Captive Bride, page 1
Captive Bride
The Secret Bride Series
Alta Hensley
Copyright © 2021 by Alta Hensley
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.
Special Thank you to my editor: Maggie Ryan and my wonderful beta readers.
Cover Design: Jay Aheer
Dedication
To my family who understand just what it takes to finish a book.
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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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
The Secret Bride Series
Also by Alta Hensley
About Alta Hensley
Sneak Peek
Captive Vow
1
There’s a fly in the honey.
The contamination must be rid.
* * *
Please allow him to be the one who gets away.
* * *
“Run. Run,” I whisper against the glass of the window. My breath fogs my vision, but I can still see. “It’s not too late. You still have time. Run.”
He can’t hear me. They never hear me.
I consider pounding my fists against the glass to capture his attention but know that will only make it worse. If he sees me… he’ll continue to come forward in curiosity. He won’t run away.
He needs to run away. He just doesn’t know it yet.
There’s a fly in the honey and Hell will be paid.
He’s not the first. He won’t be the last.
* * *
Please, please, please allow this man to be the one who gets away.
* * *
My heart stops as he points his camera in my direction. What if he sees me? What if I’m in his picture? Will I be to blame for what comes next? I know what’s in store. It’s always the same.
Although there is something different in this man from the others. His camera looks bigger and harder to use. He has to spin the front of it back and forth as he takes the pictures. He’s dressed differently than the ones before him. Hiking boots, khaki pants with lots of pockets, a cream cotton shirt that buttons with sleeves rolled to his upper arms above the elbows. His attire makes him appear more worldly than the others. Like he’s on an adventure rather than just a sightseeing day trip.
Yes, he’s different.
But he’s still the fly in the honey and will have to face the consequences. There’s nothing I can do. I know this.
He should have stayed on the beaten path. He should have heeded the warnings of the no trespassing signs. There is plenty to see down the hill. The old, abandoned buildings in the main part of Hallelujah Junction are just as good as the ones up here. The ghost town and main attraction are down the hill.
Not here.
There’s an old church, a mercantile, pharmacy, a livery, and even a small jail. All the houses remain standing and preserved. Inside is the left behind furniture of the 1800s residents who built this mining town before they all vacated in a hurry for some unknown reason. History frozen in time. Secrets and whispers of the ghosts mesmerize people from around the world.
Why had the townsfolk left in such a hurry?
Why would they leave their belongings behind?
These were the eerie questions that made Hallelujah Junction become the tourist attraction that it was.
The tourists can see the schoolhouse from the main street. It towers on the top of Cemetery Road meant to look at but never approach. There are several buildings in Hallelujah Junction that are strictly off limits to the public due to safety reasons. The signs clearly mark the prohibited from the welcome.
So why? Why does he ignore the signs? There are just as many worn-down houses and dilapidated pieces of history to take pictures of in the main area. Stay with the tourists. Stay where it’s safe. Listen to the ranger and follow the rules. The rules are simple: Stay on the paths. No littering. No destruction of property. Stay. On. The. Paths.
The rules are so simple.
Break the rules, and you will pay the price.
* * *
I see his shadow first. The ranger.
He has a job.
Enforce the rules.
I should leave the window and walk away. Pine Cone, my cat, rubs along my leg begging for some attention. She knows what is good for me. I should listen to her. I don’t need to see this. I shouldn’t see this. But I can never look away. This time could be different.
The man is larger than the ranger. His shoulders are broad and his chest wide. It appears as if he could run faster with his long, lean legs. He could resist and win. Maybe that is why he broke the rules. Maybe he knows he can.
But I don’t want him to hurt the ranger.
The ranger is my Papa Rich. He’s mine. He’s all I have.
I hold my breath, not sure what I want to see. Whose side am I on? The rule breaker or my Papa Rich?
“You’re trespassing,” I hear Papa Rich say. The glass of the window is thin. The air is still.
The rule breaker turns, startled. “Oh sorry, man. I’ll be out of your hair in just a second. I’m shooting an article for Rolling Stone called ‘Find Your Wild.’ I want to make sure I capture it all.”
“Did you not see the signs?”
“I’ll be quick. I saw the schoolhouse up here on the hill and needed to get a better picture up close.” He continues taking pictures as if the ranger has no power over what he does or doesn’t do.
Papa Rich’s jaw tightens. His eyes narrow. I recognize this look. I know exactly what comes next. Papa Rich looks at the old schoolhouse. At me. I’m hidden away in the structure of this trespasser’s dangerous obsession.
