Solid Ground: a Wounded Love novel Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Megan Green

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.authormegangreen.com

  Cover Designer: Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  ISBN-13: 978-1539694595

  For Nichole.

  Thank you for always listening.

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One night.

  One bad decision.

  That was all it took to completely change my life.

  Have you ever done something you knew you’d regret? Yet, somehow, you weren’t able to stop because you were just so angry.

  That was me.

  I was so angry.

  I felt justified in my actions.

  I wanted him to hurt as badly as he’d hurt me.

  And it worked. I got exactly what I wanted.

  But you know that saying, Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it?

  Whoever coined that phrase knew their shit.

  Because what I thought I wanted turned out to be my worst nightmare.

  “Unit Twenty-Two, we have a reported ten-sixteen over on Maple. Do you copy?”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, clearing any lingering doughnut crumbs. I know, I know. A cop eating a doughnut—I’m a walking, talking cliché. Sue me.

  I press the button on the side of my radio and respond to Becky, “Ten-four. Unit Twenty-Two en route. ETA, less than five minutes.”

  Becky’s voice crackles through the radio once again. “Thanks, Roberts. Twenty-four fifty-six Maple. And be careful. The neighbor who phoned it in said it sounded bad.”

  “Copy that,” I say with a smile.

  In the small town of Superior, Colorado, it’s likely that the ten-sixteen —a domestic dispute—is simply a couple arguing over whose turn it is to take out the trash. After all my years away, I forgot how small this place was. You’d think, in the twelve years since I left, something would’ve changed. But nope. It’s still the same sleepy little town I left behind where something as simple as a cat being stuck in a tree makes the local evening news.

  Fucking Mayberry, I think to myself. And here I am, Sheriff Andy Taylor, reporting for duty.

  I eye the greasy brown paper bag in the seat next to me, contemplating whether I want to wolf down doughnut number two before I get there or if I should save it for later. I give it a soft pat, deciding to wait. I still have another six hours on duty after all. Better to have something to look forward to.

  This isn’t exactly the way I pictured my life turning out, writing speeding tickets and helping little old ladies cross the street. I always felt like I was destined for more than what this town could give me.

  I was the kid waiting at the door of the Army recruitment office the morning after graduation, ready to see the world and fight for my country. While all my friends had been preparing for college—dreaming of girls, parties, freedom from their overprotective parents—I had pounded the pavement, running ten miles every day and spending several hours in the school gym, lifting and squatting it out, until there was no question I was in peak physical condition. I didn’t want to give the Army the chance to turn me down.

  And, for almost six years, I got exactly what I wanted. Sure, there were some shitty days—lots of them, if I’m honest. But I never doubted what I was doing. After eighteen years of trying to figure out where I belonged, I finally felt like I fit. No matter what anybody said, I knew I was doing exactly what I was meant to.

  Until, one day, it was all taken from me. Someone had made the decision for me. See, losing a leg in the line of duty isn’t exactly something the Army just looks the other way for. No matter how strong I remained, no matter how agile I was on my prosthesis, I was done. They wouldn’t allow me to reenlist. It was the worst fucking day of my entire life.

  So, now, after several years training service dogs with my best friend Emma, I’m back where I started. And, as I turn onto Maple Drive, I can’t help the memories that flood my mind.

  She lived on this street. I’ve somehow managed to avoid turning down this road in the six months I’ve been back. I’ve driven past it numerous times, but this will be the first time I’ve actually had to drive past the house that holds so many memories.

  I watch the house numbers ascend as I drive along the asphalt, a lump forming in my throat the closer I get to twenty-four fifty-six. It can’t be her house, can it?

  As many times as I was there back then, I never actually paid attention to the address. But, as my cruiser pulls to a stop in front of the familiar blue door and matching shutters, I know I should’ve expected this. Fate seems to like to show up and bite me in the ass at the worst times. So, not only do I have to see the house I’ve longed to avoid, I’ll actually have to go up and knock on the front door.

  The only thing that makes it slightly more bearable is knowing she won’t be there. Her parents had to have sold the house years ago, judging by the state of the yard. Mrs. Hadley would die of embarrassment if she saw the weeds currently occupying her prized flower beds. Plus, Mr. and Mrs. Hadley were like the fucking Cleavers back in the day. There’s no way in hell I’d have been called to their house for a domestic dispute if they were still living here. I’m pretty sure they never argued about a single thing in their entire marriage.

  I pop the car into park and radio Becky to let her know I’m on the scene. After she assures me that backup can be here in a few minutes if I need it—eliciting a roll of the eyes from me—I climb out of the cruiser and approach the porch. As always, it takes a step or two for my stride to become comfortable after sitting for so long, but by the time I’m climbing the front stairs, I know nobody will be able to detect a hitch in my gait.

