Grateful, Hank smiled down to the small, energetic little woman. She reminded him of an industrious little sparrow.
“Well, now would you look at that,” Tamara said, her attention drawn to the display window that faced the main street.
Paxton and Hank looked to see what had taken her eye and saw the tall-in-the-saddle cowboy astride his well-muscled buckskin horse pass before the store window.
“Don’t he look a romantic figure, though,” Tamara said dreamily, a silly, girlish smirk on her bow-shaped mouth.
“Looks like a cowboy to me,” Hank said.
“Cowboy who’s lost his cows,” added Paxton. “I don’t see anything romantic about the man. He looks foolish, kind’a showy. That long black duster, and those boots, and that ten-gallon hat. It’s hard to see the man’s eyes. I don’t trust anyone who hides their eyes.”
They watched the horse and rider go toward the edge of town. Barney ran past the cowboy, the buckskin shied and reared—the cowboy yelled a curse after the running boy.
“Hey, that’s Barney. Hank, c’mon,” Paxton said, pulling Hank out the door.
“Thank you, Mrs. Gregson, for your help,” Hank said over his shoulder.
A few steps from the doorway, Paxton called to the boy, “Barney. Barney, whoa,” Barney ran into Paxton’s arms. Winded, he couldn’t speak right away.
“He’s come back…he didn’t…come ‘cross the ferry. He…he…must’a come the valley road.”
Chattering like a magpie, the boy talked while Paxton and Hank rushed him along to the freight wagon around the side of the mercantile. The mules stood docile, chewing on a small pile of clover Paxton had put down in the feed trough in front of their heads. Their ears pricked up when they came around the corner of the building. The beasts shook their heads, jingling their harness.
Hank kept pace, having difficulty making sense out of the scrambled-up information spewing out of Barney’s mouth. Not far into the boy’s rant, he figured out all was not well at the ferry landing.
“I heard her yelling…I guess it was her. It was a scream like she was being skinned. After I’d left the ferry landing with the Pearson family, that’s when it started. I saw a fancy gig pull up into the yard. They didn’t come down to the ferry. Sometimes folks don’t come down right off, you know, so I didn’t think much on it at the time. It’s got to be him; if it ain’t, somethin’ else is mighty wrong over there.”
“It’s him all right,” said Paxton, waving Barney aboard the freight wagon. Hank leaped onto the board bench and braced himself, with one foot against the dash and one hand gripping the backboard. Barney fell backward into the bed of the wagon, and Paxton whipped the team of mules into a full gallop.
»»•««
Anora, winded, struggled to break free, only to discover that to go in any direction but the direction in which Ruben propelled her, induced a pain that literally took her breath away. In pain and incapacitated, she didn’t, at first, grasp her imminent fate. With the sun in her tear-filled eyes, she couldn’t see where she was being forced to go. With her hearing impaired, voices muffled and a loud ringing in her ears, she couldn’t get her bearings.
But when she heard, off to her left, the creak and screech of the style as Roscoe and Pete moved around and around, she knew she was headed for the river. A scream erupted from deep inside her. It echoed up into the treetops and ripped her throat, strangling—she begged for mercy.
The redhead, skipping alongside, hysterical, cheered him on. Ruben stopped at the top of the bank. Anora caught a glimpse of Paxton Hayes, standing forward on the deck of the ferry.
Ruben saw him too. “Here come some of your customers. I’m thinkin’ you been doin’ quite a trade while I been gone, Little Norie. You’ve been a busy little girl during my absence. Hayes? You been doin’ all right for yourself. I’ve longed to knock his teeth down his stiff neck, muddy him up a bit. Don’t think I didn’t notice the wood pile was full. Bet you had to put out plenty to get that cocky son-of-a-bitch to dirty his hands splittin’ and stackin’ wood. How was he? Good as me? How about the Reason fella, bet you had him too.”
“Comstock?” she heard him say. “God damn the peckerwood. Thought I sent him on his way for good.”
Whit? Despite the pain, Anora had to see, she had to. She saw him then, the cowboy in the long dark duster and his buckskin horse. She remembered then, she remembered he’d come by before. She didn’t want him to see her then, but today, she thought it a miracle he’d found her, come to her, now. Closing her eyes, she prayed very hard.