Can he see me? No. I know the way the sun is angled that the reflection protects me from the eyes of others. I know the times of the day I’m safe from view. Years and years have made me an expert. Papa Rich can’t see me but no doubt knows I’m watching. He knows I can see. I can hear. I will learn from this man’s mistakes. Another lesson of what happens to those who break the rules.
“The story of the ghost girl in the school window is fascinating,” the rule breaker says as he snaps away. “I want to make sure I really get the right images to go with it.” He doesn’t stop taking pictures. “Have you ever seen the ghost while working here? I’d really like to interview you if you have.”
“There’s no trespassing up here,” Papa Rich repeats.
The rule breaker doesn’t look away from the schoolhouse. He should. He really should.
Like so many times before, Papa Rich pulls a thick wooden mallet from his knapsack he carries every day and hits the rule breaker on the back of the head. The sickening crack echoes up the path and stabs at my heart.
Yes, the rule breaker is bigger. Yes, he could run faster. But just like the others, he falls to the ground. The lens of his fancy camera shatters on the desert dirt and scatters beneath the branches of the sagebrush.
I turn away from the window then and finally pet Pine Cone under her chin. I don’t need to see what comes next. I know Papa Rich will drag his limp body to the acid pits in the old mill building.
Another tragic accident.
Another careless tourist who didn’t pay attention to the danger signs and falls to his death in the pits. It’s not like anyone will find the rule breaker. The acid pits will sizzle his flesh and bone until nothing is left.
The fly in the honey will be rectified. Contamination will be cleansed.
2
Ember
I hate the sound of the door opening and shutting after a trespasser is dealt with. Papa Rich is always in such a foul mood. Without fail, he’ll lecture me and cite the Bible as if I am the one who has committed the crime. I’ll have no choice but to stare on with wide eyes, nodding on occasion, and give every visual cue I possibly can that I am receptive of his schooling and learning about the difference between good and evil.
Yes, Papa Rich.
You’re right, Papa Rich.
He deserved to pay for his crimes, Papa Rich.
You’re just acting as the hand of God, Papa Rich. I’ll pray for his soul.
But the sounds coming from the front of the schoolhouse sound different. So different, that I consider hiding as I was taught to do if anyone other than Papa Rich were to ever enter the building.
“Ember,” Papa Rich calls out. “Ember, get out here.”
I pad barefoot against the cool wood floor cautiously. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. I can feel it. I can hear it in the way he says my name, winded.
I peer around the wall and freeze in my tracks.
Papa Rich has hold of the rule breaker underneath his arms. He’s dragging him inside the door.
No acid pits.
No discarding of the body as if it were trash.
The rule breaker lay limp, unconscious and is awkwardly being yanked with all the force Papa Rich can muster. The stranger’s dusty from being dragged along the dirt path, and there’s a matted patch of blood on the back of his head from where he was hit.
I can’t tell if the man is alive or dead.
Am I supposed to be a hand of God today? I don’t want to.
I swallow the bile down.
Papa Rich looks up, his blue eyes hold me frozen as he motions me towards him. His greasy hair sticks to his temples as sweat beads down his sun-weathered face.
I watch a small grin curl his lips as he says, “Give me a hand, Ember. Don’t just stand there.”
I can see the man is too big for Papa Rich. I’m guessing that is why Papa Rich didn’t just drag him to the old mill himself. Maybe it was too far. But I don’t want to go to the acid pits. I had been there before and begged Papa Rich to never make me do it again. He said if I was a good girl, I wouldn’t have to. I was a good girl, but my heart stops in fear that Papa Rich blames me for this man crossing the trespassing line.
His nostrils flare, and the cords in his neck strain. I recognize his hardened emotions and am scared. “Pick up his feet. Help me carry him to the hatch.”
His command ricochets through my body. Although having a direct order makes it easy for me to comply. I take hold of the man’s ankles and lift while I stumble and shuffle my feet as Papa Rich walks backwards.
He directs his gaze to my shaking hands. “Don’t drop him.”
My lungs labor for air, and my muscles burn. The man is heavy, and I don’t understand why we are taking him to the hatch, but I don’t dare question Papa Rich. When he has a plan, we follow it.
I have never seen a dead body up close before and having to touch one makes the taste of vomit linger in the back of my throat.
When we finally reach the hatch, Papa Rich says, “Put him down and rest for a moment.”
The thud of the body hitting the dusty schoolroom floor strikes me with a reality I’m not sure I can face.
