by Susana Mohel
However, I did agree to hand over control, so if he still insists I have to finish the house by the end of the week, I’ll just have to grit my teeth and get on with it.
So, I doggedly continue with my task, fighting with some thick black plastic sheeting as I attempt to cover up the brick fireplace to protect it from any paint splashes, as instructed by my YouTube tutorial.
When I’m done, I step back and observe my work with pride. It might not exactly be up to professional standards, but I feel like Michelangelo contemplating his David. Yup, I’m really quite proud of my efforts.
I’ve never done anything hands-on or practical like this before, but I find it’s a challenge I rather enjoy. It’s strangely satisfying working out the best way to tackle things, then getting on with it, and seeing the fruits of my labors.
And I have to admit, Joel was right, the house desperately needs a good coat of paint. According to my new Google friends, wooden cladding must have regular maintenance if it’s to withstand harsh climatic conditions like ours, but as far as I can recollect, the last time it received any attention was more than ten years ago, when my father was still alive to take care of such matters. No doubt about it, a fresh coat of paint is well overdue.
Before I start painting, I rub down each individual board of the outer wall, carefully inspecting each one for signs of termite infestation. My Google buddies warn that neglect could have led to the nasty little buggers taking up residence, and right now they could be chomping their way through the wood. Even I know that spells disaster, but thankfully the wood appears to be sound as far as I can tell—it’d be obvious, right?
It’s a tedious job masking the top edge of the wall, but I can’t skimp on this part of the prepping if I don’t want to risk staining the gutters or the tiles. It’s exhausting going up and down the ladder, and I’m getting a helluva leg workout.
Finally, when I’ve prepped the house as best I can, it’s time to get on with the painting. I carefully stir the paint, thankful that at least Joel provided the pre-mixed kind, so that’s one less thing for me to worry about. When I begin painting, I find the process rewarding once I start to see a transformation in the appearance of the house.
It’s early afternoon when from my vantage point at the top of the ladder, I see an unfamiliar SUV pull up in front of the house. As far as I know, we aren’t expecting anyone, but what would I know?
Intrigued, I pause from my painting to crane my neck and see who it is.
“Oh no, not her,” I mutter irritably when I see a familiar redhead getting out of the car. I have to admit to being curious though. What brings Cassandra to my neck of the woods? I can only assume she’s here to see my husband, since I can’t think of any other reason for her turning up.
She strolls down the cobbled path on her spiky five-inch heels, but when no one answers the door, she wanders around until she comes across me perched on my ladder.
Unlike me, Cassandra is dressed to impress in an elegant pink dress that shows off her impressive curves to perfection. My first thought is that I need to find out exactly what kind of relationship Cassandra has with Joel. Not that I’m jealous, you understand, I just need to fathom out her connection with my husband, what influence she has over him.
“There you are, Tara, I wondered where everyone was. Wow, what a romantic way to spend your honeymoon,” she sniggers, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks up at me.
“Good afternoon, Cassandra,” I reply as calmly as I’m able. What business is it of hers how I spend my honeymoon, and why has is she here poking her nose in where it isn’t wanted?
“You must have had a very good night’s sleep to have the energy to tackle this.” She points to the house with a snide smile. Bitch.
“Actually, thanks to Joel, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I smirk back. This is true enough, though sadly not for the reasons I’m implying, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Thanks for your solicitude, but married life has me energized and raring to go. This is our marital home after all.”
“Well, I suggest you make the most of your burst of energy, Tara darlin’, because Joel wants the job done as soon as possible.”
How the hell does she know that? Does Joel confide every little detail of his life—and mine—to her? Trust me, come what may, I shall be putting a stop to that with immediate effect. She wasn’t part of our deal.
“Well then, I suggest you leave me to get on and don’t waste any more of my time, Cassandra darlin’,” I smile back at her sweetly.
