by K. R. Rowe
Amber and Blue
By K. R. Rowe
Copyright © 2012 K. R. Rowe
All Rights Reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover photo credits:
"Taking A Stance" © Mary Anne Morgan Photography
"Sad Angry Looking Man" © Dundanim | Dreamstime.com
Acknowledgements:
I would like to thank my husband, Glenn Rowe, first for providing much needed encouragement, suggestions, and support. He also graciously sacrificed many hours of "wife time" to allow for my obsessive writing. I would like to thank Pam Cochran and Julie Hartman as my first readers. These ladies provided valuable feedback and massive amounts of encouragement when I needed it the most. Finally, I want to thank Nancy Hatch Woodward, whose fiction writing class, and fun teaching style, taught me more than she will ever truly know.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1 The Lodge
Chapter 2Tequila
Chapter 3 Betrothed
Chapter 4 Canada
Chapter 5 First Attempt
Chapter 6 The Near Confession
Chapter 7 Leave of Absence
Chapter 8 Deceit
Chapter 9 The Match
Chapter 10 Short Leave
Chapter 11 Abduction
Chapter 12 Pretense
Chapter 13 The Rescue
Chapter 14 Revenge
Chapter 15 The Party
Chapter 16 Ghost in the Battlefield
Chapter 17 Healing
Chapter 18 Memaw
Chapter 19 Warning
Chapter 20 The Tiger
Chapter 21 Like a Son
Chapter 22 Thunder Bay
Chapter 23 Montréal
Chapter 24 Taken Back
Chapter 25 Committed
Chapter 26 Competition
Chapter 27 Epiphany
Chapter 28 Second Chance
Chapter 29 Asylum
Chapter 30 The Decision
Chapter 31 Escape
Chapter 32 The Hospital
Chapter 33 Retribution
Chapter 34 Thirty-One Days
Chapter 35 Vegas
Prologue
"Son of a bitch," the young woman muttered under her breath. On the cusp of a soft breeze, wisps of red hair lifted like sunlit fire and floated around her face. Bright copper strands clung to her eyelashes and settled in her mouth, but she brushed them aside unnoticed. Impressed, she knelt over the dead man and studied him.
"Perfect shot … right between the eyes."
A brief twinge of guilt gripped her but faded in an instant. This sort of incident was the last thing she expected when she finally decided to intervene, but with all due respect, she thought with a shrug, this man deserved what he got.
******
Chapter 1 The Lodge
More than a decade earlier, the first week of June had been perfect, and the small flower-filled meadow beckoned a tiny young girl. She was impatient but waited, while her nanny was busy with lunch. She leaned back on a wooden bench outside of the lodge and watched her dress catch the wind like a parachute, as she swung her feet back and forth. Bored, she absently twisted her dark chestnut hair into tangled knots, and smiled her sneakiest smile. This was a perfect chance to go exploring. No one would even miss her.
In the center of the meadow, she sat cross-legged and singing. She studied the clover carefully and chose the fattest white flowers. She thought she would look beautiful with the necklace she planned to make, just like a princess. Maybe, if she had time, she would also make one for her nanny. The lilt of her voice lifted and floated over the meadow. It mimicked the sound of wind chimes, tinkling in the fresh breeze, as she hummed her favorite tune. This is prettiest place in the whole world, she thought, and to her it was perfect.
The first grunt was faint, but engrossed in her own world, she paid little attention. Then a loud snort of anger resonated from close behind. Her eyes grew wide when she turned and peered over her shoulder. The agitated boar stood tense and enraged. Razor-sharp tusks curved like daggers of bone from the sides of his snarling jowls. His eyes were fixed and wild. Ropes of saliva dripped in slow rivulets over his lips and onto the ground. The coarse black hair along the ridge of his spine stood straight and bristled with anger. She stumbled to her feet and took a slow step back.
It was too late. The boar was already in a full charge when she turned to run. The snort and snarl felt like death in her ears as the boar drew closer behind her. Her legs felt his hoof beats rumble the earth, and she was sure she would die once beneath them.
On fire, her lungs burned with every grueling breath. Her heartbeat roared and deafened her ears. Panic took control and she ran wild without direction until she tripped on her sandal and fell. She closed her eyes and her small body tensed. She waited in fear for the inevitable—but there was silence.
Finally, she gathered the courage to look up. A teenage boy with a bow stood over the fallen beast. Intent, he studied the boar. He watched and waited. The dark blood pooled and rolled down its chest, and the sharp arrow pulsed with each dying beat of its terrified heart.
The boy looped his bow over one shoulder and it came to rest at an angle across his back. He looked unfazed and she watched him as he casually strolled toward her. His camouflage pants fell dragging the ground, hiding boots that were muddy and worn. His shoulder-length hair hung thick and dark, and his skin was tan from the sun. The blue in his eyes matched the tee shirt he wore, but sparkled like glitter in the sunlight.
"Are you ok?" he asked. The strong smell of wood smoke hung in his clothes and she tried not to sneeze when he helped her up. "You shouldn't be here by yourself." He took hold of her hand to lead her back toward the lodge. "It's too dangerous."
