Rain (Stranger in the Woods Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Exciting News!

  About The Author

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  Upcoming Novels By India R. Adams

  India’s Thank Yous

  Songs That Inspired Rain

  RAIN

  A STRANGER IN THE WOODS NOVEL

  BOOK ONE OF THE STRANGER IN THE WOODS SERIES

  BY INDIA R. ADAMS

  Rain

  Copyright © 2016 by India R. Adams All rights reserved.

  First Edition: June 2016

  Rain is published by India’s Productions

  Editing by: Karen Allen with Red Adept Editing

  Cover: Pro Book Covers

  Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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

  Dedicated to dreams and dreamers, imaginations and curiosities, and to those of us who know we live in a limitless, beautiful world.

  Two bloods of one will bring down the shadows, to cast, no more…

  Rain will grow as River flows…

  Together…

  Preface

  Phantom pain has been described as the suffering sensation lingering in the place of an amputated limb or organ. That’s what it felt like for me, except I didn’t know which extremity had been severed—what part of my soul or heart had been taken from me, not until confronted by this stranger in the woods. I say stranger—yet his voice, his smell, his very essence resonates with me on a level I didn’t know existed.

  His dominating hold on me is alarming, yet it’s something I’m sure I’ve hungered for. The unrecognizable iridescent blue shapes and symbols forming on his neck are possibly a warning that this man is nothing I should want, but deep down I sense he’s everything I need and have needed for some time.

  My internal battle distracts me, causing me not to hear, “I’m sorry,” before it’s too late. At the base of my neck, fangs I hadn’t even seen sink into my flesh.

  My body jolts.

  His arms tighten.

  The stranger is not going to release me.

  Before I can feel the sting of his betrayal, I feel a slight burn as something pushes into my jugular vein. The heat continues through the channels of my body, and then, as quickly as it began, the burn subsides. Whatever now swims in my blood causes a floating sensation. My body relaxes to the point I’m sure I will soon slip into unconsciousness. My weight is no longer my own. The stranger lays me on the ground. His deep, soothing voice echoes. “I love you.”

  On the forest floor, an uncanny awareness takes over my senses. Leaves I have never noticed before have my full attention. Their crisp texture in the brisk evening air… Even though my thoughts are becoming random, I have a view of the stranger in his warrior stance, knees bent, ready to attack. His right arm reaches behind him for a knife in a weathered leather sheath that wraps around his bare chest and back. He pulls it out with expertise—he has done this a million times. The florescent fluid I had seen forming on the stranger’s neck drips from the blade, bathing it in the foreign substance.

  Many dark-robed figures approach us. By the stranger’s posture, I know they are the enemy. This enemy swings at the brave, lone fighter. The stranger is hopelessly outnumbered but never slows his vicious response to this unwanted attack, biting and stabbing any dark figure daring to approach. Blue liquid drips from underneath his long dark hair, down his muscled, naked back onto a crisp leaf and puddles there. As the gathered fluid vibrates with all the pouncing feet around me, I realize the stranger in the woods is fighting… for my life.

  Chapter One

  Violently throwing up, my mother clings to the toilet bowl with her whole frail body. The light-yellow walls seem dim and confining in the only bathroom on the second floor. I press a damp rag to her sweating forehead that once belonged to a vibrant face, full of life. I miss that smile terribly. “Are you okay, Mama?”

  Her eyes close, and I wonder if she’s praying for this to end, just like me—not her life but her sickness, the unexplained illness that keeps stealing lives like my daddy’s. We are not the only ones forced to endure this. So many families have been affected. Some moved away. Some were torn apart beyond repair. At least mine—what’s left of it—is still together.

  “Rosie! Wade is splashing me!” echoes from downstairs.

  Still on her knees, my mom’s head falls to the arm resting on the toilet that is mercifully holding her up. “I’m okay. Go tend to them.” Her trembling voice makes me shudder with doubt. I kiss her hair, forcing myself to leave her side, scared the next time I check on her will be the last.

  Walking quickly down our wooden stairs, I hear my little brother and sister yelling at each other. Wade, who is seven, is a hard-to-handle wild child. His school teachers say he is just acting out because he doesn’t know how to handle our circumstances. The immature side of me wants to scream, “I want to act out, too!” but the nineteen-year-old side of me knows I can’t, so I do my best to deal with Wade driving Louisa and me nuts. The only good that’s come out of Wade’s defiant behavior is that it makes little six-year-old Louisa a young’un to be reckoned with. Instead of breaking, Lulu has become a fighter, and I suspect it’s because Wade keeps her on her toes.