“Where is Joel, anyway? It’s him I came to see, and I have better things to do with my time than stand around chatting with you.” She looks around, tapping her elegantly shod toe impatiently, ignoring my comment that she should stop wasting my time.
“No idea. I’m his wife, not his keeper. Guess you’ll have to go and find him yourself.”
We silently glare at each other for a beat, and when she glances at the ladder I’m precariously balanced on above her, I’m pretty sure she’s tempted to give it an ‘accidental’ shove to send me tumbling down. Raising my eyebrows, I dangle the paint pot I have in my hand above her head, indicating where I’ll make damn sure it’ll end up if I go down.
Swallowing her spiteful impulse, Cassandra rolls her eyes as she goes off in search of Joel, leaving me to my painting.
By four, I’ve finished what I consider a decent section of the house for day one, but the rest will have to wait, as other duties call if I’m to put a meal on the table at a reasonable time, as dictated by my new husband.
Rustling up something halfway decent could prove challenging, since I’ve no idea what I’m going to find in the cupboards or the fridge, and there’s no time to go grocery shopping.
After clearing away my decorating tools, ensuring they’re cleaned and prepped ready for the following day, (another tip from my Google buddies) I turn my attention to my next duties.
I’m relieved to discover that despite being summarily dismissed by Joel, Mrs. Cox hasn’t trashed the kitchen, as I feared she might. In fact, she’s left it clean, tidy, and well-stocked, making my task much easier since there’s plenty to choose from.
Pushed for time, as well as exhausted, I go with something quick and simple—beef ribs with barbecue sauce, cornbread, and salad. What Texan guy wouldn’t be happy with that?
I’ve always liked cooking, which was why I took a course in it. My mother only agreed because it kept me from under her feet, although she never allowed me to help out in the kitchen, as it ‘wasn’t my place’ to mix with the hired help. At least my erstwhile hobby is finally proving useful.
I actually enjoy fixing our meal. I put out a bottle of wine as I set the table, Joel would probably prefer beer—a Shiner Bock, of course—but I’m hoping to set the tone for a civilized conversation, and a few glasses of wine might help toward easing the tension between us. We may not have a conventional marriage, but we at least need to find a way to peacefully co-exist. I can’t go on like this, I can’t face another night like last night.
Once I’ve got the meat in the oven and the bread warming, I have a little time to make myself presentable. I set the alarm on my cell phone, then head to take a much-needed shower and tidy myself up. No point in going overboard in an attempt to impress Joel if things are going to be platonic between us. But would it be so wrong to wear something he’d appreciate, to soften him up a little, break the ice between us? Don’t go there, Tara… but it wouldn’t hurt to feel confident about myself, would it?
At least I have a choice of outfits, for which I have my mother to thank, since she always insisted I had to have a decent wardrobe, as befitting my station.
Whatever. Those days are over.
Remembering how Joel always used to prefer me in a dress, I think I hit the right note with my outfit. Nothing over the top, just a simple green strappy sundress, along with a pair of pretty wedge sandals.
As I make my way back down to the kitchen to check on dinner, the fr
ont door opens and Joel saunters in, unfortunately followed by a smug-looking Cassandra. However, that smile is quickly wiped from her face as she almost collides with Joel, when he suddenly freezes on the spot once he spies me coming down the stairs. He gawks blatantly, his hungry eyes wandering from the thin shoulder straps of my green sundress, right down to my cute sandals. That he likes what he sees is undeniable.
He doesn’t hide his appreciation and I’m happy to let him look. A knot forms in my throat, the greeting I intended to give him stuck. He stands, slack-jawed, staring at me without saying a word. The magnetic pull between us is still there, as it has been from the first day we met.
The difference now is whether we’re going to act on it.
His eyes linger on my mouth, and involuntarily my tongue slides to my lips, moistening them. In response, his eyes darken further.
