Faith by Fire (Prodigal Brothers MC Book 1)

by Rose Macwaters

  Faith by Fire

  Prodigal Brothers MC - Book One

  Rose Macwaters

  Copyright © 2019 by Rose Macwaters

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my Parents

  Thank you for believing in me, supporting my dreams, and bringing me food while I work.

  For Stephanie

  This book would not exist without you.

  Thank you.

  Each one will be like a shelter from the wind and a refuge from the storm, like streams of water in the desert and the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land.

  Isaiah 32:2

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Charlie took the final stretch of her run at a full sprint, a silly grin on her face the entire time. She loved this feeling, the sense of freedom she felt when pushing her limits in the early morning quiet. Only two other runners were circling the track at this hour. As she gulped the last of her water and draped a towel around her neck, Charlie watched an older man finish his first lap. His posture was somewhat hunched and his pace was slow, but her heart filled with admiration at the sight. She absolutely planned to still be making her way around the track when she was his age. God willing and the creek don’t rise, as her mother would say.

  She took her time packing her things into a small duffel bag to give her running buddy time to finish one more lap. Charlie had been meeting Regan Alexander for pre-dawn miles since high school. Regan was a long-distance runner and Charlie lived for sprinting, but just being there at the same time provided a pleasant sense of camaraderie…and incentive to show up on her more reluctant mornings. As Regan drew close, she waved Charlie on.

  “Go ahead, girl! I know you’ve got work. I’m going to stay for another mile or two.”

  “Okay! Have fun!”

  Charlie waved goodbye, then slipped out of her running shoes and into a street pair for the walk home. She lived in a small house on the very edge of the historic district and within comfortable walking distance from her old high school training field. It’s the little things in life. Charlie hefted her duffel bag onto her shoulder and checked her watch. She had just under two hours to get home, shower, and make it to work. She smiled again. Endorphins were the best defense against Friday fever…and four-year-olds.

  When she turned onto her street, her heart skipped a beat. A bright red mustang convertible was parked outside her house. Greg. She used the towel around her neck to wipe the sweat from her forehead, then stashed it in her bag before running a smoothing hand over her hair. Not that it did much good. Her curls were springing free from her ponytail in a style that was far more madwoman than charming. Oh, well. Her fiancé sat perched on her porch steps, the early morning light casting shadows on his handsome face.

  Praise the Lord, but she was one lucky woman.

  She dipped down for a quick kiss on the cheek before settling onto the step beside him.

  "Morning, beautiful," he said, without even a hint of irony. He was the beautiful one, with his mahogany hair and light blue eyes. Oh, and that chiseled jaw line? Girl, please.

  "Morning," she said, gathering herself. "Is one of those for me?" She indicated the two coffees from the coffeehouse around the corner.

  "Of course. Here." He grinned as he handed her the cup, his eyes sparkling boyishly even as his cheeks dimpled in the most distracting way.

  "Not that I'm not grateful, but what are you doing here? And so early?”

  "Can't a man surprise his future wife just for the sake of it?"

  "A man? Sure. You? Not a chance. Spill." She leaned her cheek against his shoulder and took a sip of her drink. Vanilla latte. She smiled. He seemed convinced it was her favorite, though she couldn't for the life of her figure out why or even remember when it started. Oh, well. It made for a nice—if a bit sweet—change from her usual cinnamon-spiked espresso.

  "Alright, so maybe I hoped it would soften the blow of my canceling our lunch date today."

  Charlie sat up so she could see his face. "That's no big deal. Definitely not worth a trip across town. A text would've done it."

  Greg chuckled and rubbed a long-fingered hand on the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, that's not the part you won't like."

  “Greg Sanderson, you stop trying to 'handle' me and just tell me already!”

  “Well, sweetheart...I'm spending the weekend in Memphis with Fresh Start."

  Charlie frowned. "Okay. Doing what?"

  "Renovating houses in bad neighborhoods so that some of the local guys can move in and start trying to turn the neighborhoods around from the inside out. It's an amazing ministry, honestly."

  "That sounds great, but isn't this kind of last minute?"

  "Uh, actually, I signed up a couple of months ago." Seeing her expression change, Greg reached for her hand. "Sweetheart, I didn't tell you sooner because I didn't want you to be worried. Memphis can be a dangerous city, and I'll be staying in some of the worst places."

  Charlotte took a deep breath and tried to control her temper. She would have been worried if he'd told her sooner, sure. But that was her right as his fiancée. She did not like being sheltered from the truth in some misguided attempt to spare her feelings.

  "Greg. I've told you before that I don't like it when you keep things from me, even if you think it's for my own good."

  "I know, babe. I'm sorry. Forgive me?"

  Charlie searched her brain for a verse on forgiveness and came up empty. Her mother would be so disappointed. She gave a mental shrug. Holding grudges wasn't really her style anyway.

