Burdened Promises

By LeaAnn Tate

Emaricas “Emma” Hope Prescott is a newly-single mother striving to adjust to the daunting task of solo parenting. Her career as a licensed nurse supported her family well over the last few years, but now she finds it nearly impossible to provide for them after the smashing demise of her rocky marriage.

While struggling to give her children the normal life she’s promised them, another curve ball is hurled her direction. A forgotten face from the past calls on her to make good on a vow made on the death bed of a dear friend. Emma sees no choice but to thrust herself back into the gray world of casinos and eerie neon lights she once thought to be forever part of her past. She hopes to provide a future for her children while flying under the radar of a very shady set of characters attached to the benevolent world she left behind. But, the darkest shadow from her past is unwilling to let sleeping dogs lie.
Set in the maelstrom of today’s society, things begin to sizzle under a sultry Texas sun as the tarnished FBI agent, James Talbot, searches for redemption in what is presumably a simple surveillance case. However, an unexpected spark threatens to ignite the familiar flames of a hauntingly bloody nightmare. When a malevolent figure sets out to eradicate the one woman able to seal his fate, James must convince his irritatingly bewitching assignment to accept his help.

As Emma decides whom she can trust, she must also release the burdens of her past before her fate—and the fate of her innocent children—comes crashing down around her. The question is: Will the young, defiant mother make yet another promise? And how dearly will she pay for it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Nov 8, 2012

LeaAnn Tate

LeaAnn Tate is a licensed nurse and mother of two, from which she draws much of the inspiration for her story. In addition to nursing and writing, she is enjoying raising her two children in the small, rural Texas town where she grew up. Burdened Promises is her first novel.

Book preview

Burdened Promises

A Novel

by

LeaAnn Tate

Published by

Brighton Publishing LLC

501 W. Ray Rd.

Suite 4

Chandler, AZ 85225

www.BrightonPublishing.com

Copyright © 2012

ISBN: 978-1-621830-62-7

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Dedication

To all the single mothers struggling toward a better tomorrow…

And to Sean and Emaricas, my loves, and the reason I never give up…

Acknowledgements

I wish to express my heartfelt gratitude to Virginia Grafe, for starting me off in the right direction on more than one occasion.

I also thank Jennifer Lovingood. I am extremely grateful for the constant friendship and your belief in my success.

I also want to extend my deepest gratitude to one and all at Brighton Publishing for taking a chance on an unknown writer with big dreams—especially Kathie McGuire for her patience and encouragement throughout the publishing process.

Chapter One

The smell of discharged gunpowder flooded the shaking woman’s senses. The sticky wetness of the blood spattering her cheeks stung as if she had been hit by the remains of winter’s first icy snowball. The sight of the crumpled, groaning man, only inches away from her, shattered her reason. Her sanity swam within the depths of her subconscious in search of the security provided by the laughter of a simpler time.

***

Me turn, me turn! howled the vibrant toddler’s voice from some distant corner of the home. The child’s footsteps could be heard running towards the eruption of music. Another set of claps and cheers followed close behind the impatient shriek of the toddler.

The remote-wielding mother’s mouth opened wide, as her eyebrows rose in a practiced expression of bewilderment. What, honey?

Swinging the child into the air, as the music filled their ears, the mother and daughter began the spirited pastime.

The soft, muffled sound of Reba McEntire’s song, Fancy, wafted throughout the quiet cul-de-sac of suburban homes. Most were empty, their occupants off making their contribution to middle-America’s industrialization. The carefree, high-pitched twang flowed through the double-paned windows of the tucked-away brick home with pale-blue shutters. The unremarkable exterior belied its extraordinary inhabitants.

If the opportunity to catch a glimpse inside presented itself, one might think he had happened upon an audition for one of the TV blooper shows popular in the early 1990s. The tall, slender brunette was clad in an over-washed, white, V-neck T-shirt and slightly oversized faded Levis, which hung from her curved hips. She two-stepped and twirled with abandon, crossing her polished bare feet faster and faster.

The Huggie-sporting, rosy-cheeked toddler taunted the dancer with gasping cries for more! The babe’s devilishly wild auburn hair flew as she clung to her mommy for dear life. Their accompanist wailed out his best pre-school, imitation air guitar at his Hoover-inspired, center stage microphone. Each of their faces was tear-streaked with enthusiasm.

The sixty-two-inch plasma screen TV on the wall behind them displayed the country music video responsible for the cacophony of notes. A glass and mahogany cocktail table was moved to the side, making room for the dancing duo’s makeshift dance floor, as well as for a stage for the one-man band and his vacuum cleaner. The large, open floor plan of the living area led into a formal dining room, its floor-to-ceiling windows covered in expensive sheaths of silk. To the left, one could glimpse a breakfast nook containing a perfectly decorated, round, cherry antique table with chairs. The pristine condition of the home suggested that the disheveled dwellers had simply broken in to hold their impromptu concert.

