Worthy: Part One: Worthy, #1

By Lexie Ray

Living alone in a small cottage in the woods, Michelle is hiding from a past too horrible to put into words. Without other people around, she finds she can focus better on simply surviving instead of regretting things she can't change—like the scary scar on her face...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lexie Ray
• Release date: Jun 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9798215604779

Lexie Ray

Readers looking for a contemporary romance that will have them on the edge of their seats need look no further than Lexie Ray's captivating stories. With a gift for crafting characters that are both relatable and deeply complex, her stories are brimming with raw emotions and intense conflicts that will leave readers breathless. For updates, subscribe here: Books2Read.com/LexieRay For business inquiries: LexieRayAuthor at Gmail dot com

Book preview

Chapter One

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It was easy, when I first woke up, to forget about everything. I’d keep my eyes closed and listen to the world around me—the chatter of the birds just outside the window, the trees at the edge of the property creaking in the wind.

I could keep my eyes closed and believe that life was nothing more than normal, resting my cheek against the cool, soft surface of the pillow. It was a new morning, a chance to do something I loved with each and every day. I would stretch my arms up and over my head and yawn widely, picking out the various birdcalls from their incessant chatter. I knew the cuck of the robin from the clicking of the martin, the cheep of the sparrow from the warbling of the cardinal, and the mockingbird that knew the words to all of the songs.

Then, I would roll over.

The pillow felt different against the right side of my face. The smoothness became scratchy, there were gaps between the skin of my cheek and the cotton, and it made me remember that things weren’t normal.

That I wasn’t normal.

But I never got anything done while moping about things I couldn’t change.

I got out of bed, tugging my nightgown down over my rump even though there was no one to see me, and shuffled over to the bathroom, just across the hallway to my bedroom. Where a mirror should hang above the sink was just bare wall, but I didn’t even see it. My eyes still screwed shut in sleep, I turned on the tap and splashed myself with cool water.

I gasped. That was always an eye opener—a face full of cold water first thing in the morning. Rubbing my face with a towel, I slipped back into the bedroom and dressed quickly in the uniform of the day—a pair of faded cutoff denim shorts and a sleeveless top. There was no one to impress around here but myself, and I simply didn’t see the point. While it was summer, I was going to dress as light as possible.

I always supposed that if I really didn’t care that much, I could traipse around the cottage and surrounding land completely naked. No clothing necessary. As remote as the property was, though, the thought that a stray passerby could happen upon me while nude was enough to make me steer clear of the notion. Of course, I’d never actually seen anyone in my time out here. I occasionally heard the far-off drone of ATVs, but sounds carried funny in the hills and hollows of the woods. They could be miles and miles away for all I knew.

I wrapped my curly blonde hair into a topknot—taking care not to brush against the ugly right side of my face—and padded into the kitchen. The kitchen opened up to what would be considered the family room—if I had family to share the tiny cottage with. As it was, a couch that sagged in the middle and a comfortable old armchair stood empty in the room, positioned in front of the fireplace.

I could really get that fireplace crackling in the wintertime, feeding log after log into the flames, using the cast iron poker to jostle the embers and burning wood into the best possible position. It was a point of pride to get the fire hot enough to drive away the frigid cold, but for now, I was more than happy for summer. Summer meant I got to go outside without bundling up and could sleep with the windows open to let the breeze blow through the cottage.

I cracked open the refrigerator to peer inside and frowned at what I found. There were plenty of eggs, but it was just too hot to fire up the stove. It was going to be a scorcher of a day, even as early as it was.

Deciding to forgo breakfast—and keep from making the inside of the house swelter any more than it already was—I grabbed an enormous apple from the crisper and took a big bite, the crunch of the firm, juicy flesh making me smile. The fruit was cold from the fridge and the perfect remedy for summer heat. I decided to come home for an early lunch if I got hungry later following the light breakfast.

Not bothering with shoes, I walked outside and into the sunlight. My feet were hardened from walking on the ground barefoot. I did so much walking and moving around that it was better to just use my God-given feet to get me around rather than pair after pair of shoes.

Even though I’d been living in the cottage for nearly five years, I never got tired of the view around me.

A field speckled with wildflowers stretched between the cottage and the barn. Well, I called it the barn, but it was really just an overgrown shed about the same size as the cottage. It wasn’t big enough for anything but storage and a small flock of chickens that I kept for eggs—and the occasional dinner. I was loath to eat them, though, because they’d become something of pets to me after all this time together. But if I didn’t cut the flock, the coyotes would.

