OK, I am alive! haha and here’s a new chapter. Took me a while, but then, not many people are reading this, which saddens me. Now, there is something I would like to point out. I don’t know if I said so, but some of this is based on reality—not all, but some. Charity, her family (pets included) and friends (or most of them, as you’ll see later) are real, and based on me and my friends and family. Charity’s flashbacks are basically accounts of conflicts between my father and I. Also, Charity’s job (family counsellor) isn’t a farce, since that’s what I will eventually be. A lot of the rest, I took liberties with.

Thanks, and happy reading....

-x-

Sins of the Fathers: FOUR

I dare you to move
I dare you to move
I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor
I dare you to move
I dare you to move
Like today never happened
Today never happened before
— “Dare You To Move”, Switchfoot

ONE WEEK LATER

Wearing a thick sweater tucked into old, comfortably snug jeans, her hair pulled back into a long, curling tail, Charity stood in the ancient, musty barn with the smell of horses and cows, hay and dust surrounding her, and relaxed for the first time since her father’s funeral.

Her mother’s house had always held a friendlier atmosphere than her father’s, and it was true that spending time with the family on her mother’s side had helped. But everyone had been offering condolences, and when the condolences came from people who hadn’t liked her father to begin with, it became just a bit redundant.

Here, now, with the animals, she could simply be herself and not worry about being Brody’s guardian, or the trained counsellor from Kingston, or the perfect daughter Luke Wells had tried to make her into. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and felt her shoulders relax.

In their stalls, the family’s two horses nickered and tossed their heads. The smaller of the pair, an aging buckskin with flecks of grey on his muzzle, snorted and butted Charity enthusiastically in the ribs.

She laughed softly and slipped the halter over his ears, buckled it and clipped a lead line on. Murmuring to the animal, she cross-tied him, then gave him a long, leisurely grooming before lifting the heavy Western saddle and settling it on his back.

As usual, the mischievous horse held his breath to complicate things while she fastened the cinch. Well aware of this, Charity kept the band loose, fitted the bridle over the horse’s head, then re-tightened the cinch while he was unaware and this time fastened it securely.

“Going for a ride?”

She looked up at the male voice, saw her stepfather in the doorway of the barn and smiled. Robert Hoffmann was everything her father hadn’t been, which might have been why he’d settled so well into the family. Quiet and thoughtful where Luke had been loud and boisterous, content for the background where Luke had always shoved his way to the foreground, he was the exact opposite of his wife’s first husband and his stepchildren’s father and in his taciturn, unintrusive way, had managed to find his own role in the raising of not only his own children, but another man’s as well.

He stepped in, petted the eager horse’s muzzle with his usual kind words. But his eyes, a patient, steady hazel, stayed on his stepdaughter’s face.

“Did you want company?”

Charity considered it. She knew she could talk everything through with her stepfather, knew she could trust him to keep it to himself if she asked it of him.

But for now she shook her head. “No, I think I’ll go on my own this time.”

“All right.” Unperturbed, he went to the other stall and petted the larger, younger bay horse who resided there. With a windy sigh that said All right, you can pet me, the horse leaned into him, trusting as all the animals were.

“Tell Mom I’ll be back for supper.” Charity kissed his cheek, then led the horse out.

She rode slowly at first, letting the horse choose his pace as they picked their way through the pastures to the forest at the back of the property. They followed a winding path through the trees, keeping the pace easy. Charity spoke quietly to her mount as they went, so that his ears flicked back and forth between the path ahead and the voice, soft and gentle, coming from behind him.

“We never gave you a really original name,” Charity murmured, amused. “A buckskin horse named Buck. Go figure.”

At the sound of his name, the horse snorted a little, tossed his head.

“Yeah, yeah,” she chuckled. “You’ve got character by the ton to make up for it.”

They’d reached an open field now, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Despite it being November, winter hadn’t quite hit yet, so that in her vest and sweater Charity was warm enough. She reined Buck in, looked out and around at the field ahead of her.