  I knock softly on the front door. “Boulder County Police,” I say, lowering my head toward the door in an attempt to listen.

  Nothing. No shouting. No hushed whispers. I can’t even make out the sound of footsteps behind the heavy front door.

  I knock again, more forcefully this time. “Boulder County Police. We received a call from a concerned neighbor. Please open the door.”

  Still nothing.

  I step to the side of the door, attempting to peer into the window to see if I can catch a glimpse of anyone inside. It’s then I notice the dark curtains are pulled tightly shut. My brow furrows. It�
�s a gorgeous April afternoon. And, like I said, this city is freaking Mayberry reincarnate. Everybody knows and likes their neighbors. People don’t keep their curtains closed on a nice summer day.

  Stepping off the porch, I move around to the side of the house, searching for an open window I might be able to see inside. But, again and again, I’m greeted by darkness. Reaching the back of the house, I find the sliding glass door, the slatted blinds twisted tightly closed.

  I knock on the glass, hoping the unexpected sound will catch someone’s attention inside. Pressing my ear against the door, I listen for any signs of movement. But, again, I’m greeted by nothing but silence.

  I turn, gazing out over the backyard. It’s changed since the last time I was here. The old, rusted swing set I played on more times than I could even begin to count is gone, replaced by a much smaller but much safer-looking one and a tiny sandbox. A few toys are scattered throughout the sand, toppled over on their sides as if left in a hurry.

  So, a kid must live here. Where is he or she now?

  With the possibility of a child being inside, my heart rate kicks up, and now more than ever, I want to find out what’s going on. I might be able to be casual about a husband and wife arguing, but once a kid enters the equation, all bets are off. I need to make sure he or she is okay.

  I turn back to the sliding door and bang on it again. “This is your final warning. If you don’t open the door now, I will be forced to enter of my own accord.” My voice is strong, hard. I’m done playing this little game. Anger courses through me at the thought of a child being harmed.

  I raise my hand to pound on the glass again when I hear it.

  A soft cry. Almost a mewl.

  The sound an injured child would make.

  My hand flies to the handle on the door, and I curse when I find it locked. I throw my shoulder against the glass, but I know it’s pointless. Taking off at a dead run, I’m back around the front of the house in seconds, trying the front door.

  It’s unlocked.

  Placing my hand on the gun at my hip, I slowly take a step inside.

  What the fuck?

  The same floral-printed furniture from my past greets me. It’s dingier. Obviously used now. I briefly flash on a memory of Mrs. Hadley yelling at us anytime we tried to sit on the pristine couch.

  “That furniture is for company. We don’t sit on it.”

  I always laughed because, even when she had company, she’d never let them sit on the plastic-covered sofa either. That living room was the pride of her home, and she wouldn’t let anyone near it.

  I take a step over toward the fireplace, seeing familiar pictures lined up on the mantel. Mr. and Mrs. Hadley’s wedding day. The family dog. Graduation day.

  Confusion washes over me. If the Hadleys still live here, then what in the hell is going on? Mr. Hadley would never raise a hand to Mrs. Hadley. And neither would ever harm a child.

  Child.

  Remembering the sound I heard coming from near the back door, I make my way toward the kitchen. The sliding door is just off the dining room, so whatever made that noise must be back there.

  “Hello?” I tentatively call out. I’m suddenly afraid of what I might find.

  Rounding the corner of the wall blocking the sight of the kitchen, I see her.

  Not a child.

  A woman.

  A woman crumpled on the floor in front of the sink.

  A woman so badly beaten that it takes everything in me to hold down that doughnut I inhaled not even ten minutes ago. My stomach turns as I kneel next to her, unsure of what to do. I don’t want to cause her any more pain, but I need to check for a pulse.

  She’s curled in on herself, her legs pulled up in the fetal position. I watch her shoulders, trying to detect the rise and fall of breathing.

  Nothing.

  I don’t want to turn her. I have no clue how serious her injuries are, but if there’s any damage to her back or neck, moving her could prove to be fatal. So, instead, I reach out and brush the dark hair covering her face and neck over her shoulder.

  The second her face comes into view, I fall back on my ass.

  Bruises mar her skin, and her full lower lip is split wide open.

  But I’d recognize her anywhere.

  Nichole.

  You know how, in movies, when people wake up in the hospital, they never seem to know where they are? The camera fades in, and everything is sort of fuzzy as the person lying in the bed takes in their surroundings. The bright lights. The sterile smells. The way they never quite seem to be alone, regardless of whether someone is actually in the room with them. You’re supposed to feel sympathy for this character. Feel bad that they’ve gone through something so traumatic and out of the ordinary that it takes several minutes for their brain to catch up.

