Excerpt
Prologue

I wanted things to be different for Shayne than it was for me. What kind of mother would be to wish my marital woes upon my eldest child? Despite my desire to teach her and make her sensitive to the signs and symptoms an abusive husband brings. Ranger fooled us all. He has no clue of what the word, husband meant. We all know it now—too late for Shayne; she has fallen helplessly and devotedly into his will.

I must admit that when Ranger was introduced to the family by a trusted neighbor, my middle aged heart wished for younger days. I took a lazy tour of him, from his jump boots, shinier than a new looking glass, to the perfect fit of his uniform. And the tilt of his hat, well, let just say the church needed to render prayer on my behalf. Of course I had no idea that his eyes had landed on Shayne— being twelve years older than her. How wrong was I, they struck-up a conversation that prevented her from going home to change her nurse’s uniform. I’d never know Shayne to stay at a gathering in her work uniform.

“He’s Special Forces, a United States Army Ranger,” our neighbor Lonny had said with pride. He stood beside the brawny soldier who appeared like a gentle giant.

Lonny didn’t know the destruction he’d introduced into our lives—until it was too late.
Of all my children for this to fall upon, Shayne would have been my last pick. She had always led such a careful life, choosing friends cautiously, almost scared to take any kind of risks. Shayne was my organized child, and thought like an investigative reporter—always on top of her game.
His given name was Herculeon Blackwell. He said his adoptive mother named him that because he was such a huge child. But he didn’t want anyone to call him Herculeon. “just call me Ranger,” he had said. “Ranger Blackwell.”

As Shayne’s mother, I had made several attempts to find out about his background. I questioned him—was he raised in America, Samoa, the Philippines, where? He seemed not to know. Actually, he said he didn’t know. His white adoptive parents had told him that he was Samoan.

In a lust rush, six months later, my twenty-five year old daughter with brown eyes and golden brown skin walked down the aisles of Millenforge, Georgia Presbyterian Church to take Ranger’s hand in marriage. She couldn’t resist the package he was wrapped in—a Samoan package looking like he’d been dripped in expensive chocolate ice cream.

I’ve always been one believing in the power of prayer, and from the first day I noticed a bruise on the face of my one hundred and ten pound daughter, I prayed. Not that he would die, but that he, Herculeon Blackwell, would know what it feels like to be afraid, and weak, and trembling as he has made her feel. When I noticed her first bruise I let him know—our African American family was not to be taken lightly, that unexplained events—phenomenal occurrences are weaved throughout our family history. Whether he believed me or not, I warned him.