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    Love & Redemption: The Florida Irish, #1
    Love & Redemption: The Florida Irish, #1
    Love & Redemption: The Florida Irish, #1
    Ebook279 pages5 hours

    Love & Redemption: The Florida Irish, #1

    By Suzanne D. Williams

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    “Do you love me?”

    He reformed her question, and her stomach knotted. Now, he asked too much of her.

    “I asked you first,” she whispered. She swallowed her regret, a wall erecting between them. He wanted those words from her, but she couldn’t say them. For in saying those three words, she’d commit herself to this, to him, and that was the trouble.

    She’d said the vows – to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do them part. She’d said them, though, with a gun at her back and a stranger’s hand in hers. By admitting she loved him, the words took on meaning and held requirements. It meant she’d stay by his side always and maybe never see her family again. She became responsible to him.

    A tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped it away.

    Michael cleared his throat. “I love you, Anne. My question is, why you don’t love me back?”

    -----

    Michael O’Fallen simply wants to survive. A poor Irish boy living in post-Civil War New York, the events of one horrible night send him running far south to unsettled Florida and an uncertain future. Promise-bound to a group of outlaws in an effort to escape his crime, their hidden plans for him loom sinister on the horizon. What is it he’s been brought here to do?

    The oldest of her siblings, Anne Sawyer is the one her poor mama depends on. Her papa is harsh and abusive. He drinks too much and gambles away what little they have. Rumors that he’s lost their house come full circle the night the new owner comes to collect. Except, it seems what her papa gambled this time wasn’t the house at all, but her.

    Carried into the darkness in a stranger’s grasp, she and he are forced to marry with a gun to their backs. But the many dangers they face in their tenuous marriage soon take second place to the darkness in his past. Darkness that might destroy them unless they look to heaven for love and redemption.

    Book 1 of the Florida Irish Series by best-selling author, SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS. A novel.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSuzanne D. Williams
    Release dateFeb 2, 2016
    ISBN9781524248680
    Love & Redemption: The Florida Irish, #1
    Author

    Suzanne D. Williams

    Best-selling author, Suzanne D. Williams, is a native Floridian, wife, mother, and photographer. She is the author of both nonfiction and fiction books. She writes a monthly column for Steves-Digicams.com on the subject of digital photography, as well as devotionals and instructional articles for various blogs. She also does graphic design for self-publishing authors. She is co-founder of THE EDGE. To learn more about what she’s doing and check out her extensive catalogue of stories, visit http://suzanne-williams-photography.blogspot.com/ or link with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/suzannedwilliamsauthor.

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      Book preview

      Love & Redemption - Suzanne D. Williams

      This story has been reformatted for better flow and reedited for easier reading. Chapters and scenes have been combined to form longer segments, and as such, it will not match, word for word, the content of the audiobook.

      Suzanne D. Williams

      www.feelgoodromance.com

      Eisean a bheir daoibhse bheith in Íosa Críost an té a ndearna Dia eagna de dúinne, agus fíréantacht agus naofacht agus fuascailt.

      But of him are ye in Christ Jesus, who of God is made unto us wisdom, and righteousness, and sanctification, and redemption. (1Co 1:30)

      PROLOGUE

      January 1870, New York City

      Whispered threads of frosty air purled from Michael's breath as he stepped into the frozen street. Grasping the edges of his coat, he ducked beneath the wide collar and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. His fingers met up with his shirt. Holes. That's what remained of his life.

      His mother's lovely face floated upward in his thoughts, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. If only it was as it had been – her and him against the rest of the world.

      The rosy image faded into the coal-black night.

      Three months since she’d passed, yet the ache inside grew larger and larger. He'd lost it all – their belongings, their room at the tenement. Forced to sell her stuff to pay the rent and buy food, he'd even traded in her wedding band, and that hurt the most, for it was all that remained of her and the father he'd never known.

      His nose stiffened in the icy cold, he labored to breathe. He had nowhere to go now. The landlord had tossed him out days ago with only the clothes on his back. The other families had watched, shaking their heads. He didn't blame them for not helping. It was the way of things. Everyone wanted to survive, and in survival, me became the most important thing.

      The pavement ended at a wide, littered street, the narrow buildings on either side huddled together for warmth. Michael picked up the pace and winced as his toes, numbed by the frigid temperatures, rubbed together. At the corner, he paused.

      Laughter spilled out from the tavern onto the cold, empty sidewalk, the warmth leaking out the doorway incongruous to the shiver racing up his spine. He pushed inside, and a welcome blast of heat stung his eyes.

      Hello, handsome. I hoped you'd come back. Tapered fingers, sporting evenly-shaped nails, seized his chin and spun it forward onto a pair of full, crimson lips.

      The force of the kiss slammed him against the wall.

      With a loud smack, the girl responsible released his chin. You denied me last time, so I decided to take what I want.