  “Wade Conley Junior. Stop!” I warn as he cups his hands full of dirty dishwater, preparing for another assault on Louisa. Sam, my furry, pure-bred mutt, lying on the cool kitchen floor, is completely at ease with the normal ruckus. Lulu sticks her tongue out at Wade, probably assuming she’s safe with me present.

  Splash!

  “Rosieeeeee!” she screeches, both little fists ready to attack.

  Lulu doesn’t call out for my mama anymore. Her care has become my duty. Both Wade and Lulu know it. In every family, older teenagers have to grow up overnight as parents become sick. I’m stro
ng enough to be a parental guide for Wade and Lulu, but not strong enough to wish it doesn’t have to be.

  As I put my hair in a ponytail, I study my surroundings, wondering how many of my family’s generations have intervened in this old kitchen. The worn counters speak of many pies being made. If those women did it, I can do it. I prepare for battle. “Wade, you tell Lulu how sorry you are.”

  He wipes his hands on his pajamas. “But I’m not.”

  “Wade!”

  “But Mama says lying is a sin,” proclaims the little monster.

  I try to reel in my temper as I grab his arm, yanking him from his stepping stool. “I bet me beating your butt is a sin too, but that’s what I’m going to do if you don’t march upstairs and get into bed this second.”

  As Wade marches off, a little too happily for my liking, I internally question the grin I’m witnessing until I face the sink again. There are many dishes to be done, and Wade has left our little sister in disarray. Lulu’s bottom lip trembles. Blond curls drip soapy water. “Now I have to do all the dishes?” Sam stands up from the floor and licks her little, wet palms.

  Patting Lulu’s hair with a dishtowel, I think about how positive I am Lulu is going to snap one of Wade’s toys in half when she gets the chance.

  Torn.

  Completely torn.

  Part of me knows Daddy would’ve told Lulu that life isn’t always fair—a strong farmer building strong children. But the fact that he isn’t here to say it rips my heart in two. This little girl has already seen enough to know this lesson well. So instead, I finish drying her hair, pick her up, and wrap her tiny pajama-covered legs around my waist. “I’ll do the dinner dishes so you can get rest for school tomorrow. Okay?” The adorable little bottom lip is still protruding, but Louisa nods and rests her head on my burdened shoulder as I carry her upstairs with Sam in tow.

  I should remember to be more careful as I pass the bathroom. Lulu’s head lifts from its resting place. “Mama?” Yes, Lulu has already been exposed to so much for her age.

  Sam goes to sniff my mom, and my heart thunders. I pick up my pace to their bedroom. Lights are already off. I lay Lulu in bed as quickly as possible, trying to stay composed for the little eyes studying me. “Mama’s okay, baby. I’m going to tuck her in too.” I nervously smile as I rush, tucking the blanket around Lulu for a cocoon effect. “Just like this!”

  Lulu finally smiles, but I notice wisdom behind her eyes. “Mama will like that.”

  Sam jumps in the bed with Lulu, causing my exhale of relief. The above-average dog would’ve told me if my mama had—uh, I can’t even think it.

  Still angry with Wade, I cross the wooden bedroom floor to cover him with his Batman blanket. As I do, he stares sadly out his window. “Are you really gonna beat my butt, Rosie?”

  My shoulders slump. I’m doing this all wrong! “No, Junior.” I hope he hears the apology in my tone. Wade rolls to face me. The little devil in him disappears as the moon shines on the young boy’s face. I suddenly forget what a handful he is and love him with all my heart. I grin. “But I should, huh?”

  He knowingly grins too. All is forgiven.

  The glow from the bathroom guides me down the hallway. “Mama?” My heart stops. She lies so still on the bathroom floor that I freeze in the doorway. Sam was wrong. No! Please, God, no, no…

  Mama’s shoulders shake when she coughs. In praise, I close my eyes and tilt my face to the ceiling. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  Mama—barely weighing anything compared to what she did when my father was still alive—is easy to get back to her bedroom. As I lay her in bed, she reaches for the frame on her nightstand. I swallow my tears while helping her hold the picture as she places a kiss on my daddy’s smiling face. “He’s waiting for me, Rosie.”

  I want to crumble to the floor and stay there for a long while, but I don’t. She doesn’t mean to upset me. I know that my mother loves me. I think she just sometimes forgets I’m waiting for her, too—waiting for her to heal and be our mother again.

  After settling my family down for the night, I go back down to the kitchen to force myself to do one more chore. As I stand at the sink, my chest aches, then my whole body shakes. I know they’re just dirty dishes, but I feel like I’m two inhales away from a complete breakdown. The dirty sink that fills daily is a metaphor for my life.

  Rushing out my screened back door, I try to reel in my fear, gasping for air and courage to keep plowing forward. It is fall and chilly but not cold enough to keep me indoors, not when I need to breathe to survive.

