2a748f08-49ec-41d8-8e72-82e5bc151bc0-epub-67710b16-8d2a-4caa-be30-f5ebeb130f9c

by Rebecca Paisley

  He felt no relief when she obeyed his command. One look into her beautiful eyes told him she was far, far away from him. He saw her stark terror and knew she remained asleep, those monsters holding her fast. Bending closer to her face, he shouted, “Russia! Dammit, Russia, wake up!”

  She recoiled in wrenching revulsion. Wirt was bending over her. She tried to get away, but his fat body kept her flat to the bed. Pain flooded through her. She felt broken. Ripped and mangled. “Blood! Oh, God, blood! Stop!”

  Santiago felt her horror. It shook his arms as it ravaged through her slender body. He hated the way it felt, hated that he wasn’t in that dream to protect her from whatever heinous thing it was that was hurting her, making her bleed. “Madre de Dios, Russia!”

  He quickly subdued her when she began pummeling his chest; he was afraid to let go of her even for a moment for fear she’d injure herself. Astonished by the unusual strength with which she battled him, he held both her wrists and wrapped his own leg around hers, which were kicking violently. “Russia, for God’s sake!”

  “No! Let me go! Don’t!” Wirt was turning her over now, but keeping a bone-breaking hold on her. His terrible hands, sticky with her blood, were sliding down her back. He climbed onto her again. This time from behind.

  She stopped fighting him. She couldn’t win. But still she cried. Silently.

  When she suddenly ceased her struggles, when she became absolutely motionless in his arms, Santiago straightened and looked down at her.

  Soundless though her tears were, they seemed to scream out her torment. Agony poured through him. Gently, he laid her back down again, seizing the opportunity to retrieve his canteen. “Russia,” he murmured to her, sprinkling water on her face. “Russia. Russia. Russia.”

  Russia. The name wafted through her mind again. She wished she could understand why Wirt was calling her that.

  She felt something cold on her face. Her tears were hot. What was cold?

  “It’s me, Russia,” Santiago cooed. “Please wake up.” He poured water into his hand and smoothed it over her cheeks, down her neck, across her chest. “Open your eyes again and look at me. Look at me, Russia, and see who I am.”

  She shivered, unable to understand what was making her cold. Someone told her to open her eyes. He called her Russia again. Russia. Russia. The name began to sound familiar. She opened her eyes, trying to ready herself for the horrible visage she knew she would see.

  The image wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t Wirt’s. Whose was it?

  “Paloma,” Santiago whispered.

  Paloma. The word ribboned through her. Paloma. It meant “dove.” She knew that, but how did she know?

  She could see sable hair. Why wasn’t it red anymore? It fell close to her cheeks and smelled good.

  She saw a pale scar on dark skin. A knife had caused it. She couldn’t understand how she knew that. She loved the scar. Why? What did it mean to her?

  She felt fear leaving her and tried to call it back, unable to understand why it was going away. She was supposed to be afraid. Terrified. Instead, she was beginning to feel warm and cared for.

  She caught the scent of a blazing fire. It was nearby, snapping crisply. She didn’t have a fireplace in her bedroom. So where was the fire?

  She saw the flames reflected in midnight eyes. She’d seen those eyes before. She’d gazed into them often. Whose were they, and why was their soft glitter so beautiful to her?

  “Are you waking up now, Russia?”

  “Russia,” she repeated softly. “Russia…Valentine. Santiago. Santiago Zamora.”

  She was safe. The knowledge propelled her even closer to the man who offered that safety to her. She wound her arms around his back, pressed her cheek to his chest, and knew astonishing security at the sound of the heartbeat beneath her ear.

  Santiago felt his shirt grow moist and hot. She was crying again. “Santa Maria,” he groaned, his voice thick with emotion, so many emotions. “Russia, please tell me what—”

  “Jist hold me.”

  “I am, but—”

  “Hold me. Tight.”

  He did. As tight as he could without hurting her. “Russia, tell me what you’re thinking. For the love of God, tell me.”

  His powerful embrace made her sigh. Things she’d never told a soul broke free of their chains and began floating around inside her. She couldn’t recapture them. “Did— Did y’know I cain’t never have no babies?”