“Don’t think you’re saved, girlie. I won’t be happy until you’re fish bait. You won’t know when, but I’ll be back.” And with that, Ruben shoved her out and down the hill.
Set free, Anora fell, her feet going out from under her. Her arm dead from the shoulder down, she couldn’t stop herself from rolling closer and closer to the water. She heard splashing and a voice calling her by name. She couldn’t see anything but sky and water. She rolled into a pair of legs, long legs, and hard, pointed-toed boots that poked into her ribs.
The legs bent down, a dark cloak surrounded her, the pain stopped. She thought she’d died. “Anora? Anora Claire Sennett? Is it you?” the voice asked.
She knew the voice. She had to be dead. Whit? Whit’s voice. Strong arms scooped her up and cradled her, the sounds of the river receding.
“Your hair, I recognized your hair, like ripened wheat.” She opened her eyes to the sun. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against a solid, warm body. Eyes opened, she looked up into the face, the face she remembered so well.
“What the hell’s gonin’ on, Anora? Is that Ruben? I seen him here before. Thought I recognized him, but he looked different before. He fooled me.”
Behind them, Anora heard the ferry crunch into shore. Mr. Hayes sprinted past, rushing up the hill, hollering curses, chasing after Ruben.
∙•∙
Hank stood quiet, his heart numb to the sight of Anora clinging to the cowboy. The look of wonder and gladness in her eyes made him want to weep.
He stepped off the ferry and started after Paxton, overhearing the cowboy say, “Anora Claire, never thought to have you falling at my feet.”
Hank stopped in his tracks. The cowboy wiped the muddy tears from her pale cheek with his gloved finger.
“Whit?” He heard her whisper. She blinked several times before saying, “I must have died. You’re here. I only see you in my dreams.”
Guilty of eavesdropping on the cowboy’s response, Hank swallowed the cold lump in his throat.
“It’s me, Anora. You’re far from dead. I reckon you’re sore as hell, but you’re not dead. You got too much living to do.”
Up near the cabin, Hank heard Paxton call Ruben a bloody piece of shit. Hank took off running and got up to the yard in time to witness Paxton tackle Ruben to the ground.
A redheaded woman in green screamed, pounding Paxton about the head and shoulders with a hair brush. “You fool. You’re all crazy.”
Nothing could deter Paxton from giving Ruben a good beating.
Hank pulled the woman back, which proved harder than expected. The woman continued to flail and thrash, kicking, cussing.
Hank thought Paxton would stop once the woman got off him, but that didn’t happen. “Paxton. Paxton you don’t want him dead. Just gone.”
Muttering a string of curses, Paxton stopped himself in mid swing, fist raised above Ruben’s battered and bruised face. Grabbing Ruben by the shirt collar, he hauled the semi-conscious Ruben over to the gig and threw him, none too gently, inside.
Hank gave the woman a shake. “Get in the buggy and get him out of here.”
The woman sputtered and fumed but did as ordered, taking up the reins. When Hank turned around, he saw Paxton, blood oozing from one brow, lip beginning to swell, standing with his arms down to his sides, breathing heavily, his gaze following the cowboy with Anora cradled in his embrace, going up the steps to the cabin. Anora had her ar
ms around the cowboy’s neck, her head resting easily on his shoulder.
The woman turned the bay around in the yard, nearly running them over. Hank managed to reach out and slap the horse hard on the rump before the gig and its passengers went flying up the hill, around the barn, and out of sight.
Paxton started toward the porch, but Hank laid a hand on his shoulder. “She called him by name, Paxton. They know each other from some other time. I’d say they were fond of each other. You didn’t see her down there by the river, but I did. I heard her say she dreamed about him.”
Groaning with real pain, Paxton protested, “It isn’t fair. That drifter will break her heart. I know it sure as I’m standing.”
“Could be, but that’s her look-out. Looks to me she’s made her choice, and not a bad one, all things considered. We’ve got no hold on her.”
Hank turned and hesitated, telling himself he had no right to be feeling like a discarded, worthless old sock. Barney tied off the buckskin to the porch rail. Hank noticed the boy couldn’t take his gaze off Paxton’s face.