  At the tip of my back porch steps, my legs give out, and I plop down on my rickety stairs. Looking around, I’m reminded that this old farmhouse—it has been in my dad’s family since the 1800s—is all we have left. Instead of flourishing with my father’s growing winter wheat, the fields are barren, haunted. The crops faded as my daddy faded, probably knowing they were losing the one who appreciated them most.

  There used to be life in the valley surrounding my home. Now there is only empty horse stalls ’cause we needed the money and empty turkey and chicken pens because I had to feed us. The thick woods and mountains blanketing our property used to make me feel lucky to have such a view. Now, the forest and hills remind me of how secluded I am from the rest of the world. Farmers tend to not have neighbors nearby.

  Hanging with friends has become only a memory. We have no time for such luxuries. Some have lost a parent. Some have lost both and are on their own. Some had to quit school to get a job and support the ones who did survive or who are still trying to. I sit here, wondering why, when the sun is down, my spirits drop. Without the rays of light, I’m drained and feel used.

  Sam coming to my side tells me who is here. Only one person can get into this house without my dog barking. Gunner, knowing everyone is asleep by now, doesn’t bother knocking. This is practically his home too. Gunner sits on the steps next to me with no words as he releases my hair from its ponytail as if to tell me to release my worry. He knows what I need from him.

  Sometimes, I sit out here alone for hours. Sometimes I have him. I’m grateful for tonight. My head leans on Gunner’s strong shoulder as scared tears drop from my eyes. His warm arms scoop me up with ease, and my tired head falls to his chest. I smell his longer, dark hair. His familiar scent tells my senses that he’s really here, and I can break for a while. “I hate being so weak.”

  “This isn’t weakness, stubborn girl. It’s called being human under immense pressure.” My best friend walks us to my daddy’s rocking chair, sits me on his lap, and begins rocking.

  “Aren’t you human, Gunner?”

  “As far as I know.” He never falters, never shows a side like the one I can’t hide tonight.

  The chair creaks in a rhythm that speaks to my soul. I’m far too old to be treated like a child, but I’m exhausted and let go. When I gasp for air, Gunner tries to soothe me. “I know. I know, Rose.” His hand, calloused from the mill, rubs my arm. Calmly, so calmly, he whispers, “Rose, you and I, my little fighter, we’ll get through this. We’ll see our families through this hell. I promise.” He presses his lips to my forehead. My shoulders shake in his safe embrace. His deep voice vibrates through his chest to my resting ear. “Remember when you fell out of my tree house?”

  I nuzzle his large neck, appreciating his distraction. “Why were you always dragging me up trees, Gunner?”

  He leans his head to mine, still rocking us. “I don’t know. My mama said it’s where I belong.” Gunner hesitates. “Anyway, remember you crying over your scraped knee?”

  I wipe my nose. “This is a little worse than my injured knee, my friend.”

  A smile slips across his lips. “Don’t ruin my story, Rose.” I snuggle closer, not wanting him to let me go. His arms tighten. “After you hit the ground—”

  “I still can’t bel
ieve you leapt out of the tree for me and didn’t get hurt. We were so high up!”

  “I know. True live Superman, I am.”

  Teasingly, I smack his chest, trying to be strong, then cling to his T-shirt, failing miserably.

  He kisses my head, assuring me he sees no failure. “You cried and cried, even after I promised you I would make it all better and carry you home.” The memory is fresh in my mind, seeing Gunner so young, already so tall and strong, his dimple and brown/gold eyes flirting with the sun. “How old was I?”

  “Nine. The biggest nine-year-old this town has ever seen.”

  “I like to think I am still quite tremendous and good-looking.”

  Gunner tooting his own horn finally makes me smile. “I never said good-looking, Gunner.”

  Big shoulders shrug. “It’s okay. I know you meant to. ’Kay, moral of the story is?”

  I sniffle, bathing in his warmth. “You were right?”

  “Bingo! So when I say, ‘we’ll see our way through this’?”

  Thank you for this young man holding me together. “We will.”

  Mama once told me, “Childhood best friends—like this, like your Gunner—are once in a lifetime, baby.” She’s right. Gunner gives me a lifeline and hope.

  “I got you through high school, didn’t I?” Gunner asks me, half joking again, but we both know how scary that time was.

  “When the sickness took Daddy and my mama fell ill, I thought we were doomed. I thought we would starve.” I’d thought my brother, sister, mother, and I would perish like so many others in this poverty-stricken town. Gunner had just graduated high school and stepped up to the plate without a second thought.

  “Taking a job at the log mill wasn’t so bad.” It’s where his father works. And that job helped my family until I finished my senior year of high school. In all truth, it still does at times.