A Liberating Love (Keepers of the Light Book 3) Read online

  A

  Liberating

  Love

  Keepers of the Light Series: Book 2

  By

  Marlene Bierworth

  Copyright © 2020 Marlene Bierworth

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without written permission of the author, Marlene Bierworth, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, character and events are the product of the author’s imagination. While the author has tried to be historically correct, her goals in this book are great characters and storytelling. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locals, is purely coincidental.

  From the Author

  A Liberating Love is Book 2 in a multi-author project. The setting is historical Spruce Hill, a fictional logging town in Oregon. The area has two lighthouses – Lookout Rock and Puffin Point. The stories and characters in this series will include an adventure revolving around the town, camps, or the lighthouses.

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  Join Bethany and Troy as they endeavor to put to right the past and free the ghostly shadows that have shaped too many lives over the last thirteen years. The mystery/romance – A Liberating Love – involves a parallel love story of Simone, the deceased mother, and Bethany, her daughter. Join in the journey to freedom that will launch Bethany and Troy’s happy-ever-after.

  Table of Content

  Chapter 1 In the Attic

  Chapter 2 Taking A Stand

  Chapter 3 Sunday Arrives

  Chapter 4 Lookout Rock

  Chapter 5 Courting

  Chapter 6 Treasures

  Chapter 7 Unexpected Visitors

  Chapter 8 Follow the Clues

  Chapter 9 Truth Speaks

  Chapter 10Confrontation

  Chapter 11Surprises for Bethany

  Chapter 12A Bedtime Story

  Chapter 13Happy-Ever-After

  Chapter 1

  In the Attic

  Henry Forester left strict orders that the attic remain locked and Ms. Fletcher carried out his commands to the letter. Restrictions built in stone often tempted his daughter, Bethany, but it never failed that when visions of his angry face hovered over her brave young soul, she grudgingly bowed to her father’s rule. However, fear did not have the power to silence her imagination. More than once she’d wondered if her mother’s ghost lived on the top floor, for in the night hours she sensed the call so intense it near suffocated her. For years she’d fought the urge to explore, avoiding the room like the plague, half expecting some aura of crazy-fever to overtake her. Life sped forward and the little girl grew up, her past fading into distant shadows and disappearing inside the furthermost reaches of her mind. Until today!

  Bethany arrived home late from working at the mill and hurried to change into chore clothes. As she rounded the corner upstairs on route to her bedroom, she noticed the irregularity and ground to a halt. For the first time in thirteen years, the attic door was open. With the courage of an adult who no longer believed in ghosts and was too old for her father to discipline, she jumped at the chance to mount the forbidden steps. Perhaps she’d find the box of children’s books that her mother had read faithfully to her every night. She wanted to share the forgotten series that spoke of faith, hope, and love to encourage the abandoned children at the Quinn Home. She visited the orphanage regularly, attempting to make a difference in young lives. Using her own childhood pain to build bridges, Bethany, on many occasions, had managed to rescue a lost soul.

  The books were located within minutes. Excited with her find, she tucked the crate under her arm and turned to leave. It was then Bethany spotted the dust-covered trunk, pushed tightly under the slope of the roof. Unable to resist the powerful draw, she approached sneakily, like a child mesmerized by a cookie jar. She yanked it into an open area and knelt on the floor in front of the old decorative piece that was labeled memories. In a dreamlike trance her fingers toyed with the ornamental latch that kept the lid closed, but not locked. Even at age eighteen, fear of reprisal soared within, shrouding Bethany with the familiar nervousness of a disobedient daughter. Her heart pounded as a rush of wind cooled her overheated body. Scanning the room for the trapped ghost that she’d dreaded her entire life, her gaze stopped at the small window that sat propped open at the bottom a couple of inches. Bethany expelled a sigh of relief. The breeze had originated from outside, not inside. She shivered and chided herself for putting an ounce of stock into childhood terrors.

  The lid squeaked as it opened, stopping when the lengths of rope that held it on two sides drew tight and the interior came into full view. She pulled out a baby quilt and noted the inscription embroidered in the corner edge – Bethany S. Forester, born 1852, sewn with love, from mother. With colorful pieces of material, the seamstress had created pictures portraying the rich heritage found in the nearby forests of Tillamook. The daughter hugged it to her chest and imagined the hours of work and love that went into the completion of such a blanket – and it had been made for her, the only daughter Simone Forester birthed. Bethany glanced uneasily toward the door. She needed to hurry. Pieces of life and memorabilia that the woman collected as far back as her courting days with Papa, soon littered the floor.

  Baffled by this accidental find, Bethany recalled the anger that her father had exhibited the day he tore the house apart, removing anything that reminded him of his wife. As a five-year-old child, she’d watched in horror as all memories of her mother disappeared. The purging continued into the night, long after she’d gone to bed. And while Bethany cowered under a mountain of blankets, she’d cried nonstop, fearing the river of tears would flow forever. On the day the courts declared Simone Forester’s death a tragic suicide, Bethany returned from school to find Jane Fletcher, the new maid and nanny, moved into her dead mother’s room. A locked door barred entry into the attic, and Henry Forester escaped to the logging camp. He did not return until the following spring.

