Tragic Beauty Read online

  TRAGIC BEAUTY

  by Iris Ann Hunter

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  Copyright © 2017 by Iris Ann Hunter

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This work, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Photo Credit: zastavkin

  Cover Design: Iris Ann Hunter

  Edited by: Joanne LaRe Thompson

  *****

  *****

  As always…for Justin

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  Table of Contents

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PART II

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  PLAYLIST

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT IRIS ANN HUNTER

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  Seems odd that such a day would be so perfect. It’s warm, without a cloud in sight, and the hills are green from recent rains. All around me, birds sing and play in giant oak trees, while the late afternoon sun sits low in the sky, its sleepy rays dusting everything in one of those golden hazes that makes it all seem like a fairy tale. It’s a world away though, nothing like the dark that’s settling inside my head. I know what’s coming.

  The doctors had given him a year. He lasted five. I try not to think about what that means for me, and instead focus on the plain, brown coffin that sits quiet in the grave. I wonder if he’s happy now. At peace, they call it.

  I close my eyes and feel a tear slide down my cheek, then another. The first one out of grief, the second one out of fear.

  He’ll be waiting for me. I know he will.

  “I’m sorry, Ava.”

  A gentle voice brings me back around and I turn my weary gaze to Father Watkins. His sky-blue eyes are almost the same color as mine, and the way he looks at you, you know he’s seen things. I’ve seen things too, but my twenty-one years doesn’t have much on him. He’s tall and lean, with frail hands wrapped tightly around the black book. The setting sun casts an orange hue through his thin, grey hair, and when his lips disappear into a thoughtful line, I know he’s searching for something good to say about my father, something that wouldn’t be a lie.

  “Your dad was…a strong man, a proud man. He fought a good battle.”

  I nod, letting him think he found something truthful after all.

  “Will you be alright?” he asks. “Do you have any other family or friends to lean on?”

  The lump in my throat expands and another tear falls. There’s a reason it’s only me and Father Watkins standing on this hilltop.

  He frowns, and when he looks away for a moment, I can tell he’s about to say something I might not want to hear. “I’m hesitant to bring this up, Ava, but there’s been some…disturbing talk.”

  It hurts that he knows, but I’m not surprised. Los Ramos is a small town. Really small. The kind of small where everyone knows everything.

  “If you’re in some kind of trouble,” he goes on gently, “maybe I can help?”

  I offer a weak smile because he’s being kind, so kind. But by the helplessness in his eyes, he already knows. We both know. He can’t help me. No one can.

  “But thank you,” I say. “Thank you for everything.”

  With a slight wobble in my legs, I turn and make my way across the grass and down the hill, leaving my father behind, and leaving the life I knew behind. I walk slowly, mindful of the small crosses and grey headstones, past the little stone church nestled among the oak trees, and along the dirt path until I come to the gravel parking lot.

  He’s waiting for me, like I knew he would be.

  He leans against the driver’s side door of my faded orange pickup truck, boots crossed at the ankles, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. Muscles bulge under the snug, black t-shirt and his eyes grow dark, like they always do when he looks at me.

  When I get to the front of my truck I stop, my feet unwilling to go any further. All they want to do is run me away, but I know it won’t change things.

  Shayne McAllister smiles, looking like the cat that’s finally going to get his mouse. His white teeth flash against olive skin and thick black hair that’s raked back in that carefree sort of way. “Can’t believe the bastard lasted so long,” he drawls out. “A year at the most, wasn’t it? That’s what the doctors gave him?”

  He tilts his head, watching me with that face. That pretty face, with the steel cut jaw and the deep set eyes that make all the women swoon, but I know what’s inside him.

  I stay still and quiet, playing possum with the beast.

  Shayne shoves himself off the truck and walks to where I stand. He’s so tall and his shoulders so wide. The silver belt buckle flashes against the light and I look at it so I won’t have to look at him. It’s shiny with a gold arching McAllister Ranch over an MR cattle brand—his empire now, and his alone, his parents having died in a car crash when he was eighteen, and his brother long before that. At twenty-three, he’s young, rich, and powerful. A master of his universe.

  “If I’d known he was going to last so long,” he says, reaching out and twirling a lock of my long, blonde hair around his fingers, “I would’ve amended our arrangement. But then again, you’ve racked up quite the debt.”

  I force my chin up to glare at the man who’s been both my savior and my torment. His eyes are a dark brown with specks of amber, but they always look black, like now. They narrow on me, like he’s searching, and he must’ve not liked what he found because he frowns. “You don’t need him,” he snaps. “You never needed him. Or your slut of a mother.”

  I jerk away and watch the beast come up in his eyes, so I take a step back but square my shoulders.

