Roland West Outcast Read online

  Roland West, Outcast

  West Brothers, Volume 5

  Theresa Linden

  Published by Silver Fire Publishing, 2018.

  Also by Theresa Linden

  Armor of God

  Belt of Truth

  Breastplate of Righteousness

  Chasing Liberty trilogy

  Bound to Find Freedom

  Chasing Liberty

  Testing Liberty

  Fight for Liberty

  West Brothers

  Roland West, Loner

  Life-Changing Love

  Battle for His Soul

  Standing Strong

  Roland West, Outcast

  Standalone

  Anyone But Him

  Tortured Soul

  Watch for more at Theresa Linden’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also By Theresa Linden

  PRAISE FOR ROLAND WEST, OUTCAST

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE: BURN

  SPEECH FAIL

  INSENSITIVE

  NEW RIDE

  BLAME

  ATTITUDE

  BUST A MOVE

  PRANKED

  CLEAN UP

  SNOOP

  GUARDED

  DISCOMFORT ZONE

  MECHANICS

  CONFIDENCE

  FALSE ACCUSATIONS

  GENERATING LEADS

  STEPPING IT UP

  FIRE STARTERS

  GOSSIP

  HEREDITARY

  AN OUNCE OF HOPE

  OUSTED

  BROKEN

  MESSAGE

  URGENT

  BRAINSTORM

  TRUTH

  CALL FOR HELP

  DARK WELCOME

  STORM

  WHO’S THERE?

  STANDING UP

  MARTYRS

  VICTORY

  RESOURCES

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  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  PRAISE FOR ROLAND WEST, OUTCAST

  “How I rooted for Roland to find his voice in this book! But Peter ... he surprised me by becoming my favorite character of the West Brothers series. To quote him: You can't act on your impulses just because you love someone. Therein lie the strength and beauty of the story message. Sometimes, like some of the characters in Roland West, Outcast, young people believe that their feelings justify their actions. The results can be harmful to themselves or to the ones they love. Both Roland and Peter prove what pure love can be. And they are put to the test in defending their faith and demonstrating it, in spite of strong criticism, while solving a mystery and righting a wrong committed against a new girl at their school. I highly recommend this novel to young people. Or anyone.”

  ~ Cynthia T. Toney, author of The Other Side of Freedom, 2018 Catholic Press Association Book Award winner

  “IN THIS STORY, LINDEN touches upon issues that are prevalent in our society, and she captures them with God's truth and compassion. Struggling as Christians in a world that is so focused on selfish desires, Outcast reminds us that we should always stand up for what's right, regardless of what the mass tries to push us to believe. Outcast is a fun, emotional roller-coaster, with realistic characters and a lot of suspense.”

  ~ T. M. Gaouette, author of the Faith & Kung Fu series

  “ROLAND WEST, OUTCAST is both entertaining and timely! Theresa Linden is at her best in capturing Roland’s shy reluctance and Peter’s awkward infatuation. A well-written book for Catholic teens that addresses the social pressure to kowtow to shifting notions of right and wrong (particularly in regard to same-sex attraction) is long overdue. If you’ve ever been silent when you should’ve spoken up, if your beliefs have ever been mischaracterized or misunderstood, if you want to get along without compromising your conscience, then Roland West, Outcast is for you.”

  ~ Carolyn Astfalk, author of coming-of-age romance Rightfully Ours

  “A courageous, compassionate (and, believe it or not, fun!) story about a topic many of us would prefer to ignore: Same-Sex Attraction and our duty as Catholics to stand up for God's immutable laws, even when to do so is painful. If you're a teen facing this situation, or know someone who is, you need to read this newest novel in Theresa Linden’s award-winning West Brothers Series. This story is difficult to put down and a brilliant handling of a tough subject!”

  ~ Susan Peek, author of bestseller Saint Magnus the Last Viking

  “THIS BOOK RUNS PARALLEL to many events in the book Standing Strong. But we see different aspects of those events. Roland is stuck in a hard place. He is reserved but is pushed to join a new group trying to counter intolerance. But soon he feels like any view but his is acceptable. Linden handles these elements in a masterful way. And they are questions and attitudes that could be taken from the headlines of almost any paper today. An excellent read for teens, and for us older folks that just love a great read!”

  ~ Steven R. McEvoy, Book Reviews & More

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2018 by Theresa A. Linden

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or places is purely coincidental.

  http://theresalinden.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018911513

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-9976747-6-7

  eBook ISBN: xxxx

  First Edition, Silver Fire Publishing, November 2018

  Cover: Theresa Linden

  Editor: Ellen Gable Hrkach

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to everyone who has at one time or another felt like an outcast and to those who have reached out to them.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am grateful for the encouragement and assistance I received from my editor, Ellen Gable Hrkach, and several talented authors, including Carolyn Astfalk, Corinna Turner, Susan Peek, and T. M. Gaouette.