As the song came to an end, the three toppled into a tickling mosh-pit of laughter. The tall, lanky, four-year-old dove in head first, as if his Superman briefs would hold fast to their superhero promises. Simultaneously, mother and daughter slid to the plush, vanilla-colored carpet.

Emaricas Hope Prescott caught her breath as she smiled through wet lashes at her children’s utter happiness. She lived for these simple moments of joy, the brief chances to forget the suffocating exhaustion of her responsibilities. These joyful moments, like spring rain, quenched the unquenched thirst each day relentlessly brought.

She had begun to analyze her children’s happiness with a much closer eye. The last six months had given her a new clarity. Before then, she would tell herself things were not as bad as they seemed, no matter what lies had escaped her ex-husband’s lips, or whom he had expected her to ostracize, or how many female callers he’d barely bother to explain away. She had assumed that providing a stable environment, with both parents, must be better than the alternative—not to mention, she feared facing life on her own. She wondered if she still possessed the strength to survive or had it slipped away.

Emma hadn’t realized that when she opted for what she still considered the quitter’s way out, that the ash-laden cloud of her marriage had been choking the happiness from more than herself. The disappearance of butter-thick tension in the air had given way to light and laughter. She had not realized there had been so little happiness. She had lost sight of the fatalities in the fight to save something she wasn’t sure now had ever existed.

The thought of that six-foot-four, dark-haired, dark-eyed young man with the strength of a bulldozer and the tongue of a fox floated through her memory. She had been educated and experienced in the life of hard knocks long before he had stumbled across her path at the tender age of twenty-three.

His cold eyes and aloofness had challenged her ego. She had thought once her prize was won, she would tire and simply walk away. Life had other ideas. Before she could begin to throw up her usual walls and back out of the situation peacefully, they had become pregnant. The preprogrammed notion that failure was not an option led to her new, haphazard attempt at a family. When things tumbled out of control, her only solution had been to bring yet another miracle into their midst. Of course, this only added to an already chaotic state of affairs. The tumultuous marriage had been doomed to fail.

In the end, the two of them had conceded equally and without hate, both in acceptance of their own failures. They realized the only thing keeping them from looking at the last six years of their life as a waste were the two beautiful, exuberant children born to their hearts. Since that smashing demise of their marriage, they had become friends; and he had promised to present a united co-parenting rock. However, with his taxing work schedule and his endless chase for greener pastures, Emma alone bore the burden of her children’s happiness and security. She had taken sole custody of her children. She would never, however, begrudge him the love of their children. Emma knew the capability of such a love to bring light where once only darkness was found.

***

Sloppy wet kisses and squeals of glee brought Emma out of her reverie and back to the squirming pile of limbs. The girl screeched for release from her brother’s tickling claws.

Okay, okay guys! Seth, give your sister a break, Emma urged, smiling at her out-of-breath son. Mommy needs to get back to vacuuming, she said with a groan.

Noooo! they yelled in mutual rebellion, not wanting to relinquish their total domination of their mother’s attention. Emma conceded somewhat in a shower of tickling hugs for the both of them. The young mother knew how divided her time was these days. Emma held fast to the notion of quality outweighing abundance. She hoped the moments filled with laughter made more of an impact on her children than the hours she spent away, securing their finances.

Emma hardly noticed the children’s nanny watching them from the hallway. The caregiver stood barely five feet tall, rounded slightly by age; she had onyx skin, hair in perfectly lined corn-rows, and the sweet smile of a grandmother. As both employer and mother, Emma had come to admire and respect this petite woman.

From the day they had met, she seemed to integrate herself gracefully into their small family. She showered Emma’s children with love as if they were her own. At this, the mother’s heart warmed; their nanny was also a steady hand in the balance of Emma’s all-too-crowded juggling act. Without a whimper of complaint, she cared for her children for hours on end. Though Emma knew she paid her well, she could tell it was more than the weekly paycheck. The nanny had adopted them; they had adopted her.

How was your shopping this afternoon, Palassa? Emma asked as she grabbed the remote and turned down the screaming music channel. When time permitted, she tried to encourage the woman to get out of the house and enjoy herself. Emma noted Palassa always seemed refreshed from her outings. The older lady never failed to complain about the insanity of the Americans for one reason or another. Usually, it was their less-than-desirable driving or their lack of respect for themselves or their own children.

Palassa, coming straight from South Africa, was accustomed to respect and tradition. She grew up the daughter of a minister; her family was not poor by the standards of her country and community. But they appreciated life in a different way than the natives surrounding her in this unfamiliar country.

Emma often found it comical to watch. The normally calm and reserved lady ranted, turning her findings into lessons of right and wrong for her boss’s children to learn from. How astounded these self-righteous Americans would be to hear such things. A slight smile crept across Emma’s face at the comic strip playing in her mind.

