Thistle Dew

by Mary C. Allen

Overview

Meredith McBride is a horse trainer living in the majestic Teton Valley, Idaho, with her husband Blake, a captain for a commercial airline, when tragically, the plane her husband was piloting crashes into the East China Sea, killing everyone on board.

Enveloped by the world press in her small town, Meredith tries to grieve for her dead husband, while the cause of the plane crash is investigated.

The press quickly expose the details of Blake’s past, military service in Afghanistan, and the violent circumstances of his conception.

Three days after the crash, the FAA reveal the cause of the devastating plane crash, that shocks people world-wide.

With the love and support of her dear friend Grace, Meredith does her best to cope, despite the scrutiny from the press and the people in her town.

To make matters worse, Meredith’s alcoholic brother Darien, who she hasn’t seen in eighteen years comes to live with her, in hopes that she can save his life from his debilitating disease. She is skeptical about their reunion, because she doesn’t want to relive the pain of her abusive childhood, and battle a disease that has dominated her brother’s life for over twenty-five years.

By chance, Meredith is reunited with her former lover Levi, a man who broke her heart, but it isn’t long before she realizes that Levi is the true love of her life.

Not wanting her husband’s death to be in vain, Meredith takes a stand to help veterans with PTSD, and creates a foundation named after a veteran soldier who had been dishonored by the military.

Thistle Dew, details the depth of a woman’s strength and dedication to overcome loss, and the scars of the past, while embracing the healing powers of horses, amongst the unspoiled wilderness of the mountainous west.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781524627508
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	09/09/2016
Pages:	274
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.62(d)

Read an Excerpt

Thistle Dew

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By Mary C. Allen

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2016 Mary C. Allen
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5246-2750-8

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CHAPTER 1

BEFORE I LEFT, I CHECKED the guest bedroom one last time. I stopped in the doorway for a second to settle my nerves. I could feel my heart thumping inside my chest. I exhaled heavily, hoping that would release some of my anxiety. To distract myself from the feeling of uncertainty, I went over the checklist in my head: sheets and towels clean, toilet and shower scrubbed down, carpet vacuumed, bathroom floor mopped, refrigerator stocked, and all alcohol gone.

Outside the second-story bedroom window, I spotted a female fox I had fondly named Tink. Her wild presence seemed to have a calming effect on me as I watched her cautiously slink across the back pasture toward the heavy cover of cottonwood and aspen trees along the creek.

The morning frost melted quickly as the May sun rapidly crested over the snow-covered mountains and flooded the valley below. Almost like a light switch had been flipped, the bright rays seamlessly transformed the sunless landscape with brilliant color.

I watched as a gang of pesky magpies flushed from the budding willows and flew toward Tink before she quickly disappeared into the trees. I then looked down at my black lab, Emmy, who was sitting by my side with her tail wagging back and forth on the carpet. She looked up at me with a joyous, toothy grin that made me smile and appreciate her companionship and love.

"Emmy, we have company coming. We need to get to the airport!" Emmy stood and gave her familiar whine, followed by a happy bark. Emmy knew that something was stressing me. It seemed that, after seven months with just her and me, Emmy had developed a keen understanding of my emotions. It was uncanny how this animal could read me. But to me, Emmy was more than just a dog; she had helped me endure the unbearable burden I had shouldered these past months.

I spotted my band of horses about a hundred yards away as Emmy and I walked out the front door. They were grazing along the irrigation stream that wound through my property. I stopped for a few seconds and gazed out from the covered porch. I couldn't help but feel inspired as the sun reflected off the snow-coated mountains to the west. In the cool, still air, my horses heard me walk across the gravel drive. All six popped their heads up in unison, their hot breath puffing out their nervous nostrils.

I yelled across the pasture, "We have company coming!" They peered over at me for another few seconds and then resumed eating the protein-rich spring grass.

