Betrayed

by Wodke Hawkinson

  Chapter 36

  Lance looked up and saw Brook’s face in the frost-framed window, her image indistinct. He found the sight strangely moving. As he turned to his chores, it was with disquieting sensations in the pit of his stomach and a kaleidoscope of images and remembered feelings: The sight of her tender bruised flesh that saddened him, the softness of her hand that he could still feel on his skin if he allowed himself the indulgence, unwanted tenderness that stole through him in her presence, the feathery feel of her arms draped over his shoulders when he lifted her, the brush of her hair against his beard, the quickening of his heart when she spoke, the deep blue color of her eyes. Just knowing someone waited for him a few short steps away. Not what he wanted. Not. Not. Not.

  He gripped the shovel and set to work clearing a path to the sheds. Opening the small pen, he scraped a clearing for Gilbert before releasing her from her shelter. Overcome with goat joy, she braced herself against his shoulders for a Gilbert hug. Laughing, he wrapped her in his arms, and then tussled with her a few minutes. Finally, he pushed gently away from her to resume his chores. Ducking into the shed, he broke the ice on her water and added a fresh supply into her bucket before tossing more feed into her trough.

  Gilbert lay in-waiting for him outside the door, looking suspiciously devious for an innocent goat. Brook watched this curious behavior with genuine interest. The goat acted like a mischievous dog!

  When Lance emerged, Gilbert head-butted him and immediately bucked away sideways in a playful romp, challenging him to catch her. He gave in to her exuberance and tumbled in the snow after her, swimming through the drifts and chasing her with youth-like abandon.

  Just a big grown-up boy and his goat, Brook thought from her vantage point at the window. She giggled at the spectacle, but Lance couldn’t hear her. He had, in fact, forgotten he had an audience, and unselfconsciously wrestled with Gilbert for a while before calling a halt to the play so he could attend to his ‘ladies’. His exertions had warmed him, and he loosened his coat before clearing the snow in front of the chicken house.

  One of the hens, excited at the prospect of feed and freedom, flapped clumsily into a snowdrift, where she lodged like a fat bullet. Her distressed squawking carried even to the cabin, and Brook watched with amusement as Lance rescued the wayward fowl. Cradling the bird in the crook of his arm, he spoke to the outraged animal before placing her gently on the clean-swept ground where she joined the rest of the birds flocking at his heels. Brook wondered what he said to her. Did he dole out a stern lecture on poultry foolishness, or soothe wounded chicken pride with kind words? If she had to guess, she would say he chose words of comfort. The encounter brought a smile to Brook’s face. Lance soon disappeared around a corner, fowl following him like baby chicks after a mother hen. They wanted their morning grain and would tail him with singular perseverance until they received it.

  Brook noted the outbuildings with a sense of admiration. Like small forts, they were constructed vertically of gray weathered wood, and surrounded by trees and shrubs. She realized they would pass undetected at first glance; they blended so well with the scenery. Summer, with its thicker foliage and greenery, would conspire to camouflage them even more. They seemed a part of the forest. Concealed. Safe.

  Brook moved from the window and sat in the easy chair before the fire, her feet sending tendrils of pain up her legs. The pure pleasure of watching Lance with his animals shifted without warning into melancholy. She ran her fingertips over the branches of her little willow, and her eyes blurred with tears as she watched the slender chains swing delicately back into place. She picked up a book from the table, but didn’t open it. Instead, she gazed ahead, thoughts trapped within dark memories.

  Outside, Lance filled his canvas shoulder bag with potatoes, turnips and carrots from his root cellar, and set it on the front porch. Next, he hauled several loads of firewood from the covered stack. Dividing the supply of wood, he put some in the outside storage near the cabin door and the rest beside the root crops. He gathered eggs, tossed some hay in for Gilbert to munch on, and some extra straw for warmth. Sweeping the snow from the tops of the sheds, he cleared the skylights so the animals could enjoy whatever meager warmth the sun would provide on this day. A quick glance up told him that might be minimal. The clouds were gathering strength again, threatening more snow.