  Additionally, I appreciate the suggestions Steven R. McEvoy offered concerning both the story and the cover design; you can really thank him for the inspiration for the book cover because I almost went with something else.

  I am very proud to have had the help of two of my boys. My youngest, Cisco, tolerated a photo shoot, giving me the silhouette I used on the book cover. And Justin did an amazing job gathering information about the martyrs in this story, and many more martyrs that I was not able to use but which inspired me nonetheless.

  And I am extremely thankful for the insights and suggestions Tina from Courage International gave me. Her ideas helped me develop the character Brice and strengthen important threads in this story.

  Last but not least, I will always be thankful for the love and support of my husband and three boys; I wouldn’t be able to write my stories without them.

  “For Jesus Christ I am prepared to suffer still more.”

  ~ St. Maximilian Kolbe

  “Nothing can happen to me that God doesn’t want.

  And all that He wants, no matter how bad it may appear to us,

  is really for the best.”

  ~ St. Thomas More

  “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”

  ~ St. Paul the Apostle

  “I am not afraid . . . I was born to do this.”

  ~ St
. Joan of Arc

  “It is Jesus that you seek when you dream of happiness; He is waiting for you when nothing else you find satisfies you; He is the beauty to which you are so attracted; it is He who provoked you with that thirst for fullness that will not let you settle for compromise; it is He who urges you to shed the masks of a false life; it is He who reads in your hearts your most genuine choices, the choices that others try to stifle.”

  ~ St. John Paul II

  PROLOGUE: BURN

  WITH FISTS CLENCHED AND SWINGING, fear clashing with rage and determination, sixteen-year-old Brice fought her way through the shadows of a nightmare to wakefulness. Her eyes fluttered open to a dark room. Window in the wrong place. Door shut and on the wrong wall.

  Oh wait . . . this was her new bedroom. She was safe. She had nothing to worry about. Not like then.

  Drenched in sweat and heart pounding, she threw the covers back and sat up, dropping her feet to the carpeted floor.

  Sitting hunched, one arm resting on her thigh, she rubbed her face and sucked in a deep breath. The panic of her nightmare continued to course through her veins.

  Inhuman hands latched onto her sister and lifted her up, up, up. Desperate to save her, Brice swung at the hands and tried grasping onto her sister’s legs until she could no longer reach her.

  “Mom, help!” Brice cried, tearing from one room to another. Not in her bedroom, not in the living room. Strangers lay strewn on the furniture, Mom not among them. “Mom, where are you?” she shrieked in anger.

  Brice shoved a hand into her hair and grunted, pushing the thoughts back as far as she could. She wanted to move on. And she was tired of the interrupted sleep. Tired of being tired. She could relax now. That part of her life was over.

  Three breaths later, something moved overhead. A patch of yellow light danced on the ceiling. It streamed in through the gap between curtains, making pictures on the ceiling. Dipping, twisting, leaping.

  The hairs on her arms stood up and a chill shuddered down her spine.

  Brice tore to the window and shoved back the curtain.

  Flames licked the branches and engulfed the trunk of the sweetgum tree in the front yard. A trail of flame burned the grass, stretching a few feet, maybe yards, from the tree. Dark smoke swirled above it all, disappearing in the blackness of the night.

  The all-too-familiar sense of emergency surged inside her. Brice raced into the dark hallway and pounded on the Escotts’ bedroom door. “Fire! Get up!”

  A thump came from inside the room. And the rustle of blankets. “What’s that? Fire?” scraped Mr. Escott’s low voice, and then louder, “Fire!”

  Brice flung open the door to the boys’ bedroom, then the girls’ bedroom. “Get up,” she demanded. Then she took off, thumping down the steps and through the living room. Maybe she’d catch the person who’d done it.

  On the back of the couch lay the jacket her foster mother had given her last week, on the first day of school. She grabbed it and opened the front door to a burst of cool, smoky air and the pungent odor of burning leaves and wood. Her gaze snapped to the yellow and orange flames as she staggered barefooted out onto the front porch. A distant siren sounded. A neighbor must’ve called the fire department already. No need to panic. The fire wouldn’t reach the house.

  Stuffing her arm into her jacket, she crossed the porch and her foot brushed something soft and cold. A plant?

  As her gaze shifted, she took in a scene that made her heart sink. Plants and flowers lay uprooted and strewn in the yard, near the flowerbed, some on the porch. Garbage made a trail from the side of the garage where they kept the cans to the end of the driveway.

  Anger rippled through her, tensing every muscle in her body and making her need to do something. But do what? Brice stomped down the porch steps and to the cold, gritty driveway.

  She stopped between a plastic milk container and a wet pile of junk mail and scanned the two streets that came off the Escotts’ corner lot. Why would anyone do this to the Escotts? Brice didn’t much like living with a foster family, but these people were nice. They couldn’t have kids of their own, so they’d opened their home to foster children. Like the two little boys and the baby girl who had lived with them for the past year or so. And like her, a last-minute emergency placement.