His eyes trail down my body once again, undressing me. This is virtual foreplay, we both know that. The carnal passion burning between us could ignite at any second. Right here, right, now, in the hall. In front of her. This entire display arouses me. Knowing that even if he has power over me, I also have it over him.
Joel knows exactly what his perusal is doing to me, warming those sensitive areas that yearn to be touched. By him. Even two feet away, I feel his need as he does mine. That’s how it’s always been between us and how it will always be.
Cassandra has disappeared into the background, superfluous and forgotten. Until she speaks, bursting the bubble.
“Did you finish all the painting, Tara?” she inquires with fake innocence, knowing that’d be physically impossible. I think I did pretty well today, given that I’m working on my own and have zilch experience, but it’s going to take me several more days to get it done, as she well knows.
“Dinner is almost ready,” I announce, ignoring her stupid question while my eyes remain locked with Joel’s.
Then he blinks, breaking the spell.
“Cassandra will be joining us, so I hope you’ve made plenty,” he states. “We’ll be in the office, just holler when it’s ready.”
I want to throw the frying pan I have in my hand at them as they head to the office, but some divine power stops me.
Damn you, Joel, why did you invite her to stick around, when I wanted a shot at starting afresh? My good mood immediately goes down the pan, but as a matter of pride I force myself to finish the salad and accompanying vinaigrette dressing. I refuse to let Cassandra get to me, so I won’t give the bitch the satisfaction of making me feel uncomfortable at my own table.
Fifteen minutes later, with the kitchen table set and food ready to be served, I head to the room that served as my father’s den in times gone by.
Since the door is ajar, I hear them chatting, and can’t resist the opportunity to eavesdrop.
“I’m so happy, Joel,” Cassandra sighs contentedly. “You don’t know how excited I was when I found out.”
“I’m very happy too, Cassie,” Joel says.
What the fuck are they talking about?
“I’m hoping for a boy. A mischievous little boy who’s the spitting image of his father,” she laughs.
“Well, I think it’s going to be a girl,” Joel laughs back “A fiery little redhead just like her momma. And I give you fair warning, I’m gonna spoil her rotten, so you’d better get used to the idea.”
Cassandra’s pregnant? With Joel’s baby?
The very thought makes me want to puke.
Holy fucking hell.
And yet he married me?
Joel and Cassandra. Having a family together.
My heart breaks as I imagine them planning a life together, having children together, raising them together.
Sharing everything that I can’t have with him… such as growing old together.
While they’re sharing their excitement about her news, all I can hear is my heart painfully thudding.
“So, have you thought any more about what to do with the ranch?” I hear her ask. “With the way the market is right now, it’d make sense to either sell the whole thing, or at the very least part of it, in order to release some of the equity.”
Sell my ranch?
No. Never!
How can Joel even consider selling any part of Redlands? That’s the ultimate betrayal of my trust, since the whole point of my going to him was precisely because I didn’t want to sell up. This is my land. All that I have left. My legacy. I thought he understood, but now my faith in Joel is shattered like glass under a hammer.
I’m shaking with anger. I need air. I need to get out of here. I don’t want them seeing me like this. I have to think up a strategy, take advantage of the fact that now I’m aware of their scheming, I can do my best to block them. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.
My first thought is that I need a lawyer—if I only had the money for one. Which I don’t. So, I’ll have to come up with another plan.
On my own.
I should have stuck with flying solo in the first place, rather than chasing some foolish romantic notion that Joel was the one person I could turn to, because he wouldn’t let Redlands down.
Well, now he has. Lesson learned.
I stumble out of the kitchen in a confused daze, not even looking where I’m going.
I only realize I’ve ended up outside the ranch hand’s living quarters when a strong arm suddenly grabs me round the waist and drags me inside before I even have time to react.
“Well, look what we have here,” a gruff male voice says as he holds me firmly in his grip. I can’t see his face because he’s holding me from behind, but his nasty mocking tone sends fearful shudders down my body.
