He grinned. “Well now. That’s more like it, my little peach. I was worried you’d be an uppity city girl. That you’d need more training, the hard way. But looks like you’re smarter than you look. All right. We’ll do it your way. This time, since you asked me all sweet-like. But after that,” his eyes darkened with lust and threat, “it will be my way, every day.”
“As you wish.” She tried to smile sweetly, but it was a nervous, tight smile.
“Get your bag.” He let her go, and nodded toward the valise crumpled against the far wall, then nodded again toward a nearby doorway. “Get yourself changed. I’ll go give the boys their work orders for the day, finish up my repairs on that saddle,” he gestured at the table, “then get the horses hitched up. You’d better look like a perfect lady when I’m done, and have my room straightened up and dusted, too. And put the spare set of sheets on the bed for us, too. Since you want everything all romantic-like this evening.”
Madeline nodded, keeping the fake smile pasted on while she pulled her tattered clothing together and went to pick up the valise. She could hear something clink together inside—probably pieces of the mirror her mother had given her on her twelfth birthday. She stifled a sob as she made her way to the bedroom door Croft had nodded toward.
Once inside the room, she saw that it was small and dirty, with dark curtains drawn over the windows. She looked at the room as she would look at the walls of a prison. Walking over to the bed, she sagged down onto it, held her valise in her lap, rested her head on her hands, and cried.
Chapter 14
Never in his life had Clay seen a look on a woman’s face like the one he’d seen on Madeline’s. The shock, horror, fear, and desperation. He knew she didn’t want to stay—couldn’t want to stay—but felt powerless to help her. What could he do if the woman insisted on staying? Throw her over his shoulder and try to make off with her? If Croft or his men didn’t shoot him dead where he stood, he’d end up on trial for kidnapping. No, there had been nothing he could have done without Madeline at least admitting her desire to leave.
That’s what Clay told himself, anyway.
He’d seen the turmoil of emotions behind her eyes, then he saw her clamp down on her feelings, go cold, and look away. Was she that angry at him? Or was she just that determined to go through with the arrangement? Surely she wasn’t so tied to the idea of keeping her word that she was willing to live a life of misery with Samuel Croft?
His gut ached from the tension. Every muscle in his body was taut, wanting to spring into action. But there was no action to be taken. Madeline had made her decision, and now she was the one who would have to live with it.
Is she? his conscience prodded. Is she really the only one who will have to live with it? You had a chance, you could have saved her. If you had offered to marry her, maybe she would have accepted. Even if not at first, then when she met Croft, she’d have left with you…
He shook his head, brushing the thought away. He didn’t want a wife. He slapped the reins, urging the horses to go faster, as if he could somehow outrun his conscience.
You don’t want a wife, or you’re afraid of having a wife again? This time he heard Cara’s voice in his head. It was almost like she was sitting beside him.
Cara. She was going to kill him. They’d both suspected Croft could make a mean husband, but after seeing Croft’s behavior, right in front of him, he had no doubt the man would be an ornery bastard to Madeline. He talked to her as if she were nothing more than a slave. If Cara finds out, she’ll never forgive me for leaving Madeline there. He could never tell her.
What else could he have done? He all but begged Madeline not to marry the man. He’d even given her one last chance! The woman was as stubborn as they came.
He gritted his teeth, and turned his collar up against the wind. If the man treats her badly, she has no one but herself to blame. We offered to help her—she turned us down. Her choice. Besides, why should I risk my reputation as a delivery driver—and risk all my future income for my shop fund—for a woman who doesn’t even want to be saved?
***
The clomp of Croft’s footsteps faded away, followed by a door slam, as he left to talk to his men. Madeline forced herself to stop crying. She didn’t have much time. She’d make a world of noise doing what she planned, and he couldn’t be in the house when she did it.
She didn’t even take the time to change her ruined shirtwaist—just tucked it back in, buttoned the jacket of her day dress over it, and buttoned the coat over that.
In the corner stood a chair, over which Croft had tossed a pile of smelly clothes. She lifted the back of the chair, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor, then took the chair and tucked it under the doorknob. Then she crossed the room, pushed aside the dark, dusty curtains, unlatched the window, and pushed up on the window frame.
It didn’t budge.
“No!” she whispered. “No, no, no, no, no.” She pushed again, then bent over and got her body weight under the window, and pushed once more with all her might. She heard a small crack, then another, then the ice broke free and the window went up a few inches, before sticking again. She knelt down, listening at the window, making sure no one was close enough to the back of the house to hear her. Then she eased it up again, a few inches at a time. When it was up high enough, she picked up her valise, leaned out the window as far as she could, and let the bag plop to the ground, sending up a puff of dry snow crystals to float on the wind before settling to the ground.
She could hear Croft yelling at someone—a ranch hand, probably—off in the distance. It sounded like he was in the barn, or on the other side of it. Perfect.
