by Devine,Carol
A Man of the Land
A Masterson Family Series Novel
by
Carol Devine
Copyright © 2016 Carol Devine Rusley
All rights reserved. Except for review excerpts as defined by copyright law, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including digitally, electronically, mechanically, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the author at authorcaroldevine.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13:9781535109765
ISBN-10:1535109769
First Revised Edition
Contents
A Man of the Land
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Dedication
To Mary, Helen and Anne
Acknowledgements
I want to thank my husband, Steve, for being the first to read this manuscript and coming up with the title. My friends at Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers have my gratitude for their encouragement during the writing of this novel, especially Anita Meyer, Cheryl McGonigle, Diane Mott Davidson and Chris Jorgensen. My copy editor and publishing mentor Angela Keane of Story Preserves shepherded me through the process of revising this book from the first print edition. Weebly helped me build and maintain my website at authorcaroldevine.com
Cover design by Kimberly Killion of the Killion Group,Inc.
Prologue
Sarah Solomon hefted the poisoned beef in her hand and wondered if strychnine could be absorbed through human skin. If so, she'd pay with her life, a suitable penance considering the magnitude of the grievous sin she was about to commit. But if Butcher didn't die, she would.
Making sure she was downwind, she crept toward his shed. In the night quiet, the former chicken coop stood in a corner of the yard like a sentry with a slanted head. Above it curled a scrap of moon that cast few shadows. She'd chosen tonight for that reason.
Because of the bone-chilling cold, she wore every piece of clothing she owned: chemise, drawers and petticoat, two calico blouses, a sweater, her work skirt and Sunday best, even the gray wool gown from her mother's funeral. Although she wasn't allowed to wear gloves, she had a warm sheepskin coat. A stocking cap covered her bound-up hair.
Freezing mud sucked at the gaps in her knit wool stockings. Tonight, her first act of defiance had been to throw her clumsy wooden clogs into the fireplace. Not only would the clogs slow her down, they'd leave a distinctive tread, one every member of the Community would recognize. First thing she'd do when she reached a town was find some comfortable shoes, maybe even a pair of those rubber-soled ones with wavy designs on the sides. She'd seen pictures of them in a magazine filched from the truck of the county's visiting nurse.
A cloud passed over the thin moon and she groped blindly for the shed. Rough weathered boards scraped her fingers. She followed her way around to the shed door, holding her breath the whole time, approaching from downwind. She needed to take Butcher by surprise. If he heard her or picked up her scent too soon, all hell would break loose.
Butcher was the pride of Cal Solomon's life. He had bred the dog for trail sense and brute strength, crossing his best hound bitch with a pit bull he'd gotten from an animal shelter in Great Falls. Once the puppies were born, Cal had picked the biggest male in the litter, shot the stud and drowned the remaining pups so Butcher would have no rivals, no peers.
A year later, the dog didn't. Broader in the head and chest than the hounds, Butcher could track with the best of them. But when it came time for the kill, he had no parallel. Sarah had seen the remains of the coyotes he'd torn apart. She'd have little enough chance of escape with the hounds on her trail. She'd have none if Butcher was sicced on her.
In the dark silence, the clink of shifting chains drifted through the door. Vicious though he was, Sarah felt a stab of pity. She knew what it was like to be chained. She hadn't been privy to the rest of Cal's disciplinary methods because he'd trained the dog secretly, during renewal prayers. But she could well imagine what he'd done to make the tiny bundle of fur she'd cradled at birth turn into a ruthless killer. Maybe God would forgive this selfish act, for Butcher would be put out of his misery, too.
In one quick motion, she yanked open the door and tossed the meat inside. Butcher barked, the sound wolfish and frenzied. Sarah darted around a corner and peered back at the main house, covering her ears because of the din. Sure enough, the uncertain flame from a wooden match wavered from Cal's window. Then came a halo from a candle. The window flew open and Cal stuck his head outside, shotgun in hand, his thick beard ruffling in the wind. "Who's there?" he bellowed.
She froze even though he couldn't see her, not crouched in the shadows. The slightest movement, however, would draw his attention. If he spotted something, he'd shoot now and ask questions later. Over the winter, vandals had struck a number of other ranches in the Community. Cal had made his feelings known then as he did now.
"Man's got a right to protect his own property!"
At the commanding sound of his master's voice, Butcher stopped barking. Metal clanked against wood. The dog snuffled along the baseboard and whined long and loud, puzzled, Sarah was sure, to find her scent close to the shed. She hadn't been this close to him in months. Cal must have heard the whining because he swore.
"Damn dog," he muttered. "Waking me up for no good reason."
The candle glow vanished. Sarah let out the breath she'd been holding. Butcher's chain dragged heavily, then silence. He'd found the meat. She bit her lip, remorse already eating away at her resolve. To keep from charging into the shed like an avenging angel, she dug her nails into her palm and told herself the pain was nothing compared to what the dog would inflict.