Beyond the barn stood the woods. Over time, I’d learned each and every tree by its bark, the shape of its leaves, and type of fruit. In the fall, I gathered walnuts to crack, using the stain to maintain the floors of the cottage as well as the dinner table. The nuts I snacked on throughout the winter.

I always itched to go walking in the woods, but there were chores I needed to tend to first. The chores always needed to happen.

I let the chickens out of their little coop in the barn, laughing as they scrambled over each other and beat their wings in their haste for freedom and sunlight.

No need to rush, I said, scooping some feed out of a canister I kept sealed on a shelf in the barn. There’s plenty for everyone. Here.

The clucking subsided as the chickens fell to breakfast, pecking at the seeds I spread over the ground. I left them to it and went to check on the garden.

It had taken me a couple of years to perfect it, but I was now pleased to be an expert at keeping deer from munching the food I grew for myself. The first few seasons had been disastrous, with me often thinking sarcastically that the deer could at least leave a tip for me providing such a generous buffet.

Now, I’d lined the garden with bird netting, which kept out both the deer and the rabbits. For added protection, I peed in a bucket for a whole day about every week, spreading the urine around the boundaries of the garden—in essence, marking my territory. Maybe it was a little weird, but I’d had such great success with it that I didn’t want to change a thing.

I rolled back the netting and got to work. Maintaining the garden was a daily necessity. The entire region was in the midst of a drought, so I had to haul buckets of water from the spigot on the side of the barn to make sure all of my plants were well watered. It had taken me time and much effort, but the soil in the garden was fertile and soft in spite of the lack of rain. I liked the feeling of it underfoot, the squish of the mud between my toes when I dumped bucket after bucket of water on the small plot.

As I did this, I examined the leaves of each plant for signs of damage from beetles and other pests. I didn’t want to lose anything to such a small creature after I was already working so hard to keep the bigger pests out. I kept a jug of insecticidal soap in the barn.

Today, I smiled. All of my plants were growing just fine, and I was pleased to note that I had several things to pick for lunch and dinner today and in the days to come. My hardy row of basil was unfazed by the drought, thick and fragrant. The potatoes and carrots were also coming along well, the healthy sprouts above the surface belying the tasty roots below.

The tomatoes always did well. I had come to think of myself as a tomato specialist. I had all types on my variety of vines I’d propped up on wiring to help grow—yellow, orange, and red—and found myself eating tomatoes every day just to try to keep up with the harvest. I pureed them into sauces and salsas and soups, diced them into salads, and sometimes just gave up and ate them whole, like apples. That was the best, the juice running down my chin, the flesh ripened just perfectly in the sun.

What I couldn’t eat, I canned. I tried not to use the stove so much in the summer because of the heat that built up in the house, but I knew I was going to have to suck it up soon. I required the boiling water and everything that it took to successfully preserve the products of my garden in glass mason jars, which I stored in both the pantry in the cottage and a cupboard in the barn. When winter fell and my garden lay dormant, I relied on those to see me through to spring.

I was attempting corn for the first time this year—I examined the two rows of growing stalks with no small degree of satisfaction. These were really coming along, especially for my first try. The corn also didn’t seem to mind the drought, as long as I brought them some water from the spigot from time to time.

After I hunted down and pulled the weeds that threatened my plants, I rolled the bird netting back out, making sure to secure it against the other animals that wanted to benefit from my harvest.

Putting my gardening tools away in their proper places in the barn, I glanced around. Sunlight illuminated the inside thanks to the spaces between the boards on the walls—and a couple of holes in the roof. Dust motes and little bits of grass floated in the golden shafts. I would have to think about climbing up to the roof to patch those holes before the rain came. If the rain came, I corrected myself. When the rain came, I mouthed, trying to think positive.

With the cottage being so small, I relied on the barn to store many different things—the chickens, for one, which could choose between going inside and outside with the special coop I’d built them. I hoped they had the sense to go inside the barn instead of staying outside if—when—the rain came.

Besides the chickens, the barn housed my gardening supplies and the excess jars of food that I needed in the winter. There were shelves of tools I used to make repairs to both the barn and the cottage, as well as cleaning supplies. I glanced in the corner, where I stored things from the cottage that I didn’t want in there anymore. There were boxes full of ephemera, along with several things wrapped in towels and blankets—the mirrors. I shook my head at that thought and refocused on the task at hand. What I was looking for now were my fishing pole, tackle box, and basket.