  "Of course. I just..." She sighed. "Just tell me next time, okay? Even if I get upset, I deserve to know what's going on."

  Greg leaned in and kissed her cheek.

  "I promise. I'll make it up to you when I get back. Lunch on Monday? At Freddy's? I know it's your favorite."

  Charlie nodded. "Sure."

  "Excellent." Greg stood up, coffee cup in hand. "Well, I should go. Car pool leaves for Memphis in an hour and I want to be early. Goodbye, sweetheart. Thanks for being so understanding. I'm the luckiest guy."

  He kissed her cheek one more time. Greg wasn't big on hugs, and PDAs made Charlie want to die, so early on in their relationship they'd agreed on cheek kisses as an acceptable form of public affection.

  Charlie mustered a smile and wished him luck.

  "Be careful, Greg. I'll be praying for you."

  "That's my girl!" He flashed his dimples one more time before driving off.

  Charlie took another sip of the coffee, then made a face. Too sweet. She glanced up the street to make sure no one was watching before pouring the rest of the latte into the bushes beside her.

  She checked her watch.
If she hurried, she'd have time to stop for real coffee on her way to work. Her expression clouded over when she thought about Greg's weekend plans, but she shook it off. It wasn't her place to keep him from engaging in outreach ministries, even dangerous ones.

  "'Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?' No, I cannot." Charlie hopped to her feet. "And I can't add an hour to Greg’s either." She paused to smile up at the morning sky and offered a quick prayer. "Thanks for the reminder, Lord. Please keep Greg safe this weekend. Keep Your hand of protection on him as he works to help the lost. And help me not to worry too much. Help me to trust You more. Amen."

  Charlie jogged up her porch steps cheerfully. Everything was going to be okay.

  Charlie shifted the little girl on her lap and turned the page in the book she was reading aloud. The boy sitting next to her put one sticky hand on her arm.

  "I turn the pages?"

  "Good idea, Isaiah. I'll tell you when, okay?"

  Her helper nodded seriously before snuggling more closely into her side. Charlie smiled at the sincere little faces gathered around her. A knock sounded on the door, and she looked up to see the preschool director standing in the open doorway.

  "Miss Charlotte? You have a phone call in the office."

  "Oh. Okay. Um..."

  Her boss smiled at her kindly. "I'll stay with your class. You go on ahead."

  "Thank you! I'll only be a minute." She eased the girl from her lap and addressed her kids. "Y'all be good for Mrs. Johnson. I'll be right back to finish the book."

  The preschool main office was just a quick walk down a long narrow hallway. Charlie hurried along, fear coiling tighter and tighter in her stomach. Monday mornings were stressful enough, but Greg hadn't texted since the day before. And now this? Charlie whispered a prayer for strength under her breath as she pushed open the door to the office.

  "Line three, hon." The office assistant nodded to the staff phone against the wall.

  "Thanks."

  Charlie pressed the phone tighter against her ear as she leaned one shoulder against the wall. It couldn’t be real. Her mom’s voice sounded muffled, distorted. Charlie’s brain processed the news in pieces.

  Bad neighborhood.

  Dangerous.

  He knew.

  Very brave.

  Don’t know who. Why.

  Several injured.

  Greg.

  Gone.

  Sorry. So sorry.

  Dad coming to get you.

  Hold on, honey.

  Hold on.

  Charlie slid slowly to the floor and let the phone slip from her hand.

  Gone.

  Hold on, honey.

  Greg.

  She blinked at the linoleum under her hand, the cracked and yellowed floor a stark contrast to the bright sparkle of her engagement ring.

  Dangerous.

  He knew.

  Brave.

  She closed her eyes.

  Gone.

  The secretary skirted around the sign-in counter to grab the phone Charlie had left bobbing on its cord, her mom’s voice still audible.

  “Hello? Oh hi, Mrs. Woodland. She’s right here, she—Oh. Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry. Yes, yes of course. Not a problem. Of course. I’ll inform the director. Yes, ma’am. You, too.”

  She returned the phone to its cradle and crouched down next to Charlie.

  “Your mom told me what happened, honey. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She patted Charlie’s hand. “Your daddy is on his way from the church. Shouldn’t be long now.” She paused. “I’m going to go tell Mrs. Johnson that you won’t be returning to your classroom, okay? Will you be alright here for a minute?”

  Charlie nodded, numb, then closed her eyes again. She listened to the secretary’s clacking footsteps retreat down the hall.

  Greg.

  Gone.

  Hold on, honey.

  Hold on.

  Logan shifted forward to place his clasped hands on the table in front of him. The handcuffs that bound his wrists clattered on the wood top, drawing too much attention in the hushed courtroom and making him wince. As he leaned over, the cheap suit he wore strained across his shoulders, and the chains attached to the cuffs pulled taut against his leg irons. Logan clenched his jaw and leaned back in his chair, letting his hands slide into his lap with another clanking rattle.