  He frowned, his bewildered mind trying desperately to digest this new and unexpected bit of information. “No,” he whispered down to her. “I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

  “I love babies. I love children. But I won’t never have none.”

  When she began trying to curl her body into a ball, he helped her do it, adjusting his own body so that the tight form of hers fit securely to him. “Why, Russia?” he asked softly. “Why can’t you have any children?”

  She felt her eyes sting, but didn’t cry. There were no more tears left inside her. Thousands of thoughts, thousands of memories, sped through her. It was impossible for her to sort through them.

  Santiago saw so many emotions in her eyes. They were all tangled. “Russia, what does your dream have to do with your inability to have children?”

  Because her thoughts and memories were so hopelessly intertwined, she didn’t know what else to do but speak whichever ones came to her lips. “I almost died. But I didn’t die. A woman finded me. I was layin’ on the side o’ the road. She was drivin’ by in her wagon, and she picked me up. I didn’t weigh very much. I never had enough to eat, so I didn’t weigh very much.”

  He didn’t reply. He was too confused to think of any words.

  “I shoulda leaved home when Mama died, Santiago. But I was so young. I didn’t have no money a’tall. And where would I have gone, anyway? The farm was far, far away from ever’thing, out in the middle o’ nowheres. I remember there weren’t nothin’ but miles o’ fields and woods ever’where I looked. But I shoulda leaved. If I had… If only I had, none of it woulda happened.”

  He felt her body grow rigid again. His own tensed when he realized she was returning to the subject of her nightmare.

  “The woman who finded me on the side o’ the road, Santiago? Well, she drived me a long way. There weren’t no nearby towns. There was blood ever’where. It maked me sick. I emptied my stomach till there weren’t nothin’ but pain left inside me. I was so afraid he’d come after me. I begged the woman to drive faster, but she only had a old mule, and he didn’t do nothin’ but walk real slow. I ain’t never been so afraid. I jist knowed I’d look over the side o’ the wagon bed and there he’d be.”

  “Who?” Santiago growled, suspicion sneaking through him. “Who, Russia?”

  She closed her eyes and her lips.

  Santiago’s need to understand her pain was so great he wanted to shake the truth out of her. But no sooner had the thought entered his mind than he dismissed it. He knew well the sheer torment it was to talk about things that hurt. “Take your time, chiquita. I’m here, and I won’t leave you.”

  The gentleness in his deep voice made her feel stronger. She opened her eyes and was fairly blinded by the bright glow of concern in his. “He raped me,” she whispered. “He…I was in bed. In my little-girl room that Mama fixed up fer me. Y’want to hear about that room, Santiago?”

  He didn’t give a damn about the room. She’d been raped. Raped!

  “Santiago? Y’want me to tell you about my room?”

  “Yes,” he hissed from between clenched teeth. Raped. She’d been raped, and she wanted to tell him about her room! With supreme patience, he got hold of his fury. “Yes, of course,” he said quietly. “Tell me about your room, Russia.”

  She turned her face up to the starlit heavens and smiled. “It weren’t a fancy room, but it was so purty to me, Santiago. There was a picture hangin’ over my bed. It weren’t in a frame, though. It was jist nailed right to the wall, but I didn’t care. It was of a fr
og. The frog was sittin’ on a green lily pad in a pond, and there was pink flowers floatin’ all around. I used to dream about that frog. Dreamed about him on account o’ that fairy tale about the Prince Charmin’ who was a frog till the girl kissed him and he turned into a prince again.”

  “How nice,” Santiago managed to say.

  “Santiago?”

  “I’m here,” he hurried to reassure her. “I’m holding you, palomita.”

  She forced herself to concentrate on his warmth, on the light coming from his eyes. “I was layin’ there in bed one night, and he come to my door,” she continued, her voice fading to a shaky whisper. “I couldn’t see him good, so I lighted a candle. Then I seed he was nekkid. I—It scared me, seein’ him like that. I couldn’t understand. He was so drunk, Santiago. He was always drunk. Even in the mornin’s.”

  “He standed there in the doorway and started mutterin’,” she explained further. “Went on and on about how he didn’t have nothin’ left no more. He’d lost the farm jist a week earlier, y’see. He’d gone on a trip to the nearest town to git some supplies. He was gone fer five days. While he was in that town, he got into a card game and gambled the farm and ever’thing on it clean away.”