Without loosening her grip on the reins, Charity leaned slightly forwards in the saddle, felt the horse quiver in anticipation.

“Ready, boy?” Another snort. “Okay, go!”

The horse let out a gleeful snort and dug in, pushing forwards with powerful legs. He ran, steadily gathering speed, while on his back Charity laughed and lifted her face to the sky. The wind tore at her, pulled tears from her eyes and loosened the band tying her hair. But she only let the horse run, let him have his way.

She slowed him gradually, bringing him back down to a lope, then a jog, and finally a walk. Still excited, the buckskin snorted, arched his neck and pranced. Part Morgan, part Quarter Horse, he was compact, athletic and showy, well suited to the run he’d just had.

Charity stopped him, murmured endearments and stroked the horse’s neck.

It was only when she rode on that she felt the sting of tears on her cheeks.

-x-

Uncomfortable, Holt cleared his throat. “Look, if she isn’t here, I’ll leave.”

Brody smiled, deep blue eyes—the same eyes, Holt thought with a slight prickle of unease, as his sister—friendly and warm. “She’s here, we’re just not quite sure where.”

Holt blinked. “What?”

With a sigh of maternal exasperation, Laurie Viger-Hoffmann hurried into the porch and shooed her son aside. “Don’t mind him, he just likes teasing.”

“It’s the role of a younger brother,” Brody claimed as he left the porch and went back into the house. Laurie chuckled.

“You’re looking for Charity?”

“Ah... yeah.” He’d found the Intrepid’s spare keys hidden in the pile of blankets that served as Cheyenne’s bed. Even as he’d cursed the dog, he’d been thankful for the opportunity to see Charity again.

She’d piqued his curiosity, but he hadn’t planned on using the saddest of excuses to see her again.

“She’s out for a ride, but she said she’d be back by supper. You’re welcome to wait.”

Why were they all so friendly? Holt wondered. This woman hadn’t even met him, had seen him only at a distance in town and only heard of him thanks to her son’s account of the meal he’d shared with Brody and Charity.

Laurie stood on her toes, peered over Holt’s shoulder. After a moment her blue-green eyes warmed, some of the worry clearing from them.

“There she is now. Would you mind telling her that we’ll eat in twenty minutes?”

“Ah.... sure.” He was too well-disciplined to turn, but Laurie could see his attention was no longer on her. She smiled.

“Of course, you’re welcome to join us,” she added and watched him tense. As her daughter had already told her of the meal he’d shared with her and Brody, Laurie deduced—correctly—that it was the notion of what he apparently saw as a family dinner that set him on edge.

“No.” Realizing he’d been a bit abrupt, he cleared his throat, tried again. “No, thanks, I’ll pass.”

“The offer’s always open,” Laurie said cheerfully and then disappeared into the house just as a small voice shouted gleefully, “Mama, Mama! Brody tickled me!”

Holt gave an absent nod in response to Laurie’s comment and turned to watch Charity ride in.

She held herself straight and tall in the Western saddle, her hands light on the reins. She released the reins with one hand to rub the horse’s neck, laughing when he snorted and pranced delightedly.

Before he knew what he was doing, he’d jumped down from the cute little stone porch and was walking down to the paddock, slipping inside it and opening the metal gate that divided it from the field Charity rode in.

She rode straight past him, keeping the horse neatly in line when he turned his head in an attempt to sniff at Holt. She stopped at the barn door, dismounted and without looking at Holt once, led the horse in.

Amused in spite of himself, Holt shut the gate and followed after her.

The smell of horse and cow, hay and saddle leather greeted him as soon as he opened the door. Charity was in the middle of the aisle, the buckskin horse she’d been riding tossing his head at the appearance of another person.

Charity glanced over, then quickly looked away. The horse stepped forward, straining against the crossties to thrust his nose towards Holt, who chuckled and reached out to pet the whiskered muzzle.

“What are you doing here?” The question was low, curious rather than impatient or angry. Encouraged by this, Holt pulled the keys from his pocket.