  The judge glanced in his direction, and Logan averted his eyes.

  He deserved whatever punishment the court handed down; of that he was certain. It’d been months since he’d been able to meet his own gaze in the mirror, much less that of the robed authority that had ruled over his trial and now his sentencing.

  Logan dug his nails into his palms as images from that night flashed across his mind.

  The bar. Too much to drink. Fight with his girlfriend. Her smudged makeup as tears ran down her cheeks. Yelling. Someone pushing him from behind. Blind punches. Jonathan Marshall stepping in, his crisp blue shirt and starched khakis sticking out against the layers of grime and scent of oiled leather that permeated the biker bar around him.

  Jonathan Marshall.

  He’d never forget that name. Or the earnest look on the younger man’s face the split second before Logan’s fist drove him to the floor. He never got back up.

  Manslaughter?

  Logan felt like a murderer.

  The woman dabbing at her nose as she approached the witness stand looked barely ten years older than he was, reminding him once again how young Jonathan had been.

  She sniffled softly, brought a tissue to her nose once more, then looked straight at him. Logan had never wished more desperately to be invisible than he did at that moment. She nodded at him, something resembling pity in her eyes. Hate would have been easier to receive. It was what he deserved. That and so much more.

  The judge set a small box of tissues on the edge of her desk where the woman testifying could reach it easily.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Mrs. Marshall,” she said. “Take your time.”

  Jonathan’s mother looked down at the crumpled tissue in her hands and took a steadying breath.

  “My son was a good man,” she began. “Young, full of energy and passion for God. He had more courage from the time he was a small child, than I have had in my entire life. I think most mothers are proud of their sons—of all their children—but I wasn’t just proud of Jonathan. I was amazed by him, inspired by him. From the time he was born, he taught me about the God I was so determined for him to know.” She paused, wiped tears from her cheeks, then continued. “Jonathan changed lives with his life, and I have to believe that he will change lives with his death.”

  She shifted in the witness stand so that she was angled toward the defendant’s table and Logan.

  “You took his life, but I believe you when you say it was an accident. That the punch was on purpose, but his death was not. I wish I could hate you for what you have taken from me, but I can’t. My own conscience and the memory of my extraordinary son won’t let me. Instead, I find myself sad for you. I don’t know you or what kind of life brought you to the place where you would strike a man you didn’t know and thereby end his life, but I think I can imagine. You are exactly the reason Jonathan was in that bar that night. I believe—as he did—that all lost souls can be rescued. For that reason, and that reason alone, I am asking that you be given the maximum sentence for your crime. Not out of anger or spite or even a selfish desire for some semblance of justice, but rather because it is my sincere prayer that this time will alter the course of the rest of your life. That it will give you a chance, isolated from whatever circumstances brought you to that bar, to find a new path.”

  She paused again, overcome by emotion.

  “I will be praying for you. Praying that the death of my beloved son will result in the saving of your soul, because that is what he would have wanted more than anything else. And while it may not matter to you today, I want you to know that I forgive you, that God loves you, and that
you can, even now, be saved.”

  Logan gripped his hands together under the table as she left the witness stand, his shoulders hunched. Her words stung and burned like fire. He didn’t deserve her mercy or her forgiveness. He didn’t want it. He wanted to suffer for what he’d done.

  Two years for taking a life. He deserved so much worse.

  8…9…10.

  Logan counted through clenched teeth, the strain of each push-up sending sweat dripping down between his hands on the concrete floor.

  There was barely enough room in the cell for him to stretch out, and his hair brushed the bars with each repetition.

  13…14…15.

  “Yo, Matthews. You got a visitor.”

  Logan paused, then dipped his chest back to the ground before slowly pushing back up. It was Tuesday, and if he were ever going to have a visitor it would be today, but he had no friends, no family. His two years were almost up, and he’d not had a single visitor in that time. His public defender had long since abandoned ship.

  “Got to be a mistake, man. There’s no one to visit me.”

  The guard rapped on the metal bars with his baton. “No mistake. Asked for you by name. Let's go.”

  Logan got to his feet and passed his hands through the opening in the cell door for the guard to shackle his wrists. The prison guard called down the hall to the nearest security desk.

  “Hey, Rodney. Open thirty-four.

  Logan stepped into his worn prison slippers and followed the guard down the hallway toward the visitor’s area. His feet made a soft shuffling sound as he walked, but the guards steel-toed boots clicked sharply, echoing off the floor and ceiling. The visitation area was one large room with metal tables and attached seating that reminded Logan of picnics when he was a kid, minus everything good. The guard led him past several inmates and their guests to a table in the far corner of the room.