As I made my way to the truck parked in the circular drive, I watched Emmy tuck her rump and bolt across the yard at a record pace. She did this because she wanted to play and because it was cold. I laughed at her puppy-like behavior as she stopped just as quickly as she had started. She looked at me with tongue hanging out and tail wagging.

"We'll play later, girl ... I promise."

I opened the driver side door, and Emmy jumped in and commanded her assigned position in the passenger seat. She proudly looked over at me with her beautiful, brown eyes as if to say, "All ready, Mommy!" My little copilot, I called her.

"What would I do without you, Emmy?" I gave her a tender kiss on the head before starting up the truck.

I ran the windshield wipers to clear away the melted frost. I found the hypnotic sound of the wipers soothing, so I left them on as I drove away. At the end of the long driveway, I waited for the heavy automatic gate to open. I fondly looked up at the custom steel sign bearing the name of our property: Thistle Dew. I couldn't help but smile every time I read it. I slowly drove over the small wooden bridge. The creek under it was flowing fast, fed by the winter snowmelt in the mountains east of the valley.

Once I hit the dirt road, I could feel my sense of angst tailgating me, filling my rear view mirror with an imaginary wave of uncertainty. I hit the accelerator, hoping to leave it behind. Yet what I got instead was a honk and a wave from Sheriff Madison as he passed me from the other direction. I waved back and slowed my speed. I quickly glanced in the rearview mirror and witnessed his truck being engulfed in a wake of brown dust.

A few months back, Sheriff Madison had been a good advocate, as he kept the press and the nosy public off my property. After about two weeks, the press and news media presence had slowly dwindled to just a few local affiliates. But every day, I would look out the window to see several vans and media trucks, some with satellites perched on their roofs, parked on the dirt road bordering my sixty-acre ranch. Their presence was a nuisance but also a painful reminder of the heartache I was having to live through. I wasn't able to mourn in private like most people.

My husband's death had become a spectacle, the top story both locally and worldwide. Despite that, my close friends and family had stepped up and circled me with their support and love when I had needed it most. Still, it had been about five months since I had had anyone from out of town come stay with me. I had told everyone I needed time by myself. Nevertheless, the circumstances behind this coming visit were very different.

The news of my husband's passing had come to me from his employer, but I could've easily found out by just turning on my television that morning. Blake, my husband, had been a pilot for a major commercial airline based out of Salt Lake City. He had commuted out of the airport in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. For the past year, he had been flying a route that went from Salt Lake City, Utah, to Beijing, China.

As I had listened to the man's voice on the other end of the phone express his regret, I ran to the kitchen and looked at the side of the refrigerator. Before each trip, Blake would always write his flight number on the eraser board.

I'm not sure if I hadn't believed this person or if I had needed visual proof. I interrupted him and asked the man, "What flight number was it that went down?" As he spouted off the four-digit number, I felt my legs give out. I grabbed the kitchen counter to steady myself. Regrettably, the numbers matched the ones Blake had written down the day before. I couldn't now help but stare at the numbers he had scribbled on the whiteboard. He had even added a smiley face with horse ears. I was now laughing and crying at the same time.

The airline official had spoken for another minute or so. My head was spinning with doubt, and I was weeping quietly. I then heard him say that the plane Blake had been piloting had gone down in the East China Sea, near the island of Okinawa, Japan. "Unfortunately," he stated, "all two hundred forty-two passengers and twelve crew members are feared lost. The FAA are on their way to the crash site to investigate the cause."

Without saying goodbye, I hung up on the gentleman and ran to turn on the television. I was crying uncontrollably now, with deep sobs rocking my body. I fought to catch my breath as I fumbled with the remote. It felt like I was trying to breathe underwater, my chest heavy with sorrow.

Emmy watched me with uneasiness as she whined and followed me into the living room. She then rested her chin on my knee, her worried stare meeting my tear-filled eyes. I stroked her head with my trembling hand to reassure her.