She took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She’d never crawled out a window before, not even one on the first floor. She also had never climbed a ladder or up a tree. As the daughter of Chandler Barstow, she’d been expected to behave as a proper young lady, even from a young age, and she’d always done what was expected of her. Summers were spent sitting in white dresses, watching a tennis match or having tea. Never climbing trees or swimming at the pond, as she knew many other children did. No, too much was expected of her, and as much as she might want to defy her parents and climb out of the window when she was sent to her room as punishment, she’d never done it. Not Chandler Barstow’s daughter.
Looking down at the snow only four feet below the edge of the window, the thought occurred to her that it was a good thing that she’d never tried to climb out of her second floor Back Bay bedroom window—she’d have fallen and cracked her skull on the brick sidewalks. At least here, the fall was only a few feet, with at least a foot of snow drifted against the cabin to break her fall.
The yelling in the distance continued, and she hoped she was timing her escape right. She thought about waiting until he got back and started working on his broken saddle, but if she banged into the wall as she climbed out, she would alert him. No, it was safest to do it while he was out in the barn, reaming the poor ranch hands. The noise would serve as the perfect cover.
It took some maneuvering to get herself out the window wearing a corset, and she cursed herself for not changing and removing it while she was at it. Eventually she was able to duck under the window sash at the right angle, and get one leg out.
Now what do I do? There was nowhere to place her foot, and she couldn’t move well enough in the corset to get the other leg out. She sat straddling the sill for a minute, trying to plan her next move, as the melting ice beneath her seeped through her petticoat and pantaloons. As uncomfortable as that felt, she could only imagine it would be much worse once she escaped, running across the prairie and trying to find shelter. The land was rolling, she had only to get over the closest hill, then run for the line of trees she’d seen that grew along the creek bed near the road. She’d wait there until a sleigh passed by, or until night fell. If she couldn’t get a ride by nightfall, she’d make her way out onto the road and walk by night, and take shelter by day, when she imagined Croft and
his men would be looking for her.
It was far from a foolproof plan, and she would die of exposure long before she found safety, but she didn’t care. Dying alone in a ditch was preferable to living with that horrible man. The one part of her plan that she feared most is that Croft might find her and drag her back. God only knew what the man would do to her if that happened. Her only alternative then would be to provoke the man to kill her.
Chandler Barstow’s daughter would not live out her life playing whore and maidservant to a man not fit to shine her father’s boots…nor anyone else’s, for that matter.
Holding her breath, she threw caution to the wind and let herself slide sideways out of the window, falling onto her back in the snow with a groan. Snow got down her collar and up her skirts, which had gotten hiked over her knees, but she was no worse for wear. She got up, brushed herself off quietly, and fetched her valise, shaking snow from it.
There. That wasn’t so bad.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” A rough voice called from behind.
Madeline froze.
***
Clay stopped at the creek to let Sunny and Tansy drink and eat some of the tall, dry grass that protruded through the snow. It would be a long day for them, thanks to Croft’s lack of hospitality, and he swore to make it up to them when they got to Cara’s place. He’d sweet-talk his sister into bringing some carrots up from her root cellar for them.
Thinking of Cara, he felt a wash of guilt come over him again. He didn’t know what to say to her. She’d grown fond of Madeline in a short time, and he knew she’d had her heart set on him marrying the girl. Then again, she wanted Clay to marry any and every girl she came across, it seemed.
That’s not true. She always wanted you to open up to the idea of marriage, or meet a girl, but she never seemed to have her heart set on you actually marrying one of them before.
If his conscience was a real person, he’d have punched him in the face already.
He could hear his sister—his other “conscience”—even now, in his head. He could imagine her reaction to the news. You what?—she’d say—How could you leave her there, Clay? How could you be so stupid? You have to be the most stubborn man alive!
He wasn’t the stubborn one. Madeline was. He offered his help, but she wouldn’t take it.
You must be the most stubborn man alive, another voice popped into his head. Clay froze, grabbing onto the side of the sleigh for support.
Tabitha. This time it was Tabitha’s voice in his head, a memory bubbling up from the past…
“Clay, please, just listen to reason—” Tabitha stood at the drainboard, her blonde hair escaping the bun in wisps as she stood washing dishes after their evening meal. It was always so quiet in the evenings. After three years of marriage, they still hadn’t been blessed with a child yet. It made his wife sad and irritable, and Clay was exhausted—he’d had enough of her nagging that week.
“You’re the one not being reasonable!” He pounded the table. “You know how much I have into that stallion—I can’t sell him now. I only bought him a month ago! People will think there’s something wrong with him. I’ll lose everything I have in him.”
She tossed the towel so that it hung over her shoulder and walked over to him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “What good does the money do you if you get hurt, or someone else does, because of that horse?” Tabitha looked him right in the eye, her expression pleading. “I’m telling you, he’s dangerous. I’m afraid to be around him. I’m afraid for you when you’re around him.”
He turned away, shaking her off. They’d been arguing about it since dinner had started, and he was tired of talking in circles.
“You’re just not used to greenbroke horses,” he snapped. Didn’t she have any faith in him? “I know what I’m doing. I can handle it. And if he makes you nervous, just don’t come out to the corral when I’m training him.”
“Please, Clay. Please. I’m begging you. For me. Just quietly find another buyer. Or pay someone else to train him, at least.”