I was pretty sure that I was using fishing as an excuse to go walking in the woods, but who said I couldn’t mix business with pleasure? There was nothing I wanted to do more than lose myself among the trees, admiring the dappled bark of the sycamores or rolling the crabapples into the underbrush to see what was hiding there—pheasants, perhaps, or squirrels.

But it was essential that I maintained my cottage, barn, and garden. Those things relied on me just as much as I relied on them.

I herded the chickens back into their coop, dashing a little more feed in there to entice them to return. I didn’t feel too badly about locking them back in. As long as I was near them, I let them roam. They sometimes liked to roam the field, and it was then when I really had to watch them. Weasels and raccoons would probably like nothing better than a delicious chicken dinner.

Without me to watch them, though, the chickens were a meal waiting to happen for some wily predator. I knew that they’d still get plenty of sunshine—or shade, should they so choose—in the coop while I was gone.

I slipped into a pair of clogs I kept in the barn and set off with my fishing gear. I didn’t want to bruise the bottoms of my feet because of errant thorns or stones.

Crossing the tree line and walking into the woods, I was always aware of a magical, almost reverent feeling. The woods were old, full of tall trees with thick trunks and dense underbrush. They had been on the planet for much longer than me and had seen things that I could only imagine.

The sunlight filtered down through the leaves and branches in fits and spurts, illuminating various patches of the ground. Years ago, when I was still fully realizing the enchantment of the woods, I liked to pretend that the illuminated spots, though random, held some significance. These fantasies were further bolstered if I happened to find edible mushrooms or berries in the illuminated patches.

Now, I didn’t have to pretend little fantasies like that. I was fully aware that the woods were special—never mind why. The wind moved through the trees with an indecipherable music, and all other sounds, including the crunch of dead leaves and dry twigs beneath my clogs, were hushed.

I always took care to follow the game path through the woods, not wishing to disturb them any more than I already did. I worried one year that the underbrush would engulf the trail and I’d have to take either clipping shears or a machete to it, but if the deer could find a way, so could I.

Once I was close enough to the creek, it was easy enough to follow my ears to the goal. I called it a creek—it had been called that for my whole memory—but when I stepped out from behind a gigantic black walnut, I was reminded that the creek was an essential body of water for me. It fed into a nearby river, and it was at that juncture that I often caught the most fish. The creek deepened there and slowed, and the fish liked it as much as I did. On the hottest of days, I would come down here just to swim and cool off.

Today, though, was about the fish. With learned and practiced ease, I picked my perch—an old toppled tree that partly protruded over the water—and tied a hook onto my fishing line. I deftly attached a glittery rubber worm to the hook and cast out into the pool.

Bam. Just like that, as soon as it hit the water, a fish struck at my bait. So it was going to be one of those days. I grinned, excited, and set the hook with a quick jerk of the rod. The drag of the line in the water told me that the fish was still on. Now for the fight.

I watched as the line cranked out, making the reel click and zip as the fish tried to flee. It couldn’t flee me. I’d set the hook just as Dad had taught me.

After a short fight, I managed to land a good-looking bass. It would be delicious baked with lemon and perhaps served alongside potatoes. I had a recipe in one of several books that included cooking fish together with vegetables inside a pouch made of parchment paper. Maybe I could try that.

Removing the fish from the hook without a single flinch, I checked the rubber worm and cast again. If I caught too many fish to eat in a single supper, I could freeze the remainder for later in the week—or even for the winter. They kept practically forever.

On my third bass—there had to be some shad or some other small fish school in the pool to make them as active as they were today—I leaned far over the water and caught a dim look at my reflection. I hadn’t meant to see it. I wasn’t looking for it. But it was there all the same, and it captivated me. The water wasn’t crystal clear, and the sun was behind some clouds, but I saw enough to make me still before leaning closer.

It had been years since I had wrapped the cottage’s mirrors up and marched them down to the barn, and this was the first time I’d remembered that I had a reflection since then. It was so easy to forget about everything as long as I didn’t have that obvious reminder. It was so easy to pretend that this was my normal life, that I wasn’t a monster.

Today, at the pool, a bass in hand, I studied the mirror image that presented itself to me in the water with no small amount of disgust. One side of my face was smooth—pretty, even—but the other side wasn’t. The two sides of my face were exact opposites. A mass of horrifying scar tissue almost completely covered my cheek and extended a little bit onto my forehead. It was lumpy in some parts, shiny in others, and looked, all in all, monstrous. I was glad I’d taken all the mirrors to the barn. I could stare at the scar for hours, equal parts horribly fascinated and devastatingly regretful.