  You know what I feel for those people?

  Jealousy.

  I know exactly where I am when my eyes finally crack open. I don’t get those few minutes of blissful unawareness before I remember what happened that landed me here.

  I remember everything.

  You see, this isn’t the first time I’ve woken up alone in a hospital bed.

  And it won’t be the last time either unless you wake your ass up and do something about it, a little voice niggles at the back of my mind.

  That’s also something I’ve experienced before. That voice of reason always hangs out somewhere in my head.

  Too bad I never listen to her.

  I brace my hands on each side of my legs in an attempt to push myself up into a sitting position. The second I put pressure on my left hand, a blinding pain shoots up my arm and into my shoulder. Glancing down, I find my hand and forearm are encased in a cast.

  Great. Another broken bone.

  I blow out a breath and collapse back into the pillow. As if summoned by my aggravation, a familiar face steps through the doorway.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” Amber greets me as she walks into my room, her Disney print scrubs enough to make me smile.

  She doesn’t flinch at my appearance. She’s used to it.

  Amber and I are old friends—in the sense that she’s been the nurse to patch me up after each of my “clumsy episodes.”

  She also knows that excuse is bullshit. Hell, I’m sure everyone in town can see through my lies. But, when the culprit is one of the most influential men in town, people tend to look the other way.

  Including me.

  The first few times I landed in here, Amber did her best to try to convince me to file charges. But I always refused.

  What good would it do me anyway? I have no education. No skills. Even if I were somehow able to get away from James, I’d have no way of caring for myself.

  Or Cade.

  He’s the real reason I stay. That precious seven-year-old is my ball of sunshine.

  No matter how badly James treats me, he never lays a hand on Cade. He isn’t exactly Father of the Year. In fact, ninety percent of the time, he acts like Cade doesn’t even exist. But he provides for us. Because of James, my little boy is able to have the things I only ever dreamed of when growing up. He doesn’t want for anything.

  Except a loving father, that little voice reminds me.

  Shaking off my unwanted conscience, I turn my head and smile at Amber—or at least, I try to. Judging by the way my lips feel as I attempt to curl the corners, I’d wager I have a nasty gash there. And, based on the look crossing Amber’s face, I’m guessing my halfhearted smile came out looking much more like a grimace.

  Her already sad face falls further, the line between her brows deepening. Perching herself on the edge of my bed, she presses a hand to my cheek. “How are you feeling, honey?”

  The feel of her soft touch on my skin has tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

  It’s been so long since I’ve felt loved. So long since another person has touched me with anything but hatred and malice. Except for Cade. But, as much as I love my boy’s warm embraces, sometimes, it’s ni
ce to feel the comfort of another adult. A loving hand held out not in expectation of anything, but simply offered in love and care of my well-being.

  I lean into Amber’s touch, savoring the warmth of her hand for just a moment longer as I close my hand around her wrist. At my slight nudge, she withdraws, but the look of concern doesn’t leave her face.

  “I’m okay, Amber, really. You know me; I’m made of steel.” My words convey a lot more strength than I actually feel.

  On the outside, I’m the same stubborn, optimistic Nichole my friends have come to recognize.

  But inside…

  Inside, I feel like I’m drowning. Like my boat is not only sinking, but has already settled at the bottom of the sea. And I’m left treading water, desperately searching for solid ground. But my arms are tired. My legs are weak. And I can no longer keep my head above water.

  Summoning all my bravado, I attempt to sit upright again. It hurts like a motherfucker, and it takes everything in me not to scream out in pain. But that isn’t what people need to see. They need to see that I have it together. That I can handle myself.

  Otherwise…they’ll think I can’t handle Cade.

  I’ve threatened to leave James a few times, and he always uses that against me. He’s built quite the reputation for himself as the most prominent attorney in town, even willing to work pro bono for the less fortunate. He knows nobody would believe my allegations. And he has signed statements from several professionals stating that I’m an unfit mother. I have no idea how he got them. I’d never harm my baby. But James’s pockets run deep, and his influence runs even deeper. One word from him, and I’d never see my little boy again.

  Amber is the only one who really knows the truth. Sure, the doctors who patch me up suspect. There isn’t a person on earth who could possibly be as clumsy as I appear to be when I show up here with bruises covering my body. But, just like me, nobody does anything about it. I don’t resent them for it. James would ruin them just as easily as he’d ruin me, and he wouldn’t even bat an eye. I can’t blame them for not wanting to take that risk.