The Gathering Storm--A Novel
Written by Barbara Warren

Chapter 1

As soon as Stephanie Walker saw the blue Cadillac parked in her driveway, her foot automatically hit the brake. No one she knew could afford anything that flashy, so her visitor had to be either a messenger from Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes or Marty. Since she hadn't returned her entry, it was a sure bet her charming, undependable, not quite honest father had turned up like the proverbial bad penny.

The last she'd heard, Marty and his wife, country singer Monica Harrington, were on a tour of the southwest. This would have made a visit to her home in Independence, Missouri, very much out of his way, so what was he doing here? She mentally checked her bank account. If he wanted a loan, he was out of luck.

For a moment she was tempted to drive on by, but common sense prevailed. What did it matter? After years of trying to win the approval of a father who flitted in and out of her life at widely spaced intervals, she realized she didn't care anymore. He was here, but he wouldn't stay, and that was fine with her.

She parked her aging Ford and watched as he approached, his green eyes gleaming, his mane of red hair sporting streaks of silver. Funny, she'd never thought of Marty getting older. He'd always seemed like a modern-day Peter Pan, endlessly stuck in a state of perpetual adolescence. She had inherited his height, the red hair, and the green eyes, but the charm he exuded so effortlessly when he chose had eluded her.

A flick of anger touched her heart and moved on, surprising her at this lack of emotion. Apparently since her mother's funeral, she had finally accepted the truth. Marty loved Marty. There wasn't anything left over for anyone else. Some things never change, no matter how much you want them to.

He greeted her with all of the enthusiasm of a master of ceremonies at a beauty pageant. "Stephanie! It's wonderful to see you again."

"Hello, Marty. What a surprise."

"A pleasant one, I hope."

That would depend on how much this visit would cost her, financially and emotionally. A casual onlooker seeing them together might think that this was a moment of father and daughter closeness. That casual onlooker would definitely be wrong. Marty didn't understand closeness. A natural actor, he had the knack of being whatever you wanted him to be at the moment, but the moment never lasted. Now he was the epitome of a loving father, and even though Stephanie knew he was only pretending, his performance seemed too real to be questioned.

He stopped in front of her, wearing a confident smile. "How's my favorite daughter?"

It was an effort, but pride kept her voice steady. "I'm fine, Marty. How are you?"

"Badly in need of a hug." He pulled her close, resting his cheek against her hair. The jacket he wore smelled of leather and too many smoky lounges-a scent she always associated with her father. Stephanie forced her body to relax, resisting the urge to pull away.

Never mind that it had been three years ago, the day of her mother's funeral, that she had last seen or heard from him. Today he was a Father. Capitalize that. Underline it. Daddy had come home. Well, Daddy's little girl had grown up, and her capacity for pretending had developed a bad case of rigor mortis.

He dropped his arms, looking wounded at her lack of response. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course I am. You should have brought Monica with you."

His grin acknowledged her hit. "She was devastated she couldn't make it."

"Yeah, I'll bet she was." Even Stephanie had to smile at the vision of the Queen of Country Music showing up on her doorstep. In the seventeen years they'd been together, Monica had successfully ignored the fact that Marty had a daughter. Just like she'd rejected his last name.

When Stephanie was in a mood to be reasonable, she admitted the name thing made sense. After all, they'd been married for only the last three years, and Monica Harrington was already well-known in the music business. On the other hand, if a woman chased a man until she got him to leave his wife and daughter for her, she might as well take his name too as part of the package.

Marty followed her into the two-story house Stephanie had inherited from her mother. The sage green slipcovers on the couch and chair blended with the darker green of the walls.

A Thomas Kinkade print that had cost her a month's salary brightened the space over the antique card table, and her mother's piano filled one corner of the living room.

He smiled in appreciation. "Nice. You have Bess's flair for decorating."

"Fair enough. I can't sing a note."

"Neither can I. I just write `em. I don't sing `em."

He stopped in front of the print, looking at the lighted windows in the cottage, the beds of flowers, painted in glowing colors. "You like Kinkade?"

"Yes, don't you?"

"A little sweet for my tastes. This is escapism."

"There's nothing wrong with escapism. It can beat reality some of the time."

Like when you lost your mother to cancer and your father hit the trail for the bright lights and loud music, apparently forgetting he left a grieving daughter behind. She indicated the packages she clutched. "I'll put these away."

Upstairs, Stephanie tossed her bundles onto the bed and placed the box containing Aunt Margaret's diamond necklace in her jewelry cabinet, where it should be safe. The three-foot-tall cabinet was one of the few nice gifts she'd received from Marty and had an inner drawer that could be opened only if you knew where to find the secret latch.