As I waited for the television to come on, my empty stomach rolled with nausea. It was hard for me to imagine that my best friend was no longer on this earth. I suddenly felt so very alone. I had always thought that I would know if he passed — that there would be a sign of some kind. I guess when you have such a strong connection with someone for so many years, you expect to feel something like that. I felt a little insulted or disregarded for not being the first to know he was gone.

I asked myself, how can something that we know is going to happen to all of us, like death, somehow lead us to so many questions? The truth of his passing was now testing my faith as I tried to envision his fate.

It was nine in the morning my time. I soon discovered that every channel had interrupted their regular programming to bring the news of an American commercial airliner crashing into the East China Sea. I read the bold, red-and-white tag line at the bottom of the television screen: Delta Flight 2379 Crashes into East China Sea, near the Japanese Island of Okinawa. No sign of any survivors.

The male newscaster demonstrated professionalism and formality, yet he couldn't hide his sense of emotion while he reported the dreadful news. "There are so many questions," he stated, "but right now there don't seem to be any answers. There was no distress call from the cockpit before the plane disappeared from radar. Eyewitnesses in Okinawa have said that they saw the Delta Boeing 777 jet with its nose facing down, flying sharply toward the sea. The witnesses went on to say that there was no visible impairment to the aircraft as the jet engines roared before it then plunged into fifty feet of water. The aircraft broke up on impact and quickly sank to the bottom of the sea. Divers have been in the water for about a half hour, but there is no evidence of life at this time. The Delta flight had originated in Salt Lake City, Utah, and was scheduled to land in Beijing, China, an hour before the crash."

The camera shot then went to live helicopter footage displaying a ribbon of airplane debris floating in the rolling sea below. The camera zoomed in to reveal articles of clothing floating on the surface, now tainted with jet fuel. The helicopter footage also showed two Navy ships from the American base in Okinawa floating nearby, offering support to the Japanese divers.

I covered my mouth and gasped when I saw the passenger's personal items drifting in the turbulent blue waters. For a few seconds, I wanted to forget that it was my husband at the bottom of that sea. My thoughts were with the over two hundred passages and their families. I didn't want to imagine their fates and what they had experienced during those last minutes of their lives. I watched in horror and disbelief while wiping away my fresh tears. None of what I saw seemed real, the images on the screen playing out more like a Hollywood movie.

Blake had been the captain of that flight, and I knew the FAA would be focusing their investigation on his performance. There was surely a total loss of hydraulics, I told myself. I couldn't help but envision Blake using all his piloting skills to avert the inevitable. Again, I broke down, my entire body shuttering with despair. Emmy whined again while she nudged my hands, which were covering my face.

My cell phone rang, bringing me back to reality, but I couldn't answer it, not now. I was frozen in a vision from the past as I closed my eyes and saw Blake. The warm September sun was shining on his handsome face. Blake was leading his colt to the barn and smiled wide as I snapped a photo of him and his new horse.

One month before he had died, Blake and I had increased our herd of horses to six. We had found a beautiful two-year-old gelding in Cody, Wyoming. He was a sorrel and white paint with a blue left eye. His registered name was Geronimo's Light. Blake was going to train the colt himself, and he was so excited.

CHAPTER 2

BLAKE AND I HAD MET some fifteen years ago, when I was the head horse trainer at Jackson Hole's most prestigious guest ranch. I had been working there for about three years. I had left home at the age of eighteen and headed west to pursue a career with horses.

I was one of those girls who was horse crazy from birth. It was hard for my parents to ignore my passion, but our large family of seven kids didn't allow us to afford a horse, as my father said. So I began helping out every day at an equestrian barn near my home when I was only seven years old. I would clean tack, wash brushes, or pick the horses' feet. When I turned twelve, the barn owners hired me. My job was to muck out twenty stalls seven days a week. I didn't care what I did, as long as I was working with horses.

