“What for?”
“I want a little cabin in the woods.”
“You’ve already got one.”
She could hardly speak past the lump of pain in her chest. She pressed her hand against it. “I want to be free, Michael. Just once in my whole life. Free!” Her voice broke. She bit her lip and clutched at the side of the wagon seat so hard the wood dug into her hands.
Michael’s face softened. The anger vanished but not the hurt, not the sorrow. “You are free. You just don’t know it yet.”
It was a long, quiet ride back to the valley.
The mind is its own place,
and in itself can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heaven.
MILTON
Michael couldn’t get it out of his head. She made no apology. She gave no excuses. She just sat, wordless, back straight, head up, hands clenched in her lap as though she were going into battle instead of going home. Would she rather reject his gift and live in eternal darkness than open her mind and heart to him? Was her pride the only thing that mattered?
He didn’t understand.
Angel sat in silent torment. She struggled against the emotions tearing at her, remorse, guilt, confusion. They became a solid mass, a hardened lump growing in her throat and chest, like a cancer spreading pain into every limb. She was afraid. The hope she thought long-since dead was resurrected. She had forgotten the small light that had sometimes flickered inside her as a child. Something would strike its spark, and it would grow—until Duke crushed it.
She tried to crush it now with logic.
Nothing could be the same. Whatever might have grown between her and Michael was ruined. She knew that. The moment Paul had used her, she had thrown her last chance away.
I did it to myself. I did it to myself. Mea culpa. Mea culpa.
Her mother’s words haunted her, unbearable memories of a forsaken life. Why was she feeling this small light again when she knew it would only be destroyed in the end? Just as it always had been. Hope was cruel. Only the aroma of sustenance before a starving child. Not milk. Not meat.
Oh, God, I can’t hope for anything. I can’t. I won’t survive if I do.
But it was there, a tiny spark glowing in the darkness.
As they reached the valley at first light, Angel felt the building warmth of the sun on her shoulders and remembered Michael dragging her with him through the night to face the sunrise. “That’s the life I want to give you.” She hadn’t understood then what he offered. She had not comprehended until she walked up the stairs at the Silver Dollar Saloon and sold her soul into slavery again.
It’s too late, Angel.
Then why is he bringing me back? Why didn’t he just leave me in Pair-a-Dice?
Duke brought you back, too, didn’t he? Several times.
She had always seen retribution in Duke’s dark eyes. He had made her suffer. Yet it had been easier to take what he did to her than to watch the suffering he brought on others who dared aid her. Like Johnny—before Duke dispatched him forever.
But Michael wasn’t like Duke. She had never seen that sheen of calculated cruelty in his eyes. She had never felt it in his hands.
There’s a price for everything, Angel. You know that. You’ve always known.
What kind of price would he require for bringing her back from hell? What price for saving her from her own folly?
She shook inside.
Michael swung the wagon around in the yard in front of the cabin and tied the reins securely. Angel started to climb down, but his hand clamped her wrist. “Sit tight.” His voice was heavy, and she sat silently awaiting his command. When he came around to lift her down, she closed her eyes, afraid to look into his. He set her on the ground gently.
“Go into the house,” he told her. “I’m going to see to the horses.”
Angel pushed the cabin door open and felt her whole being permeated with a sense of relief. I’m home.
For how long, Angel? Long enough to make you suffer before he casts you out again?
She couldn’t let herself think of that right now. She entered and looked around for changes. Everything was so familiar, so plain, so dear. The rough table, the willow chairs before the fireplace, the bed made out of the wagon bed, the worn quilts his sister had made. Angel moved to lay a fire and make the rumpled bed.
Picking up a red wool shirt, she pressed her face into it and inhaled the scent of Michael’s body. He was the earth and sky and wind. Her breath stopped.
What have I done? Why did I throw it all away?
Paul’s words came back: “You’re not even worth two bits.” It was true. She was a prostitute and that’s all she would ever be. It hadn’t even taken a day for her to fall right back into her old ways.
Trembling, she folded the shirt carefully and tucked it away in his drawer. She had to stop thinking. She had to get by as she had always done before. But how could she now? How?
Her desperate mind worked for answers and none came. I’ll do whatever he wants for as long as he wants if he’ll let me stay. If he’ll only let me.