      The extreme heat in the room settled on his cheeks. Amber, I ...

      She didn’t let him finish, but grasped him by the collar and tugged him across the room.

      Sit! Whisking his cap from his head, she lowered herself into his lap, her white thighs gleaming upward in the low light.

      He focused on her face to avoid her ample cleavage. The heady scent of lilac perfume emerged from her skin, teasing his mind.

      Surely, you aren't leaving me tonight? She spoke in a luxurious purr, her fingers woven into his hair.

      He squirmed, yet he smiled. As uncomfortable as he was, it was hard not to like Amber. She was uncommonly beautiful, for one. For another, she’d seen as much of the bottom of the city as he had and somehow lived through it.

      It's frozen out there, and I have a nice, warm spot for you, she continued.

      Gooseflesh rose on his skin.

      The rumbling voice of another tavern customer prevented any response. A burly, unshaven man lifted Amber from his lap and carried her, kicking, across the wide room. The sudden rush of air from Amber’s exit blew upward in Michael’s face.

      She pummeled one fist into the center of the man's chest. Unhand me, you brute!

      The man, purple with rage, smacked her on the mouth, and with a cry, she fell free of him landing hard on the floor.

      The fire on Michael's cheeks sunk into his gut. No decent man treated a woman like that, not if he could help it. He inserted himself in front of her, his gaze driving into the other man's skull. That's enough.

      The man’s two hard, dark eyes dueled with his from beneath a sweat-soaked brow. He was bigger than Michael and far more unstable.

      Michael, don't.

      Don’t? The flame inside of him flared.

      What did it matter who she was or what she did? God helps everyone, his mama always said. He extended his hand and lifted Amber from the floor.

      An oily smirk crossed the man's lips. Well, lookee here! Pretty Boy to save the day.

      The man’s companions laughed uproariously, as if he’d made a fine joke, and clinked their glasses together, sloshing drink across the rim. This warmed the man to his audience, his voice growing bolder. What’re you gonna do now? Rescue the poor stricken damsel?

      Reluctantly, Michael turned his back to the taunt. Facing Amber, he spotted a bead of blood poised on her lip. He hurt you. He reached out to wipe the drop away, and she flinched. Where can we clean that up?

      She flicked her gaze over his shoulder, eyeing the man, now distracted by his drink, then returned it to Michael’s face. In the back.

      The storage room in back of the bar held a multitude of items: casks of wine, bottles of liquor, a crate of unused glasses, and other odds and ends, clothing, cleaning cloths, and lamp oil. Michael followed Amber to a wobbly washstand in the corner. Dipping a cloth into the water of a cracked porcelain bowl, he patted her lip.

      She winced. You're such a good guy. What are you even doin’ here tonight?

      He smiled and rinsed out the rag. It's warm.

      This was his major reason. He'd certainly never taken to alcohol. He didn't like the smell, or the way it affected people's behavior. In the crowded tenement where he and his mother had lived, the neighbor directly above them drank all day and beat his wife all night. Michael had lain awake many times, cringing at her cries.

      Amber smiled. Then for goodness sake, why didn't you stay with me last time?

      His eyes locked with hers, and he broke into a gentle Irish burr. Mama always said, 'Michael O'Fallen, temptashun is greatest whaen ye stan' in de middle av it.'

      She laughed, her hand cupped over her mouth.

      The open doorway darkened. Leaning heavily against the door frame, the troublemaker from moments ago raised a clenched fist.

      Lookee at the lovebirds, he slurred. Think yer just gonna run off? I'm payin' for a night, so you're comin’ with me. He lurched forward, his hands outstretched.

      Amber slipped away from Michael and pushed at the man’s chest. You need to go back in the bar.

      His nostrils flared and his temper as well. He shoved her hard, sending her crashing against the wall. Me and this fella's gonna settle it. Winner take all.

      Michael curled his hands into fists. Being alone on the streets with no family, no friends, and no roof to sleep under had taught him many things. It taught him he hated the cold. It'd been cold enough in the tenement, but at least there'd been love there. It taught him how hard it was to find food. Mama had always provided, somehow. And it taught him how to survive in desperate situations because so many others were trapped in his same shoes.

      Amber peeled herself from the wall and stepped between them. No. Stop, she pleaded. I'll go. Leave him be. She shot a glance over her shoulder to Michael.

      Michael took a step forward, his morals warring with his common sense.

      Walk away an’ let things be, his mama cautioned. This isn’t yer fight.

      Wasn’t it? He would only hurt her, in the end, maybe do worse, and anyone lacking respect for a woman was of the lowest sort.

      His anger flared, and he took another step.

      At this motion, the man exploded. In one leap, he grabbed Michael and tossed him out the back door into the frigid night air. Michael smacked against the solid brick wall, the air in his chest rushing out. Gasping, he floundered, his feet slipping on the icy pavement.

