Reclaiming Peace: A Peace Series Novella Read online

  Reclaiming Peace

  A Peace Series Novella

  Copyright © 2017 by S. H. Pratt

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, S. H. Pratt, or within the sharing guidelines at a legitimate library or bookseller.

  Cover Design by Art Pratt Photography & Design & Renee Ericson

  Photo:

  ISBNPaperback: 978-1976053030

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the US.

  This book is dedicated to.

  The survivors who never got justice.

  The content and subject matter of this book is for those 18 years of age and older. May contain strong content, violence and language.

  Acknowledgements:

  When I wrote this story, I was irritated about some current events in which the victims got no justice whatsoever and while I knew that I would not give them justice by writing it, I felt less angry by doing so. However, upon completion, I feared it was too much… too angry … so I asked three amazing ladies who had never read a single thing I’d ever written to read it. So I must thank Rachel Walker, Krysi Foster, and Caroline Andrus for being hard critics and great beta readers. They were the first to read Reclaiming Peace and the ones who convinced me that it was not too much but that it could be so much more. Together, the four of us dreamed up what became the Peace Novella Series.

  I’d also like to thank the countless other beta readers who read Reclaiming Peace and gave me feedback. Without all of these amazing readers, Peace wouldn’t exist. A giant shout out to my best friend, Linda Niebeling. Drove all over the Montana countryside taking pictures for reference and teasers. Thanks to my hubby, Art, who made a fair number of the covers for this project aside from my own and who let me read my story to him. And to my three nerdlings – they heard nothing but “peace stuff” for months!

  Last, but most certainly, not least, I need to thank the amazing ladies who made Peace the great series it is. The authors of Peace are among the most talented and wonderful people I’ve had the great fortune to meet and work with.

  “You’re late.”

  She rolled her eyes, knowing, without moving, who stood behind her. Sitting on the soft, recently turned ground, she tried, in vain, to ignore the shadow that fell over her. With a sigh of resignation, she stared at her mother’s newly placed headstone, wishing he’d just go away.

  “Did you lose your voice in your travels?” The man’s voice mocked her. Of all the people in this god-forsaken, hole-in-the-wall town, Brent Harrington was the last person she wanted to see. Just the sneer in his voice was an irritant and as rough as sandpaper to her raw emotions.

  “Go to hell,” she rasped, her voice hoarse from having cried through most of the flight that had returned her to the state of Montana. The shadow moved and Dexie McBride closed her blue eyes in frustration. Why did he have to be here? Why couldn’t he just leave her alone to grieve in peace?

  “Still so sweet. Why didn’t you make it in time? Where have you been the last ten years?” Brent questioned her mercilessly.

  “None of your damn business.”

  “Come on, you must have some great stories about your grand adventures. What have you been up to?”

  “Living,” she snapped, refusing to look at him. The smell of excessive Old Spice invaded her senses, making her stomach roll and her eyes burn. She shuddered as he squatted next to her, his arms resting on his knees. His mere proximity was repulsive enough to conjure her nightmares.

  “Why didn’t you come home when she begged you? You missed the funeral, why come back now when you couldn’t be bothered before? What are you doing here?”

  “Dying while I count the minutes until I can get the hell away from you.”

  Brent reached out and ran his short, stubby hand up her arm suggestively, sending Dexie’s revulsion higher and her skin crawling. She wrenched her arm away from him and scowled.

  “We still have unfinished business, Dexie. Perhaps now is a good time to do that… before you leave again.” Brent edged closer, his movement reminding her of a waddling crab. The salaciousness that oozed from his voice made her shudder. Swallowing past her disgust, she stood and backed away to the end of the grave. Vivid memories of their last encounter still haunted her. The events of that afternoon had kept her away from Peace and from her mother for the last ten years. Even as her mother had begged, with her dying breath, for Dexie to come home, she’d known she couldn’t without making sure she was protected.

  “We have no business. Mom didn’t change her will, therefore, we have nothing to discuss any more than we did ten years ago. Please leave.”

  Brent straightened, turned, and advanced toward Dexie. His dark eyes were alight with the same maniacal lust that tormented her dreams. The hard, cruel, predatory expression on his too-square, pock-marked face twisted her stomach. Choking back her urge to vomit all over his polished shoes, Dexie continued to edge away from him.

  “I say we complete the merger. Right here. Your mother can bear witness. We can make it official then declare Peace ours.” Brent leered as he reached for Dexie. She side-stepped and spun away from him, coming to a stop near her mother’s headstone.

  “I think not. My mom was married to your dad. You are my step-brother. That makes you disgusting and off-limits.” Dexie grimaced sarcastically, her voice dripping with disdain.

  “There’s no blood tie between us, it would be okay…”

  “Hell no. There’s bad blood and that’s enough. Now go away.”

  Brent lunged a second time, this time catching Dexie’s arm in a tight, painful grip just as she was trying to spin away again. Before she could react, his other hand was a fist in her dark strawberry-blonde hair, yanking her head to the left and backward. Pain shot down her neck and across her shoulders, but she clamped her mouth shut against the cry that threatened to escape her. Memories of his taunting voice whispering in her ear how it turned him on when she screamed enabled her rising panic as he twisted her hair even tighter. Brent let go of her arm and grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her to look at him. The stench of his stale breath, heavy with the reek of whiskey and tobacco, assailed her as he leaned down, bringing his face inches from hers. Bile rose in her throat as she gagged.

