Worth the Risk Read online

  Worth the Risk

  A Southern Fairy Tale

  Shannon Davis

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part II

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  © Copyright 2020 Shannon Davis

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer, Marisa Wesley, Cover Me Darling

  Editor, Amy Briggs

  Proofreading: Stephie Walls

  Formatting: Drue Hoffman, Buoni Amici Press, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and places portrayed in this book are entirely products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  For my precious family.

  I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Eternally grateful for your love.

  Prologue

  Rebecca

  Wednesday, May 8, 2002 ~ You’re Never Too Old for Fairy Tales

  When I was a little girl, I used to pretend I was a princess. Like Cinderella or Snow White, I wanted to do good things for others, meet the man of my dreams, and spend the rest of my life happy and in love. I was intrigued by the stories my momma read to me. I loved them all. But that’s what they were—stories.

  As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized life isn’t always so happy. I’ve had my share of problems. Serious problems. Gun-to-my-head kinda problems. And I’ve been on an emotional rollercoaster more times than I care to admit. In fact, lately, I cry at the drop of a hat. God forbid a Hallmark movie comes on. Those movies make my eyes leak like a broken faucet, even the ones I’ve seen a billion times. But being in touch with your emotions is a good thing, I suppose. The good book says a tenderhearted person lives a blessed life. So, as I’m bawling my eyes out on the couch, I’m waiting on my blessings. That’s me, the sentimental optimist.

  As for happily ever after, I’d just about given up on the notion. Due to certain dramatic and terrifying events, I believed I’d become a typical old maid. Sure, I wanted a family, but the last thing on my mind was getting married. Hell, my heart was so broken at the time, I thought I’d never fall in love again. But I never forgot the words of one of my favorite singers, Dolly Parton, who said, “You can have what you want, if you believe you can have it.” I found out time has a way of changing things and there’s no such thing as too late.

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Rebecca

  Wednesday, August 6, 1980 ~ Meeting Jackson

  It was a treacherous, summer day in August with absolutely no wind to speak of. The ground smoldered and the air was like breathing hot lava. Summers in the South were scorchers. We lived in the country on the outskirts of Niceville, home of the Boggy Bayou Mullet Festival and Eglin Air Force Base, that’s where my dad worked. I can still hear the planes flying overhead with their jet engines screaming. My favorite part was when they broke the sound barrier and created an enormous boom. I thought that was the coolest thing ever, but some of the residents actually had the nerve to complain about it.

  Living in the panhandle of Florida had its perks. We were close to the beach, the fishing was excellent, and seafood was always fresh. But we had five seasons. Fall, winter, spring, summer, and hurricane season. It’s a season, all right. Just ask the weatherman. If you were a local, you knew all about it. We Floridians had evacuating down to a science. Most of the time, we boarded the windows, stocked up on batteries, food, and water, got the generators gassed up, and hunkered down to ride out the storm. But if the military ordered us to evacuate, that was a different story. Dad had to go. So, we packed and took a little vacation. Either way, we loved our homes, and if we lost them due to storm or flood, we’d rebuild. That’s just what you did.

  Although we were only minutes from the Gulf Coast, Niceville didn’t get flooded with beach tourists like our eastern and western neighbors, Pensacola, Destin, and Panama City. Niceville was a lot more peaceful and laid back with its quaint shops, family-owned restaurants and businesses, and charming Southern hospitality. But, like its tourist-filled neighbors, Niceville was just as miserable in the summer heat when the humidity was high, which was every stinking day. That’s typical weather in the south. You step outside to a sauna, and the gnats work ruthlessly trying to eat your eyes out.

  From May through September, if my little brother, Timmy, and I played outside, it didn’t take long before our clothes were sticking to us, soaked with sweat. We didn’t have a swimming pool like many of our friends. No matter how much I begged my daddy, he wouldn’t budge. He said they were too expensive, and we’d probably drown ourselves. I thought every house should come with a pool and air conditioning, especially in Florida.

  So, with no pool and no hopes of ever getting one, Timmy and I would beg Momma to take us to the beach. Ninety-nine percent of the time, she would sound like Daddy. One excuse after another. She either had too much to do, or the red flags were flying, or it was too hot. I’d buy the first two, but that last excuse? Really? That’s why we wanted to go to the beach, Mom. Whining never worked, unfortunately. So when it was hot as hellfire, we’d find other things to do, in the air conditioning.

  Our home was simple but nice, a typical ranch style house with gray speckled brick, white shutters, and a charcoal-gray shingled roof. Momma liked soft, cool colors, so every room was either baby blue, seafoam green, or seashell white. Our front porch was her sanctuary, with a swing, white wicker furniture, and several potted plants. With her amazing green thumb, she kept the front yard picture-perfect too. A couple of tall Royal palm trees, along with some colorful hibiscus, evergreen shrubs, and a little rose garden, provided her much pleasure.