The fish in my hand gave one last desperate flip for freedom and I lost control of it, my focus on the monster at the water’s surface. The fish splashed back into the pool directly in the image I had been staring at, shattering it into whorls and ripples.

I sat back down on the log and cast out again. I couldn’t stand the person in the reflection. I just couldn’t give it any thought. The scar was the very physical evidence of how bad a person I was, of just how badly I needed to be punished. Thinking about it made the bile rise in my throat.

The sun came out, making the surface of the water too bright to stare at. I did my best to forget about the person I’d seen there. It was for the best. I didn’t need to dwell on things I couldn’t change.

Chapter Two

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Each day held something different for me. There were constants, of course—the chickens and the garden, for instance—but the rest of it seemed to change day by day. I could go fishing, if I felt like it, or I could go walking through the woods, gathering mushrooms, berries, and nuts I knew to be good for eating.

If I didn’t feel like going out into the woods—rare days, indeed—I could stay close to the cottage, letting the chickens get exercise and maintaining the buildings. I could paint them, stain the interior of the cottage, or simply read a book on a blanket in the field. There were plenty of volumes inside the cottage, though there were few on the shelves I hadn’t already read.

I lived an isolated life by choice. I liked the fact that I could, for the most part, sustain myself. I knew how to garden and fish and cook; I could raise chickens and make repairs to buildings and clean; I could mend clothes and fix simple issues with the fuse box and stove and refrigerator without electrocuting myself or blowing myself up.

It was a point of pride that I could survive on my own. It had taken research and practice—and plenty of mistakes.

Of course, I did have a safety net. I utilized it less and less as I learned to be more self-sufficient, but it was there all the same.

One gray day, when heavy clouds threatened to bring the rain the region needed so badly, I dragged the laptop out of a case on the bookshelf. I rarely kept it charged and had to plug it into the wall to get it the power it needed. I treated the laptop—and the Internet I accessed with it—as a last-ditch effort to get me what I needed when I couldn’t get it myself.

I didn’t like using it as a window to the outside world. I eschewed the ubiquitous Google, the various news sites, and other wasters of time. When I had to access the Internet for something, I kept to my task. I didn’t have the luxury of sitting around and surfing. And it didn’t come cheap, out there. The cottage was so remote that I required satellite Internet. I paid for it by the amount of data I used, so that was another reason not to fool around on the laptop.

That day, I logged in to the website of a farm supply store in a nearby town. Nearby was a relative term; the town was a good fifty miles away. I ordered another sack of chicken feed and jug of insecticide for the garden. Those were things I couldn’t make myself, though I figured if I was industrious enough, I could probably grow the grains necessary to feed the chickens, or come up with a natural deterrent to the bugs in the garden. Heck, I bet I could train the chickens to seek and destroy the harmful bugs out to get my plants.

There. Ordered. I often thought about the employees at my bank—another place I hadn’t seen in five years. They probably died of shock every time my account showed any sort of movement, gossiping about what, exactly, it was that I was doing out in the wilderness, buying chicken feed and insecticide and the occasional order of lumber.

A truck would drop off the supplies I ordered at the door to my cottage. Whoever made these deliveries probably hated them, hated driving all the way over here on the deserted two-lane highway before being forced to drive on gravel for another fifteen miles until they reached the cottage. I never saw who dropped the orders off. I preferred not to be seen. I didn’t want to scare anyone with my hideous face. And I never walked the gravel road that led to the highway. I hardly even looked at it. The road was a lifeline to the rest of the world—a lifeline I’d gladly sever, if I only could.

I supposed I should consider the Internet more as an ally than a detriment. It helped me obtain the things I couldn’t get myself—the chicken feed and insecticide, clothes when I grew out of mine or couldn’t patch or mend the tears I incurred, the occasional grocery order that included powdered milk, frozen foods, flour, sugar, and other necessities.

The biggest luxury I allowed myself was books.

When I wasn’t working, I was reading, gobbling up words and stories in single sittings, craving more and less all at once. Romances were my favorite—cathartic scenes of love gained and lost, of hearts won and hurt, of kisses.

I lived through these narratives, but I always finished each tome with a little bit of bitterness. I lived in a self-imposed exile. There wasn’t going to be a Prince Charming for me—especially not with my face.