Very well, thank you. The African woman’s thick English accent still startled Emma. Prior to their meeting, she had never put the two together. The farmer’s market had beautiful tomatoes and cucumbers today. I think I will make a salad with dinner. Will you be joining us this evening? Just as Emma considered the possibility of a quiet evening at home with her children, the fire alarm ringtone screamed from her cellular phone. Palassa shot her a knowing glance as the defeated young mother shrugged her no. The gleam of pleasure faded from Emma’s eyes, and there was no trace of the contented smile that had just been perched below the lightly freckled nose of her milky-white face.

Emma retrieved the phone from between the sofa cushions and answered it, waiting to hear the latest catastrophe. She soothed the person on the other end of the line not so much with words as with her tone and the promise of her presence shortly. She had not been born with the ability to calm or manipulate people. She had forced herself into the uncomfortable character role. The fear of failing to impress the man who would indefinitely change her future had made it imperative.

When Emma allowed herself to think about the changes in her personality, she told herself the characteristics had always been there. The confidence to evoke them had only been buried beneath the rubble of a hurricane-blown childhood. Sometimes, she wished she could find that little, freckle-faced girl and shrink into a corner with her and watch the world go by. But life, as it were, was not that simple. She had responsibilities, and she had long ago become skilled at owning her abilities. At least this gave her the appearance of the upper hand.

She quickly kissed away the somber, glassy eyed sadness creeping onto her children’s faces, before Palassa hurried them off for some new adventure or another. Emma promised them an early morning family breakfast full of smiling pancakes, sizzling sausages, and any other delectable treat their eyes fooled their tummies into believing they could eat.

Emma sighed, and her shoulders caved slightly as her concert companions scampered from their disheveled formal living room. ‘Promise’ was a word in which Emaricas Hope Prescott found no reassurance. Well, she thought, at least the small promise of a hot breakfast wouldn’t cost as dearly as the burdens she now carried.

Chapter Two

The sandstone-colored Chevy Tahoe pulled through the dusty streets of a small, rural, downtown district. Ancient adobe storefronts lined the two lane road with its simple stoplights guiding the flow of traffic. The town mimicked the home of its inhabitants’ forefathers. Due to its location, not a stone’s throw from the mighty Rio Grande, a foreigner might be unable to decipher where the American side began and the Mexican side ended.

Gliding through the last stoplight in the industrial warehouse district, the sports utility vehicle pulled into a parking lot packed full of any number of automobile makes and models. The single-story building was well lit with flashing neon lights. Groups of cherries and sevens painted in an ornate mural splashed across the front of the building.

Out of habit, the stoic young woman surveyed the parking lot. She noted nothing to recommend caution, here or across the street at the furniture warehouse. The setting seemed devoid of all life. The rows of trucks waited patiently for their morning drivers.

The chic, well-put-together woman, dressed in dark, pin-striped, straight-legged slacks and a posh, sleeveless, cotton top, planted her designer heel on the pavement. Not a soul, Emma knew, would associate this silhouette with the disheveled mommy that had walked into her bedroom less than an hour earlier.

Emma marched with poise—her shoulders squared and her head up—toward the glowing building. Not a single dark-chocolate strand of hair was out of place in her tightly-styled bun. Her piercing hazel eyes, flecked with gold, were ready to meet the stare of any audience. As Emma reached the front door of the building, she took a deep breath and smoothed her facial expression into the stony façade she reserved for business.

Emma remembered a time when the turn of a similar doorknob had exhilarated her. It filled her with a high no street drug could achieve. The sweet sound of the machines danced in her head like sugar plums. At the unsophisticated age of seventeen, she had never seen anything to compare with the mesmerizing view of a casino’s interior. Even though she had grown up in Texas, only hours away from the Louisiana border and its renowned casinos, she was not legally old enough to have such experiences before running away from home.

She had found it strange. The law made it illegal for her to walk into such places to enjoy herself; however, to manage or own one, while unprecedented, was allowed. The world, viewed from her young eyes, was a magnificently complicated place.

***

The familiar I’m in the Money theme song washed across her senses as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim, smoke-filled interior of the building. She assumed her best Pollyanna smile as a few of her regular customers glanced up from their reels of doggies and diamonds. Scanning the room for her evening shift floor attendants, as well as any possible threat, she headed for her private office in the back. Once inside, behind the protection of the closed office door, Emma dropped her Gucci baby-diaper bag to the floor behind her desk.

The contents of this diaper bag would shock any unsuspecting mother who reached in to borrow a diaper. She would find, instead, a bottom lined with small bills (from ones to twenties) totaling twenty-thousand dollars. Instead of a silver spoon or baby bottle, the side pocket held a Colt .45 with a pearl handle. The only rattling came from a janitor-sized ring of keys in all shapes and sizes.

As Emma sat back in her oversized office chair, she saw her attendant heading her way through the double-paned glass to the left of her door. Her desk purposely faced the direction of the door. She left no chance for surprise in her life. Come on in, Yezzie! she shouted before the girl could begin her knock.

The exasperated girl’s face was framed by shoulder length mousey brown hair and thick glasses. It now showed a faint smile of relief. The college-aged girl wore her work attire—jeans, logo-emblemized black polo shirt, and short, black apron. She could have been carrying a tray