  Our front yard was fairly small compared to our backyard, which was my favorite. We lived on twenty acres, and most of the back was left natural. Daddy liked it that way because he didn’t have to mow. But I liked it because it was quiet, peaceful, and usually a lot cooler from the shade of the old oaks and pines.

  Timmy and I would make forts out of fallen limbs and some of Momma’s old sheets we stole from the linen closet. We occupied ourselves for hours. Momma didn’t particularly like us playing back there because of snakes and poison ivy, but I never saw any snakes. And we only got into poison ivy once, so we moved our fort t
o the other side of the yard.

  Being banned from our fortress left us with only one alternative when it was a hundred-thousand degrees outside—the water hose. There was no way we could be in that blistering heat without some sort of relief. And if it wasn’t shade, then it’d have to be water. In our bathing suits and goggles, Timmy and I would turn on the sprinklers and play for hours, or at least until we made puddles all over the yard and got yelled at. Sometimes we’d hook up the Slip ‘N Slide for a spell and see who could slide the farthest. It was amusing until I squirted baby oil all over the plastic to make it slicker. We nearly killed ourselves that afternoon, flying off the plastic like a bullet shot from a gun. We looked like roadkill with our skinned knees, elbows, and chins. After that, we weren’t too interested in the Slip ‘N Slide anymore. So, when we were about to pass out from heat exhaustion, we’d fill up some five-gallon buckets with water and squat down all the way up to our necks. We spent many summer days cooling off in those cold-water buckets. Just Timmy and me. And the gazillion gnats.

  Well, that is where my story begins. Because it is exactly what we were doing when a strange boy peddled up on his red Schwinn Stingray. I struggled with which one looked worse, him or the bike, so I pushed up my goggles to get a better look.

  Two strips of duct tape patched well-worn rips on the long banana seat. The forks, frame, fenders, and ape-hanger handlebars were all covered in rust, which blended with the red paint in a tie-dyed sort of way. And the boy matched his bike. He had on a pair of frayed jean shorts that were cut off just above his knee and a thin, holey, faded Incredible Hulk T-shirt, and no shoes. His hair was blond, but he was so dirty and sweaty, it was almost brown, especially in the front. And it was so messy that it looked like a rat had built a nest right on top of his head. A gigantic scab covered his right elbow and ran all the way down his forearm. His legs looked like he’d been running through the woods, with all the scratches and bruises, and he sported a nice shiner on his left eye. I’d never seen such a dreadful sight. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, thinking how bad all those injuries had to hurt. I knew how terrible that Slip ‘N Slide felt and he was in worse shape than us.

  “Hey!” he called out from across the road. “What’re the buckets for?”

  “Cooling off!” I yelled back.

  As he rode his bike closer, I stood to say hello. He skidded to a stop ten feet away from us, so I lowered my chin and wrinkled my brow. I wasn’t sure about this kid. If he was a troublemaker, I planned to send him on his way. But then he smiled at me, and that did it. He had the prettiest blue eyes I’d ever seen.

  After several seconds, I folded my arms and cleared my throat. “Do you live around here?”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly, all the while still smiling, “We just moved in.” He pointed toward the gravel road. “I’m Jackson. My real name’s Allen Jackson Strickland, but everybody calls me Jackson.”

  I pulled my goggles off my head and held them in my hand. Allen Jackson Strickland, I thought. I like that name. I squinted my eyes. “How’d you get all those cuts and bruises?”

  Jackson looked down at his legs, twisted his lips, and scratched under his chin, leaving a smear of sweaty dirt on his neck. “I wrecked my bike going down a hill. My foot slipped off the pedal and I tumbled all the way to the bottom.”

  “Looks like it really hurt. You must’ve hit every rock.” I had to bite the inside of my cheeks so I wouldn’t laugh.

  He shrugged. “It hurt a little. Knocked my brains around and nearly scared me to death.”

  “Is that when you got your black eye too?”

  Jackson hesitated and his smile quickly faded. “Yeah,” he replied. His eyes took on a shameful quality, so I stopped asking questions.

  “My name’s Rebecca,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Rebecca Sharp.”

  Jackson shook my hand. I imagined it felt like a wet fish, but his felt like a rough, wooly sock.

  “This is my little brother, Timmy,” I said. “He’s a big fan of the Incredible Hulk too.”

  “Cool,” Jackson said, giving Timmy two thumbs-up.

  “Timmy’s three, and I’m eight.”

  “Almost four, Sissy!”

