The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan (30 page)

Joe laughed. “Both.”

Joe began gathering plates, and Kirk slipped outside, setting his lunch onto the passenger seat before starting up the truck.

“Hey, sweetheart!”

Kirk looked up toward to tavern door and smiled as Joe waved out to him. “What’s up?”

“What time will you be done tonight, you think?”

Kirk shrugged. “Whenever you need me to be, why?”

Joe chewed her upper lip in a nervous tick. “I have something I wanted to talk to you about, later. If you’re awake and functional.”

She smiled, and Kirk smiled right back. He already knew damn well what she wanted to tell him. He couldn’t wait to hear it from her lips.

“Sounds good, baby. I’ll see you then.”

With that, Kirk pulled the truck out of the parking lot of Blackrock Tavern and headed back to Falkirk’s Seat, and back to the greatest work he’d ever undertake - building a new home for his new family.

Book Three

UNCHOSEN BRIDE

Blackrock Bears - Book Three

Coming Home

By

Alana Hart & Michaela Wright

Copyright © 2015 Alana Hart & Michaela Wright

All rights reserved worldwide.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

Published by Hartfelt Books

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CHAPTER ONE

“Well, I wanted to see you before I headed out,” Deacon said, his tone betraying disappointment as he clutched the phone to his ear.

“I know, monkey. I’m sorry. Just too much to do to leave early today,” Carissa said, the sound of her office bustling in the background.

Deacon glanced at the clock. It was five in the evening. He’d waited an extra hour to head out, not early, but on time. He didn’t bother arguing further. He was growing accustomed to this kind of conversation. He swallowed. “Alright, well. I’ll text when I arrive.”

“Okay. Wait, aren’t you getting there after ten?”

Deacon exhaled. I am now, he thought. The drive from Boston to Blackrock would take five hours on a good day, six and a half on a not so good one. Being a Thursday, he wasn’t sure which sort of day he was in for. “Yeah, maybe later.”

“Well, I’ll probably already be in bed. I’ll just talk to you tomorrow, ok? Alright, I gotta go, Deedee. Drive safe!”

She made the puckering sound of blowing a kiss through the phone and hung up, leaving Deacon to sit in his truck with the phone at his ear, looking like an imbecile as he puckered to a dead phone. He set the phone down on the center console and stared out the windshield at the driveway to Carissa’s apartment. Her apartment was on the third floor of a three story brick apartment building, one of seven cloned structures all lined up beside each other as far as the eye could see. Despite the long drive ahead of him and the disappointment of not getting to say goodbye to his girlfriend before he headed to Blackrock, a part of him was aching to go home. There was something about the smell of sea air that stays with a man, and he was ready to be reminded of that.

Deacon flipped through the radio stations until he found the ‘Three for Thursday’ Rock Classics station playing a block of Pink Floyd.

Not a bad way to start the trip, he thought, rolling his SUV out of the parking lot.

What’s your ETA?
John texted as Deacon was rolling into the rest area in Kennebunk, Maine.

Don’t rush me, man.

Deacon pocketed his phone, waiting for an agitated response from his older brother. He hadn’t been home in three months, and his brother, John Fenn, was feeling the separation.

Hurry the hell up, dick! I’m staying up til you get here.
John said, and Deacon could practically hear his manic tone. He and John were what many around Blackrock called the Irish Twins, born less than a year apart. John was the older of the twins, but he very rarely acted like it.

I’m not getting in til late. Don’t wait up, I’ll see you in the morning.

Fuck that noise!
John said less than a minute later.

Deacon laughed aloud in the line for Popeye’s Chicken, drawing looks from the people around him. He had to admit, he missed John, too. It would be nice to arrive that night and curl up for a beer with his brother. Still, knowing John needed to be on a construction site with cousin Kirk and Uncle Terry the next morning, Deacon took pause at the thought of John wielding a nail gun while hungover. He was sure John’s wife, Catherine, might have something to say about it as well.

Tell me you didn’t stop in Kennebunk. You did, didn’t you?

Deacon snorted, holding up his phone to take a picture of the Popeye’s Chicken sign.

Hell yeah, I did.