She hadn't wanted to borrow the necklace-she wasn't the diamond type, but Julie, her boss at the Total Woman Boutique, had planned a spring bash, and all of her employees were expected to show up to take care of any bothersome details. Aunt Margaret, always ready to prod her niece down the aisle to the tune of the wedding march, thought the necklace would add a touch of window dressing.

Aunt Margaret needed a new focus in life instead of the present one of finding a husband for her niece whether she wanted one or not. Stephanie hadn't seen anything in the bitter battlefield of her parents' marriage worth wrecking her bank balance to buy a wedding gown. So far she had successfully avoided the love trap, and she intended to keep it that way.

When she went back downstairs, Marty had poured himself a tall glass of cold grape juice. "This the strongest you have?"

"Right. That's as strong as it gets around here."

"Grape juice is fine. I just wondered about your lifestyle. We've been out of touch." He raised the glass in a mock salute.

"Are you saying it's my fault we've been out of touch? You knew where to find me."

He ignored her comment. "I thought you'd have outgrown your mother's influence by now. She's been gone for two years."

"Make that three years next month." He couldn't remember the date of his wife's death? They'd been married for twenty-three years, even if he'd chosen to spend seventeen of those years with his live-in lover instead of with his wife and daughter.

She rinsed the empty glass, leaving it on the drain board, and led the way back to the living room, wondering why he was here. Not just to see her, surely. If this visit followed his normal pattern, he wanted something.

Marty trailed after her, stopping to pick up a picture of her mother from off the piano. He stared at it, smiling. "She was a lovely woman, my Bess." His voice caressed her name.

More acting? He'd been mostly an absentee father, bent on pursuing his dream of becoming a famous songwriter, until when Stephanie was seven, he'd met Monica Harrington. Once they became a team, their careers exploded. Marty hit the celebrity trail, leaving his wife and daughter behind. Call her a skeptic, but she had a hard time feeling sentimental.

He didn't seem to notice her silence. "Bess was a fine woman, but we were too different. If she'd traveled with me, it might have been better. I got lonesome on the road." He replaced the picture, glancing at Stephanie as if waiting for her reaction.

She let the moment pass, knowing she had nothing to gain by arguing with him. Marty had a silver tongue that could take either side or the middle of any subject, sometimes all three at once. The man could talk an owl out of a tree, but she'd learned the hard way to take everything he said with a hearty dose of skepticism.

He was right about one thing. Her parents had each been so different from the other that she often wondered how they had gotten together in the first place. Bess Walker had been a devout Christian, who hated the easy-living, easy-loving life Marty had chosen. She never skipped a Sunday-morning worship service if she could help it. Her faith in God had been as strong and enduring as the Ozark Mountains she loved, while, as far as Stephanie could tell, the only thing Marty really believed in was himself.

Her mother had planned everything according to God's will, and in Bess's opinion, the Almighty intended for people to get married, make a home, and stay put. Bess never missed a church service no matter how rotten she felt and how bad the weather. Stephanie was the only child in her Sunday-school class at the Mountain Oak Baptist Church with a perfect attendance record. Even the preacher's kids stayed home sick sometimes. Bess Walker's little girl never did. Stephanie still attended church occasionally out of respect for her mother's memory, but she had decided religion was mostly an illusion. If God was in control, He was certainly making a mess of things.

Marty placed his fingers on the piano keys and picked out a few chords. She waited, knowing this scene would be played out according to his timetable.

He stopped playing and moved on to the bookcase, checking out the titles. "I know you blamed me for the divorce, but it wasn't my fault we broke up. I wanted to stay with Bess, but she smothered me until I couldn't write songs. I needed to follow the action."

This casual dismissal of the woman who had loved Marty so much she never got over losing him stung Stephanie into replying. "You followed the action all right. It must be nice to just walk away from your family and start a brand-new life."

He looked uncomfortable, which surprised her. She couldn't remember Marty caring what anyone else thought. He glanced away, then back again. "Let's not fight, Stephanie, but if you're going to dwell on the past, why not look at both sides?"

She clamped her lips tightly together, biting back words that were best left unsaid. What good would it do to let him see the hurt she lived with where he was concerned? She couldn't resist just one jab. "All right, Marty, but let's not forget I lived that life too, and I didn't get to make the decisions."

He prowled around the room, picking up an ornament here, looking at a picture there, until she couldn't stand it any longer.

"You didn't drop by just to visit. What do you want?"