      The man’s friends tumbled from the building, crowding the narrow alley, their drunken cheers drowning out the pounding in his head.

      Michael dug his fingers into the wall and hauled himself upright.

      What’s the matter? Your head hurt? the man jeered.

      Michael raised his fists before him and focused. Not as bad as yours will.

      His attacker leaped forward, emitting a roar, and landed a long-armed punch to Michael’s gut. Michael sailed backward, pain shooting along his side.

      I’ll teach you. The man hurled his foot toward Michael’s head.

      Michael’s senses kicked in. Rolling sideways, he grasped the man’s shoe and yanked it upwards. I don’t think so.

      Off balance, his new enemy keeled over, landing prone on the ground. He didn’t stay there long, however, but scrambled to his feet.

      Walk away, Michael’s mother’s voice begged him again.

      Walk away. Was that even an option? He wavered. He could, but how would that look? The distinct clang of a knife spun him around. Swaying on unsteady legs, his opponent whirred a blade back and forth.

      I think I'll just carve up Pretty Boy's face, he chuckled. Make him not so pretty.

      With that, he lunged.

      Michael caught hold of his wrist with a grunt. This had gotten out of hand. Weariness tore at his arms, his muscles shaking.

      The knife edged closer.

      Was this it? He'd die in an alley, and then what? People who didn't care about his life would dispose of him. He'd fall forgotten into the earth, like his mother, buried unmarked with the paupers. Only unlike her, there'd be no one to mourn him. No one cared what happened to Michael O’Fallen.

      No one but himself, and he refused to die tonight. He was a better man than this scoundrel. Strength surged into his hands, and the knife slipped in the man’s grip.

      Stop while ye can, his mother said, once more.

      But, his heart darkened, with a yell, Michael plunged the blade through flesh, scraping onto bone. The man’s eyes grew wide, and he staggered.

      Doesn’t feel too good now does it? Michael growled.

      Blood burbled from the wound, and the light in the man’s eyes dimmed. He slid down the alley wall, a glutinous bloody trail in his wake, crumpling on the ground in a heap.

      Stunned, expressionless, Michael sagged to his knees. What had he done?

      He blinked in the sight of the man's contorted, ashen face and fell forward, his hand outstretched across the pavement. Voices around him became a rumbling echo.

      Yer anger ’ill cause ye trouble wan day, his mother had once said. She was right because it had.

      Michael, get up. Amber pleaded.

      Yet, he couldn’t, and his strength gone, he laid there, the pool of blood turning to ice.

      CHAPTER 1

      March 1870, Central Florida

      A cloud of fine yellow dust rolled from a multitude of horse hooves, settling on both man and beast.

      Michael wiped his brow, in vain, and squinted into the bright light. The noon sun had by now baked the soil onto his skin. It’d take a great deal of water and strong lye soap to remove it, if it were possible at all.

      His horse tossed her head, restless, and he sawed at the reins, his arms aching from the constant fight. They’d given him the worst mount they could find, but he refused to give up.

      The horse skittered sideways at a faint rustle of leaves, almost pitching him to the ground, and he gritted his teeth, tightening his grip on the reins. He clucked his tongue and squeezed the horse’s sides with his knees, urging her forward.

      Better to stay ahead, than to talk to them.

      They loved to talk, but like watching him fight with the horse, it was strictly to make him feel foolish, and he’d done enough of that to himself already.

      He closed his eyes and tried to picture New York, but the vision wavered. He’d spent his entire life there, yet two months and thousands of miles later, he couldn’t remember much of it. What he did remember, he wished he could forget.

      He pushed away the memory of that awful night—

      Michael, get up. Amber tugged at his blood-spattered shirt.

      Copper, someone in the crowd shouted. In an instant, the onlookers dispersed. Except for one chap whose face looked vaguely familiar. Bleary-eyed, Michael lay in place, helpless and immobile at the sight of what he’d done.

      He’d killed someone.

      Michael ... Don’t you know who this is? Amber called shrill in his ears. She gestured at the the man’s body, gone still. "It’s his son. His son!"

      Those words snapped him out of his weary daze. She could only mean one man, and his heart seized in his chest.

      You’ve gotta get out of here ....

      I’ll get him out.

      Michael twisted his gaze upward and studied the speaker’s face again. His question returned. Why was he familiar?

      Squatting at his side, the man placed his arm under Michael’s shoulders and heaved him to his feet. Michael’s legs wobbled.

      I can help you, and you can help me, he said.

      Taking a sharp left at the end of the alley, his new friend steered him down the frozen sidewalk to a set of steps recessed into the ground. Descending into the darkness, they entered a door into a tiny basement room.

      The sudden shaft of light blinded him, and Michael blinked.

      Dropping him into a chair, the man reached for a bottle on a nearby shelf. They’ll hang you, you know, he said, Or shoot you, one.

