Loving Wilder Read online

  Loving Wilder

  Wilder Series, Book Three

  Lēigh Tudor

  This is an uncorrected version of the work titled Loving Wilder and is not for resale and subject to change

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  Copyright © 2021 by Lēigh Tudor

  www.leightudor.com

  Loving Wilder

  Wilder Series #3

  Cover design by Damonza

  ISBN: 978-1-736-7915-4-7 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-7367915-5-4 (print)

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  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. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

  This book is dedicated to Mama Dora who made me believe I could do anything I set my mind to.

  And that nothing is as difficult as we think it is.

  * * *

  Well, except for brain surgery… that’s super difficult

  Oh, and quantum physics… does anybody really understand string theory?

  Origami is pretty hard to do… you have to have really small, nimble fingers…

  * * *

  Okay, I think you get where I was going with this…

  * * *

  Love you Mom

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Lēigh Tudor

  Chapter One

  “I love Wagner, but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by its tail outside a window and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws.”

  — Charles-Pierre Baudelaire.

  Mercy repositioned herself in the plastic chair as she and Loren fought for some level of comfort in the ER waiting room. She was close to nailing an acrobatic routine, trying to find a comfortable position while Loren sat as still as possible with her arms cradling her stomach. The very place where an alien baby appeared to be aspirating the life source from her body.

  They were waiting to hear from a nurse, doctor, somebody, anybody who would update them on Becky’s injuries and allow them to see her.

  Mercy squirmed, lifting a foot to rest on the chair as the other bobbed up and down. She took a few calming breaths as her heart rate spiked from the familiar scent of her childhood. The stench of lost hopes and dreams with undertones of antiseptic solutions.

  She switched her attention to Loren, who wasn’t looking so great.

  “You okay?” Mercy asked. Her sister’s pallor had turned an ash white, close to matching her bleached-blond hair. She had returned from yet another trip to the restroom, appearing even more drained and weak than before.

  Loren nodded. “I’m fine,” she assured, not at all convincing. Running her hands through her hair and down the sides of her neck, she attempted to sit up straight and then sighed, bending over in defeat. “How long has it been?”

  Checking her phone, Mercy answered, “Three hours.”

  “Were you able to get a hold of Emmy Lou regarding contact information on Becky’s family?”

  “She’s still looking through church files, but so far she’s only listed Sam as her emergency contact.”

  Mercy grimaced as she watched her miserable sister stretch her back from one side and then the other, making her wonder why anyone would get pregnant on purpose if this was what they had to look forward to.

  “I find it sad and ironic that her emergency contact is the person who nearly beat her to death,” Loren said, cradling her head in her hands.

  “But, are we sure it was Sam?” Mercy asked, still in shock at witnessing their unconscious friend so carelessly flung out of the vehicle and left for dead.

  Despite having seen much worse during her violent past, it was another thing entirely to see a close friend after being so brutally beaten and then disposed of like yesterday’s trash. “I know it was Sam’s car, but what if it wasn’t Sam who did that to her? What if the person who shoved her out of the passenger seat was someone who carjacked her LeSabre, and when she tried to stop them, they... they hurt her?”

  Loren rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “But then, how would they know to bring her to my house? Or where I live?”

  Mercy stared off toward the windows on the opposite side of the room, trying to make sense of such a senseless act. As difficult as it was to absorb, it had to have been Sam. “You’re right. Sam knew you were living in Newberry,” she muttered with a sigh.

  Loren nodded. “Becky would’ve mentioned it to him when she came to visit. He liked keeping tabs on her.”

  Loren’s phone rang and Mercy glanced over at her screen to see if it was someone with information.

  “Hey, Jimbo.” Loren gave her a quick nod. “What did you find out?”

  Mercy scooted closer to the phone as Loren turned the speaker on, decreasing the volume in case someone walked into the currently deserted waiting room.

  “It don’t look good, Half-Pint,” Jimbo responded over the phone. “I’m here at the house, and the place has been ransacked.”

  “Is Samantha there?”

  “Afraid not. I checked her room, and her dresser drawers were empty, along with Sam’s. But there’s no sign of a car in the driveway or garage.”

  Mercy and Loren shared a worried glance. After calling Cara and asking if she had seen or heard from Samantha, she said that neither she nor Ally had had contact with their friend in a couple of days. And she’d returned none of their calls or replied to their texts.

  “Thanks, Jimbo. Get out of there and stay safe.”

  Jimbo hesitated before adding, “You know he’s been beating her for a while now.”

