Fate's Touch

By Sophia S. Sterling

when a young drifter sought out shelter from an approaching storm, he finds himself the unlikely savior of a reckless girl, killing the despicable village priest and in the process, leaving an unknown witness behind.

years later and much older, the drifter re-visits the village, where the not so young girl, finds him half-dead. she nurtures him back to life only to discover he was her guardian. In caring for him, her lonely, but passionate heart could not deny its burning need to have him, as she falls in love with her savior.

thinking he was dead, her protector finds his most ardent desire within reach. he discovered the touch, “her touch” that embodied all he craved as a young man and now a grown one. her mere touch, personifies loves passion, peace, and a home, in its simple caress. he knew he found the truest of all emotions that a man would die for, love!

but when the unknown witness finds him, could they survive his sadistic intent for retribution?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sophia S. Sterling
• Release date: May 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9789768260680

Book preview

Prologue

Ireland, Galway Cliffs - 1827

Unnatural light spills from a hunting moon while dark clouds lurk to mask its silver grace. Shadowing over jagged cliffs, milky waves crash below the rocks as a slight figure tries climbing the crag. A closer look, reveals a young boy struggling to reach the top. An inch away from his goal he almost slips into a watery grave, only to grab the roots of a Rowan tree jutting out of the edge of the bluff.

Collin, our slim figure heaves his weary body to safety, falling on his back while catching his breath. As the moon shines its eerie glow on him to see he is a filthy disheveled young man, who looks lost, with poverty as his traveling mate.

At fifteen years of age, his striking blue eyes could discern Collin’s beauty, making many envious, save for the blotches of red in his sclera. Besides his gaze, there was not much to see of him, with his grimy face and ragged clothes. If he were considered handsome, it would be a great lie as his visage was concealed.

Weak from hunger, Collin's eyes slowly closed on him, but when he heard a rumble above him, he saw more than rain was coming. Exhausted, but with enough strength to search out some shelter, he saw a light up ahead and ran for protection from what could be a coming storm.

***

Frighten shitless, but braving what plans she made on her only adventure, away from her men. Twelve-year-old, Irene Galway with her flaming, wild hair, looks a tad older with her breast pressed in her short frock. Peeps into a deserted church not too far from the cliffs. Seeing no one about, she boldly pushes the old groaning door open calling out, Hello . . . Hello, hell. With a slight smile on her lips, Irene steps over the first threshold of a church in her life. Awed by how large it is, she stumbles falling back against the church doors, cursing loudly, Ah, shit man, rubbing her back and bottom.

From within the hallow walls, towering candles stood on plinths shining their light on the Saints. Admiring the splendor of her surroundings, a gust of wind swirls from the crack church doors flickering the lights as the door slams in forcefully, startling Irene. With her hand, covering her mouth, she crouches to conceal herself between the last pews looking around the building with the walls painted of Mary, Jesus, and the Saints. Irene knew these images from her mother’s Bible; that was left open by her father's nightly readings as he cursed God and the saints for permitting death to take his wife away.

Feeling brave, that no one heard or was around, Irene sauntered towards the altar admiring how peaceful it looked and that she was actually in a place they called, a church. Smiling to herself, she whispered, Hello, hello, to then holler, hellooooooooooooo, laughing at her echo, from the high ceiling while humming to herself. Looking around, Irene examines the statues of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, carefree and blind to anyone who might be observing her.

Stopping in the middle of the church aisle, Irene glances up at the white pearl ceiling painted to see angels surrounding a baby Jesus. Taking a quick glimpse of the church doors securely closed, to make sure that she was utterly alone, Irene pretends to faint dramatically by the altar looking up to see Jesus upside down. Gazing at Jesus on the cross, Irene turns slowly around to stare at his serene face, with her hands under her chin in reverence to hear footsteps.

Jumping to crouch low, she looks around in a panic, only to see a short old man in all black rags, with a white patch on his neck. Standing between the pews observing her with his hands on his hip and a frown on his wrinkled brow.

Oh! Shit, oh . . . Irene run and hides behind the altar, yet in plain sight of the man who waves his hands up and down to calm her.

With a thick English accent, That’s enough swearing in my church child. What in the saints you're doing in here? he asked sternly taking a step closer to her as she backs away, hitting a figure of the Virgin Mary, knocking the baby Jesus out his mother’s hands. But with quick reflexes, Irene catches him and cradles the baby Jesus like a living babe in her arms.