  During Bethany’s first year at Spruce Hill’s rustic, one-room schoolhouse, the children ostracized her as the girl with the crazy mother, inflicting a depth of pain and loneliness that no child should suffer. But over time, the pressure lessened, and soon no one cared about the woman who’d jumped to her death from the top of Lookout Rock.

  Now Bethany sat crouched on the floor of the attic with her head buried inside the large chest examining hidden treasures from her mother’s forgotten life. Each item that connected them brought the memories rushing back. It surprised her what she now recalled from interactions with her mother, thoughts that she’d kept buried for years.

  She lifted a jewelry case from the bottom of the chest and placed it on her lap. When she opened it, a sweet tune drifted through the silent room and she closed her eyes, envisioning her childhood image of the slim, beautiful woman that gave her life. When the music stopped, she examined each necklace, ring, bracelet, and ear clasp separately, much too ornate and extravagant for her taste. Bethany preferred small and delicate accessories that did not distract from character, which she valued above appearance. The shallow bottom drawer held one chain with a locket attached; a picture of Simone on one side and Henry Forester on the other.

  While examining it, the box slipped from her knee and landed on the floor with a thump. The shuffling of something inside caught her attention. With
the pile of jewelry amassing off to the side, Bethany knew the container should be empty, but when she shook it the noise continued. Something was inside. The open drawer loomed before her like an invitation, and she noticed one end of the red velvet slightly peeled back in the corner. She picked at it until the plush red velvet pulled back to uncover a small latch hardly big enough to wiggle her pinkie finger beneath. With little hindrance, the top lifted, revealing a secret drawer.

  A picture lay inside. Bethany recognized her mother immediately, standing next to a handsome dark-haired stranger. They posed together under the covered porch in front of the enormous oak door at Lookout Rock. The day appeared overcast, darkening the photo and creating a menacing atmosphere. The spray that speckled the air surrounding the couple was the result of the waves churning from Chauntis Bay and thrashing against a jagged lower ledge located next to the lighthouse. The secretive aura the snapshot generated left Bethany speechless. Expressions registered next; upturned faces captured within a web of love. Bethany’s gaze left her mother’s glowing face, and as she followed her figure downward, she gasped. Mother was pregnant! The woman had only brought one child into the world - Bethany - and then died five years later. So, the timing of this small baby bump, in the presence of a man other than her father, did not sit well in Bethany’s heart. Where was Father, and who was this man Mother openly admired and possibly loved? And why was the photo hidden inside a secret compartment in Simone Forester’s jewelry box?

  “What are you doing in here?” a voice barked from the open stairway. Bethany turned and saw the red face of Ms. Fletcher standing erect and rigid in her superior stance, the one she regularly used to bring down the iron hand of discipline upon Bethany.

  “I’m not a child anymore, Ms. Fletcher, and you can’t stop me from looking through my family treasures.” She’d never spoken so rudely to the woman who’d stepped in to provide a mother and father figure these past thirteen years.

  “Your father is returning from the logging camp tonight and will be fuming mad when he learns of your disobedience.”

  “Then you should go downstairs, prepare a grand supper and forget you saw me here. I am merely reminiscing.”

  The woman glanced down the small dark stairwell and grew uncomfortable. “If you promise you’ll leave this place.”

  “I’m right behind you, Ms. Fletcher,” said Bethany. “I’ll be down shortly to set the table.”

  The woman’s exit was as quick as her feet dared to take the steep steps. When the door closed, Bethany replaced the picture into its hiding place, stuffed the items into the chest, and closed the lid. In her arms, she struggled to carry both prizes down the narrow steps – the books and the jewelry box. Bethany hurried to her room and hid the case on the top shelf of her wardrobe, placing a large sun hat in front to hide it from view. She left the books on the floor and forewent changing into a housedress. Grabbing a sweater, she shut the door to the wardrobe tightly before heading downstairs.

  The evening air in Spruce Hill chilled significantly, and she hoped to walk with her father after supper, as was their custom on his first night home. She enjoyed hearing about all the wild stories of horses, men, fallen trees, and campfire tales. On the occasions he traveled to market, the cities offered grander tales of fashion, theater, and the latest inventions to assist at Forester Mill. He earned a sizable income and often brought home treats when he stayed away for long periods. This trip had been to the logging camp, which he never tired of. He appeared more than eager to allow Bethany full run of the Spruce Hill Forester Mill, trusting her decisions without interference while he enjoyed his first-love, cutting trees alongside his men.

  At the bottom of the steps, she halted, not expecting to overhear voices raised in anger coming from inside the kitchen.

  “What do you mean, you left the door unlocked? You had no business going up there.”

  “I indulged in a weak moment, Henry.”

  “You are a weak woman, perhaps the wrong choice to leave in charge of my home.”

  “It’s been thirteen years and I’ve never once unlocked the door. I felt a need to bask in some memories of my own, today. You leave me none to cherish in the present life.”