  Mercy’s face fell at the confirmation of something she just didn’t want to believe. She shook her head, noting too her sister’s devastated expression.

  “She’s been keeping it to herself for some time,” Jimbo continued. “I only knew about it because I overheard them tussle a time or two in the parking lot at Lucky’s.”

  Mercy held her face in her hands and Loren continued to hold the phone as Jimbo further explained, “He likes his fancy gin. That and a quick temper will get you nothing but trouble. Every once in a while, when things were bad, I’d try to mosey by their house to check on her. But she would never admit to anything despite the obvious bruise or a cut lip. And when I’d ask about them, she would always blame herself for being clumsy or having picked them up during one of y’all’s self-defense classes.”

  Mercy’s head shot up. She felt light-headed and sick to her stomach as his words jogged memories of all the times Becky made excuses for a purple bruise here or a laceration there. They were such common occurrences in Mercy’s and Loren’s past life that they didn’t think twice about it. For that very reason though, they should have been the first to see her injuries for what they were.

  Jimbo’
s gravelly voice came over the speakerphone once again. “I think you should also know that while I was there, your fancy grand-momma showed up. And for the record, that is one intimidating woman.”

  Mercy’s eyebrows came together in confusion as Loren asked, “Madame Garmond?”

  “Yep, she waltzed right inside the house like she owned the place and told me to follow her to Sam’s office, where she instructed me to get busy and start rifling through file drawers and folders.”

  Mercy stared at the phone with a confused look. “What was she looking for?”

  “She said we’d know when we found it. And, by golly, she was right. Behind a painting, she found a safe, and that little old white-haired lady had it cracked open within minutes.”

  Both sister’s eyes widened.

  “What was inside?” Loren asked.

  “A deed to their house.”

  “Oh-kay,” Loren replied.

  Mercy read her sister’s mind, as it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for a homeowner to keep important documents behind lock and key, or tumbler.

  Jimbo added, “She also found a deed to a cabin about an hour north of Wilder.” He rattled off an address.

  Now, that was interesting.

  “Is Madame with you? Can I talk to her?”

  “Nah, she stuffed it all in a bag and said she was taking the deed to the police.”

  Mercy responded with an encouraged nod.

  “That’s good,” Loren said.

  “But instead of turning right toward the police station, she turned left. Toward the exit going north on Highway 161.”

  Mercy sucked in a breath as Loren shook her head. “She’s going to the cabin.”

  “I think you’re right, Half-Pint. She wore all black clothes and looked to be about as pissed off as any one of my ex-wives.”

  “Excuse me,” a voice interrupted. “Are you ladies here for Mrs. Waterman?”

  Loren turned the speaker off, letting Jimbo know she’d call him back later for more details.

  Both sisters instinctively cringed when they turned toward the man dressed in a white lab coat.

  Then they remembered this wasn’t a research facility in a remote area of Utah, and the man wasn’t a soulless doctor working for Halstead— that is, one who had crossed his fingers behind his back while taking the Hippocratic oath.

  This was an actual medical professional who wanted to help sick people.

  “I wanted to let you know that Mrs. Waterman is out of surgery and in recovery. She’s still sedated but doing well, and we expect a full recovery from her injuries.”

  “When can we see her?” Mercy asked.

  “Are you family?”

  Mercy shook her head. “Not exactly.”

  “Then I’m afraid it’s going to be a while.”

  “Can you tell us about the extent of her injuries?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said with a repentant shake of his head. “Not without her permission.”

  Mercy couldn’t shake the feeling of being so powerless.

  When they’d found Becky unconscious and barely breathing in Loren’s driveway, her face had been battered and swollen, and her arm clearly broken as it lay at an odd angle covered in dust and gravel. There was no telling what other internal injuries she’d suffered at the hands of the one person who had sworn to love and to cherish her.

  The surgeon offered what sounded like a memorized script, covering why he was unable to share more information, mentioning something about HIPAA laws. And then he turned and made his way back through the swinging doors.

  They both stared straight ahead at the exit, heartsick and shell-shocked. Becky had been one of few friends once arriving to town. She helped them understand social nuances and how to maneuver small town biases, correcting them when they said the wrong thing, or made a faux pas.

  Like the time they pulled out military grade knives to cut their food at a church social.

  Loren spoke first. “We should have known.”

  Mercy nodded, the guilt nearly choking her out. “Try calling Madame.”

  Loren pulled her phone from her back pocket and dialed her number.

  No answer.

  Mercy ran through possible next-step scenarios in her head while Loren rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if willing the nausea away—she’d vomited so many times over the past few hours.