"How did you learn to shoot an arrow like that?" She turned to glance back at the boar to be sure it was dead.
"My dad taught me."
Still shaking, she tried to be brave, but her eyes welled with tears as they walked.
"Don't cry." He stopped. "He's deader than a doornail. He won't hurt you now."
"Thank you." Her lip quivered. "You saved me!"
"Oh, it was nothing." He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "I shoot stuff all the time."
"Are you a real knight in shining armor?" Her eyes were innocent and questioning.
"Nah," he said. "I don’t even have a horse."
They continued their walk and cut their way through a large blooming patch of flame azaleas that bordered the lodge and meadow; then stopped at the edge.
"Can you stay and play? I know some really fun games," she said, "and I have a new doll that really talks." She was excited at the idea of having someone to play with besides an adult.
"Uh …." He glanced toward the meadow. "I can't, I have to get going. I've been gone too long already."
"Too bad you can’t stay … for just a little while longer," she said. "How 'bout tomorrow?"
"I wish I could, but that hog tore up my mom’s garden and I’ll probably have to help straighten it up."
"Oh … ok." She looked down at the ground and dug the toe of her sandal in the loose dirt at her feet. "We'll be leaving the day after tomorrow so … I guess we won't get to play at all." She was disappointed, but a sudden smile lit up her face. "Maybe next year then," she said. "We're here the same week every single year!" Looking around, she saw her mother in the distance. "Shoot, I better go now before I get in trouble. Thanks again." She threw her arms around his waist, squeezed with all of her strength, and then abruptly let go.
He steadied himself from her onslaught and smiled down at her.
"You don't have to thank me. That hog will be our dinner for the next couple of months!" He stuck out his stomach and rubbed it with anticipation.
"What's your name?"
"Alex," he called over his shoulder as he turned to jog away.
The mountain lodge was a welcome change from the cold, drafty home where she lived. Her mother hated the resort because it was harsh, dirty, and in the middle of nowhere. The Appalachians remained untouched and wild, but she didn’t care. She loved it here, and the mountains felt like her home.
Grace was her grandmother’s name, and her grandmother’s before her. The years had passed, and at eighteen, the name fit. She had grown into a graceful, dark-haired beauty. She had just turned seven when she met Alex—and the boar. She waited for him year after year, but she never saw him again. As she grew older, the vague memory of a dark-haired young man with indigo eyes sometimes crept into her thoughts. She swore she would never forget him, but as the years went by, the memory of his face slowly began to fade.
******
Chapter 2 Tequila
The small tavern in Québec was virtually empty. A lone man sat on a stool with his shoulders slumped and his forehead resting on the rim of his glass. He looked up with a red-eyed, drunk face and slammed his fist on the bar.
"Another round—woman!"
The reluctant bartender frowned as she splashed him another shot of tequila. He threw back his head, tossed it down in one gulp, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"That’s a nice shirt," he said with a crude gesture. "Can I talk you out of it?"
"Not tonight sweetheart," she replied.
He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and stuck it between his teeth.
"You can’t smoke that nasty thing in here," she said.
Aggravated, he ripped the cigar from his mouth and bellowed an obscenity. He snatched his glass from the bar, hurled it past the bartender’s head, and it smashed against the wall behind her.
Security stepped from the corner, but the bartender raised her finger and stopped him. Her eyes turned and rested on a huge bear of a man ambling through the door. His long black ponytail hung to his waist and swung, as he lumbered across the room. He pulled off his gloves finger by finger, and stopped behind the man sitting at the bar.
"Lucien," Jacques said from behind him.
"What?" he said with a slurred grumble and a deep-set scowl.
Jacques placed his hand on his shoulder. "I’m sorry for your loss, my friend."
Lucien remained silent and stared down at the unlit cigar between his fingers.
"You have to stop blaming yourself," Jacques said. "You did everything in your power. She was just too ill."
Lucien leaned forward, dropped his head down on the bar, and dangled his arms beneath it.
"Come," he said. "Father needs to see us. He has some work for us in the States."
Lucien churned out a groan and raised his head. He spun on his stool with an off-balance sway, and crashed to the floor at Jacques’ feet. Flat on his back and unmoving, he made no effort to get up.
"Where in the States?" he grumbled from the floor.
Jacques leaned over Lucien and hauled him up and over his shoulder.
"The South," he replied, as he turned, and hefted him through the door of the bar.
"Jacques," Lucien said.
"Yes?"
"I think I pissed my pants."
"Yes," Jacques replied and grimaced. "I know."
******
Chapter 3-Betrothed
In 2050, the earth’s population had reached an unsustainable number through increased births and decreased mortality. In the United States, the challenge of providing sufficient shelter, medicine, food, and clean water had put a strain on an already crippled economy. The leaders of earth's developed nations came together for a series of emergency summits. As a result, family planning policies were set in place. Their consensus was final—one child per family.