Deacon took his dinner out to the car and checked the time. 7:36. He had another three hours to go, at least. Deacon cracked open the cover to his Starbucks coffee, and took a sip of the molten liquid. It burned going down, and tasted like the inside of an old shoe, but it was caffeinated, and that was enough for him. Deacon piled into his SUV, the smell of fried chicken and coffee filling the vehicle.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and shot Carissa a quick text.

Hope you had a good day and are home safe. Love you.

He started up the truck and pulled up to get gas at the pump. His phone buzzed on the center console, and he lunged for it, smiling.

You better bring me leftovers, ass hat.

John, not Carissa. Deacon set the phone aside and pumped his gas. There was no response when he climbed back into the SUV.

When Deacon pulled up to the gate at the Fenn property in Blackrock, Maine, Carissa still hadn’t responded to his text.

Dawn betrayed itself through the kitchen windows of his downstairs. John groaned in protest from the couch, passed out where he’d settled the night before. Deacon shifted in his recliner, unwilling to move from beneath Aunt Deidre’s handmade quilt. Being mid-Autumn, Maine was happily accosting her citizens with frigid mornings – something she enjoyed especially near the water.

“For fuck’s sake, what time is it?” John groaned from the couch.

Deacon glanced over at the clock. 12:47. He swallowed against the unfortunate taste in his mouth. “No clue. Clock batteries are dead.”

“Faaaaahk.” John rolled off the couch and onto the floor, finally pushing himself up onto his feet with dramatic disdain. He shuffled across the living room to glance into the kitchen. “Jesus, it’s 6:30. Why am I awake?”

Deacon rose from his seat, making his way to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. John slumped back down onto the couch, stealing Aunt D’s quilt to curl back up.

“Isn’t your wife going to wonder where you are?”

John blew out through pursed lips, making the sound of an agitated horse. “Naw. She knew you were coming. I told her I might crash here.”

Deacon nodded to himself. He imagined the ease of that conversation. Deacon knew Catherine well enough to know she wouldn’t begrudge John a late night pow wow with his brother. Deacon cringed at the memory of the same conversation with Carissa, explaining that his grandfather, Patrick Fenn, had requested he come up to visit for Halloween, saying he had important matters that Deacon was required for. Deacon assumed it involved construction work, winterizing the houses, shingling the cabin on Parkhurst Lake, or shutting up the trailer. Whatever it was, Patrick hadn’t been forthcoming with details. This trait wasn’t unusual for the Fenn family patriarch.

“Any clue what time Gramps is coming by?” John asked from beneath the quilt.

Deacon nudged the pile of blankets with his knee, and John grumbled, only changing his tune when he saw the steaming cup of coffee in Deacon’s hand.

“Naw. Though knowing him, he’s probably already here. Early bastard.”

John chuckled into his coffee and the two of them settled in with their hangovers.

“And Gracie? What time is she was coming by?”

Deacon grumbled. “Oh god, that’s right. Probably the same time, knowing me.”

Deacon was admittedly terrible with remembering plans. John hadn’t been the only one excited to see Deacon. Gracie, John, and Deacon were all right around the same age, and spent their entire school lives together. She felt more like a sister to them than a cousin.

“Well then I’m going back to sleep,” John said, curling his face into the cushions of the couch.

When 8:30 rolled around, Deacon’s phone chimed; he’d received a text message.

You left the laundry in the washing machine.

Deacon stared at the phone, his stomach tightening. Shit, how could he be in trouble already, and he wasn’t even there?

Shit! Sorry! Was a bit distracted –

Before he could finish the text message, the phone began to ring. Gramps was calling.

“You up?”

“Yeah, I’m up,” Deacon said, still trying to quiet the uncomfortable tightness in his gut.

“Good. I’m on my way over.”

Deacon shot John a sideways glance. “Alright, do you need me to -?”

Gramps had already hung up the phone. Deacon took a deep breath. “Jesus, he’s in rare form.”

John groaned. “Yeah, he has been the past couple months.”

“What’s been going on?”

“No clue.”