  “You need to learn some manners, Babycakes,” Brent hissed. Dexie lifted her hand and slipped it between their faces, making Brent back away slightly. Glaring defiantly, she dropped all of her fingers except her middle one. Brent snarled and pulled harshly on her hair.

  “Mr. Harrington, I suggest you release the young lady, right this instant,” a cool, authoritative voice behind Brent instructed. Dexie bit her tongue, trying desperately not to make a sound, knowing that was exactly what Brent was waiting for. Brent continued to tighten his fist, making her scalp burn painfully as he slowly bent her backward.

  “Now Mr. Harrington!” the man repeated more forcefully in a cold tone that had hardened and brooked no argument. His voice was unrecognizable in Dexie’s panic-laced haze. When Brent continued to ignore the other man, Dexie heard a small ‘pop’ followed by the rattle of metal.

  Brent snarled and threw Dexie from him violently, a few of her hairs parting company with her scalp as she stumbled, off-balance. She slammed into the hard marble monument marking her mother’s
grave and a sharp pain rippled through her thigh, making her whole leg ache.

  “Well, if it isn’t my least favorite, pain-in-the-ass, coattail cousin,” Brent sneered disdainfully as he slowly turned to face the other man. Dexie used the grave marker to straighten, putting weight on her leg gingerly as the muscles in her thigh knotted painfully. She turned to see who’d interrupted Brent’s attack and stifled a gasp as Brent spoke again. “Why are you here, Dray?”

  It was all Dexie could do not to stare open-mouthed in shock. Draven Palmer stood, gazing impassively at Brent, his charcoal-grey eyes bored. He stood at least six-foot-five, was broad-shouldered, and dressed in the brown uniform worn by the Stillwater County Sheriff’s Department. One of his long, powerful hands rest on a nightstick hanging at his side and the other sat nonchalantly on his service revolver sitting in its holster.

  Dray looked nothing like the overly thin and gangly man-child she’d known ten years ago. He’d been the one person, aside from her mother, whom she’d missed more than she cared to admit. They’d been best friends since kindergarten and inseparable… until Brent had made living in Peace, Montana impossible. Her departure from Peace had been sudden and inescapable thanks to her step-father and his willingness to sweep his vile son’s brutal behavior into a closet. Tears filled Dexie’s eyes as she imagined the hurt she’d caused Dray.

  “I’m doing my job, Brent. What are you doing here? Because we all know you aren’t mourning the death of your step-mother.” Dray answered coolly as he slowly approached Brent with the air of a lion tamer approaching his most dangerous adversary.

  “I was having a little chat with my sweet step-sister. Just family business. No need for you to stick your annoying nose into it.”

  Dexie closed her eyes as she struggled to marshal her emotions and keep her face devoid of expression. When she opened them again, her blue eyes collided with cool grey eyes as they seemed to peer into her very soul.

  “Dexie,” Dray nodded politely, his expression giving nothing away. “Would you like to press charges against Brent for assault while I’m filing my report on this?”

  “Sure, I’d love to. It won’t do a damn bit of good but I’ll do it anyway. I’d wager he still owns seventy percent of this town and most of the people in it.” Dexie retorted bitterly.

  “Eighty,” Brent smirked as he leered at her over his shoulder.

  “You wish,” Dexie snapped.

  “Brent, you’re under arrest for assault,” Dray began, moving swiftly before Brent had the chance to fight. Dexie gaped as she listened to the ratcheting of the handcuffs while Dray recited Brent’s Miranda Rights. Either Dray was a whole lot more courageous than she remembered, or the Harrington hold on Peace wasn’t as strong as it had once been. She almost burst out laughing as Brent began protesting, his hands locked behind his back and shock etched in his horrible face. “If you’d like to come with us, we can fill out the paperwork,”

  “I’ll get you for this, Dexie,” Brent promised menacingly.

  Dexie glared icily at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a verbal response as she followed Dray toward the edge of the cemetery.

  “Dexie, I’d like to document your injuries,” Dray murmured after taking Dexie’s written statement. Between the thirty-five minute drive to Columbus, where the Stillwater County Sheriff’s Office was located, and the time it had taken to give her statement, she was exhausted. The adrenaline that had gotten her back to Peace and through her confrontation with Brent had begun to abandon her and she craved a quiet haven to just breathe.

  “You mean take pictures of my bruises?” Dexie smirked.

  “Yes. We don’t have any female officers but one of the ladies in the office can take them.”

  “That’s fine, but I have no problem with you taking the pictures.”

  “Well, for propriety sake, I cannot, but I’ll have Corinna do it.”

  “Okay, I have nothing to hide.”

  Dray nodded then left the room, returning with a middle-aged woman in a black cardigan, whom he introduced as Corinna Hardy. Dexie smiled at the other woman, then watched as he readied a digital camera. Dray took several pictures of the bruises on either side of her face and on her arm. Dexie moved to lower her jeans but froze when she saw the flush in his cheeks and the discomfort in his expression.