“You sure gave him what-for, Mr. Hayes. You gonna cry? Never seen a man cry over a woman. Nutty Norie ain’t nothin’ to cry over. No, don’t make sense.” The boy walked off, shaking his head, talking to himself.
Paxton said aloud more or less to himself, “Well there goes all my big plans.” Hank put his arm around his shoulders. A huge tear escaped and rolled down Paxton’s bruised cheek before he swiped it away with the back of his hand. Growling in disgust, he shook free and stomped off toward the ferry, jaw tight and hands clenched.
Chapter Twelve
Anora didn’t want to let go; if she did he might disappear, she’d never see him again. His face, Whit’s lovely face, handsome and strong, his blue eyes so kind—he wouldn’t hurt her, he’d never hurt her. He’d saved her from the river. This was real, he was really there. There, with her, carrying her away from the river, away from a dark and agonizing death.
Clinging, her arms around his neck, she pulled his head down. His lips touched hers. Tentatively, she pressed her mouth to his. Adding pressure, he returned the kiss.
It wasn’t Rueben, but she was being weighted down. She couldn’t breathe. The weight on top of her sent her into a panic. She screamed, kicked and started pounding his back..
The bad dream. She was being crushed and mauled, hands everywhere.
Freed form the weight of the body on top of her, she rolled over the side of the bed and curled up in a ball in her niche between the bed and the dresser. A hand reached out, fingers clasping her wrist. Turning her head aside, shoulders hunched, rigid, afraid to breathe, she feared Ruben had her, not Whit, not the dream but the nightmare.
The hand loosened its grip, and Whit’s voice penetrated through the murky darkness inside her head. She didn’t dare look at him. She had no words to explain her behavior. It was her survival instinct—cave in, protect.
His fingers slid down her neck to her shoulder. “You got scars here,” he said, his hand stopped and hovered over her bare shoulder. “So, how’d you get these scars, Anora?” Whit asked.
Whit? Not the tormentor. The body above her shifted on the bed to a sitting position. A hand tugged her dress to the side. The buttons had come lose in her battle to break free of Ruben. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the fabric, tugging the garment closed to hide her exposed flesh.
“What the hell happened? Ruben? Ruben, he do this to you?”
Whit sat straight up, reaching out to her. “My God, Anora. Who did that?” he asked turning her wrists over, exposing the circlet of scared flesh. “Ruben? Wish I’d killed the son-of-a-bitch.”
Turning her back on him, she buttoned the front of her dress—all the buttons—and rolled down the sleeves. Ruthlessly, she coiled her hair, gave it a twist and jammed a comb into it to keep it secure on her head.
Tight-lipped and silent, she stood before her bureau drawer, shaking, stroking the vacant space on top of the dresser where her mother’s toiletry set had sat. Erupting from a deep well of despair she’d kept tightly locked away in her chest, a sob escaped her lips. The walls of the cabin closed in on her. She needed air. She needed to be outside.
Behind her, she heard Whit mutter a curse. He joined her, sitting beside her on the top step of the porch. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a long while.
“Anora, you…we…should talk some, I guess. Tell me about Ruben? How did you end up here with him? Where’s your Aunt Carrie?”
Anora couldn’t answer, her throat had closed up with tears. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, holding at bay the ugly truth.
Beside her, she heard him heave a weighty sigh. “I guess you don’t want to talk about it right now. I’ve decided, I ain’t goin’ nowhere, not for a while, anyway. We’ll talk when you’re ready. I bet you got questions for me. Bet you’re wonderin’ how I come to find you here.”
Anora couldn’t look him in the eye. Humiliated, ashamed, she hated herself. She was tainted goods. Ruben had done that to her. He’d sullied her to the point of unspeakable depravity. She wanted to scream at Whit. Scream, tell him to leave it alone. But he wouldn’t shut up.
“I know you’re a good girl. I guess I got a little carried away in there. I’m sorry. You gotta trust me. I won’t take advantage. I’d never hurt you. You aren’t a kid anymore, though. You’re wonderful. Beautiful. You’re a dammed exciting woman. I’d like to stay a while, maybe a month or two.”
