Song of Life Read online

  Cover Copy

  When Sunny hired a handyman, the last thing she expected him to fix was her heart .

  Sunny Douglas is running out of time. A widow buried in debt, she struggles to find the money to keep her Inn up and running. When drifter Cas Martin comes to town, Sunny finds he's just the handyman she needs. The problem is, soon she wants him for more than his handiness with a wrench. She doesn't want to be one of those women who tries to feel young by dating a younger man, but neither of them can fight the attraction.

  Cas has spent his life under his father's tyrannical thumb. Now he's on the run, hiding from his father and trying to become his own man. In Nevis, Cas begins to think he can be happy. He has found a place that calls to him, a town that accepts him and a woman who loves him. Now if his past would quit haunting him…

  Will he find the courage to defeat his father, bare his soul to the woman he loves and finally lay his ghosts to rest?

  Teaser

  The mood was broken. Her body still throbbed but her mind had cleared, and to buy time she captured his hands and began to ask questions.

  “Are you sure?”

  His body stilled. He raised his head and stared at her, frowning.

  “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”

  “Have there been so many women, that you’d know?”

  He straightened; if he was upset at her withdrawing he didn’t let it show. He tucked her against him, an arm tightly around her shoulders. “There’ve been a few women,” he admitted. “None of them meant anything.”

  “Were they young?” she asked, watching him closely.

  He snorted a laugh. “I don’t know how old they were. I didn’t know them. They were more or less one night stands, bodies that could give me the release I needed. It was a change from doing it myself,” he added sarcastically. “And I won’t be giving you any details. I wouldn’t expect you to tell me any about your husband.”

  “No, God no,” she said, horrified.

  “Are you having second thoughts, Sunny?”

  Song of Life

  C.L. McCullough

  Song of Life

  9781616503482

  Copyright © 2011, C.L. McCullough

  Edited by Antonia Tiranth

  Book design by Lyrical Press, Inc.

  Cover Art by Valerie Tibbs

  First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: February, 2012

  Lyrical Press, Incorporated

  http://www.lyricalpress.com

  eBooks are not transferable. All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated

  Dedication

  To small towns and good people, wherever they might be.

  Prologue

  California 1985

  The child huddled in the depths of the huge tester bed. The room stretched out around him, full of mysterious shadows that seemed to move for no reason at all. Since Mama had gone, leaving him behind without even a goodbye kiss, the monsters had grown and not even the Mickey Mouse night light could ease the fear. Papa said there were no such things as monsters, only monstrous people who ought to be horse whipped. “You have to be a man,” he’d said, “and quit believing in monsters under the bed. Even a mongrel like you can learn to act brave.”

  He wanted to believe, but he’d learned to be wary of his father. It was very hard to please Papa. He wasn’t sure he ever had. Papa didn’t like him, not like his Mama did. Mama loved him, she’d said so often and he couldn’t understand why she’d gone away without even saying goodbye.

  The creak sounded like a gunshot. He tensed and watched with wide eyes as the closet door cracked slowly open. Why would it do that if something hadn’t caused it? His nurse, Hannah, had gone to her own bed, so what did that leave but monsters? His breath hitched, but he couldn’t cry; he had to be brave, just as Papa demanded.

  The shadows moved closer, swelling and shrinking as if to mock his fear. The vast expanse of the room, the high ceiling lost in a blackness that pressed down on him, and the knowledge that he was alone and lonely, almost broke his nerve.

  He wanted his mother.

  He huddled into the pillows, trying to ignore what his fear told him was true. The monsters were coming to get him. His mama had always sung to him. It was a comfort when he was feeling scared or alone. Her voice was so pretty and she would sing of beautiful castles and brave knights. He knew it was so even if he couldn’t understand the words she used.

  As he remembered, he began to hum. He closed his eyes, sliding down until he lay flat and the hum became words, gaining in volume as he put all his concentration into it. The words were made up, special words that brought his mother back. His high, pure voice filled the room and in his mind the knight fought the monsters. The beautiful princess, who looked a lot like his mama, held out her hand and smiled at him.

  His song ended in a cry of pain as something grabbed his arm, jerking him to the side of the bed. His eyes flew open. He struggled wildly, sure his song had failed and he'd been captured by a monster, but the monster glaring back at him, red faced and angry, was his father.

  “I have told you no singing. Real men don’t sing. You are supposed to be a man, not a puta’s lap dog. You stupid mongrel! Perhaps you need help to remember? Turn over.”

  “Papa…..”

  “Silencio ! I will have silence from you. She tried to make you weak, but she left you, didn’t she? Even she thought you not worth the taking. Do not look at me like that. You are as willful as she and I will not have her look out from your eyes, judging me, disrespecting me. Turn over, as I said.”