  What could anyone have against them?

  A smoky breeze ruffled the loose fabric of Brice’s basketball shorts and made goosebumps pop out on her legs.

  The flames grew higher, totally engulfing the tree now.

  The front door squeaked. Footfalls on the porch. A pause. “Brice, are you okay?” Mr. Escott pounded down the steps, his eyebrows slanting, his eyes on her. As he neared, he spread his arms as if ready to pull her into a hug or to safety or something.

  Brice stiffened and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m fine.”

  He stopped four feet away and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, giving her a sad smile as he likely remembered her request to not be touched or hugged. “Did you see anyone?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. No one was hurt.” He made a sweeping gaze of the yard. “Who could’ve done this?”

  “And how?” she mumbled. The leaves on the old tree had only started to turn. Someone would’ve needed an accelerant to burn it like this.

  Staring out at the tree with a hint of sadness in his eyes, he shook his head. “Stay here. I’ll grab the hose.” He disappeared around the side of the house.

  The rest of the family spilled through the front door and drew near, Mrs. Escott holding the little girl on her hip and the youngest boy by the hand, everyone wide awake and staring at the burning tree.

  Mr. Escott returned a moment later, dragging the hose. “Not sure the hose is long enough. What a mess, huh?”

  Mrs. Escott finally snapped out of it and turned to her husband. “I called the fire department, but they already knew. And Mrs. Abelson. She’s invited us over for the rest of the night, at least until we make sure the house is safe.”

  “Oh, good.” Mr. Escott reached for Brice again, as if to guide her to the Abelson’s house next door.

  Brice stepped back, her jaw tensing. “No, thanks. I’m fine here.”

  Two firetrucks rounded the corner at the end of the street, their lights on but sirens now off. A few neighbors had stepped outside and stood watching from their driveways and porches. Others watched from their windows.

  The Escotts stared at Brice for a moment, probably not liking her answer, but she was sixteen and they needed to respect her choices. There was no real danger here.

  Mr. Escott glanced at the approaching firetrucks and dropped the hose. “That’ll be fine, honey.” He gave his wife a reassuring nod. “Take the little ones over. Brice and I will keep an eye on things here and talk to the firemen.”

  Resignation in her expression, Mrs. Escott turned and started across the driveway. Three steps later, she stopped, and her head swiveled to the garage door. She jerked back but then corralled the children past the garage and into the neighboring yard.

  Curious, Brice looked to see what had startled Mrs. Escott. Her breath caught, and a shiver ran through her. Suddenly queasy, she stormed away from the garage and into the cool grass of the front yard, moving toward the tree but not intentionally. She wanted to get away from the garage. Away from the vandalism.

  Firetrucks pulled up and firemen swarmed onto the scene, way more than the situation warranted. They probably had nothing better to do.

  Brice strode past them, ignoring a few questions thrown her way. Mr. Escott would talk to them. Picking up her pace, thumping through the yard while her pulse beat in her ears, she left the flaming tree behind and plunged into the strip of woods at the end of the Escotts’ yard.

  Dead leaves crunched under her steps. Twigs poked her bare feet.

  Certain no one could see her now, she stopped and flung herself against the rough bark of a thick tree trunk and hid her face with her arm. D
eep pain bubbled inside, threatening to erupt. Not ready to release it, Brice turned toward the house and breathed and watched the firemen unwind a hose. And breathed again. Her gaze shifted back to the garage. She could almost read the graffiti from here.

  A toxic mix of guilt, anger, disgust, and insecurity assailed her. She allowed one hot tear to escape. But no more.

  The vandalism wasn’t done because someone had something against the Escotts. It was done against her.

  The hard, ugly words spray painted in big black letters on the garage door proved it. Harsh labels, offensive names Brice had hoped to leave behind her. Who would’ve done it? She now lived over an hour from where she’d grown up. No one knew her here, not really. School had only started a week ago. She’d barely spoken a word to anyone. Who would know anything about her? Or did they simply hate what they thought she was? They judged her based on her appearance. The way she dressed, the way she walked, maybe. They put her into a category. Rejected her. Gave her a label to make sure she knew what she was. What she was and always would be . . .

  Brice, the outcast.

  1

  SPEECH FAIL

  ROLAND’S STOMACH SEIZED UP. A fifteen-year-old shouldn’t have to go through this, but any minute now it would begin.

  Mrs. Kauffman sat at her desk next to the windows, the sunlight framing her smooth, shoulder-length dark hair. Whispers and murmurs traveled around the room. The teacher studied an electronic notepad, probably deciding who would go first. She lifted her head and looked out.

  Roland tensed and turned to his friend Peter Brandt, who sat next to him, to see if he showed signs of fear or even mild apprehension.