Oh! Shit, I’m sorry, I, I . . . I’m sorry. I, I called, but . . . Irene said, holding the statue as a shield before the man.

Hush child, I’ll not beat nor bite you, he said, taking another step to her. What’s your name? he asked, looking around the church apprehensively.

I . . . Irene Galway. I, I just wanted to see what it looked like in . . . Irene said, struck once more by the beauty of the church as she looks around.

Is anyone with you child? the man asked, taking another step closer to her.

With her flaming hair in disarray, shaking it from side to side terrified that she was caught. Irene pondered what would happen to her if she came again without her father and brother, not knowing. A bit fearful of being caught, but the old man's warm, friendly smile, made her feel all was well, and that she had nothing to be concern for.

It’s so big from outside, with its pointy roof touching the clouds and large windows. . . Irene said, looking up at the high ceiling. And your colorful flower beds drew me to it like a thirsty bee that . . . She was declaring with a shy smile at the old friendly man staring at her now.

And would you like to see more, more of the church my dear? Irene gazed up at the man with a beaming smile for her answer. With his hands out to her, she studied him for a second, and like a trusting, innocent child, she placed her hand in his.

Irene? the kind man said, smiling at her.

Yes? she replied.

"The correct way to respond would be, Yes, Father."

My father says that a devil of a priest lives in here. Remembering what her father said, she wondered if the man that stood before her, if he was indeed the priest her father spoke about? Squinting up at him, he looked too kind to be the devil of anything.

No, my child, the man in his black rags, said, patting her hand and continued. If a devil of a priest lives here, then it must be me, my little sweetheart, he stated, stopping by a picture of a handsome, baby boy in a cradle.

Irene looked at the priest, never calling her father, Father, but responded, Yes father, trusting him.

Have anyone told you, your voice sounds like honey? the priest asked, making her blush.

Beaming by the old man’s praise, Irene answered in turn, "My father. He says, ‘I could sing like the queen of angels, but my brother says, my voice is the envy of all harpies."

Irene recalled when her mother died, she sang her mother’s favorite song, Amazing Grace, and at the end of her solo, not a dry eye was left in the cemetery. Even her awful brother’s eyes were wet, and his nose was running.

But when she had mentioned it days after, her brother just stared and told her, That her voice made him cry, for it hurt his ears and he felt sorry he was not dead.

As the priest shook her hand, Irene realized that he was speaking to her. And would you like to see a real angel? I have one in my room. She looked at all the lovely statues in the church and wondered what more could there be that was more beautiful. Watching the priest, she looked back and realized how silent and empty the church was, and how far she was from the front doors.

I, I . . . I should be getting back, Irene said, taking a step away from the priest, but he held her hand tightly.

It won’t take long, he whispered with a slightly firmer grip on her hand and a kinder smile.

Irene nibbled her thumb knuckle thinking if she should let her only chance to venture about freely in a church, pass her by with a friendly tour guide. A real one? she asked as she watched the priest give her another humble, trusting smile of assurance.

As she gave him one of her cheerful grins, nodding her answer showing off one missing front tooth, that was taking forever to make an appearance to look around at the empty, silent church again.

Irene, your father, and brother, they don’t know where you are? the priest asked, standing by a doorway.

With her eyes wide as saucers, Irene grabbed the priest shirt, No father, they can’t. My brother would ladder my ass till, till please, father, please, she shouted her petition, grabbing his hand with him looking at her small hands near his crotch. The priest caressed Irene’s hand with such sympathy and concern on his face as he tried to calm her.

Not so loud my child, I shall not tell on you, as you won’t sell me out to anyone, will you?

Irene looked at the priest a bit confused by his meaning. Please father, I won’t tell a soul that I was here, she said while he clutched her hands with a sweet smile.

Then, it would be our secret romance. And would you like to see my angel now, Irene?

Feeling calmer, she replied, Yes father.

You have a good memory, Irene, the kind Priest declared.

Making her blush by receiving another of his compliments. Thank you father. She felt proud because she was getting so many praises that were not from her Daddy. For he was the only one alive that gave her any, save for her beloved mother who would dote and kiss her every day when she was a child, to say, "she was her loving little angel."

Why would you get a thrashing for coming here? the priest asked, holding Irene’s hand in his.

My brother and father hate the church, Irene stated, feeling ashamed by that bit of information.

I see. The Catholic church? the priest asked gazing down at Irene, making her squirm a bit.

No, father, all churches. They hate them all.