By the time I was eighteen, I was fortunate enough to have worked for several talented horse trainers. They taught me a lot, which proved invaluable when it came time for me to look for a job at several guest ranches in the Jackson Hole, Wyoming area.

There were many things about the West that lured me. Maybe it was my romantic images of cowboys riding their horses in the beautiful, snow-capped mountains. I had seen photos of the Teton Mountain Range and was instantly drawn to them.

My cousin Maddy had sent us a small album of her wedding photos. She had been married on a hill top with the Grand Tetons in the back ground. It took my breath away, and I told myself that I had to live in this land of such raw beauty and rugged wilderness.

It just so happened that Maddy lived in the Jackson area. She had told me I was welcome to live with her while I looked for a job. I accepted her invitation with enthusiasm. The Jackson Hole area was one of the most expensive places to live, so having a free place to stay was fortunate.

My parents helped me pack my old Ford truck with all my personal belongings. Most of my things were horse related, from clothes to my western bit collection to my favorite western saddle. The saddle had been given to me by the barn owners where I worked for eleven years. Walter was like a father to me, and I would miss him and his wife Ginger like they were family. I felt Walter and Ginger had prepared me the most for life, for they had given me the love and acceptance I hadn't received from my parents.

For my entire life, there had been an emotional disconnect between my parents and me. To explain it in terms others would understand, I am pretty sure my mother suffers from some form of mental illness. I say this, because I feel it isn't normal for a mother to hate her children. My mother verbally assaulted and manipulated my father as well. She treated him more like her child than a husband.

Growing up, my siblings and I thought she verbally and physical abused us because there were seven of us. We thought this mainly because she would tell us, "You kids make my life miserable! I wish you had never been born!" I could give you more painful and hateful phrases she would say to us kids on a daily basis, but I think you understand the damage she was inflicting on our self-esteem.

Her rants against my father, I remember, sometimes lasted for hours into the night. As a child, I would wake to the sound of her screaming at him. It would make my blood run cold, fearing that their quarrels would manifest into violence. To endure listening to my mother expel all that hate and anger was exhausting for all of us, especially my father. He would just sit there and take it for hours.

If I had to name one emotion to describe my childhood, it would be fear. I never felt safe in my own home. I remember hearing my mother yelling and instantly feeling so frightened. I would hide in a closet or under my bed hoping to escape her wrath. I avoided being home as much as possible to elude my mother's hateful words because I feared my mother like the devil.

In my opinion, my parents treated us more like inmates in prison, they being our wardens, you could say. Life under their roof was devoid of any nurturing or love. That's why I spent most of my time at the barn. And that's why I was drawn to horses and other animals, because they gave me the affection and unconditional love my parents failed to give me.

My mother told me many times to my face that she hated me and that I was stupid and would never amount to anything. Those are very strong words for a young girl to hear from her mother. Nothing I did was ever good enough in her mind. Now as adults, all seven of her children struggle with this past, which seems to keep haunting our present.

I struggled for years with blaming myself for my pain. When we met when I was in my early twenties, Blake could sense my torment, but I couldn't talk to him about it. I was too ashamed. He told me to go see a psychiatrist and see if they could help. For the first time in my life, I spoke about my parents out loud, and someone listened and didn't judge.

The words sounded strange and foreign coming out of my mouth. It was traumatic to verbalize the things that had happened to me. Oddly enough, the abuse hadn't seemed real until I told someone. The things I was telling this psychiatrist shocked even me as the memories quickly flooded back — painful memories I had tried to forget. The shame and sadness from my past overwhelmed me, which was surprisingly therapeutic.

I learned to stop blaming myself for the abuse and put it back on my parents. My psychiatrist had me write my mother a letter. In that letter I had to tell her what she did to me and how it had affected me during my formative years. Our goal was to get her to apologize and take responsibility for the abuse so I could move forward.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Thistle Dew by Mary C. Allen. Copyright © 2016 Mary C. Allen. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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