  “Tell me the rest,” Santiago prompted, apprehensive. “About what happened the night he came to your room.”

  “After he talked about losin’ the farm, he carried on about my mama dyin’ on him. He tole me that I was the only thing he had left in the whole wide world. That I was his, and that he weren’t never gonna let me go. Then he tole me— He said…”

  “What did he say?” Santiago demanded, rage pumping inside him.

  “That he owned me. That I was his possession and that he could do whatever he wanted to do with me.” She felt her nails sink into the sides of Santiago’s waist and knew she was hurting him. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers.

  “Russia—”

  “There was a braided throw rug by my bed,” she whispered. “Mama—Mama maked it herself. My feet… They didn’t never hit cold floor when I waked up in the mornin’s.”

  Santiago held himself so stiffly, his entire body began to ache. It was all he could do to keep his impatience at bay. “A rug. I bet it was nice. Real nice, Russia.”

  She blinked, feeling her lashes sweep across his chest. His warm, muscled chest. “When he taked a few steps into my room, I throwed my candlestick at him. He catched it and laughed. His laughter— It sounded like…like diseases. Like rusty nails and poisonous snakes. And rotten things. It sounded like ever’thing bad and scary in the whole world.”

  “‘Come to Wirt, darlin’,’” she squeaked. “‘Come to yer sweet ole Wirt.’” She closed her eyes, covering them with her hands as the terrifying words echoed in her mind. “When he come into my room, that’s what he said. And—and he didn’t never quit sayin’ it! He said it a million times! He stepped on my braided rug! He got into bed! He…he hurt me so bad,” she whispered painfully. “He’s my—Wirt Avery’s my stepfather, and he hurt me.”

  Santiago couldn’t reply. His rage knew no bounds.

  “I fighted him,” Russia mumbled, her limbs trembling. “I was a virgin, Santiago. After that night, I weren’t never gonna be a virgin again. Wirt—I didn’t know what I was fightin’ him fer, but I knew he was gonna do somethin’ real, real bad. He did. He didn’t stop. He did it over and over again. I couldn’t stop him. He went on till all his strength was gone. Failed asleep then. His big, horrible hands was still on me when he commenced snorin’. His head was on my pillow. His smell, his touch, his ever’thing was all over me, and so was blood.”

  Santiago took a deep, ragged breath, lifted his head, and stared at the sky. “God,” he groaned. “Russia… Dear God.”

  The thought of Russia at Wirt’s hands made him want to scream. It filled him with the seething urge to kill. To commit a cold-blooded murder. It turned him into the man who would finally live up to all the grisly tales told about him.

  He’d let Wirt escape one time. He wouldn’t again.

  Slowly, he lay down on the blankets, keeping Russia next to him. He wanted to say something soothing to her, something that would make her instantly better. But he couldn’t. He was too furious. Too sickened by the thought of how helpless she’d been the night of the assault.

  Russia clutched his shoulders, pulling herself closer to his comforting warmth. “My book. I finded my book Mama give me and crawled away. It was night. I can still remember the way the rocks cut into my knees and hands. Somethin’ inside me was hurtin’. Some part real deep—”

  She reached for Santiago’s hand and lay it across her lower abdomen. “Here’s where it was hurtin’. Deep in here. It weren’t jist a little pain neither. I knowed Wirt had broke me inside. I keeped thinkin’ I was gonna faint, but I didn’t. Bein’ scared keeped me goin’, I reckon. I recall hearin’ the wind and things fallin’ outta the trees and all these night noises. I was sure they was comin’ from Wirt and that he was follerin’ me. I crawled all night long. The woman finded me jist when it started to git light. She taked me to a doctor. He—he—”

  “What did the doctor say, Russia?” Santiago asked gently.

  “It taked him a long, long time to stop the bleedin’. He explained to me that so much bleedin’ was gonna leave scars inside me and that maybe them scars would keep me from bein’ able to have babies. He didn’t know fer sure, but it turned out he was right. I—I’ve been with lots o’ men, Santiago, and I ain’t never had no baby.”