  That makes him smile. “There’s the fighter.”

  He likes this game.

  I don’t.

  With one step he takes back the space I’ve just taken. “I always did love your sass, even when we were kids.” He leans in close, like he’s about to share a secret. “But that’s what’s going to make breaking you so much fun. And I will break you, Ava. I will make you mine.” He breathes in deep and the air goes thin around me. “Fuck, I can smell that sweet, virgin pussy from here. Can’t believe I own that now. Do you have any idea how much I’m going to love making you bleed? It’s all I’ve thought about for so damn long.”

  He reaches out slow, like I’m some wild animal that might skitter off. As soon as he puts his hand on my hip, I go to do just that, but he squeezes so hard a gasp sneaks past my lips that makes his eyes close. “I’ve been a patient man,” he whispers, and I know it’s a
warning. So I let him stay there, with his hand on my hip, knowing I’ll have bruises later. When his eyes finally open, he has that hungry look that makes my stomach hurt.

  “Fuck,” he hisses. “Even in this black rag of a dress, you’re still a tease.”

  His hand slithers up my waist and onto my breast. I try to break free but he holds me in place, and grazes his thumb over my nipple. The touch is so shocking, I gasp and manage to shove his hand away. “You can’t give me a minute to mourn my father?” I ask, squeezing the words out as mean as I can make them. “I’m not even out of the cemetery.”

  Shayne looks up slowly, his glare so sinister my heart stops beating. For a moment, I wonder if the beast is loose, and I start to panic because I’ve seen him loose before. But then his eyes flick up and over my head, to something in the distance. He stays staring at whatever it was that caught his eye, then looks back down and pins me with a glare.

  “You have until Saturday, then I’m coming for you. If you try to run, I’ll find you, and you’ll only make things worse for yourself. Not only that, I know your weakness. Don’t make me use it. Understand me?”

  The color drains from my face and I nod. He keeps glaring, making sure his threat sinks in good and deep, then lets me go and turns towards his dually. It’s a big, dark monster of a thing, just like him.

  It isn’t until he’s gone that the air returns to my lungs and I turn around, searching for whatever had Shayne backing off. Then I see it. A dark saintly figure stands atop the hillside, watching me. Father Watkins. Behind him the sky has turned a fiery red, outlining his frame, while his black robe billows in the breeze. Even from this distance I can see his aging eyes, so full of wisdom, and so full of sorrow.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  I’ve just been granted a three-day grace.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The drive home takes me through town, one main road that winds up through the hills. Most of Los Ramos is set back in a large canyon, tucked away where the earth sort of levels out for a bit before turning to hills again, then mountains that become the Los Padres National Forest. It’s Southern California, but might as well be the Midwest, because of the way people talk and the way people live. It’s mostly ranchers and farmers and those who’ve grown up here. Most don’t come here out of the blue. It isn’t that type of place.

  As tired as I am, I have one stop to make before heading home. I pass through the main part of town, looking at the shops as I pass by, some of them boarded up, then pull into the parking lot of West Pine Market. I have to sit for a moment to gather the strength just to open the door.

  When I finally make it inside, it’s empty except for Marni at the register, filing her nails. I didn’t know she was working here now. I think about turning around and leaving, but I need a few things. I haven’t had time these past couple weeks to do much of anything except take care of my father.

  I grab a basket and slowly make my way through the aisles. Toilet paper, toothpaste, box of Wheat Thins for me, a chicken for Ben.

  At the counter, Marni keeps doing her nails while I stand there, waiting. I went to school with her son, and she and my mother had been best friends once, but had a falling out not long after I was born. Marni’s hatred for my mother transferred to me and she’s never made a secret about it.

  Her swampy green eyes graze me over then focus on her nails again. She’s eerily thin with a tangled mess of red hair that hangs down over a leopard top that doesn’t hide the old track marks on her arms. She might’ve been pretty once, well, sort of pretty, but not anymore.

  “Heard your old man finally hit the grave,” she says, fanning out her bony fingers and surveying her work.

  I ignore her and reach for my wallet.

  She sighs and leisurely sets the nail file aside and rings me up. I hand her the money and wait while she makes change. “Your momma was a curse, you know that? She might as well have stabbed him with a knife the day they got married. Woulda saved him all that sufferin’. But then again, your daddy was a lousy bastard, so guess he got what he deserved.” I hold my hand out for the change, but she drops it on the counter. “And from what I hear, you’re gonna get yours too.”

  My hands are shaking when I put the change back in my wallet.

  She tosses a couple bags on the counter, then smiles and tilts her head while I load my stuff up. “Still don’t talk much, eh? Those pesky things called words too hard for your little brain to put together into a sentence?”