  Jackson smiled at Timmy, then looked at me. “I’m eight too,” he said, swatting the gnats as they swarmed around his face. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Sure is hot today.”

  I didn’t hear a word Jackson said. I was in a trance, studying his eyes. They were as blue as the ocean, almost turquoise.

  “Getta bucket!” Timmy shouted.

  It wasn’t until Timmy shot up and yelled that I realized I’d lapsed into a momentary daydream. I smiled nervously, trying to brush off the tingling that swept across my face.

  Timmy patted his wet bird chest with his tiny puckered hands. “You can use mine, but ya need to wash your feet.”

  Jackson looked at his bare feet and grinned. “I think you’re right, Timmy. They’re filthy.”

  I laughed. “Come on. We can fix that.”

  I ran over to turn on the water hose, and Jackson trailed behind me, letting his bike fall to the ground. Neither one of us noticed Timmy until we heard the bloodcurdling cry.

  “Timmy!” I snapped my head around as adrenaline surged through my body. I rushed over to my brother, who was lying on his belly, squalling his eyes out. “Timmy! What happened?”

  Timmy didn’t answer. He continued to cry and started screaming for Momma. Jackson knelt beside him and took him by the shoulders. After giving me a quick glance, he rolled Timmy over and gently lifted him. A string of bright red spit hung from Timmy’s mouth. I winced at the sight. His face was covered with blood.

  Calmly, Jackson cradled Timmy in his lap and held his shirt against my brother’s face. “It’s gonna be all right, Timmy. I got ya, buddy. Here, lemme take a look.” When Jackson moved his shirt to the side, I suddenly felt dizzy. “Rebecca, go get your momma.” Jackson’s voice was faint. I was in another trance, but this time, from fear. “Rebecca, hurry!” he ordered, jolting me back to reality.

  I flinched and took off running into the house, hollering, “Momma! Come quick! Timmy’s hurt!”

  Momma was in the kitchen cooking supper. When she heard me yelling, she whirled around from the stove. “What is it?” she shouted frantically.

  “It’s Timmy! He’s bleeding! From his face!” I managed to answer between panicked breaths.

  She quickly turned off the stove and followed me outside. “What happened?” she demanded.

  Tears pricked my eyes. “I think he fell getting out of his bucket.”

  “Rebecca! Why didn’t you help him?” Her voice was laced with anger.

  “Because,” I whimpered, “I was turning on the hose to wash off Jackson’s feet.”

  “What?” Her voice raised. “Who’s Jackson?”

  I sniffed as we reached the side of the house. “That’s Jackson, Momma.”

  Jackson was sitting on the ground, holding my little brother in his arms. He had taken off his shirt, and Timmy was holding it against his mouth, laughing. Jackson was tickling his belly, making him forget about his busted-up face. A rush of relief washed over me.

  Momma knelt beside them and smiled. “What are you silly boys up to?”

  “Timmy’s lip’s busted, ma’am, and I think his nose got smashed too, but I think he’ll be okay.” Jackson winked at Timmy. “He’s just gonna look like me for a while.”

  Timmy giggled as he twisted his face and squinted his eye, trying to wink back.

  “Let’s go get you cleaned up, champ.” Momma reached down and picked Timmy up.

  “I look like Jackson, Momma,” Timmy said, still grinning.

  She gave his mouth a quick look and sighed. “I see that.”

  We followed them into the house and waited in the kitchen while Momma took Timmy to the bathroom to clean his face.

  “Hey, you wanna Coke?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Jackson said, hooking his thumbs into his pocke
ts.

  I took two Cokes from the fridge and motioned for him to follow me over to the table. “Here ya go.” We sat down and popped the tops at the same time. “You got any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. It’s just me and my mom and dad. ‘Cept I never really see my dad much.” Jackson stared at the can and started swinging his foot back and forth. “Momma told me one time I almost had a brother, but he didn’t make it.”

  I bit my bottom lip. You don’t say something like that unless somebody…died…right? I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to think of what to say. “Well, you’re welcome to come hang out with mine anytime. I can tell he likes you.”

  About that time, Momma and Timmy returned from the bathroom. Timmy’s bottom lip was swollen and split down the middle, but the grin he wore told us he was fine. He ran straight toward Jackson, jumped in his lap, and threw his arms around his neck.

  Jackson laughed and patted Timmy on the back, shooting me a sideways glance. “I think you’re right.”

  I giggled. “Hey, Momma?”

  “Yeah, baby?” She reached in the freezer for a bag of peas.

  “This is our new friend, Allen Jackson Strickland. He lives down the gravel road.”

  “Hello, Jackson,” Momma smiled. “You can call me Mrs. Carol if you’d like.” She brought the frozen peas over to Timmy. “Here. Hold this to your lip.”