For the Love of Mercy (The Bluegrass Country Series, Book 2)

By Leta Gail Doerr

The only son of wealthy parents, Tyson "Jax" Ridgeton never wanted for anything, until he learns a hidden truth: adopted at the age of three, the mental images of an older sister he once passed off as fragmented dreams are real.

Armed only with a faded photo of his lost sibling, Jax lands in Brushville, Kentucky where he meets local waitress Mercy Lynn Callaway.

Mercy's unflinching optimism annoys Jax, but the curves of her body and her unwavering willingness to help his cause won't let him go.

Together, they delve into Jax's past. But as unearthed secrets grow more and more dangerous, Jax makes an unexpected discovery: he'll sacrifice everything for the love of Mercy.

THE BLUEGRASS COUNTRY SERIES, in order
For the Love of Big Orange
For the Love of Mercy
For the Love of Justice

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Jul 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781614176398

Book preview

For The Love of Mercy

The Bluegrass Country Series

Book Two

by

Leta Gail Doerr

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-639-8

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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 actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2014 by Leta Gail Doerr. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Edited by Julia Ganis [e-mail]

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Prologue

Jax

The room spins as I lie on my back staring at the stark white ceiling. Numb. My thoughts are cold and empty even as Ginger's warm, soft skin stirs beneath my arms. Her fire-red hair glides across my biceps as I wiggle her away. Hot breath escaping from her parted lips tickles my armpit. She's gorgeous, my platonic friend. I could have her anytime and anywhere if I wanted. That's the beauty and the curse of our relationship.

Moaning, she slips a hand across my bare chest, simultaneously wrapping her mile-long legs around mine beneath the sheets. She's a bodybuilder and dance instructor. She'd be great for somebody, just not me. She likes to snuggle, so I let her. She thinks it will someday make me change my mind about us.

Ginger is my one and only confidante. She helps keep me in check. When our arrangement—in her eyes we are boyfriend and girlfriend in all aspects, minus any sex or physical affection—surpassed a three-year milestone, our celebration included her prancing around her apartment in nothing but my dark red hoodie and silk panties the color of her hair. After I smiled and handed her a robe to cover herself, she nestled into my arm and whispered those three little words I've answered time and again during the course of whatever this is we're doing: Why can't we?

You know why, is always my response. I kissed her on the forehead—per usual when she tiptoes into this territory—and waited for her to fall asleep.

As she lies sleeping, I stare into oblivion, contemplating the reasons why I'm so fucked up. Psychologists have labeled me as RAD, short for Reactive Attachment Disorder. The label given to me when I was very young helped explain to my parents why a child welcomed into their home, loved and nurtured unconditionally, could be so void of emotion and unable to display a deep and lasting connection.

Somehow they've managed to never give up on me. Lately, they've been hounding me to commit to something. Anything. Like decide on a college major. And even more pressing, which to attend: Brown, Harvard or Stanford. They've each offered admission. Most guys my age would kill to be in my position. I'd kill to get out of it. The trouble with having everything is that you never know what you want.

My mother always defends me to my father by arguing that avoidant behavior is a symptom of RAD. She's given me more get out of jail free cards than I deserve. My father usually responds that I'm simply brilliant, but lazy - he doesn't believe in psychobabble stuff.

One thing I know is that I don't want a committed relationship. How could I? I'm barely committed to myself. I can admit to finding some comfort in knowing that Ginger's here when I need her. Like last night when I arrived on her doorstep after my life and existence as Tyson Jax Ridgeton came to a screeching halt.

My world first tilted on its axis when I texted my mom.

Whrz that box w/ my birth cert stuff?

I was looking for my birth certificate as I was actually motivated to make a decision about my future college plans.

On the top shelf in my walk-in. There's a storage box marked with your name on it. It should be right on top. Use that expensive education we pay for when communicating, please.

My mother is always a stickler for proper grammar. She's an English professor with a Ph.D.

k, thx. I texted back, being improper just to goad her.

My birth certificate was right on top. Every time I look at it, I wonder what the original was like. What my parents' names were. Where they lived. Do I resemble them? Do I have their eyes? Nose? Body type? This certificate is the one issued after I was adopted. My birthparents' names replaced with the names of Anne and Dirk Ridgeton, my parents in every sense of the word.

Crouched beneath the hanging garments in my mother's spacious closet, I shuffled through the papers. My high school diploma, term papers I aced with flying colors, honor roll and society certificates, all stacked neatly inside. Junk I've been awarded through the years.