As upsetting as that admission was, I still couldn’t kick my romance habit. And the love scenes ... did something to me. I would never admit it to anyone—if there had been anyone in my life to admit it to—but I liked to imagine some of the love scenes in the novels playing out while I touched myself.

As Prince Charming would lay his Princess across their silken couch, I would lay myself down on my quilt-covered bed. As Prince Charming smoothed his Princess’ flaxen hair away from her face and kissed her, I would comb my own fingers through my curls, flutter my own fingers against my lips. As Prince Charming would trail kisses down his Princess’ shapely neck, I would drag my own fingers down my neck, raising goose bumps at the feather-light touch.

If I closed my eyes tightly enough, I felt almost as if I could summon Prince Charming to my humble cottage bedroom. My imagination could transform my own fingers into his hands and mouth, exploring my body. I could look past the fact that it was my own hands tweaking my nipples and palming my breasts, my own hands rubbing down my belly in circles, my own hands pinching at the space between my legs, sending waves of pleasure emanating throughout my body.

I could pretend it was Prince Charming inside of me, though no one had ever been inside of me, as I slipped my fingers into my own body, one hand still circling around my clit, creating and cultivating pleasure until it suddenly blossomed into an orgasm. My climax made me forget everything—forget the fact that I’d never been with a man before moving out to the cottage, forget the fact that I’d never, ever be with a man from now on, forget the fact that I was terribly disfigured. Orgasm was the great equalizer, setting everything right in my world.

I shook my head free of the cloying thoughts, the ones that urged me to go pick my favorite romance novel, open it to its dog-eared page marking the best sex scenes, and take it into my bedroom to while away an afternoon. Some other time, perhaps.

I turned the laptop off and closed it, securing it in its case on the bookshelf before peering out the window. The sun cut through the dark clouds, and I sighed. It looked like the heat was going to boil off those rain clouds before they could release a single drop. I needed the rain, and the garden needed the rain, but there was no use worrying about it. It would rain or it wouldn’t. There was nothing I could do to influence it either way.

I spent the rest of the day cleaning the cottage from top to bottom. The pent up energy from the rain that never fell seemed to supercharge my efforts. I swept every inch of the wood floor, heaving furniture around to make sure I captured each and every speck of dust and dirt. I was lucky that the cottage was so snug. It usually wasn’t much of an effort to keep it clean in the first place, and it wasn’t too much of an undertaking for me to really make the place shine.

I dusted the bookshelf in the family room, reverently running the rag over all the books I’d accumulated. I took the couch cushions outside and beat them with the broom, raising great clouds of dust. I washed every inch of the kitchen in soapy water before rinsing it, making the tiles on the countertop gleam. Even the dilapidated refrigerator and stove looked cheerful and bright, and like they’d last me for several more years.

The bathroom was a piece of cake, just one more part of the house swept up into my tornado of cleaning. I saved the bedroom for last, changing the sheets and adding the old ones to the laundry basket before starting a load in the washer, hidden in a little utility closet in the hallway. I always hung the clothes and linens to dry outside.

My bedroom was the smallest room in the house—besides the bathroom, of course—and only had room for a bed, side table, and little chest of drawers. I didn’t need lots of clothes or possessions, so it didn’t bother me much.

My one prized possession, though—a framed photograph of my parents and me—got special treatment. I spritzed the glass with cleaner and made sure there weren’t any fingerprints or streaks. Carefully, so as not to smudge the glass, I polished the wooden frame with a rag until it shone. I stared at the picture hard, willing myself back to that happier, freer time. The girl in the picture, the girl who I used to be, stared determinedly into the camera, but both of her parents smiled lovingly down at her.

Mom’s hair was straight and fair, the same blonde as mine, but it was Dad’s curls I’d inherited. I could see myself in both of them, the perfect blending of their love, but the realization was more sour than sweet.

I would do anything to get them back in my life. There were some days when I felt so down that I’d spend entire hours gazing into that one photograph, trying to remember the details of when it was taken. We were all wearing shorts—it was summer, then, or we were somewhere warm, at least. The girl in the photo looked more sassy than truly happy—maybe I’d gotten fussed at for some quirk or foible or had just gotten away with something.

The truth was that I didn’t remember the circumstances of the photo, and it killed me. I’d picked that photo out of all of them to take with me because it was already in a frame—my parents had valued it enough to frame it, and that was enough for me. But I was too young when it was taken, or the taking of the photo was enough of an everyday occurrence for it not to stick out in my mind.

Carefully, I put the frame back on the bedside table and stood up. It was evening by then,