“My dog thought she’d be funny and hide the spare keys to the car. I managed to find them this morning.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She reached out, took them, and wanted to curse when an awkward silence settled over them after his brief “You’re welcome”.

To soothe herself, she tucked the keys into her pocket, took out the grooming kit and began to run dandy brush and curry comb over the buckskin’s coat.

“I didn’t see your truck,” she said eventually, relaxed by the work with the horse.

“Wasn’t mine. The Grand Cherokee out there’s mine. I was fixing the truck for a friend.”

“Oh.” She looked down again, frowned slightly as she worked at removing a piece of dried mud from the horse’s coat. When she glanced up once more, her eyes were wary. “Was there something else?”

What the hell, Holt thought, and went with the impulse he’d been fighting since walking in. “Yeah. Have dinner with me.”

He couldn’t have said why he said it, or why she seemed so fascinating to him. He had enough baggage of his own to know he didn’t need a woman with plenty more, and hell, he hadn’t even been dating in the last year or so. Charity Wells, with those big, wounded eyes, should have had a metaphorical sign around her neck reading stay away, rather than making him want to know more.

He couldn’t quite get her out of his head. She was apparently jumpy; fine, he’d make the first move. It wasn’t as though they were looking for happily-ever-after; they could have a few meals together, enjoy each other, and when one or both of them lost interest, they could move on.

He thought it could work. After all, plenty of people did it. They called it “dating”.

Charity’s eyes flew briefly up to his, then back down; her hand clenched on the brush before relaxing again, though she made no move to continue brushing the horse. After a few silent seconds, the horse whuffed out an impatient breath and turned his head towards her, only to be stopped by the crossties. When he nickered crossly and tossed his head up and down, one foot pawing the stable floor, she resumed brushing him, but her movements were mechanical.

“Why?” she asked at length, eyes fixated on the clump of dried mud she was working to brush out of Buck’s coat. “You don’t even know me.”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Charity.”

Her spine stiffened automatically. She’d heard those exact words so many times from her father—but always, from him, they had been issued in either a furious bellow or the curt tones of command. From Holt they were mild, almost amused. Keeping the differences in mind, she lifted her eyes to his and waited in silence.

“Why?” he repeated. “Because you’ve got me curious, and you’re managing to hold my interest without any detectable effort, which just makes me more curious. And because for some reason I can’t get you out of my mind.”

Absurdly, Charity heard part of the U2 song that had played on the radio that morning play again in an echo in her mind: “You’re in my mind all of the time / I know that’s not enough...” and quickly ducked her head to hide the flush spreading across her cheeks—the curse of a redhead.

Stop acting like a flirty little pre-teen playing coy, she scolded herself. But the question had to be asked. “Should that flatter me?”

The serious look he’d been wearing disappeared as he flashed a quick, potent grin—and the punch of it went straight to her belly.

“Up to you,” he drawled, completely at ease. Before she could answer, he reached over and gave one of her curls a quick tug, wanting to see that thoughtful little frown cross her face again.

The abrupt change from solemn and quiet to playful and friendly made Charity give him another, more careful look. “You know, curiosity isn’t always the best incentive,” she heard herself saying, but Holt only gave a wry smile and leaned against the stall door with his thumb hooked in his pocket.

“You’re talking to an ex-cop, sugar.” One with a six-inch scar down his back. “I learned that lesson a while back.”

God, was that her heart beating like a war drum in her ears? She was acting like a teenager, although thankfully not one of the ones who tossed her hair so it landed just so in perfect, shining waves, who’d perfected mascara and eyeliner application in the cradle, and who dressed like a slut but was never called on it.

She’d hated those girls for their ease with guys where she’d been confused—a residual effect of past shyness—with a fiery passion in her school days.

So snap out of it, she ordered herself. “Why ignore the lesson now?”

That elusive half-smile stayed on his face as he pushed himself off the wall of the stall, walked to her and cupped her chin in his hand, lifting her face to meet her eyes. His, she noted, were bright with suppressed laughter. “Why not?”