Papa slides the antique school desk that conceals the hatch across the planked floor. It’s our secret. Only ours. The hatch opens to an underground tunnel that connects to other tunnels running beneath all the buildings in Hallelujah Junction. The miners of yesteryear built the tunnels, and Papa Rich made them safer by reinforcing and adding battery-operated lighting. It’s how we walk among the tourists undetected. Like mice, Papa Rich used to tell me. I never leave the buildings. I never go outside. I only use the tunnels. It’s the rule.
I don’t move. My gaze is paralyzed on the man’s face. I take in the straight profile of his nose, the sharp angle of his jaw, and the wayward brown hairs on his head in desperate need of a trim.
“We need to bring him to the house.” Papa’s order is sharp and unkind.
A tremor shivers through my heart. My pulse thrashes in my throat. I open my mouth to refuse, but the hard look in Papa’s eye changes my mind.
He opens the hatch, silently motions for me to pick up the man’s feet again, and I obey. I scan the room for Pine Cone hoping she is near and won’t somehow get out of the schoolhouse. Papa Rich had warned me time and time again that there are vicious wild animals outside that would tear her flesh to bits, and I was to never open the doors or the windows if I valued her life. I would normally carry her through the tunnels but know that is not a possibility right now. I will have to come back for her later.
As we awkwardly push the body down the hatch and stand in the base of the tunnel, Papa Rich twists around, scrutinizing the distance of our journey. “Come on. Let’s get going before he comes to.”
Comes to?
Is he alive?
Not dead?
My stomach cramps, and my heartbeat slams into a rapid staccato at this new piece of information. If he is alive, why are we taking him to our home? We never have guests… well, not really. Papa Rich has a friend named Scarecrow who comes to visit often, but I don’t consider him a guest. He’s not wanted by me. I wish he never comes, and whenever he does, he leaves a stench of onion and sweat that takes days to rid.
Releasing a heavy breath, I do as Papa Rich says and hurry down the tunnel as fast as I physically can. I bite down on my lip to not cry out as my bare feet scrape against the cold and jagged rocks. I don’t have the time to take careful steps as I usually do.
“Come on, we’re almost there. Good girl. You’re doing so good,” he praises as he huffs and puffs with the weight of the unconscious man in his arms.
Tears blur my vision as I stare at the man, hating myself for my part in whatever this is. I don’t know why we are doing this. I don’t know Papa Rich’s plan and how any of this could possibly be a good idea. But I know deep down to the tip of my now bloody toes that something is wrong.
When we finally reach the hatch leading to the main house Papa Rich and I live in, I somehow find the words to say, “Papa Rich, what are we doing?”
When his eyes meet mine, the sinister secret only he knows looms near. A surge of terror scorches through my veins.
“There’s a serpent in the garden,” he says. “Judas among us.” He begins to pull the man up the hatch to our home. “So blood will be shed. Unless… unless…”
I exhale a chest full of air as I do my part in this misdeed. I know it is wrong. My Papa Rich is supposed to be a Godly man. A man I never question. But my soul screams no. No, no, no. Forgive me, God. What do I do? Forgive me, God. Forgive me.
With one final push, the man—the stranger—is now in our home.
Hello, Devil. Nice to meet you.
3
Richard
Twenty Years Ago
* * *
If a town could be the hairy armpit of the devil, this town would be it. I roll up the cracked window of my pick-up truck to prevent inhaling the fetor of poverty and white trash. If it were possible to avoid this town completely, I would. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. But I need supplies. As soon as I get them bought and loaded in the back of my truck, I will hightail it back to Hallelujah Junction and not leave again until I have to do another supply run.
Hallelujah Junction… my salvation.
God blessed me the day he found me the job of being a ranger for the infamous ghost town hidden in the hills of Nevada. An old mining town long abandoned by the residents for an unknown reason. The 1800s town’s current popularity centers around the fact that every ancient resident left with only the clothes on their backs and what little supplies they could carry. They left everything behind in a hurry to flee. All the furniture, dishes, books, handcrafted items, family heirlooms, hand-stitched clothing, and the hidden secrets of why they deserted their homes remained. It makes the haunted town a living museum of a time long ago. An eerie place turned to stone as if touched by Medusa. Tourists would come from all over the world to see history paused. They wanted answers. Why? Why would the people build a life here, and then vacate so quickly without taking what meant everything to them and what they had worked so hard to gain? Reasons were rumors and speculations only. Plague? Dangers from the daily mining and plundering of the earth such as poisoned water or toxic gases? Impending attack from nearby Indian tribes? No one knew.
I don’t care why they left. I’m happy they did. The town is mine. They left me a gift. Yes, I have to share the bottom half of my utopia with the common folk, even though I despise each one of them. But regardless, Hallelujah Junction is my paradise before I reach Kingdom Come.