      Michael rubbed at his eyes. Hang?

      The man offered a tired smile. You’re nobody, and he was somebody. That’s all they’ll care about. It’s the Irish political machine at work.

      Michael wilted. Irish fighting Irish in this city.

      His new friend filled two glasses half full of whiskey and pushed one forward. Drink that.

      Michael stared, unseeing, at the golden liquid, the pungent odor stinging his nose. I don’t drink.

      The man tapped the glass. Drink, he repeated.

      The acrid taste burnt Michael’s tongue, clogging his throat, and he sputtered. You said I can help you? His hand curled to his lips, he coughed. I don’t see how.

      The man refilled the glass again, pushing it forward. This time, Michael gulped it down. The dead man’s face rose to the center of his thoughts.

      I need someone to take a trip, and I think you’re the man to do it.

      A trip?

      He gave a sharp nod. Yes, you help me out with this, and I’ll make your little problem disappear.

      But who are you? Michael fingered the glass.

      The man flexed a callused hand. Cullen Innis.

      Cullen Innis. The name hit Michael with a jolt. Which was worse, his having killed someone important or having it seen by the likes of Cullen Innis?

      What if I refuse?

      As if that was an option.

      Cullen shrugged. Then your life is over, and I don’t think you want that. Also, think of the girl. They’ll come after her because of you.

      Michael clenched his hands, his nails digging into his palms.

      Then again, she’s nothin’ but a whore, so who cares.

      Cullen laughed, a raspy sound, and Michael stiffened. He was trying to get a rise out of him. But it had worked before, and look at how that had turned out.

      It’s is a simple choice, Cullen said. You do what I ask, and I’ll get you out of town. By the time your name comes back up, you’ll be miles away from here.

      Michael’s head sunk into his hands, and his reply came muffled through his fingers. What do I have to do?

      Michael’s horse shied at yet another noise, and, distracted by his wayward thoughts, he flew from the saddle, hitting the ground with a thud. Relieved of her burden, the horse whinnied and cantered away. He watched her go, his back plastered to the soil.

      The other riders circled around him, the dust from their movements, clogging his lungs. He wheezed.

      Git up, the leader growled. With the tip of his rifle, he nudged Michael’s head. We’ve a ways to go before dark. No time for your lazin’.

      Michael glared at him. Ferguson, as the others called him, was, as close as Michael could figure, some ex-Confederate soldier who once rode with J.E.B. Stuart in the war. His life after that was decidedly suspicious.

      Ferguson prodded him again, and Michael crawled to his knees. Where are we headed anyhow? he asked. They’d been riding for over a week through a lot of unsettled country, which only seemed to get that much more unsettled.

      Ferguson jabbed the back of his head with the toe of his boot, and he stumbled.

      Never you mind that. Ye’ll find out soon enough. Now catch that horse, ye’re wastin’ my time.

      Anne Sawyer’s footsteps crunched across the dry soil as she headed for the chicken house. A dozen chickens snuggled soundly together in the warmth of the coop, heads nodding, eyes shuttered, ignorant of her upcoming raid. The rooster, however, readied his claws.

      She paused in the entrance. They had an understanding, she and the rooster. If he had time to adjust to her presence, then he'd ignore her.

      Good morning to you, she said softly. I've come for the eggs.

      The rooster blinked a wary eye and opened his beak, his tongue fluttering. Puffing out his chest, he flapped his wings and belted out a tremendous crow.

      She smiled, for that was her signal, and wandered over to the nest boxes. The eggs, still toasty, rolled firmly in her palm.

      Hello, ladies, she coddled, searching beneath them amongst the hay. When she reached the last of the boxes, she paused to scratch the head of her favorite bird. She was smaller than the rest, yet their best layer.

      How is it this morning? she asked, pushing her fingers beneath the downy feathers. The hen, in reply, tilted her neck and cackled. Keep the rest of them in line for me, she told her. The hen closed her eyes.

      At the door, Anne dug into the feed jar and tossed a handful of cracked corn across the soil. Aroused into a pleasant kerfuffle, the hens hopped from their roosts, and she made her exit.

      The sight of the house brought an ache to her heart. She didn’t want to go back there. A shout filtered through the walls, and she grimaced. If only her papa didn’t gamble their money away, then he wouldn’t be so angry all the time. Mama said to pray for him, and she’d tried. But somehow, she never found the right words.

      She sank onto the worn, wooden porch and laid the basket at her feet.

      He’d want his breakfast and that was her job. At least, she’d made it hers. There was too much else for Mama to do taking care of her youngest brothers. Between baby Nate and the toddler, Chase, her hands were full in the morning. Nicky tried to help. He was fifteen. Old enough, but he couldn’t cook, and they had to eat.

      The slam of the screen door against the side of the house startled her from her

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