Now, fifty years later in 2100, the population was on a downturn, but the birth restrictions held firm. Under the guise of securing an acceptable future for one’s only child, arranged marriages had become a common practice in certain social arenas. A growing number of the population; however, found the custom to be archaic and scarred by the stigma of greed.
Five years prior, at the young age of thirteen, Grace’s father arranged her marriage to a handsome young man of twenty. Sebastian, her betrothed, was the epitome of charm and charisma to the outside world, but with his layers peeled away, an intense insecurity lurked behind his confident facade. He was much older than Grace, and her needy adolescent presence had always been a source of constant irritation to him. Even now at eighteen, she was no longer a child, yet his perception of her had never changed.
It was early in the day when he arrived for a visit. She stood anxious, waiting and hopeful. Maybe this time, he might spend time with her.
"Sebastian, good to see you," Atticus ushered him into the house.
"Mr. Astor—Grace," he said.
He greeted them both on his way in, but his pale gray eyes stared through her.
"Come, have a seat in the study for a while," Atticus said. "I have a new bottle of imported brandy I’ve wanted to open."
"A shot of good smooth brandy would be nice for a change, sir," she heard Sebastian say in passing.
Grace cleared her throat trying to capture his attention, but he was ill-mannered, and brushed past her without a second glace. She heaved a frustrated sigh, and plopped into the recliner sideways with her knees slung over an arm. She leaned back, crossed her arms, and kicked a steady rhythm on the leather side with her feet.
Their voices carried across the foyer from inside the study. "Have a Cuban," she heard her dad say. "When I was your age, these were illegal."
"You’re too kind," Sebastian said.
"So how’s the doctorate coming along? Literature was it?"
"Yes sir, it’s almost complete, one more semester."
After some time, the powerful stench from the cigar smoke drifted through the house, and made her eyes water and her nose burn. Maybe, she thought, she could enjoy the garden while she waited outside. She scowled at the floor as she made her way out and tried her best not to sneeze. Holding her collar up over her nose, she stumbled on the landing and a guard caught her arm.
"Careful," he said.
She only looked up when the slam of a car door in front of the house caught her attention. It started and drove away. Sebastian had left—once again—without seeing her.
Her brief touch of hope vanished, and her usual doubt and insecurity took its place. Her biggest disappointment; however, came from feeling that she had no real value, other than a useful pawn in her dad’s financial chess game.
She wandered into the garden and stood gazing up at the large silver maple above her. When she was a little girl, it was her favorite tree, and she would sit in the branches for hours. Every spring, the limbs hung heavy with light golden seeds that quivered, and detached with the hint of a breeze. Today was no exception, and she sighed and watched, as the seeds floated and spun like tiny helicopters, and drifted to the ground all around her.
With her eyes on the tree, not watching her step, she tripped and stumbled again. This time, a startling fall left her flat on the ground, with her dress hiked over her head. She sat upright—puzzled, with no clue as to how it had happened. Mortified, she pulled down her dress and looked around hoping no one saw, but it was too late.
"Are you ok?" the guard asked. "Are you hurt?"
She was too embarrassed to look up at him. "My ankle …." She touched it and winced.
"Put your arm around me." He lifted her up and carried her inside. "Are you sure you aren't hurt anywhere else?" he asked. "Your back? Your head?"
"No, no, I'm fine." She finally glanced up. A pair of blue eyes peered down at her through the security helmet. They sparkled like—
"What's your name?"
"You'll need some ice fo
r that," he said.
"Grace?" her mother called and rushed into the room. "What happened?"
She turned to answer her mother, but when she looked back toward the guard, he was gone.
In the garden, a stranger stood concealed. With the amber-gold eyes of a stalking tiger, he watched them from a safe distance, and then in silence, he turned and slipped away.
******
Chapter 4 Canada
Twenty years earlier, areas of Canada began to disintegrate. After many years of its quiet revolution, Québec sought independence from Canada. Once again, the high court upheld its decision that it was not legal for Québec to secede unilaterally. In addition, regardless of the outcome of a vote, the government of Canada had made it clear that it would refuse to recognize Québec’s separation. The separatist leaders were angered. They felt that Canada would have no basis to deny the right of Québec to pursue secession. Undaunted by the court’s decision, separatist leaders fanned the flames of resentment against the government of Canada.
A civil war erupted.
Soon after, Québec’s internal battle began. The French and English-speaking citizens began to fight among each other, neighbor against neighbor, and co-worker against co-worker. The province descended into chaos when its government began to crumble, taking government health-care, private utilities, and democracy with it as it fell. The promises of freedom and a land of milk and honey; the people finally realized were all crippling lies.
After years of fighting, the Canadian government stepped back, and washed its hands of Québec. The English-speaking citizens fled when small factions of lawlessness began to take shape and fight for control of the province. Eventually, the smaller groups splintered and larger more organized crime syndicates formed to take their place. War privateers began to rise up and come to power.
In time, the unrest and crime in Québec became uncontrolled, and spilled over the borders to the United States. The citizens of the Northeast took up arms, making it difficult for the criminals to carry out their forays. In their search for unsuspecting victims, they migrated and fanned across the States.