  Santiago remembered how she’d acted after Mrs. Emerson had delivered a baby in Rock Springs. He recalled her look of sadness after having told him about Trudy Lawson’s pregnancy back in Whispering Oaks. Now he knew the reasons behind that sorrow. Now he understood why Russia had told him her trouble wasn’t one he could fix.

  He bent, taking her lips in a tender kiss. “Don’t be afraid anymore, Russia. I swear to God that I’ll get him. I won’t let him hurt you, paloma. He’ll never follow you again.”

  She lifted her hand to his cheek, her lips quivering into a small smile. “The doctor and his wife let me stay with ‘emtill I got well,” she continued, her eyes never leaving his. “After I left ‘em, I did all sorts o’ jobs. Anything I could to earn money. Mostly, I cleaned houses and washed clothes. I spended ever’ cent I maked on food. I—I didn’t git much to eat when I was livin’ with Wirt, y’see. I was real skinny. But after I started eatin’ good, I filled out.”

  “That’s when the men… They looked at me, Santiago. No woman would hire me no more on account o’ their husbands looked at me. It was around that time, too, when Wirt almost catched up with me. I knowed then that I couldn’t never stay in no town fer very long. I got away from Wirt, though. Hided in a man’s wagon fer two days without food or water. When the man finally stopped in a town, I got out and sweared then and there that Wirt wasn’t gonna kill me. Not with his hands or by causin’ me to starve to death. I jist couldn’t let him win like that. Jist couldn’t do it.”

  “My body, Santiago,” she whispered up to him, every part of her willing him to understand. “It was all I had left to me. Men looked at it. I weren’t no virgin, and I knowed what they wanted. The first time I— The first man I…”

  “Russia—”

  “I cain’t remember his name, but I remember the money he give me,” she continued, her voice cracking. “Five dollars fer the whole night. The man never did go to sleep. He keeped it up till dawn. It maked me so sick, Santiago. I keeped thinkin’ about Wirt. About the rape. I don’t know how I got through that night. But I did. The next morning, I tasted food for the first time in three days. When nighttime come, so did another man. And another and another. I stayed in that town fer four days, and each night the men come. When I moved on, I had Little Jack Homer and my cart. In the next town I finded Nehemiah and more men.”

  “There ain’t no end to men, Santiago. There’s more men in the world than all the grains o’ sand in the sea. They’re ever’where. And ever’
one I come across? Well, they all want one thing from me. I give it so’s I can keep on survivin’. Dyin’s horrible. It’s hard. I know. I know because I’ve almost died more times than one. Dyin’… Real slow-like? It’s so bad there ain’t even a word fer it. Men— It’s only on account o’ men and what they want that I ain’t dead.”

  Again he felt helpless to comfort her. He knew what it was like to die inside, but he’d never come close to physical death. Russia had. “I’m…Russia, I’m so sorry.”

  She pressed her finger to his lips. “Ain’t no need fer you to be sorry, Santiago Zamora,” she scolded him. “You didn’t have nary a thing to do with nothin’, hear? And y’know? I feel better now that I done tole ever’thing to you. Before tonight there weren’t nobody who knowed it. Now that you know it? Well, it feels right good.”

  He managed a slight nod, but guilt assailed him. He’d wanted to hate this girl, he remembered miserably. He’d wanted to believe she was all the things he so detested. He’d wanted to punish her, wanted to make her feel worthless, like some cheap thing that nobody wanted.

  He felt humbled with shame. Russia did what she did because there was no other way for her. She’d tried to tell him that, but he’d scoffed inwardly. He knew now that, if faced with the decisions she’d had to face, he’d have done exactly what she had.

  It was the instinct for survival. He knew it well. He used his guns to survive; Russia used her body. Two different methods, to be sure, but both produced the same ends—living through another day.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, the whole of his heart in the two words he spoke. “Russia—”

  “I bet you’re wonderin’ how I can do what I do after what Wirt done, ain’tcha? Y’want me to tell you?”

  He detected her need to explain it to him and recognized her desire to purge herself of all the heartache she’d been forced to hide for so long. That, too, he understood completely. Hadn’t he felt better after having told her about Graciela? “Tell me, paloma.”