  With a scowl on his face, Dray turned to leave, saying, “Excuse me.”

  Dexie lowered her jeans after the door had closed once more and gaped at the huge, deep bruise on her thigh about four inches below the end of her tattoo. She’d known it was bad, but seeing the grapefruit-sized knot that was rapidly turning a violent shade of purple was shocking. Turning, she exposed her thigh to Corinna, who made quick work of taking the necessary pictures. Dexie lifted her jeans and closed them while Corinna left to give the camera back to Dray and let him know they were done. There was a light tap on the door before Dray returned to the room, his expression now muddied with his blatant anger.

  “That’s a hell of a bruise Brent gave you. And a tattoo?” Dray questioned uncomfortably.

  “Yep,” Dexie replied, unsure if her comment was an acknowledgement of the knot on her leg or the question in his voice.

  “I remember you being a whole lot more modest.”

  “I’ve seen the worst that people can do to each other and been to places where I was the oddball because I wore so much clothing. I’m pretty sure my anatomy is no different than any other woman’s.” Dexie shrugged.

  “I see,” he muttered. “If you give me a few minutes, I can take you back to Peace and your car.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks, Dray.”

  Dexie sat down, slouching in the uncomfortable chair, and covered her eyes with her hand. As the days of flying, the stress of returning to Peace, and the grief of losing her mother flooded her, a bone-deep exhaustion settled over her. She jumped when she felt something intensely cold press against her thigh. Opening her eyes, Dexie saw Dray turning to leave the room again after placing an icepack on her leg. With a small smile, she pressed the pack against the knot Brent had given her and covered her eyes again.

  Dexie’s heart stuttered and sped when a hand gently shook her shoulder, bringing her eyes open. Disoriented, she straightened, looking up at Dray as she put the icepack on the table.

  “Sorry that took so long. Are you ready?” Dray apologized, making Dexie wonder just how long she’d been waiting. It felt like no time at all, but the temperature of the icepack and the ache in her lower back suggested otherwise.

  “Sure. Thanks for the ice pack, by the way.” Dexie nodded as she stood.

  “Yep. That’s a nasty bruise.”

  Dexie didn’t reply as they left the room, her mind trying to reconcile this stoic man with the exuberant, talkative person she remembered him to be. She followed Dray from the building to the patrol car they’d arrived in.

  “When are you off duty?” she asked as Dray slid behind the steering wheel.

  “Now. Or as off-duty as it gets in Stillwater County.”

  Dray put the key in the ignition, fired the car up, and left the parking lot. Dexie turned her head and stared out at the scrub and brush speeding by and the patchwork of farmlands beyond.

  “Where’s Brent?” she asked after a long silence.

  “On his way to Billings for an overnight stay,” Dray replied quietly.

  “Billings?”

  “Yes. Stillwater County contracts with Yellowstone County to use their jail facilities.”

  “Oh.”

  Silence settled over the two of them as the miles flew by. By the time they were nearing the city limits of Peace, Dexie’s skin was crawling with the tension growing in the confines of the car. Her heart ached for the closeness they’d once shared. A million thoughts swirled in her head, things she wanted to say… explanations she longed to give, but when faced with the possibility of his endless recriminations, she simply couldn’t bring herself to say anything.

  “Where are you staying?”
Dray asked, breaking into her discordant thoughts as they entered Peace. Dexie turned her head to look at him.

  “I don’t know. It’s easier to say where I’m not staying.” She shrugged.

  “Which is?”

  “As far away from Brent as possible. So not at the Harrington place or my mom’s either. He has too much access. I figured I could check into the motel.”

  “You’re welcome to stay at the old homestead cabin on my property if you’d like,” Dray offered.

  “Your property?” Dexie asked, unsure if he’d bought land or had inherited his parent’s.

  “Yeah. When Mom died a year ago, we buried her under the oak, where she loved to sit. Then Dad transferred the property to me. He’s got bad joints and needs to be watched out for at night, so I moved to the big house and he lives there with me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”

  “Thanks. She died making a batch of her famous cookies.” Dray smirked, but Dexie saw a deep sorrow cloud his eyes, crushing her heart.

  “I’ve missed her baking. She was the best baker in three counties.”

  “That she was. She had the ribbons and trophies to prove it.” Dray chuckled, making Dexie smile. The memory of Millie Palmer’s kitchen surged in her mind. Drake Palmer, Dray’s father, had built his wife a cupboard that spanned one entire wall of her kitchen to display the numerous trophies from the hundreds of fairs and festivals she’d entered her baked goods into over the years. Dexie had always wondered if Mrs. Palmer had had enough ribbons to paper the kitchen walls. And she couldn’t remember ever walking into the Palmer’s house without smelling some treat being baked.

  “Anyway, if you’d like to stay at the cabin, you’re welcome to. I use it when I need a break from babysitting, so it’s got water and electricity.” Dray offered again after a long, morose silence.

  “I appreciate it,” she smiled wanly. Wondering if she should pay rent or something, she opened her mouth to ask, only to be cut off before she started.