If I was panicking before, it’s nothing to now, as his disgusting smell hits me, a mixture of stale sweat, tobacco, and alcohol.
“Looks like someone’s come to pay what they owe us. Fine by me—more than one way of getting paid,” another husky male voice chuckles from behind.
I’m guessing some of the men didn’t take too kindly to Joel firing them this morning, and it appears they’ve been drowning their sorrows in what smells like cheap whiskey. Drunk and disgruntled—not a good combination.
How can I escape? I quickly work out that my only option is to make a run for it, but when I try, rough hands immediately catch hold of me and effortlessly haul me back into the room, as several men stand around laughing raucously.
“Now don’t you go thinking you’re too good for us, little lady. You obviously came here in search of a good time, and we’re only too happy to oblige, show you how real men do it.”
Shit. I don’t need to be a genius to work out that I’m in serious trouble.
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Walter Delgado.
The foreman of Redlands.
I’ve always done my best to avoid him and his lecherous glances, but even so, I’d know that disgusting stench of whiskey and sweat anywhere.
“I’m guessin’ you know all about your new husband firin’ us. He just strolls in this morning, cool as you like, gives us some fuckin’ sob story about cutbacks, how he’s sorry but he has to let the three of us go, gives us till the end of the day to clear our things out. Now that’s not a nice way to treat us after everything we’ve done for this place, right?” he whispers menacingly in my ear, his fetid breath making me gag. “So it seems only fair you’re here to sweeten our farewell.”
“Walter, I can understand this must have come as a shock and that you’re upset, but taking your anger out on me isn’t going to make things better. Joel won’t take kindly to you threatening me, so just let me go and we’ll forget about it.”
“I don’t think so, beautiful. You’re a tasty little morsel that me and the boys are mighty keen on samplin’. But don’t worry, we’ll be out of here just as soon as we’ve taken our fill of you.”
With a sinking heart, I realize I’m wasting my time trying to reason with Walter or the other men, since they’ve been drowning their sorrows all day. Just my bad luck that I happened to com
e by and provide them with a convenient outlet for their anger and resentment.
Time to scream like there’s no tomorrow.
“Joel! I need some help here!” I shout. I may look small and weedy, but I have a decent pair of lungs, and one of the guys looks at Walter nervously.
“No sweat,” Walter chuckles, “I happen to know her darlin’ husband is busy occupied with that redhead with big tits he’s been hangin’ around with all day, so he’s not goin’ to come running anytime soon.”
“Help! Joel, for the love of God, I need you here right now!” I scream again, making my throat raw.
And still, he doesn’t come. Perhaps he really is too busy getting up close and personal with her in my father’s den—that’s where I left them cozied up together isn’t it?
“Somebody help me... anyone… please help me…please…” I keep repeating this mantra, for all the good it does me.
Then something cold and sharp presses against my neck.
“I suggest you shut the fuck up, unless you want me to slit your throat,” Walter growls, clenching my arm in a vice-like grip. He has a knife, which I have no doubt he’s capable of using, and that I could be about to die.
“Let me go, Walter! Don’t do this, just let me go.” I give pleading one more go, even though I don’t think he has any kind of better nature to appeal to, or at least any there might have been is now drowning in whiskey.
Blood trickles down my neck when he runs the point of the razor-sharp knife over my skin.
Panic threatens to engulf me, but I’d rather die than be gang-raped, so I’m not going down without a fight. I kick, I struggle, I scream and yell, so no one who might be within earshot can be in any doubt that nothing going on here is consensual.
“Grab hold of the bitch and hold her down for me,” Walter shouts to one of his cohorts as he forces me over the edge of a hard-wooden table and starts unbuckling his belt. “You can be next in line.”
“That’s it, give her what she deserves, Wally,” the third guy urges as he grins and starts playing with himself, right in front of my face where I’m being held down on the table, and I can’t help but notice the evidence of how much the sick pervert is turned on by watching me struggle.