She made out the shadowy outline of the barn and headed there, stopping only to dip her bloodied hand from the meat into the horse trough. A thin coat of ice floated across the top, numbing her fingers. If only her conscience could be assuaged as easily.
The odor of manure from the cattle pens reached her, touched by the clean scent of budding trees. It reminded her of her purpose: to find a new life outside the Community, a better life, free of the constraints she'd endured for too long. She spared a glance at the cabin. All quiet.
She smelled the barn before she reached it, a combination of musty hay, pungent horse and well-fed cows, pleasant to her and familiar. Feeling for the latch, she slid the door open enough to slip inside and closed it carefully because of the squeaky hinges. The absence of light was such that she couldn't make out the hand she held in front of her face. She used the stall wall on her right as a guide and whispered into the darkness.
"Twinkleberry?"
The horse nickered and Sarah heard his hooves stomping. The air moved before a velvet nose butted her shoulder. She reached with her arms, her face already wet with tears and hugged the gelding's thick neck.
"Goodbye," she
said.
Planks creaked as more barn animals wakened. Sarah wound her arms around the neck of the other Percheron gelding, Old Brown. Then came the thinner neck of Nutkin, Cal's buckskin saddle horse.
She had considered riding him to escape but Cal would launch a never-ending pursuit if she stole something as valuable as his horse. Besides, she hadn't ridden in some eight years since she was sixteen, ever since her mother had married Cal and he'd become her stepfather.
At the rear of the barn, she found the ladder leading to the hayloft. Climbing the first four rungs, she stretched and felt under the straw heaped on the second floor. Her fist closed around a cotton bundle. She knotted the loose top of it, once a pillowcase, and let it drop to the ground. The makeshift sack clunked heavily as she descended.
She jumped to the floor, untied the knot and plunged her hand inside. Pushing past her lighter provisions, she felt for the heavy metal cylinder that lay at the bottom. She'd discovered the flashlight a week ago under a loosened brick while cleaning the main hearth. After examining the long chrome tube and unblinking clear plastic eye, she'd managed to turn it on and immediately realized what power she held. Light without fuel. She wouldn't have to carry candles or an oil lamp. The flashlight would make all the difference in her escape.
To Sarah, it was a sign from God.
The squeak of the barn door brought her head up sharply. A man's silhouette stood at the threshold of the barn, backed by the ruddy light of a coal oil lantern. She heard the ratchet sound of a shotgun being cocked.
"Lessen you want to die," Cal said, "Show yourself."
Sarah shrank back into the dark and held the sack behind her, searching for the rear door of the barn. At best, she had only a few seconds to find a way out.
Her spine flattened against the wall. She gripped the sack in one hand and spread the other one out, despair blinding her more than the dark. Even if she found the door, it led into the cattle pens, occupied at this time of year by heifers and newborn calves. She'd risk losing a few toes going out there in her stocking feet. The animals would make noise, too.
Cal shoved the door aside with his hip, opening it fully, letting more light in from his lamp. Reflected flame reddened the oily skin above his beard and blotted out his eyes, making holes in his wide face. His denim overalls were snapped on one side, exposing the red- buttoned front of his faded union suit. He paced forward, sending shadows leaping along the walls. The horses shifted nervously.
Holding the sack behind her skirt, Sarah stepped from the shadows. "Hello, Cal."
Suspicion narrowed his eyes. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Heard Butcher barking," she said, lapsing into the colloquial English used by most people of the Community, especially Cal. The tactic had saved her a beating more than once. "Thought I'd best see what got him all riled up. Ain't found nothing, though."
"You check the outhouse?"
"First thing I done. Empty as a corncrib in August. I thought to check the cattle pens next. Them newborns sure make easy pickings." She turned, trying to keep the look of her arms natural as she kept the pillowcase hidden at her side.
"Nope," Cal said, catching her arm. "You git back to the house. Ain't right for a woman to be out wandering around in the middle of the night."
Sarah nodded, afraid the sudden hope she felt might be betrayed in her voice. If Cal stayed behind, that would give her the few minutes she needed to run to the south pasture. She'd spent an hour crisscrossing it yesterday evening, laying down many trails of her scent. Fording the river would give her extra insurance once Cal discovered her gone and released the hounds. With luck and the cover of darkness, she'd make it to the highway by daybreak.
She scooted by him and made it outside. He'd set a lantern in the middle of the yard between the house and barn. Ahead was Butcher's shed. It was the only thing between her and freedom. When she got near it, she began to run.
A fierce barking tailed into the wind, the likes of which she'd thought to never hear again. Sarah staggered in disbelief. Butcher was alive.
The pillowcase slipped from her hands and cartwheeled to the ground, spilling the contents. She dropped to her knees, grabbing matches, lye soap, beef jerky, a sack of beans, and saw the flashlight rolling beyond her reach. Above the sound of barking, she heard Cal bellow.
"Sarah!"