  Brook heard Lance stomping the snow off his shoes on the front porch, and dried her eyes before he entered. Sitting up straight in the chair, she flipped the book open so it would appear she had been reading. The fire was burning low and she was shocked at how much time had passed while she had sat in a fog. She determined to snap herself out of the gloom and make the best of her present situation.

  As Lance came through the door, he caught sight of her and his face lit up. No sense making him miserable with her woes, she concluded, and lifted the corners of her mouth, returning his smile.

  “Hey, you’re still awake.” he said. His cheeks were reddened from exposure and snow clung to his clothes and hair. A bulging cloth bag hung from his shoulder and he had a small pail of rich brown eggs in his other hand. He placed the eggs on the table, and carried his bag to the kitchen area where emptied it into a built-in bin. “Almost done.”

  He brought in several armfuls of wood and restocked the box next to the fireplace.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, as he shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the peg.

  “Fine,” she answered. He turned to look at her, something in her tone alerting him to her state of mind.

  “I could use some hot cocoa,” he announced. “How about you?”

  “Sounds good,” she answered, her eyes on the book as if engrossed.

  “Good book?” Lance asked dryly.

  “Um-hmm,” Brook said, continuing the ruse.

  He went to the sink and washed his hands, drying them on a towel as he approached her. He slung the towel over his shoulder and took the book from her hands. Turning it right-side up, he handed it back to her without a word. She blushed. Looking into his eyes she saw only patient concern. Pulling the other chair closer, he sat facing her. She withered under his intense gaze and her eyes darted around the room. He reached out and turned her face towards his. She flinched under his touch, but made herself meet his eyes.

  “Brooklyn,” he said, laying his hands in his lap. “Tell me. Just talk about it. I know it’s hard, but I honestly believe you’ll feel better once you get it off your chest.”

  “Oh, really? Is that what you did when Ellen died? You talked to people? Got it off your chest?” She struck out at him verbally. Her cruelty was defensive, not really intended to hurt him. Yet she knew she had. She saw it in his surprised expression. She looked away.

  “Yes and no,” he said carefully. “I grieved. I cried. I struggled with the pain, but I never completely finished the process. Instead I turned to my plan, the plan to move here, to become someone new. I think now I only extended my sorrow by refusing to face it. It’s still here inside me and it springs up when I least expect it.”

  “I’m sorry.” She hung her head.

  “Don’t be,” he responded, his voice kind and tolerant. He waited. She fidgeted with the book for a moment, and then took a deep breath.

  “I fought them,” she finally said, her voice cracking. “I fought them so hard.”

  “I know you did. I saw your wounds.”

  “But they were so strong, and there were too many of them. Even if there had only been one, I still couldn’t have stopped it. Men are just physically stronger than women.” Her voice steadied, but tears ran unchecked down her face.

  “That's true,” Lance agreed, keeping his voice calm in spite of the rage that stirred within his chest. He clenched his jaw. His fists opened and closed.

  “They hurt me. They hurt me so badly!” The dam burst and Brook’s shoulders shook from the violence of her sobs. “Oh, god! How could they do those things to me? Those sick horrible bastards! They’ve all got mothers, and
maybe sisters, too. One of them even had a girlfriend! She was there. With them. How could they treat a woman that way?

  "Oh, my god. They wouldn’t let me cover myself. I had to walk naked in front of them while they stared at me, leering, drooling, and smirking. They kept me in a filthy room with just a mattress on the floor. Again and again, they came into that room. Every time I thought I would die from the pain! They were heartless, monstrous! They tore into me and ripped me apart, and then laughed about it. They passed me around like a bottle of cheap whiskey. I was nothing to them, nothing but a piece of meat.” Great sobs racked her body.