For years, Irene always wondered why her father considered the church as a place of scorn and lies. She never heard him speak a word of kindness to anyone who would waste their time to attend or even converse to a minister of the cloth.

Until one day, years after her mother’s death, she found a note in her mother’s handwriting, which was the best penmanship she ever saw, and wished she could have inherited it from her mother.

The message read, To my Lord and Savior, my rightful Husband and Friend, I come to thee. Just those simple words seemed to make her father hate the church and anyone affiliated with it even more. Shaking her hand to gain her attention, the priest pushed open his bedroom door, with the hallway candles shining into his bedroom, ushering Irene, into his den, leaving his bedroom door partially open.

With the small grey passageway without windows, a cleaned but old rug that ran the short length with four wall scones, painted black housing white candles. Yet opposite the priest entryway, another door was cracked open with light flickering into its space.

It’s a tiny closet that’s somewhat empty but has a long grey sleek coat and shiny black boots.

On a closer glance, a pair of dirty feet protrude from under the coat, that belonged to Collin, as he took refuge in the one place that would not cast him away as the church was a sanctuary he used sometimes.

Stepping away from his hiding spot, Collin stares at the door across from him, partly closed listening to Irene’s sweet voice speaking to the priest. She looks so pale, so beautiful so. . . so lovely father.

Come here, Irene, I want to show you something. the priest called out to the girl, giving him a glimpse of the crazed red hair child. When Collin was young, curiosity was never a trait that got him into any trouble. He always considered himself a man before his time, due to circumstances.

A boy’s childhood was never meant to be his. But the way the priest called the girl, made him abandon his hideout, stepping out into the hallway. For his gut never guided him wrong, rarely.

Irene looked at the angel and was utterly disappointed to see a very dull likeness that was painted less cheerful than the rest of the statues outside.

What do you think of my angel, sweet Irene? the priest asked, patting his bed for her to sit next to him.

Not wanting to hurt the old man’s feelings, she turned on her thousand-watt, charm of a smile that she usually used to get away with anything from her father and brother. She looks like a real angel father, a real one frozen and left here. Feeling slightly guilty for lying to a man of the cloth. Irene jumped up and sat next to him, patting his leg in sympathy that he did not know the difference in what was beautiful and merely dreary. And his bedroom angel was just that, dull as ass.

The priest placed his hand on Irene’s that was on his lap, squeezing it. Feeling a bit uncomfortable by his clammy wet hand over hers, Irene tried to pull her hand away, but the priest yanked it toward his mouth and kissed it.

Oh, gross father that feels just nasty, Irene said, trying to tug her hand free, thinking something was wrong with this priest.

Irene, don’t you want to make me happy? the priest asked, now holding her hand to his chest.

No flipping way. Why, why you . . . she said tearing her hand away, jumping off his bed, heading for the door when she suddenly felt his hand grabbed her only best frock from the back. Hearing it ripped, she was ready to beat the old man for destroying her Sunday best, which her mother had sewn.

It was a blue wool gown that was too short and tight that squashed her breast, for they were enormous for her age and a grey apron with side pockets that still fit her perfectly.

Frightened and furious at the same time, Irene yelled, Get away from me you beastly devil. to swing, nicking the priest in his wrinkled cheek drawing blood from her only piece of jewelry. A copper wire ring, which was made by her brother.

In shock, the priest passed his hand to the nick on his face, smearing blood on his wrinkled angry mug. As Irene gazed at her torn dress, then at the ‘so-called priest’, she tried for the door again. But the old man was quick, as he grabbed her by the neck and flung her on his bed covering her small body with his massive frame.

Irene opened her mouth and screamed as loud as a banshee in travail, when she felt a sudden sting across her cheek. With her eyes closing, she saw a black shadow crossing her path. The priest roughly grabbed her by the cheek and forced her to look at him. With her eyes barely open, she could see the priest standing over her taking off his collar to place it next to her head.

You’re hot as your flaming hair, but for my blood, you shed, you’ll pay for it, you evil whelp. Laying there dazed as she watched the man she thought was nothing of the cloth, removed his clothing from his ancient body in front of her. Turning to face the partly open door, to block what she knew was going to happen.

Irene may have been a little girl, but knew what goes on between men and women, for living on a farm. Lost in her thoughts, she saw a shadow passed in the hallway as the monster of a priest pressed his load of a body on top of her, blocking whatever caught her eyes.

The priest looked at Irene as she closed her eyes tightly and smiled, thinking, he was going to enjoy such an innocent little morsel as he leaned his head to kiss her.