“We don’t have the money to hire a trainer, you know that. Just stop acting like a child and let me see to business matters, will you?”
Tabitha gave a frustrated growl and threw the dishcloth at him. “You must be the most stubborn man alive!” She wagged a finger at him. “Just you wait, that horse is going to kill someone. Mark my words.”
A week later, Tabitha was dead.
Clay let go of the sleigh and fell to his knees, his stomach retching, but it was empty, and nothing came out. The memory—as fresh as if it had happened yesterday—had plagued his dreams for years. Every night for five years, like clockwork, he woke from that dream—or the nightmare about the day she had died—sweating, crying…
“Wait,” he whispered aloud, as the wave of nausea passed. He hadn’t had that dream last night. Or the night before. He thought back, shocked. “I haven’t had that dream since I left Helena.”
Since you met Madeline, his irritating conscience prodded him.
It was a coincidence. He was too busy—too angry—to think about anything else but his infuriating conversations with Madeline. That’s all it was.
Or you’re too busy thinking about Madeline in general. Her dark, silky hair, her pink lips, the way her skin felt when you touched her…
“No.” He got up shakily, still feeling weak, then brushed off the snow and trudged over to where the horses stood. “It’s just a natural attraction. A man gets lonely, that’s all.” He led Sunny back to the sleigh and hitched her up. “A man has needs, right Sunny?”
Looking into Sunny’s big, brown eyes after he checked his work, he could almost imagine her answer.
Clay raised an eyebrow. “Meh, what would you know. You’re a girl.”
He went back for Tansy, and led her to the sleigh.
Tabitha died because of your stubbornness.
The self-accusation had rung in his ears thousands of times. He tried to brush off the thought as he hitched Tansy to the sleigh.
She died because you didn’t make the choice to do the right thing at the right time. You thought only of yourself. Your needs, your wants, your desires. It was all about you, and Tabitha paid the price for it.
No.
“Clay,” his sister had soothed after Tabitha’s death, “it’s not like you could have predicted it. Animals are unpredictable. It’s not your fault.”
But Cara hadn’t known that Tabitha had predicted it. Had begged him to listen. And he chose his horse. He chose a stupid horse over his wife. He chose money over his wife.
Isn’t that what you’re doing now? Choosing your shop fund over Madeline?
He froze, his hands on the leather straps. His heart squeezed. A vision flooded his mind of Madeline, standing in that dark, dirty kitchen, cowering before Croft as he berated her for burning yet another dinner. Dark circles ringed Madeline’s eyes, her hair was pulled back in a unattractive bun. Her clothing looked like an old woman’s castoffs. And in the vision, Croft was screaming at her, then picked up an iron skillet, and hit Madeline with it, smiling as she crumpled to the floor. Then he bent over and kept hitting her, over and over, blood flying in drips and sprays across the kitchen. When he was finished, he stood panting over her, covered in her blood, and Madeline lay bloody and dead.
Just like Tabitha.
No.
The image came unbidden—Tabitha’s still body lying on the straw, a single trickle of blood running down from the gash where the horse had kicked her.
No. It’s not the same thing. It’s not.
He climbed into the sleigh and whipped the reins against the horses back. They took off, startled, streaking across the prairie toward the mountains. The sooner Clay got back to his sister’s place, the sooner he could work on forgetting Madeline Barstow’s existence.
***
“And just where do you think you’re going?” A rough voice called from behind.
Madeline froze, cringing. She t
urned and saw a tall man in a wool coat, work trousers, and a cowboy hat towering over her. He was the man who had alerted Croft when she and Clay had pulled up to the house.
She decided to go with direct.
“What business is it of yours? I seem to remember that Mr. Croft was heading out to tell you boys to get to work. Maybe you should do that.” She lifted her chin imperiously.
“Nah,” he grinned, and leaned over to spit tobacco beside him. “I don’t think so. Looks to me like you’re skipping out on poor Mr. Croft. That don’t seem right, now, does it?”
Direct wasn’t going to work, so she shifted tactics. “Please, don’t say anything. He’ll never know. Just let me sneak away. You know he’s a brutal man. You can’t want to see him mistreat a woman, can you?”
“No!” A look of concern crossed his face. “No, of course not.” Then the concern melted away and was replaced by a devilish grin. “Not when I know how to treat a woman. I can treat you reeeeal fine. Give you a time you won’t ever forget.” He backed her against the cabin, putting a hand on the log wall on either side of her.
“Don’t,” she hissed as he lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. “I’m to be Mr. Croft’s wife. He told me himself no man better ever lay a finger on me.”
“That ain’t entirely true. I was outside listening on the porch. What he said was that no man better lay a finger on you without his say-so.” His grin widened. “You ain’t the first whore Croft has brought here to share with his men. He likes to bring a strumpet around here to stay for a few days with him, a few times a year. But he’s a cheap son-of-a-bitch, makes sure he gets his money’s worth by passing her around to all the men. The ones who are man enough to take part, anyway. The rest keep their mouth shut, ‘cause they know better than to stand up to Croft.”
Mail Order Regrets Page 15