  Although Lance had suspected this would come sooner or later, the force of her explosion shocked him into stillness for a few seconds. Then he pulled her into his arms and rocked her like a baby. She clutched handfuls of his shirt and pounded her fists against his chest in her anguish. Still, he held her, cradled her, and absorbed her misery. It lasted a long time. At one point she buried her face in his shoulder and simply screamed out her fury and torment. He felt tears of commiseration spring to his eyes, and he blinked them back.

  “I hate them! I hate them! I wish they would all die!” she moaned. Rearing back, she looked into Lance’s face. “They were going to kill me. I heard them say it. How could they hurt me like that?”

  “Because they’re just what you said, sick bastards. Sick defective human beings.”

  Brook returned her face to his shoulder. “Sometimes I can’t get the smell of them out of my head. Or their faces. Or the sound of their voices. And it nauseates me. My skin crawls with the horror of it.” Brook wept quietly now. But, the outburst had a therapeutic effect, and she gradually grew calmer.

  “I’ll help you,” Lance said, his cheeks moist with his own tears. “Brooklyn, when you need to, you can pile it on me. You can yell and cry and talk until it’s all drained out of you. It’s poison, you know. We just need to get it out of your head so it can’t make you sick and sad anymore.”

  She pulled back from him just far enough to look into his eyes.

  “Out of my head and into yours?” she asked bitterly, realizing the burden he was willing to accept. All those horrid images and feelings, the nightmarish memories, the painful and obscene acts. He would take them on?

  “I can handle it, Brooklyn,” he said, even as he wondered privately if he really could. It made him crazy knowing how she had suffered. It made him want to kill.

  She held his gaze, and he looked past the fading bruises and the tears into her soul. A slow but irresistible force passed between them, and she felt his lips come softly against hers. Ever so tenderly, he claimed her mouth and she melted into him. He felt the flutter of her heart and the sweet press of her body. Groaning, unable to stop, he deepened the kiss and she responded with a yielding sigh. Then, he felt her body stiffen and he went dead still. He quickly moved his lips from hers and said, “Brooklyn. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Brook watched as a stricken look crossed his face. Even in her fear she realized he meant her no harm. She took a deep breath and moved slowly away from him. “No. No, I let you. Something deep inside me wanted to kiss you as much as it seemed you wanted to kiss me. I just can’t. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Oh, Brooklyn, of course I understand. It’s okay,” he said, resisting the passion he had felt, knowing he had to shove it away, forget it. “I just lost myself there for a minute. I only wanted to comfort you. It’s just comfort. It’s a human need, you know. Sometimes people just need to hold each other.”

  She fell into his voice, that voice she remembered from her fevered first days here, consoling her, soothing her back into forgetful sleep. She loved to listen to his voice, its deep resonance and the gentle lilts, the comforting words. A part of her wanted him to hold her, longed to just bury herself in the safety of his arms. At the same time, she wanted to push away from him, to keep him at arm’s length, not to trust anyone, especially a man. These conflicting desires flooded her senses, clouded her thinking. She shoved them aside. This man was gentle, he only wanted to help her; and God knew she needed help. Unable, no, unwilling, to give in to her misgivings, she leaned back into his embrace. She let him hold her, comfort her; and she perceived him as pure and good, the complete and utter opposite of the men who had abused her. The thought brought more tears to her eyes and she hiccupped a sob.

  Lance stroked her hair softly. “It’s okay, Brooklyn. I’m here. It’s okay.”

  Brook let all thoughts drift away as another flood of tears escaped the barriers she thought she had in place. Lance held her gently, making soft, almost cooing noises.

  As Lance consoled Brook, he couldn’t help but wonder at the kiss he had shared with this woman. It was nice. No, not nice, better than nice. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it; she wasn’t his Ellen. Lance hadn’t kissed another woman since way before he and Ellen married. They had dated all through college. Ellen had been his true love. But this woman, she stirred thoughts that had been long buried, and he needed to bury them again. He wasn’t ready and Brook sure as hell wasn’t. Still, he held her in his arms in a long moment of closeness that was sweet and soft as summer rain.