  The boy began to cry as he slowly rolled over on his stomach. He flinched as his pajama bottoms were roughly pulled to his knees. His breath hitched and he stared blindly at the halo of light Mickey threw against the wall.

  Time seemed to slow. Everything was exaggerated. His father’s harsh breathing echoed in the room, the shadow of his arm loomed as it raised the dog whip high.

  * * * *

  Casimiro Martin gasped as his eyes flew open. He was drenched with sweat, not the healthy sweat of hard work, but the sour sweat of fear. It infuriated him that he still had these flashbacks. Fifteen years and his father still controlled his life. Two years on the run and he continued to look over his shoulder every hour of every day.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, rubbing his damp face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep. He was tired of closing his eyes and living through the same scene again and again, before his exhausted mind would finally let him rest. Wearily he got to his feet, looking around the dingy room with distaste. For a moment he couldn’t remember which city he was in. Rooms he could afford were pretty much the same, no matter where they were located.

  Outside the single window, a neon sign flickered on and off, like some grainy silent movie. He staggered to the wall switch and flipped it up. The bare light bulb had a glare all its own, but it did diminish the nauseating effect of the flashing sign.

  Albuquerque, it was
Albuquerque. That’s where he was. God, he was so tired, but sleep remained just out of his reach. He might as well do something constructive. He’d wash, pack his few belongings and get on with his travels. Sleep was overrated anyway.

  Somewhere, somehow, he’d outrun his father. He didn’t know if the bastard was still looking for him, but Jose Aguilar had a long reach and Cas wouldn’t take the chance. He would lay low and work as he could and continue to put distance between himself and California.

  He only wished he could put that distance into his soul.

  Chapter 1

  The Blue Ridge, 2008

  Nevis, North Carolina had been populated by disenfranchised Scotsmen searching for a new life after the Battle of Culloden. Highlanders all, they naturally gravitated to the west, to the mountains that reminded them of their lost homes and their lost heritage.

  Nevis lay deep in the Blue Ridge and had remained isolated for most of its history. The fact was, Nevis was barely a town. Fierce independence and the need to have plenty of room around them kept the early settlers isolated. Their homesteads were self sufficient for most things and located miles from each other.

  An enterprising German set up a mill beside a swift flowing mountain stream. The convenience of milling large amounts of grain all at the same time was too enticing to resist. Hardworking mountain women, seeing a chance to simplify their lives, harassed their men folk until they reluctantly gave in.

  The German became a great success and was soon joined by his ambitious brother-in-law who set up a general store, optimistically called The Cornucopia. Soon a bathhouse and barber shop were added and that most important profession to frontier living, the blacksmith.

  Through the years Nevis slowly grew, adding to itself as needs were perceived. In the early 1900’s a few wealthy scions discovered the pure air and beautiful scenery and built what they called vacation homes. Everyone else called them mansions. When Highway 28 was pushed through the mountains, to join up with Highway 129 in Tennessee, Gideon Douglas enlarged the small public house that had existed there for over two centuries and called it the Crossroads Inn.

  Nevis more or less became a resort town, far from famous, but filling a need for those who’d lost their hearts to the Blue Ridge. Nestled in its little valley, surrounded by mountains that could be capricious and cruel, Nevis retained the simplicity and serenity of its history

  * * * *

  Cas was far from his beginnings, but he felt at home in these mountains. His family acres bordered the Sierras. His father, when in the mood, had taken him backpacking there. At one time Aguilars owned large tracts of mountain land, becoming rich off the timber and a rich vein of gold. Jose Aguilar had been determined to gain back what had been lost through foolishness and bad investments, and such was his determination that he had mostly succeeded. Cas’s father was a stubborn man, a hard man, who allowed no softness to interfere with his long term plans.

  He pushed his father from his mind and concentrated on his surroundings. The Appalachians were the oldest mountains in the Americas. The Rockies of his childhood were bigger, higher, younger, but there was something about these ancient, rounded hills that spoke to him. They didn’t overpower, but their majesty was undeniable. They marched off into the blue gray distance, their rounded tops verdant with spring growth and here and there flashes of white dogwood. Once he passed a whole mountainside of rhododendrons, their scarlet blooms curving seductively around the pines that towered above them. Birdsong accompanied him, the call of a robin, the distinctive notes of a mockingbird, the chatter of a blue jay, but he felt no urge to join them. Song had been beaten out of him long ago.

  Although he walked a paved road, it seemed to be wending its way through complete wilderness. So it surprised him to top a hill and find a town lying below him, in a small valley that cradled it protectively. He could see a church spire rising high above the houses. Despite the size of the valley, there was no crowding. No attempt to claim every inch of land with cheek to jowl buildings, thrown up without regard to aesthetics or practicality.