He replaced the snow globe he'd lifted from a shelf, and his eyes locked with hers. "I want you to come to the lodge."

Her mouth dropped open. She couldn't believe he'd actually said that. "I can't go to Harrington Lodge. You've told me they don't want me there."

"I want you. That's all that matters. You're an outsider with a fresh point of view. You might see things I'd miss."

She pursed her lips, thinking fast. Marty was good at having an agenda that benefited him. So what was behind this request? She let her cynicism show. "You've never wanted me before. Why now?"

"I want someone to watch my back. I won't ask you to forgive me, but I really do need you, Stephanie. If you'll come, I'll see you don't regret it."

Was this more of his dramatics? His expression was serious, his eyes watchful. Stephanie closed her teeth on her lower lip, considering. It wasn't like him to beg. She suspected he was in trouble and, as usual, wanted someone to bail him out. "That sounds like you've gotten involved in something dangerous."

For a moment she thought he intended to give her an honest answer, but if so, he changed his mind. "Just come. Keep your eyes open and tell me what you see and hear. I need the opinion of someone I can trust."

"What makes you think you can trust me?"

He picked up a Dreamsickles figurine, a gift from Aunt Margaret, turning it over in his hands as if the chubby, grinning cherub could give him the answers to whatever bothered him. "I can trust you because Bess raised you. Your mother was the most honest, dependable person I ever met, and you're a lot like her. Come to the lodge, Stephanie. I need you."

There it was again. He needed her. He'd never used that line before, and she couldn't buy it now. Even if she wanted to, which she didn't, she couldn't visit Harrington Lodge without an invitation. She'd never met Monica or her son Lance and had no desire to do so, but if she ever did, it would be because they initiated the meeting, not because she had barged in where she wasn't wanted.

"Are you in some sort of trouble?"

He hesitated. "No, probably not. It's just. . .people don't change, not their character and personality anyway."

Well, wasn't this a moment of truth? "I know, Marty. I've waited a long time for you to change. Now I realize you never will. I don't know what this is all about, but surely you see I can't go to the lodge."

"You won't reconsider?"

Drop in on the Harrington family uninvited? She didn't have that kind of nerve. "I'm sorry, but no."

He shrugged. "All right, Stephanie. It was worth a try, but I won't press you. Could I use your bathroom? I have a long drive home."

So, all that talk about needing her, wanting her, was just part of the act. Otherwise why give up so easily? She pressed her lips together, blinking back tears. He wouldn't see her cry. Not this time.

The old schoolroom clock on the wall ticked the minutes away. He'd been gone too long for a casual trip to the bathroom, but before she could go looking for him, he bounced down the stairs and his hands caressed her shoulders. "I'm proud of you, Stephanie. My little girl has grown up."

"I've been grown for several years, Marty. You just haven't bothered to look."

He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I realize you don't trust me, and you have a reason to feel that way. I know I've hurt you, and I'm sorry for that, but I can't change the past. I can do something about the future, though, if you'll just give me a chance."

She didn't answer, partly because she didn't believe him and partly because she wanted so badly to believe.

He dropped a kiss on her forehead. "I'll be seeing you, a lot sooner than you planned." A wink, a gentle hug, and he left, closing the door behind him.

It took a minute for the full import of his words to hit her. She ran to open the front door. "Marty? You come back here!"

He backed out of the drive, waving and grinning, and drove away.

She dashed for the stairs, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach telling her what she would find. Of course he would remember the secret drawer, and being Marty, he would check to see what it held. From the bedroom door she could see the drawer standing open and the note propped against the cabinet. "Come to the lodge, Stephanie. I'll be waiting. Room 324."

Aunt Margaret's necklace was gone.

Multipronged lightning blazed above the Ozark hills, creating a glare similar to a war zone. Stephanie fought the wheel, almost driving off the road before her eyes adjusted to the darkness again. She hated driving at night, and the weather turned this trip into a nightmare. A cannon blast of thunder rolled overhead. Wind rocked the car. She leaned forward, peering at the windshield, barely able to see through the driving curtain of rain. Only an idiot would be out in weather like this. She should have called Aunt Margaret the minute she realized the necklace was missing and let her handle it.

She knew why she hadn't, though. She was still protecting Marty from the consequences for his behavior. Aunt Margaret would have had him arrested with no more compunction than she would have shown a stray bug crawling across her immaculate floor. Stephanie didn't want to see Marty in jail. She just wanted to deck him.