  I look at her then, really look at her. Strangely enough, the anger vanishes and all I feel at that moment is pity. Maybe it’s the emptiness I see in her eyes, the sadness that no amount of makeup or harsh words can hide. Life had broken her, but life wouldn’t break me.

  Marni blinks and reaches for the nail file. Now it’s her hands that are shaking. “Go on, get,” she snaps.

  I grab my bags and leave.

  By the time I turn into the long gravel driveway, it’s almost dark. The little two-bedroom ranch house sits back beyond the field and glows under the twilight sky. It looks nice right now, only because you can’t make out the peeling white paint, or the boards on the porch that need fixing, or the broken shudders. The house isn’t much, but it’s my home. It’s the land that’s really the prize. Ten beautiful acres of rolling hills and oak trees that I know like the back of my hand.

  I park the truck and open the door, then just sit for a moment, listening to the cricket song and the grass rustling. It’s strange—when my mom left, all I wanted was to leave with her. To go off in search of a bigger and better life, just like she did, but now—now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

  My gaze drifts to the distance, to the outlines of trees whispering in the dark, and the curves of hills making shadows in the night. If I think about it, I suppose the land might be more my home than the house. As a child it was my sanctuary, my shelter to run to when the house wasn’t a safe place to be.

  Sometimes I’d go to the little gully behind that first hill, where in winter, a creek would get going when it rained enough. Other times, after the cold started to pass, I’d go wander to the north end, where the yellow mustard would take over the hills. I was so small, and it would grow so tall, and so far, I could run through it forever and never come out the other side. Then once spring started to set in, I’d run to the big meadow towards the south that filled with California poppies, turning the world into this dreamy, orange heaven that I’d lie down in and read a book until I eventually fell asleep. Or if I was feeling like an adventure, I’d go climb the oak trees, especially the old giant that fell apart because of the drought. I’d walk over its twisting branches, jumping from one to the other, playing on nature’s own jungle gym. So many cherished memories on this land. This land I love so much.

  All of a sudden, I feel homesick, even though my home is right in front of me. Maybe because it feels like it’s slipping away. But it’s not I tell myself. I’m just leaving for a while. A long while. But when I get back, it’ll be mine. All mine. Then I can make my dream come true.

  All I have to do is survive.

  I push the tears away, and through the eucalyptus trees to the left, I see the lights come on at Ben Hanley’s place, my only neighbor for miles.

  I stare at the big, blue, two-story house with white trim and a wraparound porch that was once my home. In fact, everything around me used to be my home, a large spread that had been in my father’s family for three generations. But my father wasn’t much of a rancher, and when I was seven, he sold most of it off so he wouldn’t have to work. He let go of the main house and forty acres and kept the foreman’s house and ten acres for himself. Wasn’t too long after that my mom left. My father got it in him the Hanley’s were to blame. Was easier than blaming himself, I guess. I’ve lost most of the memories from back then, but it still hurts when I look that way, seeing something my father let slip away.

  My father.

  A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down, grab the
bags and climb the porch steps.

  Inside, it’s quiet. So quiet.

  I switch on the lamp and toss the keys onto the side table. Memories come flooding back, as though the past seems so much clearer to me now. I see the deep gouge in the wall and remember when my mom left, and my dad threw a heavy candlestick at the wall as she walked out the door. I look at the quilt on the sofa, thinking of the time I was lying on it with chicken pox when I was eleven, while my father got drunk and tried to make me popcorn and nearly burnt the house down. He never knew how to take care of me, so he didn’t. He couldn’t even take care of himself.

  He never asked me how the bills got paid. Some part of me always wondered if he knew, but he never said anything. Once the money ran out from selling to the Hanley’s, he took out a mortgage on what was left. That ran out about the time the sickness hit. Then he had other things on his mind.

  I walk down the hall, into the small kitchen and set the bags on the table. After I put the chicken in the fridge, I grab a glass of water and lean against the counter. My father’s flannel shirt hangs from one of the chairs around the kitchen table. I stare at it while tears prick and form, blurring my vision.

  I shouldn’t miss him, but I do.

  After a moment, I set the glass down and head to bed, trying hard not to think about the past or the future that’s to come.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I wake on Wednesday, a silver frost coats the world, reminding me that while the days might be warm, it’s still February after all.

  I go to my father’s room and stare at the empty bed, at the side table filled with pill bottles, at the television in the corner, and the chair off to the side. I used to sit in it sometimes and we’d watch movies together in those rare moments he was really there. He wasn’t into the books, like I was, but he was into movies, and sports, so that was the one thing I always made sure he had—that dish on the roof.