Of course he wanted to stay, stay to bed her, stay to take her whenever the urge struck him. Use her like the filthy whore Rueben had created, molded into his slave. Anora shook her head at him, her eyes welling with unshed tears. Waving her hand to the interior of the cabin toward the bed, she moaned, “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Well, too bad, lady, I ain’t leavin’. Let me stay a while. I could help out. I don’t know what Ruben worked at besides the ferry, but I could stay until you get yourself up and going. With him gone, you’re gonna need some help for a while.”
Folding her arms across her chest, she rocked back and forth. When she came to her feet, she said, “I’ll fix you supper. I appreciate your offer, but you should go. I’m not…I’m not the same. Ruben…he…I’m not anything anymore. I’m muck, you understand. I’m muck, nothing you’d want.”
She started to go inside and stopped on the threshold. “You can stay the night up at the barn or over in town. I can’t have you here, Whit, it’s too late. You shouldn’t want me. I’m ugly and empty now. There’s nothing left of me that’s of any use to a man.”
They ate their meal in complete silence. Although Whit stared at her a lot, he didn’t say a word. He didn’t argue with her. She had to be grateful for that.
After she served him his meal, she opened the door and waved him out with no further discussion. From her window, she watched him lead his horse up to the barn. Pressing her back to the door, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she said to the empty room, “You’re too late, Whit. Too late. I’m a dead woman now.”
Anora, with clean sheets and a warm comforter on her bed, could find no peace. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been lying upon a luxurious mountain of down, wrapped in fine satin, she still wouldn’t have been able to sleep.
Over and over she kept hearing Ruben’s voice calling her trash, easy trash, a slut. She didn’t see how she could go on. She couldn’t look Whit Comstock in the eye, never again. Hard to believe he’d stayed, even though the barn was all she’d offered as choice of shelter. Closing her eyes, she prayed he’d ride away in the morning, leave her to rot.
With the dawn came the prospect of facing him. Before getting out of bed, she told herself she should be grateful. “Ruben’s gone, that should be enough.”
While dressing, she repeated the mantra, averting her gaze from her bureau and the vacant spot on top. Like all her other things—her innocence, her youth, her life, her dreams—they were all gone now. Things, that’s what they were. But Ruben coul
dn’t steal her memories. They were coming back strong. She wouldn’t ever let them go again.
She donned her mackinaw and opened her door to the rain. The pale glow of dawn gave light to the yard and the track up to the barn. Like every other morning, she had to go hook up Roscoe and Pete, and milk the cow and the goats.
Whit, coming from the barn, waved, leading the oxen already in their harness. “Morning,” he said, a warm smile on his face. The sound of his voice set the butterflies aflutter in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll get these two brutes hooked up.”
She didn’t know what to say. He grinned and looked very pleased with himself as he passed.
The cow, the goats—got to milk the goats, she reminded herself. God. I can’t think with him around.
The milking done, the eggs gathered, Anora set a breakfast of corn cakes and sausage patties with gravy on the table. As she’d cooked, she’d taken inventory of her larder, trying to calculate if she could hold off the inevitable until she could grow some vegetables. She decided it might be done, but not with a man around to feed. She’d fried up the last of the sausage, and possibly a cup of corn meal remained in the tin. She had enough flour for a couple more loaves of bread, but sugar was low. Soon she’d have to resort to killing off the chickens—they were running out of feed anyway.
She had butter in abundance without Ruben around. She’d have to barter with the herders and travelers soon, or go without flour, sugar, and salt. Deep in thought, she squeaked when Whit knocked on the cabin door before letting himself in.
“Hmm, I thought I smelled food. If I remember correctly, you’re a damn fine cook. I always looked forward to sitting around your campfire on warm, starry nights, eating and laughing. That is, when old Ruben was off somewheres.”
“I remembered you liked corn cakes,” Anora said, also remembering those nights of innocent flirtation and laughter, ashamed of what she’d become, wondering how Whit could stand to look at her.
She sat across from him at the table, keeping her eyes down to her plate. She tried to eat, but the food kept getting caught in the roof of her mouth like flour paste.
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