From the view from the floor, my mother's closet was neat and tidy. Everything in its place. Shoes lined up neatly in cubbyholes. Color-coded clothing. Jewelry straight and organized. A beat up shoebox was tucked in the far corner, concealed behind a row of dresses brushing the carpet. It would have gone unnoticed had I not kicked my foot from beneath me.

My mother doesn't keep anything old or cluttered. She's notorious for tossing shit or donating things in like-new condition. It was out of place, so I had to look.

Upon removing the lid, a warmth spread over me like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, a welcome feeling, as most of the time I feel like there's a dark cloud looming over me. My matted and much loved stuffed toy lizard peered up at me with his beady black eyes. I called him Hissy. His limp red tongue hung from the side of his mouth. When I was younger, he was as valuable to me as Woody and Buzz were to Andy in the Toy Story films.

As I continued searching the contents, I found a small t-shirt, toddler size 4T. It had a large faded purple dinosaur screen printed on the front. I certainly don't remember wearing that, thank God! I folded it, placing it back inside the box.

I located a white envelope. Inside were photos of my mom and dad holding me, wearing the same girly purple t-shirt. Flipping through, I found pictures of scenery I've never before seen. Not the Chicago skyline I'm accustomed to, but rustic, rolling hills and green pastures. There's one where my mom was wearing a cowboy hat. Who are these people? My mother wouldn't be caught dead wearing something like that these days. Cowboy hats and shiny pearls don't mix.

A chokehold formed around my neck. For a moment I forgot how to breathe as I read my mother's handwriting on the back of a photo. The day we brought them home. Them? Assuming the note refers to me and the stuffed lizard, I forced air into my chest and flipped over the picture. I wasn't some kid adopted as a baby straight from the hospital. I've always known that I was a preschooler when I was removed from my birthparents' home and placed into the system.

I recognized myself, sitting on what looked like a concrete step, holding Hissy the lizard and wearing that same t-shirt with Barney pasted on the front. That's right, that singing purple dinosaur. My arm was wrapped around a girl, older than me, but with similar facial features. Only she had lots of freckles. More dots than skin. We had matching dark hair and button noses. She was smiling and holding a fiddle in her hands. I was clutching the lizard.

I never really understood what seeing stars meant until I experienced it. I felt light-headed, kind of like when I get buzzed off a shot of vodka. One word cycled through my brain like a broken record. Them.

Instead of texting, my fingers managed to dial my mom's cell number. Knowing that texting is always my preference, she answered right away. I tried to play it cool, but I knew somehow that the years of asking about how I came to be a Ridgeton—and my parents avoidance of answering those questions—were somehow linked to this photo. Anger and resentment fueled questions fired at my mother with the force of a machine gun.

My sweet mother was suddenly my enemy. The keeper of a secret. She had to be. Why else would these things be hidden in a dark corner of her closet? I continued, rapid fire, as the old me bubbled to the surface. The person I fought so hard to keep locked away so my parents would keep me was suddenly back and comfortable in my skin.

Demanding to know who the girl in the photo was, I threatened to leave. I assured her I'd be gone before she could make it home through rush hour traffic.

She expertly sidestepped answering the question directly, revealing that the photo was taken in Kentucky. My parents lived there before my father was relocated to sweet home Chicago for his company. Why am I just now finding this out? They lived in some small town called Brush... something or other. I missed the details. My ability to pay close attention was clouded by confusion and rage.

My anger grew as she stumbled for her words, I screamed into the phone, Answer my fucking question, Mom!

Her voice tight through the cellular connection, she muttered an audible sigh, muffled with the sound of a throat filled with fluid. Your sister. Her name is Emma.

That's all I heard before my world broke from its fragile axis, proceeding to spin uncontrollably. I held the power button, ending the call and severing Mom's method of communicating with me.

I threw my smartphone against the closet wall. The screen busted into dozens of jagged pieces—symbolic of my life now. Shattered.

Ginger runs a smooth hand across my shoulders. The rubbing motion is somewhat comforting, and brings me back to the present. Her touch eases the tension as I'm still tight from the fight with my mother last night. It seeps through the invisible barrier I keep around myself. She's good at that. What if your parents come looking for you here? What should I say?

Tell them I'm gone. Don't tell them I'm looking for my sister, though. Rolling out of bed, I find my jeans on the floor, slipping them on. They lied to me all these years. They deserve to squirm awhile.

Gently, she eases up on her knees at the side of the bed. I zip my jeans, and then my hoodie, and stare into her puppy dog eyes. I wish I could give her more. There's nothing wrong with her. She's perfect. Just not perfect for me.