  “We’ve got to get to that cabin before Madame gets herself killed,” Loren said listlessly.

  And just like that, Mercy knew what she had to do. She crossed her arms and shook her head with Loren-like resolve. “Not happening.”

  Her sister threw her a confused look.

  “Sorry, big sis, but you’re not going anywhere. Alec Wilder’s embryo is sucking the life out of you and making you weak. You’d be a liability.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Loren scoffed, reaching for her purse. “We’ll both go. You’ll be my backup.”

  Mercy had no intention of being her backup or backing down. Just standing in the waiting room, Loren looked on the verge of blowing chunks.

  “Do you honestly think I’m going to allow my pregnant, sick-as-a-dog sister to put herself and my niece or nephew in harm’s way?”

  “This is hardly a dangerous situation. You and I both know we can take Sam Waterman with our hands tied behind our backs... blindfolded.”

  “Then I should have no trouble taking this one solo.”

  Mercy snagged Loren’s purse out of her hands, her fast-twitch muscles a more than adequate match for her sister’s debilitated state. Quickly snagging the car keys, she tossed the useless boho bag to the floor.

  Loren sucked in a gasp. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m commandeering your car. I need a ride to a destination about thirty to forty minutes north of here.”

  Mercy plugged the address Jimbo had recited over the phone into the GPS app. She held the keys high in her other hand as Loren made a few lackluster attempts to jump for them.

  Morning sickness and a three-inch height difference gave Mercy the advantage. Hmm... maybe she should’ve leveraged her height before, instead of always kowtowing to her older sister and her nonnegotiable terms.

  Loren leaned over with her hands on her knees to catch her breath and then scurried next to a ficus plant to purge.

  “You can’t just steal my car,” she wheezed and gulped with her head in the leaves as Mercy made her way to the exit doors. “How am I supposed to get home?”

  “Call Jimbo and tell him to pick you up after work.”

  Mercy gave her a cheeky smile and grimaced when Loren’s voice turned ominous. “Mercy Sara Beth Ingalls, don’t you dare leave me in a hospital without transportation.”

  Loren didn’t bust out her full name very often. Probably because it was hard to remember which one they were using most days. But when she did, she knew her sister meant business and the consequences for failing to comply would be grave.

  And painful.

  Mercy turned and marched toward her bent-over sister, kissed her on the sweaty forehead, and flashed an evil grin. “Avatar.”

  With that, she sauntered away to the sound of Loren yelling, “That is not how the safe word works!”

  Not this time.

  This time it was Mercy’s turn to take the lead and do the right thing. And her fuming, regurgitating, overcontrolling sister was just going to have to deal with it.

  Mercy responded by sashaying through the exit doors, lifting the car keys in one hand, and extending her middle finger with the other.

  The GPS navigated Mercy to a beautiful lake community where wealthy people’s vacation homes overlooked wavy blue-green waters and were kept as meticulously groomed as their primary homes residing in more urban settings.

  She wondered how Sam and Becky could afford a second house in such an affluent neighborhood. But as the GPS robotically spewed directions, the route began to twist and turn, the roadsides appearing less tended to.

 
; After several minutes of her surroundings turning more rural than upscale, she pressed on the brakes in front of a gravel driveway. She craned her neck and shaded her eyes. The path seemed to extend quite a ways from the road, with no view of a home anywhere near the entrance.

  She checked her phone to confirm she had reached her destination. Could this be it?

  Pulling up Google Earth, she plugged in the address and found what looked to be a small structure farther into the wooded area. She zoomed in on the building and saw that it was under construction at the time of the recording.

  Just a small building, nothing impressive.

  Maybe a hunter/fisherman getaway?

  The woods seemed to go on indefinitely until she finally reached what looked to be a remote cabin, with logs stacked upon one another and a rustic wraparound porch. To one side was a rusty grill, and on the other a porch swing, with one side dangling from a single chain. More like a run-down hunting cabin than the expensive vacation homes only ten minutes up the road.

  She parked the car several hundred feet from the structure and pulled out the revolver she kept in the side pocket of her backpack. Removing the safety, she stealthily jogged up the drive with both hands on the gun. The front door was open, only the screen door barring her way as she crept up the porch steps. Plastering her body to the side of the door, she leaned closer to the frame so she could make out voices, assess the situation, and determine a head count.

  “Please do come in, Mercy dear,” a high pitched, singsong voice instructed.

  The adrenaline in her body waned as a heavy dose of relief hit her after hearing the cheery voice of Madame Garmond.