There’d been plenty of drama to speak of over the years, from the murder of two members of the Fenn family a decade earlier, to Deacon and his brother being kidnapped, drugged, and locked in the tool shed of Bodie Calhoun, Catherine’s own uncle, just a year earlier. Unlike their relatives, Deacon and John could happily claim surviving the ordeal, though Catherine and her cousin, Bennett, had paid a price to assure it. Then, just seven months earlier, their cousin Kirk lost his house to a fire set by his girlfriend’s psychopath ex-boyfriend. If Patrick Fenn wanted to be in a foul mood, one might expect it – then. Yet, the Fenn family hadn’t seen any trouble since Bodie Calhoun died, and Kirk’s house was now fully rebuilt, putting its former glory to shame. With Kirk’s girlfriend expecting their first child in just a couple months, Deacon found it strange that Gramps was so - he searched for the right word to describe a man whose default setting was dower.

Prickly?

That didn’t seem to do the man justice.

“How long did he say?”

The sound of boots on the porch betrayed Patrick Fenn’s arrival. He wasn’t alone.

John was up from the couch in a flash. “Well, that’s
my
cue!”

The front door opened without a knock, and John snatched his jacket from over a kitchen chair.

“Are you seriously leaving me?”

John shot Deacon a shit eating grin. “You bet your ass I am. Shoot me a text when he’s gone,” John said, dodging Deacon’s fist as he passed. John disappeared into the front hall. Deacon could hear his voice from the door. “Hey Gramps! Whoa, hey Mr. Talbot. Good morning!”

Mr. Talbot? What the fuck, Gramps?

Deacon hopped up from his seat, coming around the corner to stand in the front hall just as John swept out the door and into the autumn air.

Patrick Fenn stood in the middle of the space, clomping his boots on the welcome mat as Richard White Eagle scanned the room.

Richard White Eagle Talbot was the chief of the Talbot clan, the patriarch of the Passamaquoddy bear shifters. The man stood just an inch shorter than Patrick Fenn, somewhere around 6’6,” and to compare the man’s usual temperament to Patrick, Richard White Eagle made Patrick Fenn look like a fucking ballerina.

Deacon fought not to let his face betray his surprise. As Patrick and Richard White Eagle stepped into the kitchen, a third man appeared in the doorway behind them. This man was a couple inches shorter, and clearly a bit older than Richard, but their features betrayed a close resemblance, guaranteeing another Talbot.

Jesus Gramps, we havin a summit in my living room this morning?

“Go ahead and have a seat, Richard. Maynard,” Patrick said.

The older man nodded in response to hearing his name, offering a quick handshake to Deacon as he entered the home, the only one of the three men to acknowledge the home didn’t belong to him.

“Come have a seat, Deacon. Would either of you like something to drink? Deacon will get you anything you like.”

Both the Talbot elders shook their heads. Maynard looked to be closer to Patrick’s age, perhaps early seventies, but Richard White Eagle was only in his late fifties, his hair still black from crown to end. Deacon knew only so much of the Talbot clan, his last interaction with Richard White Eagle being at the funeral of the two Talbot girls that Bodie Calhoun murdered a few years earlier. Deacon knew Richard White Eagle was the youngest among his brothers, but had managed to claim the status of Chief by challenging his older siblings to a fight – a Kalmud, as they called it on the reservation. The Kalmud was called when disagreements needed to be settled, and the outcome would be decided by fight. Both parties of the Kalmud would shift, and they would go after one another as bears. The one left standing would be the winner. Patrick thought the tradition archaic and needless, the Fenns having settled their differences with colorful language for generations.

Richard White Eagle restored the tradition amongst the Talbots when his father, Markus Talbot, died. Of all his siblings, only two accepted the challenge, and of the two, only one walked away.

Richard White Eagle was a beast, and he was sitting in Deacon’s favorite chair, his long hair braided down his back. Deacon hovered by the kitchen door, watching the three men settle into his living room. Maynard took a place by the window, refusing the seat when one was offered. Maynard held himself with a strange trepidation, keeping his eyes to the floor.

“Come sit, son,” Gramps said, gesturing to the open space on the couch.

“This is not the biggest of your grandsons,” Richard said, his cadence slow.

Patrick shook his head. “No, he isn’t.”

“What of the rest?”

“Well, John is married, and Kirk has a girlfriend.”

“But Kirk is not married?”

“No. Not yet anyway, but they are expecting their first child together,” Patrick said.

Richard White Eagle nodded, as though he was discussing options with a car salesman. “What of your son? Is Terence not a widow?”

Patrick sucked something out from between his teeth and shook his head. “He is, but Deedee was his fated mate. He won’t marry again.”