At my age I know enough about this RAD thing to understand what I'm capable of—and what I'm not. When it comes to intense emotional relationships you can trust that she's better off without me.

Look, I've got to go, I say, grabbing my phone and wallet from the side table. Take care now. Kissing her on the forehead, I offer, You should go out tonight. Call one of your girlfriends and go clubbing. Forget you ever met me.

You know I can't do that. You're not easily forgotten. Adjusting a thin strap on her lingerie, she adds, Promise me you'll call? Then, from her dresser drawer, she extracts a thick roll of cash. Here, take this. You're going to need it.

Why in the hell would you have cash like this? I manage a laugh. Don't tell me you've been working some stripper pole as a side job.

Some of my clients pay cash. She winks, but her facial expression shows worry.

Shoving her hands away along with the money, I turn to leave.

She hooks a finger in to my jean pocket, spinning me around in her direction. Just take it. I insist.

She shoves the wad deep inside the opening. I let her. I need the money. If I'm going to cut myself off from my family, then all electronic means of money and resources have to go too.

Be careful. Send me a text every now and then, okay?

My heart beats against my chest as I stare into the face of my truest friend. Had I not had therapy when I was younger, I know I wouldn't be able to call her that. They say that without proper treatment, kids with my type of disorder are often incapable of forming meaningful lasting relationships. The thought crosses my mind to ask her to go with, but I know better. This is something I must do alone.

Closing the door to her brownstone, I descend the steps in search of my Jeep. It's street parked and there's likely a ticket tucked under the windshield wiper. My wealthy parents will handle it. They always do.

Chapter 1

Jax

Well, hello there, sugar. Grab a seat anywhere you like. A Paula Deen lookalike motions to the restaurant full of empty tables. The smell of grease is nauseating, making the air feel thick and grimy.

Mercy Lynn! The woman hollers over her shoulder. I can hear her plain as day, even with my headphones in. You're gonna want to come out here. There's a fella who looks awful hungry. Paula Deen sizes me up. Primping a lock of hair, she winks and taps a pen against her order pad. I'll let you take care of this one.

Assuming that she's referring to me, as I am the only customer in this place, I grab a seat in a booth near the window. The sticky red vinyl squeaks as I glide across the seat. Reaching inside my hoodie I feel around for my cell, quickly reminded that one of those cheap pay-as-you-go models has replaced my broken smartphone. I had to ditch everything when I left Chicago, including debit cards. I did keep my MP3 player; I just couldn't part with that.

Still entranced with the archaic model I hold in my palm, I hear a chipper voice over my right shoulder.

What'll you have, sweetie?

The earthy scent of cheap coffee grows stronger by the second. I'm pretty sure there isn't a Starbucks within a hundred-mile radius of this dump.

How about some coffee? she asks.

Still pressing keys in an attempt to text message from the piece of shit phone, I turn over the ceramic coffee mug and slide it toward the edge of the table. There's a chip in the handle and the inside is stained brown.

Sure, thanks, I utter without giving the waitress the courtesy of eye contact.

You're not from around here, are you? the server asks as she sets the pot of coffee on the edge of the table and proceeds to sit in the booth, opposite me.

Whoa. What is it with you people? I say, slamming down the cell phone. If you don't mind, I'm just trying to make the world go away right now.

The waitress is a petite little thing. Stunning, in a country-ass sort of way. Sporting a red plaid flannel shirt and wispy blonde hair, she smiles and says in a sweet voice similar to that Kellie Pickler girl that was on American Idol, What do you mean by 'go away'? She leans forward and peers out the window. You plannin' on stealin' a bunch of horse manure so you can build a bomb and blow up the world?

I, uh, I meant... Get it together, you dumbass. I mean, why did you sit down? Aren't you supposed to stand and ask me what I want to eat? That's how people do it where I'm from, anyway. Unless of course you're at Ed Debevic's—a famous eatery in Chi-town known for great food and sassy service. And no, I don't need any horseshit.

And where would that be? Where you're from that is. She bats her eyelashes like a cartoon character. I don't think she's doing it on purpose—as an easy smile also plays with the corners of her mouth.

If you must know, I'm from Chicago.

Illinois? She adds the s as she pronounces the state, just as I would imagine most hick-asses would do. But she's so damn cute when she does it.

Yes, Illinois. I enunciate it correctly. Can I just tell you my order? I don't know why I'm being such a dick. I stopped here to make a game plan for what to do next. I sure as hell don't need any distractions.

I'm Mercy Lynn, by the way. She reaches a