Excerpt from Chapter 1

Logan swung the axe to split one more log. The two thick halves fell to either side of the stump, tumbling and rolling across the ground. That was the last of it. He drew his arm across his damp brow and collected the halves to stack them with the rest. He should have been on his way into town by now. Ollie, the master horseman, would be waiting for him. But these logs needed to be split before the final winter chill settled in. The morning proved unseasonably warm, and it might as well have been the perfect time. It wouldn’t be done otherwise.

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Over the earthy scent of pine needles and his own acrid sweat, he could smell something else coming from the house. Logan paused and sniffed the sweet aroma of baking apples and cinnamon. He let a smile curve his lips when he heard the groan of the stove door opening, and then closing. His mother was baking again. She hadn’t baked anything other than bread in months.

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He set down the axe beside the wood pile and rushed toward the open door.

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Before he could get further than two strides onto the wide front porch, his mother shouted, “You aren’t getting any until supper. No use running in here to get a piece.”

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Logan let his bony, broad shoulders slump in defeat as he stepped inside their modest, leaky cabin. “I finished chopping the wood, maw. Can’t I have just one apple slice?”

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The biggest room of the house consisted of the living room and kitchen, with a dining table as something of a partition between the two. The threadbare rug, which had been a wedding present to his parents, lay across the creaking floorboards and dipped in the places where it covered gaps between the planks. The furniture was in need of a reupholstering they couldn’t afford, and the only touches of hominess were the short, drab curtains that hung over the smudgy windows.

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The kitchen, his mother’s domain, wasn’t much better in the way of shabbiness. The pump at the wash station leaked when it was used, causing the boards on that side of the room to rot out every six months. The stove pipe that tunneled through the roof harbored a hairline crack somewhere that they had yet to patch up. The pantry was meagerly stocked, the cupboards full of chipped dinnerware, and the one stool in the corner rocked no matter how much Logan tried to fix it.

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Every surface, however, was clean and free of rat pellets. The same went for the two bedrooms that encompassed the back half of the house. His mother, though she had little control over much anymore, did ensure that the place was wiped down and scrubbed almost daily. It might have been the only effort made to keep her family healthy.

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Standing near the table, was his mother. Her black hair was pulled back with a cord, eyes shining with pride as she set down the freshly baked apple pie. The crispy, golden brown top crust glittered with sugar granules as steam curled from the even cuts that were made before it was put in the oven. Through these carefully made cuts, he could see the mouthwatering apple slices beneath.

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Out of all his mother’s recipes, this was his favorite and her best. It wasn’t every day they could come by fresh apples, and she must have used the last of the seasonings she had set aside after their meager Christmas feast just a week ago. She had told him she wanted to save it for a special occasion. Just what it was, he didn’t know. His birthday had come and gone as quickly as the holidays did, so he knew it couldn’t be that. And there was no reason to celebrate in their house. Not anymore.

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His mother lifted her chin and smiled to him the way she always did when he came into the room. That happy sparkle in her eyes made all the hard work worth it. “Well, maybe just one slice.”

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He took another step and his toe hit something on the floor. The hollow clink that his shoe tip made against the trash told him enough. He watched the bottle roll across the floor and stop on a slightly uneven board near one of the bedroom doors. When he looked back to his mother, she was no longer smiling. Her eyes had followed the liquor bottle too.

It wasn’t his, and it wasn’t hers. His father was conveniently absent – again. But that wouldn’t keep either of them from blaming him for its presence there. He must have dropped it last night before she had to carry him to bed. He couldn’t sleep on the floor all night.

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They stood in silence for an agonizing moment before she turned away to scrub her hands with a dish rag. “Don’t you need to go to work?” she asked.

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Logan looked down to his clothes and then his hands that were speckled in dirt. He should have brushed off before coming inside. “Yes, but I’ll leave in a minute.”

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“You don’t want to keep Ollie waiting for long.”

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“I know.” He nodded and took up the dull knife sitting on the table beside the pie. If he was careful enough, he could pick a softened slice between one of the cuts in the crust and not ruin the beautiful effect of the whole. “What’s the occasion?”

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One glance toward his mother made him go still before he began his probing. That smile on her lips was familiar too. It wasn’t for him, or even for his father. It belonged to some other memory from long ago. He’d see that gentle, closed-lipped smile every once and a while when she thought no one was looking. In the quiet hours of the evening when only a candleflame bathed the light of the home in a warm, amber glow, did she smile like that. Her stare would become unfocused, her eyes glistening with some emotion reserved for whatever it was she was thinking about. When she knitted or stared out the dirty window, the lines on her face would relax and she’d look young again. Not the careworn mother and wife she had become.

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Logan never brought it to her attention, lest it ruin her blissful peace, the only bit of true, unadulterated happiness life could afford her anymore.

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He dropped his eyes out of respect, but his stare fell on the patch of skin on his mother’s arm. There, just below her rolled up sleeve, were four, faint, dark stripes that nearly wrapped all the way around. Logan felt a muscle in his jaw jump.

“No reason,” she finally replied to his question. “I just…” She turned and their eyes locked. It was then she realized how mad he had become in just a few seconds. That enigmatic smile left her. “What’s wrong?”

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Logan gestured to her arm, still afraid to verbally call out the sin by its name. He might have been a man now, just a little over sixteen, but there were still so many parts of him that were young and childish. Even though he wanted his father to be there, so he could finally confront him about this, Logan wasn’t sure he’d have the courage to say what needed to be said.

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His mother looked to her arm and her mouth pulled into a pained, regretful line. “It doesn’t hurt nearly as badly as some that he’s made before.”

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Seeing that he had lost track of what he had been doing, she deftly took the knife from his hand and began to pry out a slice of apple for him.

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“We… We could leave, maw,” he said hastily while he had the courage. “We don’t need him. I can support us both. I have been for a while now and – “

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She reached out with a thin hand and silenced her son’s bold offer. “We can’t. Please don’t talk about it anymore.”

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Logan’s guts twisted angrily in his core. “We can’t keep living like this.”

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His mother shot him a scowl. “What did I just say?”

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Suddenly sheepish, but still seething, Logan lowered his chin until it nearly touched his chest. “Not to talk about it.”

“Thank you. Now, take your apple slice and go to town. If Ollie asks why you’re late, tell him I had you chopping wood.” She offered out the knife with its dangling, light brown bit of fruit coated in cinnamon. “When you come home tonight, I want to talk to you about something very serious, okay?”

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Logan took the knife and popped the treat in his mouth, savoring its rich sweetness. It’d be all that could fend off his hunger until lunch. Though he wanted to ask more about this serious matter, she was right about his lateness.

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He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and hurried out the door. If he ran fast enough through the woods, he could make it to town in no time. Maybe the sprint would help to expend some of that burning hatred toward his father. Someday, he vowed to himself as he dodged and weaved through the pines and evergreens, they would leave South Carolina. They’ve leave and never look back, until they were someplace safe. Away from his father, his drinking, and his fists. Someday.

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(End of Excerpt)