She could think of plenty of reasons for that argument. But she could also imagine, with the ease of long friendship, what each of her three girlfriends would say to her right now.

What are you, crazy? Go for it!

Dani.

If you don’t want him, I do! Seriously yummy!

Marie.

Only if you want to. And if you don’t, well... hey, I wouldn’t say no.

Lily.

Reassured even by the thought of her friends, she felt her usual self-confidence coming back. No more, she swore silently. She’d promised herself she would never let a man make her uncomfortable, or be judged, because of any resemblance to her father. That, to her mind, included Holt Flynn and all his oddities. She would do this. She could and would act like she’d never been hurt before. So he made her a little edgy—that would just keep things interesting.

Reckless? Maybe. But Charity had dared herself to do more difficult things.

“All right,” she said finally, and held up her free hand before he could speak. “I’m going back to Kingston for the week in the morning, though.”

“No problem. I wouldn’t mind getting out of town for a little while.”

Now that, Charity mused, was a sentiment she knew all too well.

-x-

“I sent in an application for that college program I told you about.”

Charity continued to stare down at the soapy dishwater her hands were submerged in, being careful to keep her face and voice completely neutral lest her father catch on to just how much this meant to her—and use it against her.

“Oh?” Luke stopped typing to swivel in the computer chair so that he could stare holes into his daughter’s back. “The psycho-babble one?”

The careless disdain in his voice made her jaw clench. She forced it loose by sheer will. “Behavioural science,” she corrected, and cringed inwardly at the slight snap she heard in her tone. “Then I can go into counselling.”

Luke stood, his only answer a grunt as he absently scratched the inside of his thigh before refocusing on his daughter. “What if you don’t get in?” he asked nonchalantly, either oblivious or simply uncaring of his daughter’s wince when the carelessly aimed barb found its mark. “You’re bright, but you never do your work. Plenty of people at your school have better marks than you, and you’re not just competing with them for a college spot.”

Charity squeezed her eyes shut and silently recited the warped little prayer she’d seen on a fridge magnet at Dani’s house.

Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to hide the bodies of the people I had to kill because they pissed me off.

Calmer, even slightly amused, she opened her eyes and listened with half an ear to Luke’s all-too-familiar diatribe.

“.... might not get in, and then what will you do? You’ll be out of luck, stuck in some dead-end job all your life and wasting your potential. Instead of a college education, you’ll be training some other poor sap to say ‘Would you like fries with that?’ You’ll hate every minute of it, because you’ll be reminded that you could have done better if you hadn’t fucked around in high school. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

Luke paused, as though waiting to see what effect the words had. He noted the rigid set of his daughter’s trembling shoulders, her silence, and nodded as though to himself before sitting down to tie on his work boots and rising once more.

Charity didn’t move, didn’t dare speak. She knew her father was venting about his own past, ranting bitterly about his own mistakes. But God, he had a strange and hurtful way of trying to keep the same from happening to his daughter.

“I’m going to work,” Luke announced to the heavy, tense silence, and didn’t wait to see his daughter’s jerky nod before leaving.

Charity continued to stare down into the dishwater, the tears she refused to shed blurring her vision. She pressed her quivering lips into a firm line and swore she wouldn’t let him make her cry again.

“I will get in,” she whispered to the bubbles floating placidly on the water’s surface, and her voice cracked. “I will.”

-x-

So, if you’re still with me, thanks for reading. Thought it was time for another flashback, so there it is. These will keep coming, from both Charity and Holt, unless the story starts playing tricks on me (which they sometimes do). In any case, I hope you’ll review, point out any mistakes, and let me know what you think. Please? If you like it, you'll be happy to know the chapters are gradually getting longer. This one just had to be ended here, as you can see, but I know where I'm going with at least the beginning of the next one, so keep an eye out.

Have some ice cream, any flavour you want. Happy summer. :-)

— Murphy