  After a time Lance became aware of the wind picking up, whistling around the corners of the cabin. Glancing at the window, he noted the darkening of the day as the next storm raced over the mountainside. He carried Brook to her bed and laid her on the mattress.

  “I need to stoke the fire,” he said softly.

  He stirred the embers, threw on some logs, and then returned to her. She reached for him, eyes pleading. “Would you hold me? Please? Just hold me.”

  Crawling into the narrow bed, he pulled her close. She placed her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest. He held her until she fell asleep. Soon, he drifted too, and they napped well into the early part of the evening.

  Chapter 37

  They woke still wrapped in each other's arms and parted almost reluctantly. Brook knew being in Lance’s arms should feel wrong, but it didn’t. She was a married woman. But after all she had endured, she decided she would not feel guilty about taking consolation where she could find it. Maybe it was an excuse, but she didn’t care. She had felt safe and protected next to Lance, and it answered a deep and wrenching need in her soul. Besides, it was innocent. It was as he said, just two people drawing comfort from each other. And although he hadn’t told her so, she got a strong feeling that he had found solace in their closeness as much as she had.

  “It's a little late for the cocoa we planned; how about some supper instead?” Lance smiled as he stood and stretched.

  “Sounds good,” she replied. “Can I help?”

  “You could peel the potatoes. Let me get you over to the table.”

  Brook held up a hand, palm out. “No, Lance. I need to try to walk. I have to stop babying my feet sometime.” She stood and made her way to the table while Lance stood by in case she needed him. It wasn’t an easy trek, and she secretly congratulated herself for the progress.

  Once she was seated at the table, Lance brought her a bowl, knife, and four potatoes. He prepared the meat for cooking and fired up the stove. They talked while they worked.

  “We used to have a big garden,” Brook reminisced.

  “Back home in Denver?”

  “God forbid! That would never go over where I live now.” Brook smiled. “We have a gardener, but he doesn’t really garden. He just takes care of the grounds. Mows, trims the hedges, waters, that type of work. I wanted a vegetable garden at the house but Clark was outraged and said, ‘That’s what farmers markets are for. That’s who you used to be; that’s not who you are now. Why don’t you join the garden committee at the club?’

  "Yeah, right. I didn’t want to tell people what to plant and where. I wanted to do the work myself.” She sighed. “No, I was talking about my childhood. My family always had a big garden and we all pitched in to tend it.”

  “Did you like it?” Lance asked.

  �
��Yes, I did. I loved it, actually. From setting out the seeds and plants, right up until we harvested the fruits of our labor. Of course, weeding wasn’t much fun. That’s why Dad always used a thick layer of mulch. I take it you like gardening?”

  “Yes,” Lance said as he rolled the meat in seasoned crumbs. “I have a few plots around the cabin. Nothing too big. I buy some of my produce from farmers markets. I plan on teaching myself how to can vegetables.”

  Brook finished peeling and laid the knife aside. “I can’t quit thinking about my parents,” she said, staring off into space. “My mom especially. They must be frantic. I wish I could spare them this heartache.”

  “I know you do,” Lance said. “I’ve been thinking of that, too, but didn’t want to bring it up again. I know your family is worried about you.” He seemed to mull something over before continuing.

  “Brooklyn,” he said. “It wouldn’t be easy, but I could try to snowshoe out of here. If I made it I would be gone at least two days. But, I could call your family and tell them you’re safe. It's up to you. Say the word, and I’ll do my best to get in contact with your people.”

  “No!” Brook’s reaction was strong and immediate. “Please don’t leave me here alone. I can’t stand the thought. Besides, if, God forbid, something happened to you, no one would know I’m here. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is.”

  “Okay, okay,” he soothed. “It was just a suggestion. I didn’t really think it was a good idea. But I’d try it. For you.”