Irene was a fighter at heart, but knew she would lose this fight to retain her innocence from this vile creature they called a priest. She now understood why her father said the devil of a priest lived in this church or maybe in all churches.

Nevertheless, she was not about to give the sick man the pleasure to see any fear on her and started to hum an old Irish tune, of war and victory, that the wicked man did not know.

The priest frowned as he looked at his little friend humming a love tune, being caught off guard twice as he pulled his head away to see if she had gone mad. A love tune? Hum! You’re a strange little girl. the priest said, looking down at Irene with her eyes closed kissing her forehead, cheeks and . . . He stopped, pressing more of his weight on her stealing her breath away.

Squinting, Irene opened her eyes slowly to see the priest's still body half on her. Wasting no time, she shoved the priest's motionless body away, jumped off his bed, and made a mad dash for the church doors not venturing to look back.

While exiting the church feeling weary, Irene leaned on its thick old walls, weakened and fell to her knees as tears ran down her face soaking her once best dress, which hung on her ruined.

Cold and shivering, Irene felt a drop of water on the back of her neck, ran down her spine, to look up and see the beginning of a storm as rain poured out the sky like her tears when she heard footsteps from within the church. Frighten and weedy, she ran and slipped not far from the church hitting her head on the ground, to pass out face down just as Collin saw, standing by the open church doors.

Collin stood staring at the reckless little girl in her murky bed, who went willingly into the devil’s den. Without thinking, he lifted Irene and walked towards a small village not far from the church. The same one he noticed when he took shelter from the coming tempest.

Soaked again, Collin looked down at the foolish girl with her dirty torn clothes, to become, mesmerized by her beauty, as the rain washed the mud away from her bruised face. With her features entirely cleansed from the muck, Collin leaned in to smell her, and even in her disheveled state; she smelled of heather and lavender, making him groan.

Hearing her whimper, he realized that she was about to wake up and quickly thought of getting rid of her. Looking around the small village that appeared somewhat prosperous with a few shops and building on both sides of the road. But what caught his attention was the smell, and a light shone through the transparent windows.

Walking towards it, holding Irene as a baby cradle to his bosoms, he placed her by the store door, and took one last look at the girl with the awful red hair to walk away, as someone grabbed his hand. Collin looked back and saw the reckless girl holding his hand, in a firm grip to search her face to see if her eyes were open.

But they were not.

With her eyes heavy laden with sleep and perhaps fear, feeling like a dream, Irene clutched onto the only thing that felt safe, yet sensed it was strange to her touch. Whatever she held, felt warm, giving her comfort that she did not want to let go. Yet a deep slumber was descending on her.

With her small hand slipping from his, Collin walked away without looking back, yet still felt the girl's touch in his hand. It was the most intimate, human contact in such a very long time. Everyone saw what he looked like, for he was, a ‘beggar.’

If he was touched, it was a shove, or he was maltreated to move on. Never for any other reason. Except now. To be stopped, because he was wanted was strange and foreign to him.

It made him think of a home, food and loved ones around with a kind smile, word, and a warm hug. Nevertheless, he knew the unwise girl did not see him, nor knew whose hand she held so tightly. Thus, Collin had no qualms walking away without looking back, as her hand slipped from his forever.

In between consciousness, Irene thought the hand she held was sturdy and safe, but it had a severe dent on the left palm as it slipped away. As she drifted away to sleep, she heard muffled voices in her dream, I’ll be stepping out for . . . It was Mr. Davison, the Baker, who was generous to give her and her brother Faylen leftovers of the meat pies on Sundays, with his quarrelsome wife, Petty. Irene always thought it was a strange name for a stout, plump Irish woman to be called, Petty.

Don’t be out there too late. The rain is pouring ghastly hard. Even in her dreams, Irene knew those voices.

Aye! I see that. Mr. Davison said mumbling to himself. As he opened his door, a gust of wind slapping him in the face but took a bracing step forward, almost tripping over something. Looking down to see what nearly tripped him, What the . . . the Baker, said seeing a brown ball and wondered if it was a stray animal?

At a closer look, he saw that it was not an animal, for the hair was messy and red. I? Irene? Mr. Davison stammered as he realized who was at his feet. Irene Galway, he said, knowing she was the only child with the most unruly, red hair in the village. Petty, Petty, he yelled out to his wife as he turned Irene over to see her clothes were torn and muddy, with a bruise on her cheek.

What is it man? You’re letting the rain in the . . .