Page 77 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
Mercer brought a boot down on Edgar’s shoulder and sent him floundering onto his back. He bent over Edgar. “You knew this was coming, old man.”
The next moments were chaotic. Rebecca was taken to a wagon, where the men hoisted her into the back with littlecare. Her leg hit the wagon frame, and she bit her lip to avoid crying out.
Mercer’s laugh followed her as the wagon jerked forward. Rebecca curled up on the wagon bed, trying to drown out Edgar’s shouts. Shouts from a man who decades earlier would have had the fortitude to fight a good fight but now was prohibited by the limitations of an old man’s body.
The wagon jolted over the rutted road, each pothole slamming Rebecca against the rough wooden planks. It felt as if hours had passed before she saw glimpses of Silvertown, its rugged shanties and flat-fronted buildings boasting a mercantile, a blacksmith shop, and a saloon. A thick, suffocating blanket of smoke filled the air. It settled over the small but burgeoning town like a fog.
Moments later, the wagon pulled to a stop in front of a square, plain-looking building. Rebecca noted the plaque on its door: hilliard mining. A sickening anxiety assaulted her. It was one thing to face a father whose selfishness and greed seemed to have no bounds. It was an entirely different thing to face him knowing they had a lifetime of history together—history she could recall only snippets of, and those snippets were not pleasant ones.
It was startling how quickly she remembered him. The memories she’d buried deep in her mind suddenly rose to the surface with a terrible force.
Walter Hilliard.
Her father.
He sat behind a desk, his blue eyes unyielding and cold. There was no hint of familial concern or care for Rebecca’s well-being. Instead, he watched as Mercer pushed Rebecca into a chair opposite Hilliard. He watched as Mercer ducked from the room and shut the door. Then he leveled his attention on Rebecca.
“You’re a lot of trouble for me, Rebecca.”
Her father. He was a fierce man, driven, savvy, and demanding in his expectations. Rebecca met his gaze briefly, then averted her eyes out of habit.
Don’t look him in the eyes.
Don’t show signs of defiance.
Comply.
Obey.
Respect.
That had been her motto since Rebecca was a child. She remembered it now. She remembered the way the back of his hand would bruise her as a little girl when she dared to question what he’d ordered. She recalled the glimpses of him at night when he was dressed in casual attire, reclining by the fireplace, reading a book and looking like the ideal father figure. It was a poignant memory, especially the one time when she had attempted to include herself by merely starting a conversation and he had sworn at her for disrupting his peace. Then he’d struck her, for no other reason than that she had been born.
“Did you think that burning down my mill would ruin me?” Hilliard wasn’t going to dance around the purpose of his hauling her back into his possession.
“I didn’t—”
“Stop.” Hilliard held up a hand and leaned over his desk, his broad chest a wall of power. “I will not allow you to avenge any wrongs you believe I have done against you. You will return those papers to me at once, and then I’ll wash my hands of you and your pathetic excuse of a husband.”
Rebecca longed for a moment of peace to summon the broken pieces of her memory, including the depth of who Abel was to her. She could feel it in her soul now, and a part of her quaked for Abel to barge in and salvage what was left of her. But he couldn’t—she wouldn’t let him. Her father would ruin Abel. Ruin the lighthouse.
Let him ruin only her ... and Abel’s child.
Rebecca was careful not to touch her abdomen and bring attention to the existence of the babe.
“Where is my brother?” she attempted. “Where is Aaron?”
Her father chuckled. “Home, where he should be. He’s fine. If you think I’d harm my son—I would never. Heismy son. His mother gave me an heir, and I will treasure that.”
His mother. Rebecca didn’t miss the inference. Another piece slipped back into place. Aaron was her half brother. Her father had remarried when she was five. Aaron’s mother was with them until shortly after Aaron’s birth, and then she had died.
“It doesn’t have to be this difficult, and yet you have bucked me every step of the way.” Hilliard moved around his desk and leaned against it, glaring down at her with judgment in his eyes. “Where are the papers? The map?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said with a nervous tremble in her voice.
Hilliard’s face darkened. “Stop lying.”
“I’m not!” A desperate sob caught in her throat.