He came out of the barn and was advancing on her, shotgun in hand, his gaze taking in the scatter of provisions littering the ground. She knew the exact moment he spotted the flashlight. A look of murderous rage changed his face.
Sarah jumped and ran. The crack of gunfire ripped the air. She zigzagged and Butcher's incessant baying covered her crash against the shed. Beyond terrorized, she hunkered down and clutched dirt, searching for a stick, rock, anything.
Suddenly the collar of her coat was grabbed. Cal picked her up and slammed her body against the wall. Splinters bit into her cheek. Sarah gritted her teeth to keep from whimpering. If nothing else, she was through whimpering.
Cal barked a short gutteral command to Butcher. The dog stopped howling. Cal grabbed her shoulder and turned her around. "Did you really think you could get away from me?"
Sarah didn't answer. She was through answering, too.
"Got a beau waiting out here, don't you?"
She raised her chin at the familiar accusation.
He prodded her with the barrel of the rifle. "Answer me!"
"There's no beau. You never let me stop working long enough to find one."
His blow to her head sent her spinning across the yard. She sprawled in the icy mud. Something hard and cylindrical pressed into her belly. The flashlight. She wrapped her hand around it, gathering courage and resolve. He'd killed her mother's spirit. God forbid, she wasn't going to let him kill hers.
He stomped over to her. She curled into a ball to make herself a smaller target and watched his feet, readying herself. He drew his leg back to kick her and she turned enough to take the kick in the belly where it was better absorbed by her clothes.
Reaching up, she hooked an arm around his leg. Grunting in surprise, he lashed out with the butt of the gun but her intention had not been to throw him off balance but to use his leg as leverage. She rammed the flashlight directly into his groin.
He screamed and bent over double. She drew the flashlight back and arced it forward, smashing it into the side of his head. The flashlight's eyepiece shattered. Cal fell forward, landing on top of her.
With a shudder of revulsion, she squirmed out from underneath him. Sarah scrambled to her feet, the broken flashlight held at the ready, her gasps fogging in the cold air. He didn't move. She snatched the shotgun, her other arm still wound up to swing again, afraid he would somehow spring to life.
Blood trickled from a bruise growing on the side of his head. She backed up and tripped over something solid. Balancing the gun in the crook of her arm, she scooped up her pillowcase and stuffed the rest of her provisions inside it.
She had to get moving. Time was a'wasting.
She used rope from the barn to tie Cal's hands and feet, then hefted the gun. It was heavy, too heavy for her to carry and run at the same time. She had no ammunition and wasn't about to spare the time to return to the cabin to search for some. She glanced at Butcher's shed and realized what she had to do. Once Cal came to his senses, he'd come after her with a vengeance. And he'd use Butcher to do it.
Sarah unlatched the shed door and, with the tip of the gun barrel, pushed open the door. A low growl caused the hairs at the back of her neck to stand on end. She aimed toward the sound before shifting sideways to let light in from the lantern outside. The glow was enough to pick up the shine of raw meat lying untouched on the dirt floor and the gleam of canine teeth, clenched in a snarl. Above the white fangs glowered eyes red with warning.
Sarah hesitated. Another shotgun blast might alert the neighbors or worse, wake Cal. She hadn't gotten a good look at Butcher in eleven months time, since she'd had charge of the
whelping pen. If it wasn't for the short length of chain that linked his leather collar to a bolt sticking out of the ground, her throat would undoubtedly have been torn out by now.
Keeping the gun aimed in his direction, she inched her foot out and nudged the meat closer to him. He stopped growling and licked his chops, focusing on the meat. Saliva dripped from his glistening jowls.
"Eat," she commanded.
He looked at her and actually wagged his stub of a tail. But he didn't eat.
"What do I have to do? Feed you myself?"
He sniffed the air between them and his muzzle wrinkled, showing scars from numerous critter fights. Careful to keep a good grip on the gun, she picked up the meat with her other hand and held it out.
"Come on, boy. Come and get it."
Butcher regarded her with interest but it didn't appear to be food-related. He sat back on his haunches and cocked his head, chastened but alert, the pose of a good dog. Except Sarah knew he was far from that.
"Last chance," she said and tossed the meat between his front paws.
He stayed like a statue, gaze fixed on her, his flanks quivering with tension, showing every rib. Why wouldn't he eat? He was obviously starving, drooling. Just looking at him brought tears to her eyes.
Furious at her foolishness, she swiped them away, for her future depended on destroying him. The gun was loaded. All she had to do was pull the trigger. It would be an easy kill. He was chained. He couldn't run, couldn't hide.
Her conscience told her neither could she.
Very slowly, Sarah knelt. Using one of the filthy rags from his bedding, she scooped up the meat and laid the gun on the floor. She couldn't kill him, not face to face, in cold blood.
With a shiver, she tossed the meat into a bucket of scum in the corner of the shed. Butcher pricked his ears at the plopping sound, so far out of reach. She gazed at him, feeling her heart pound in her throat.
"Didn't he give you decent water?" Her voice broke. "Butch?"