last month, Gunnar had a new appreciation for those who didn’t have a pillow under their head at night. He couldn’t complain, exploring the countryside on foot had been his choice.
He figured there were two types of homelessness. Those who searched for a place to call home and those who called it a way of living. Gunnar guessed he fell somewhere in between. He didn’t have a place of his own to hang his hat, and if he found it on his journey hitchhiking, then he’d be a happy man. Until then he’d continue on his expedition, wherever that would lead him, but only after he made an important stop first.
The waitress brought his coffee and meal. Gunnar popped a home fry into his mouth and savored the salty goodness. His taste buds thanked him. It was taking some time getting used to American chow after he’d spent two years in Iraq eating MRE’s. He knew he’d had enough beans and rice to last a lifetime. He poured ketchup on his eggs and took a bite, dropping a bit of food on his chin. He started to wipe it away with the back of his sleeve and quickly stopped himself, using his paper napkin instead. Manners were something else he had to acquire again. Over in the desert, no one cared about the stains on worn fatigues or food on his face, but if he planned to fit in, he had to try harder.
By the time his plate was half empty, he was already full, and pushed it to the middle of the damaged Formica table feeling guilty for leaving leftovers. Being in the Marine Corps, he’d learned to live by strict rules. He was used to being told what to do and how to do it. When to eat and how fast to eat. He tended to eat too fast and get fuller quicker.
Arriving back home in Ohio, he’d been floored finding his childhood home up for sale. He guessed his brother and sister didn’t think asking him what he thought was top priority. He would have been outvoted anyway.
Staying on the farm the last six months, he spent his time fishing, swimming and mending old fences—some on the property and others internally. The land had a mixture of good and bad memories for him.
When the realtor told him the place had been sold, Gunnar had placed the keys on the counter, packed his backpack and headed south without a plan or idea where he’d end up—but knowing where he’d visit along the way.
He sat back, scrubbing his scruffy beard and tugging on the wiry ends. He should shave, but wasn’t in any hurry. Eventually he’d have to get a job, requiring him to be presentable, but first he needed time to learn to live as a civilian again.
Some days he missed being a soldier. Others, he enjoyed the freedom.
No matter what his future brought or which path he walked, he knew he’d always be a Marine. After serving eight years, he bled red, white and blue, and that’d never change. However, now he needed to open new doors.
He often wondered what was out there for a man like him—rough around the edges and a loner. Most people would look at him and think he was no different than the man standing in the parking lot holding the sign. Gunnar guessed he hadn’t conformed fast enough for people’s tastes.
There were things he wanted in life. A few goals he’d placed on himself.
He could start thinking
of having a family now. The prospect of a wife and a couple of kids had crossed his mind a time or two, especially during the long, cold and lonely nights in the desert. Even a man who liked being alone had a hard time surviving the loneliness in Iraq.
Gunnar saw an end to the misery, especially when most of the American troops were pulled out of the country and returning home. Things had quieted down and a promise for peace seemed reachable, until two weeks before they were scheduled to go home. He and his troops were guarding the perimeter of a semi-contained city when a car bomb had exploded, killing civilians and three of his men. Gunnar could remember all of the smoke, scattered debris, and the screams of women and children as he helped save the injured.
Three months later, he’d been given a medal for bravery along with his walking papers. He’d served his time and was no longer the property of the American government.
During the first few months of deployment, he had a lifeline to the States that he’d forever be grateful for.
He reached into the pocket of his dusty jeans and pulled out the tattered, dirty envelope. It was one of many he’d received over a period of six months from Pastor Trace Atwell. The letters had found Gunnar as part of a military outreach, but the stranger from Georgia had somehow become Gunnar’s closest friend. Each letter had come like clockwork…every two weeks. The pastor had shared stories of his family, encouraging passages from the Bible and his own internal struggles dealing with life. Gunnar had never been religious, but he had a strong faith. He just needed to figure out what exactly that faith was in. Pastor Trace’s benevolence certainly had seen Gunnar through on the nights when hope was bleak. Lying in his hard cot, bed bugs biting and sounds of horror outside the walls of their barracks, he’d read the letters a second or third time, like a favorite book. Without explanation or closure, the letters had stopped coming. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months until the truth slapped him in the face. Communication with the Pastor had been snipped.
Unexpected Hero (Buttermilk Valley Book 1) Page 1