  “You knew the arrangement.”

  “I’m tired of the arrangement and want a real life. I came here as a naïve teenager and today is my thirty-second birthday. But I’m certain that did not cross your mind when you shopped to satisfy your daughter’s whims?”

  The room grew silent for a few seconds. “I take you for granted, and I apologize,” Henry said. “Where is Bethany?”

  “She’ll be down shortly. She only looked through the chest at the knick-knacks, reliving the few memories you didn’t throw away. The girl is at an age where a legacy is important. You’d do well to sweep the entire episode under the rug and not make a fuss about it.”

  “And you’d do well to remember your place.”

  Bethany back-tracked, returning to the lower steps then thumping her way down the second half again. She yelled at the same time to announce her arrival. “Here I come, Ms. Fletcher.” When she entered the kitchen, she noticed the housekeeper brush away a tear from her flushed face. Bethany’s plan to fake a joyful surprise at finding her father home backfired. The look on Henry Forester’s face brought her to a grinding halt.

  He spun to face her. Before muttering a welcoming hello, he hollered at the top of his lungs. “What in blazes is this I hear? You’ve been to the attic?”

  Chapter 2

  Taking a Stand

  Bethany held his gaze. How the man could survive all these years with that anger brewing inside him was more than she could fathom. A sweet calm swaddled her, replacing the near explosive atmosphere in the room. Perhaps discovering the treasures in the box made the change? It provided confidence that she’d never dared to entertain and she marveled as a new strength overtook the fear. Simone Forester’s photo flashed through her mind and she sensed the nudge of a cool, ghostly hand pushing from behind – or at least that’s what she credited the sudden chill that urged her forward. For once in her life, Bethany would not back down.

  “You cannot keep my mother’s storage trunk from me any longer. A girl needs a woman’s things - it’s my legacy, and I’ll not let you steal it from me.”

  “I have provided the only legacy you need, girl. Do you not enjoy life in Spruce Hill and your privileged station at the family mill? You realize I had to come down hard on eligible men who figure management is their rightful position.”

  “How could I forget? Between you and them, I’m not sure who nags me the most. Every day of my working life, I am reminded that I am a mere woman walking in man’s shoes. The superior attitude sickens me. But I draw strength from their ignorance, for I’m as knowledgeable as any of your employees. I refuse to back down at the mill, in my home or in pursuing our family legacy.” She took a deep breath and lifted her brow. “Any other arguments, Father?”

  “Where did that sass come from, girl?” He fanned his fingers through his thick mass of chestnut brown hair and appeared frazzled. “You’ve opened your mother’s box of memories, and it wouldn’t surprise me that she’s in the great beyond, egging you on.”

  His voice trembled with a sudden weakness he’d not shown in all her growing years. Bethany wondered if he’d been running from his wife’s haunting all this time while she ran with eagerness toward it.

  “It’s obvious my mother dealt with issues she couldn’t face, and in desperation, took the easy way out. That is not insanity! Did you ever think her problems stemmed from living with a controlling husband?” Bethany gasped at her own words. She’d gone too far. Profound sadness covered his face, and she crumbled. “Oh, Papa. I didn’t mean that. I just get so riled sometimes, and no one listens.”

  “The courts declared her insane. It’s the only excuse for one who takes her own life.” His voice grew softer now, and his eyes pleaded with her to understand. “Why would you care to remember such a person?�
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  “Because her blood runs through me. My mother tucked me in bed for five years, singing and reading stories to me until I dropped off to sleep. She cooked my meals, sewed my clothes, and cut my hair. She was the one who hugged me, calling me princess and warning me never to let anyone lock me in a tower.” That last bit of recollection entered Bethany’s mind and popped out in the same instant - the concept of a prison tower, a useful touch for today’s conversation. “I refuse to label my mother as deranged no matter what you, the law, or mocking neighbors have to say.”

  Henry peered toward Jane. “Ms. Fletcher said you deserved to know whatever good your mother left behind and she had the nerve to claim that I’m jealous - of a dead woman, if you can imagine that?”

  Bethany moved closer. “Perhaps there is a nugget of truth in her words, but you need not entertain such a sin. My mother’s body ages beneath the Columbia River and you have provided a good life for me. Ms. Fletcher, for the most part, has been an acceptable replacement. Why would you make room for jealousy? It is true that fate played us an unexpected hand, but I’ll not spend my entire lifetime disowning the blood that runs through my veins. I refuse to exist under the farce a moment longer.”

  Henry’s hand reached out to caress his daughter’s cheek. “You are becoming a woman; one I am proud to call family. Can you forgive an old man his anger?”

  “Only if you cast it to the wind and begin to live again. Did you know that many single females at church would jump at the slightest encouragement from you?” Bethany glanced sideways and witnessed puddles of sorrow in Jane’s brown eyes, revealing a depth of grief she’d managed to hide from Bethany. To reduce the woman’s anguish, Bethany added, “or even Ms. Fletcher here, right under our noses the entire time.”