Rain slashed the windshield, cutting visibility to near zero. Lightning again scorched the sky and lights from an oncoming vehicle caught her full in the face. A white van straddling the yellow line and coming much too fast skidded around the curve in her direction. She swerved to the right as far as she dared, conscious of the dark line of timber banking the right-of-way. The van slid by with only inches to spare.

"Did you just buy the road?" she yelled, stress exploding in a vocal barrage.

She gripped the wheel with hands gone slick with perspiration. Driving in this downpour was a number-one nightmare, which was another thing against Marty. It was his fault she was risking her life on this dangerous highway. She knew she wasn't being completely honest about her reason for being there. No, she really didn't want Marty to be arrested, but she also burned for a confrontation that had been a long time coming.

Stephanie lifted one hand from the steering wheel and rubbed the back of her neck, admitting the anger coursing through her had nothing to do with today's events. For most of her life, she'd lived with resentment caused by her father's neglect. Now she was ready to fight back in a blazing inferno that threatened to consume her. It was dangerous to get this angry. The roaring storm rocking her car only intensified the storm raging inside her. Payback time had finally arrived. A whole flock of chickens was about to descend on Marty's home roost.

At the foot of the Roaring River Hill, the road took a sharp turn to the right, then back to the left and across a bridge. Rain-slicked cars and campers glistened in the glare of the park lights. Rainbow trout season had opened the first of March, and the Roaring River state park would be busy from now until the close of the season in the fall.

Harrington Lodge was located somewhere past the small town of Eagle Rock, Missouri, and just this side of the Arkansas line. If she missed the entrance, she would soon be lost in this swerving, swooping nightmare of wet-black highway and lightning-torched skies.

In spite of her efforts to be alert, she almost drove past the stone pillars where the driveway met the road. Partially hidden by a thicket of dogwood trees and white pines, the rambling three-story compound of Ozark limestone and oak lumber looked like a millionaire's hideaway. Cars, ranging from luxury automobiles to battered pickup trucks with gun racks in the back window, filled the well-lit parking lot. Lights glowed in cabins scattered among the trees. From years of reading about this place, she knew the Harrington family also offered rooms in the lodge proper. The food was supposed to be gourmet quality.

Stephanie had worked out her strategy, such as it was, on the five-hour drive down from Independence. Get the necklace, give Marty a hot-tongued lecture on the evils of stealing, and get out. If she could, she'd book a room at the lodge without telling her father, and tomorrow she'd slip over into Arkansas and spend some time in the Eureka Springs flea markets and antique shops before driving home. She loved Eureka, with its steep hills and Painted Ladies-the old-fashioned, brightly painted houses-and maybe she'd have time to see the Great Passion Play and the huge, white statue of the Christ of the Ozarks.

Julie had grudgingly agreed to give her time off, insisting it be considered part of her vacation. Therefore, Stephanie intended to enjoy herself as much as possible. She put up with Julie's slacking off and loud-mouthed abusive remarks because she needed her job as assistant manager of the boutique, not because she cared for her boss.

She parked across the lodge entrance and climbed the broad wooden steps to the wide front porch lined with comfortable-looking rocking chairs. In the lobby, guests crowded around a blazing fire in the massive fieldstone fireplace. A large, gold-framed painting of a bald eagle soaring over mist-shrouded hills hung above the mantel.

Stephanie strode toward the reception area, looking straight ahead. She wanted to get this confrontation over as quickly as possible. Find him, say it, get the necklace, and get out.

The girl at the desk was a blonde by way of the bottle. Her frizzed, overpermed hair looked like an unmade bed. She gave Stephanie a long, straight look out of surprisingly shrewd eyes. "May I help you?"

"Which elevator do I take to Marty Walker's room?"

"Is he expecting you?"

"Yes he is." Of course he was. That's why he had taken the necklace, to get his own way. He was about to get more than he'd bargained for. The heat index of her temper had zoomed from simmering to a point a few degrees below that of boiling lava. She was ready to erupt, and if he got scorched in the blast, so much the better.

The girl hesitated. "We don't normally give out information about family members."

"In that case, call and tell him Stephanie is here."

She looked uncertain, but then she shrugged. "Well, I'll let Marty sort it out. He's in the family quarters. Use that elevator over there."

"Thank you."

"Quite all right." The receptionist still had a considering expression on her face, as if trying to decide whether to call for help.

Stephanie whirled to head for the elevator and, lips tight, eyes blazing,caught a glimpse of herself in the oak-framed mirror across from the desk. She looked like trouble on the hoof.

She took a deep breath and turned around, forcing a smile. The girl at the desk didn't smile back.

Contact us for more info >