She willed herself into her bedroom. Pink walls and movie-star posters, the windows bringing the sky and mountains to her.
But when she opened her eyes, her reality weighed like lead on her soul. Four dull walls, a concrete floor, and a locked door at the top of a set of steep steps.
No, she’d never see the sun again, its rise or its fall. Her world had no window to bring it to her.
No one would ever touch her with care or sweetness. Because only Sir existed. Only Sir, who pounded into her every night. And when she screamed because her body hadn’t healed from childbirth, he pounded harder and slapped her into silence.
She’d never see her bedroom again, so pink and pretty, or sit around the big table at the ranch and share Thanksgiving dinner with her family.
She’d never hold her little baby girl again. Her Cora with the tiny pink fingers and toes.
The loss of it all, the emptiness inside her at the loss of a child she hadn’t believed she’d wanted and had loved so much, so quickly, smeared every thought like fetid smoke.
She ate because when she refused, he poured soup down her throat, dragging her head back by the hair, pinching her nostrils closed. She washed because when she stopped, he beat her and scrubbed her with cold water and a hard brush until her skin broke and bled.
She begged for her baby. She’d be good, she’d take care, she’d do anything if he gave her baby back to her.
She’s somebody else’s problem now.
That’s what he’d told her. He had no use for daughters.
She hoped he’d beat her to death, but he seemed to know just how far he could go.
He wouldn’t let her die as she wanted. Just let her die, let her slide away into sleep where she could sit on the front porch rocker, looking at the mountains while she sang to her baby.
If she’d had something sharp, she’d have used it to slit her own throat. No, no, his first, she thought—all but dreamed—lying on the cot, eyes shut tight so she didn’t have to see her prison.
Yes, she’d kill him first, then herself.
She wondered if she could somehow sharpen one of the plastic spoons he brought her with her meals. Or her toothbrush. Maybe her toothbrush.
She could try, she would try, but God, she was just so tired.
She only wanted to sleep.
As her mind drifted she imagined tearing up her sheet, making a noose. There was nothing to hang it on, but maybe if she tied it to one of the steps, wrapped it tight enough around her neck, she could choke herself.
She couldn’t go on this way, couldn’t wake day after day, night after night in this terrible place, knowing he’d come down those stairs.
Worse, even worse than the brutality, the rapes, were all the endless hours of aloneness. An aloneness that grew deeper, wider, blacker, without her child.
She made herself get up, studied the sheet with dull, listless eyes.
Should she tear it into strips, braid the pieces? Would that make it stronger for what she needed?
So hard to concentrate when every thought had to fight through a fog. She toyed with the sheet, looking for weak spots, easy-to-tear spots.
The concept of killing herself seemed no more frightening than solving a routine math problem.
Even less so.
But she had to wait, she reminded herself. He’d come down soon. Wait until after he leaves again. Killing herself might take some time.
Today, she thought with a tired sigh. She could die today.
Escape.
She stood again, but this time the room swayed.
No, she realized, she swayed. And her stomach pitched.
She barely made it to the toilet, dropping to her knees as that pitching stomach emptied.
Clammy, queasy, she caught her breath, sicked up more.
Tears came as she curled on the floor, breathless, shivering. Tears of grief, and a strange kind of joy.
She heard the locks thunk. Heard his boot steps—heavy, heavy.
Shoving herself up, bracing on the sink, as her head still spun a little, she faced him.
She found her hate again as the long fog lifted into a terrible clarity.
Placing a hand on her belly, still saggy and loose from giving birth, she found a reason to live again.
“I’m pregnant,” she told him.
He nodded. “It best be a son this time. Now clean yourself up, and eat your breakfast.”
CHAPTER SIX
— Present Day —
In the apple-crisp morning, with the eastern sky abloom with rose and gold, Bodine shouldered her briefcase and strode toward the stables.
She heard the chickens humming the way they did while Chester and Clyde had their morning wrestling match outside the bunkhouse. The dogs broke off their tumbling to race to her, tongues lolling, eyes bright—as if they hadn’t seen her in a month.
Nothing much started the day off with a laugh like a couple of madly happy dogs, so she rubbed and scratched them into insanity until they picked up their wrestling match.
She waved to a couple of out-and-about ranch hands, spoke casually to a couple more busy mucking stalls in the stables.
She stopped short when she saw Callen in his sheepskin jacket, comfortably worn boots, and dung-brown Stetson settling a saddle on the impressive Sundown’s back.
“Going for a ride?” she asked him.
He glanced over. “Sundown needs to stretch his legs, and I can use him at the resort today.”
“He’s an asset. He can go on the books, too, if you want.”
“No need for that.” While Callen cinched the saddle, the horse turned his head, nipped the hat off Callen’s head. “What have I told you about that?”
Sundown merely stuck his head over the low door, offering Bodine the hat.
“Why, thank you. It’s a nice hat.”
“It won’t be, if he keeps playing with it. Something you need?”
“I’ve got what I need, and that’s a horse of my own who needs to stretch his legs. I’m riding to work this morning.”
“It’s a good morning for it. I’ll wait for you. We might as well ride over together. Can I have my hat back, boss?”
She passed it over to him as she turned to walk to Leo’s stall. Heard Callen’s frustrated “Now, cut that out.”
As she saddled Leo, she wondered if she could teach him a couple of tricks. With his fondness for carrots and peppermint treats, bribery could work.
She heard the stable hands hooting with laughter. When she led Leo out, she saw why.
Sundown sat on the concrete run with the patient air of a man taking a break in an easy chair, while Callen leaned against the stall door, scrolling through his phone.
“That horse beats all, Cal,” one of the hands called out. “He beats all to hell and back.”
Callen looked over, smiled at Bodine. “Ready?”
“I am. Are you?”
Callen pushed off the door, took Sundown’s reins. “Let’s get going.” The horse pushed to his feet with the same indolent ease as his owner.
After a short study, a little nose snorting, the horses apparently deemed each other acceptable.
In the stable yard, Bodine swung into the saddle. “I had a route in mind, one that’ll give Leo a good run.”
“That’ll work.”
They started at a walk, warming muscles, as the light brightened and the sky blurred from rose to blue. The crisp air moved in the light wind, fluttering over her face, smelling like a winter potpourri of snow and pine.