Page 99 of Relentless

Maeve was right — she was just likehim.

She felt her stomach heave as she slammed her hand over her mouth to hold back what she knew was inevitable. The very little she had left in her stomach exploded through her fingers, adding the sour smell of vomit to the putrid scent of the barn. Wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her wrist, she couldn’t remember the last time she had been so sick. Her brain felt like it was cracking in two, every joint ached, her throat was scratchy, and her eyes felt as dry as the straw where she had blacked out.

You’re too old for this.

Flashes of images and snippets of the argument with Maeve ran through her mind, but it was all a jumble. Eyeing her phonea few feet away, half buried in the straw, she crawled to it. Her lip curled in disgust when she saw it had been peppered with a few pellets of dark black goat poop.

Picking up the device with two fingers, she tipped it to let the foul excrement tumble into the hay. Harper found a clean spot in the stall to sit, crossing her legs as she took a moment to tap her screen in hopes of jarring her foggy mind. At first glance, nothing seemed unusual, just a few profanity laden, alcohol fueled texts to Shep. They had all bounced back with a notification that read —not delivered.

“Typical,” she mumbled, wincing again at the loudness of her own voice.

A violent squawk came from Nugget, who was keenly eyeing her from his perch.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she muttered. Going next to her social media, she noticed a flurry of notifications and tags. Her stomach turned once again as she scrolled through her posts. The feed was inundated with the recycled sound bite of her accidental public confession, her most vulnerable moment blasted out for everyone to mock. How they savored watching the seemingly righteous tumble from grace.

The viral video, which was once stifled quickly by the Davenport Ministries social media team was, without a doubt, reposted intentionally on Shep’s behalf. He needed to bolster his justification for the divorce, and there was no lack of support fromhismegachurch. Shep was back in power, unscathed, and already expertly manipulating his congregation.

She leaned her head back on the barn wall and pressed out a long exhale. It was the first time in all their tumultuous years of marriage that he had dared to weaponize his influence against her.

Harper swept her hand over the loose blonde wisps of hair flying free from her ponytail as she considered the consequences of her careless choices. There was no private car to whisk her away to her jet. She would have to go through the house to at least gather her things, which meant risking another tense interaction.

Harper was in no condition to defend herself.

Finding a handhold, she groaned as she lifted herself to her feet. Her hands shot to her lower back, which immediately tightened from the hard night on the barn floor. Twisting and stretching, she felt her muscles loosen enough so she could at least straighten. Harper swiped bits of straw off her jeans and picked spikey pieces of hay from her tank top. She knew there was no salvaging the outfit, even if she tried.

Pushing open the barn door, the bright sunlight reflected off the snow, sending another painful jolt through her temples. The bitter cold pierced her, and her bare feet burned in the slick, icy slush. Recalling the jacket Maeve had draped over her, she now regretted leaving it behind in the barn. She knew Maeve's thoughtfulness was the only reason she hadn’t frozen.

Harper cringed, her face flushing red hot with embarrassment as she recalled laying her head in Maeve’s lap.

When she got to the steps, she put her hand on her aching back and carefully reached down to grab a handful of snow. The jagged ice stung as she rubbed it between her hands until it melted away. She swiped the frigid moisture across her mouth, being sure to rid herself of any sour remnants of her sick stomach.

When she was ready to enter the house, her basic need for warmth took priority over her anxious fear of running into Maeve or Oakleigh.

The living room was delightfully toasty and warm from the crackling fireplace. The comforting aroma of pancakes, bacon, and fresh coffee wafted to her nostrils. Harper’s queasy stomach yearned for the greasy meal.

She quietly went to the stairs, hoping to go unnoticed. Placing her foot on the first step, she glanced up to the top of the staircase. In her condition, the steep climb might as well have been a trek up the tallest peak. She looked back with longing at the comfortable sofa, wishing with all her might that she could simply curl up in front of the fire and sleep the day away.

She gulped down her ever-churning insides, forcing herself to take another step. Her stomach rebelled, sending whatever was left back into her throat.

“Not here, Harper,” she pleaded, slamming her palm across her mouth. She tasted the burning, gurgling bile as she forced herself up another step.

“Harp?” Maeve’s voice echoed from the kitchen.

She clenched her eyes shut, and ran her fingers across her brow.

Caught.

She braced herself for whatever painful accountability was waiting for her.

Instead, Maeve’s voice softened.

“I’m glad you’re up,” she announced. “Breakfast is ready.”

Harper’s eyes went wide.

Sitting at the table with the family was the last thing on earth she wanted to do. Yet she was faced with the stark reality that she would never make it up the insurmountable staircase in her unfortunate condition. Taking a long step back, she braced herself on the railing until her stomach settled just enough. She bit the side of her lip hard as the feeling of dread overwhelmed her.

Why am I worrying?

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