  Perhaps there would be a job in this small mountain town. Perhaps he could settle here for a few months, maybe even a couple of years as he had in Nebraska. Perhaps. He was running out of real estate, he’d have to find another country entirely if he continued in his flight.

  He started walking again, intent on the town below. He hitched his backpack higher looping his long fingers through the straps.

  His steps were firm as he continued on his way.

  * * * *

  The homeplace was returning to the wild. Sunny Douglas stood by her truck and gazed around her. Sumac was gradually encroaching on what had once been smooth green lawn, competing with the opportunistic brambles and dandelions that seemed to thrive anywhere. Yellow daffodil trumpets had shouldered their way through the choking weeds and now waved cheerfully in the slight breeze. Every year they got fewer. Mother Douglas would not have been pleased.

  It grieved Sunny to see this deterioration. She also felt guilty, because she was the last of the Douglas name and she should have handled things better, been more in control. She was a Douglas by marriage only but it had become her responsibility.

  The Douglas clan had been whittled down through the generations, until it came to a dead stop with her James. They had married in joy, but they had never conceived and before they could put themselves through the heart wrenching tests and procedures that might make a child for them, Jim had managed to drive over a cliff on his ATV. Some said he’d been drunk, others that his worries made him careless. Sunny suspected it was a combination of the latter and arrogance in his knowledge of the land.

  Whichever it was, dead was dead. There would be no more Douglases. Sunny was left with all that had been theirs, poor consolation for the loss of Jim’s big, warm body beside her at night, or the strength of his arms, or the joy of his smile.

  Now she had the Inn to run by herself and that took most of her time. She made sure it did. She’d worked through her grief by always being busy, whether with hard physical labor or the book work that required her entire concentration. In the five years since Jim’s death, the worst of her pain had passed, but he was still a warm presence in the back of her mind, a reminder of when times were good. It pleased her that, with time, Jim’s virtues outweighed his failures when she thought of him. She had once loved the man she thought she knew. She had made peace with the memory of the man he was.

  She was here today to inspect the property with an eye to selling it. She and Jim had never lived here and the house had stood empty since Mother Douglas’s death shortly after their marriage.

  It was an old house, built before the Inn and indeed before most of the buildings in Nevis. It was the Douglas homeplace, the place where Hamish Douglas had settled after his release from the English prison, determined to be free and to preserve that freedom forever, no matter the cost. He’d built a roomy log cabin, adding to it as his family grew, until it stood two stories, with wings jutting out to the back forming a courtyard open at one end.

  The house endured. It crouched, solid and there, an aging lion sitting on its knoll with its claws dug deeply into the thin mountain soil, its honeysuckle mane dipping and swaying in the breeze. It would need a lot of work before she could even consider putting it on the market, but she had no doubt it would sell. Despite its age, all the problems were cosmetic, except for the roof. That would require an expert, as would repointing the stone some enterprising ancestor had mortared over the thick hardwood logs.

  It would be a project and would take awhile, but the place was too big for her and she needed the money to keep the Inn updated and attractive for potential guests. Her decision was not popular with the town. Douglases had lived on Jake’s Hill since the beginning. A Douglas had been the first to put down roots here and had named the town after the mountains of his homeland, Ben Nevis. In vain she protested she was not a true Douglas, that there were no more Douglases and sooner or later the house and the
Inn would belong to another name. In the town’s eyes she had become a Douglas when she’d married Jim. She would be one until she died and Douglases didn’t sell family possessions.

  The snap of a dry stick, flotsam of the winter, brought her out of her reverie. She turned, expecting to see one of Hal Michael’s beagles who ranged far and wide. One of them had tried to follow her truck as she’d driven by Hal’s place.

  It wasn’t a beagle. Walking toward her was a man, tall and broad shouldered, a complete stranger.

  Suddenly she felt very alone and isolated. She edged back toward her truck and Jim’s rifle still racked across the back window. Her husband had taught her well and she wouldn’t hesitate to use her skill.

  Chapter 2

  Cas had seen the blue truck turn into the overgrown driveway and had thought to have a word with its driver about any work to be found in these parts. He was not expecting a woman. She backed away slowly, her gaze flickering between him and her truck. She looked wary and who could blame her? In this day and age, it paid to be careful.

  He stopped in his tracks, holding his hands out from his body in a non-threatening way.

  “I mean no harm, ma’am,” he said, flashing a smile. “Just wanted a chat. I’m looking for work, you know of anyone hiring?”

  “What kind of work?” she asked, easing up against the truck door with one arm through the open window.

  “I’m willing to try a hand at anything. I’m what you might call a jack of all trades.”

  “Not many of them around anymore.” She sounded relaxed but kept her arm in the window. “Everything’s specialized these days.”

  “I do carpentry, plumbing, painting. Just basic stuff.” He took in the ruined yard. “Done some gardening and landscaping too. Looks to be plenty of work here.”