Though she had no appetite, she knew Michael would be hungry when he came in. She took great care with breakfast. While the porridge cooked, she dusted and swept. An hour passed, then another. Still Michael didn’t return.
What was he thinking? Was his anger growing? Had he already changed his mind about bringing her back here? Would he kick her out now? Where would she go if he did?
Memories of Duke made her stomach twist.
He’s not like Duke.
Every man is Duke when betrayed.
Her mind circled like a bird searching for carrion. Her self-defenses roused and took up arms against Michael. No one had forced him to come after her. If he was hurt about what he had seen, he had only himself to blame. It wasn’t her fault he walked in when he did. It wasn’t her fault he came at all. Why didn’t he just leave her alone in the first place? She had never tried to fool him. What did he expect? He knew from the beginning what he was getting. He knew what she was.
What am I? her mind cried out. Who am I? I don’t even have a name of my own anymore. Is there even a piece of Sarah left?
She kept seeing his eyes, and the hot heaviness of her own heart was unbearable.
Finally, she could bear it no more and went out to find him. He wasn’t in the field, though the horses were grazing. He was nowhere to be seen. Finally, she entered the barn quietly and saw him. He was sitting, head in his hands, weeping. Her heart sank as she watched, and the ease she sought became an even heavier burden.
I’ve wounded him. I might as well have taken a knife and stabbed it into his very heart. It would have been better if Magowan had killed me. It would have been better if I had never been born.
Hugging herself, she went back to the cabin and sank to her knees before the fire. It was her fault. All the ifs flooded her: If she had never left Duke… if she had never gotten on that barkentine… if she hadn’t sold herself to any passerby on the muddy streets of San Francisco or gone with Duchess… if she had ignored Paul… if she had stayed here and never left… if she hadn’t gone back to Pair-a-Dice or gone up those stairs with Murphy. If, if, if… the endless, twisting, downward staircase.
But I did all of it. I did. And now it’s too late, and Michael sits crying while I haven’t a tear for anything.
She held herself and rocked back and forth. “Why was I ever born? Why?” She stared down at her hands. “For this?” She could feel the filth of her trade covering them. Her whole body was fouled, inside and out. Michael had taken her straight out of the abyss and offered her a chance—and she had thrown it away. Then he came again and took her straight from her soiled bed to his home, and staying true to her own stupidity, she had spent the whole morning cleaning the cabin and had not once thought to cleanse herself.
Searching frantically she found soap and ran for the creek. Stripping off her clothing and heedlessly casting it aside, she waded in. The icy air and water bit her fl
esh, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to be clean, to wash it all away, everything from as far back as she could remember.
Maybe right to the very moment of her conception.
Michael rose and hung up the harnesses. He came out of the barn and walked slowly back to the cabin. What could become of a marriage so fouled by sexual betrayal?
She never loved me in the first place. Why should I expect her loyalty? She never really promised it. I made her say the vows. She never said a word about being sorry, Lord. Not one word in thirty miles. Have I made a mistake? Was it your voice I heard, or was it my own flesh? Why are you doing this to me?
He should have left her in Pair-a-Dice.
She is your wife.
Yes, but I don’t know if I can forgive her.
The image of her in bed with another man was branded in his mind. He couldn’t get it out of his head.
I loved her, Lord. I loved her enough to die for her, and she did this to me. Maybe she’s beyond redemption. How do you forgive someone who doesn’t even care enough to want to be forgiven?
What does she want, Michael?
“Freedom. She wants freedom.”
The cabin was neat; a cozy fire was burning. The table was set and his breakfast ready. Only Angel was missing. Michael swore for the first time in years. “Let her go back! I don’t care. I’m sick of the struggle.” He kicked the pot free of the iron bar. “How many times am I supposed to go after her and bring her back?”
He sat for a while in the willow chair, but his anger just kept building. He would go find her again, and this time he would give her a good piece of his mind. He would tell her if she wanted to leave so badly, he’d even give her a ride back. Slamming out of the cabin, he stood outside, arms akimbo, wondering which way she had run off this time. He scanned the landscape and, with some surprise, spotted her standing naked in the creek.
He strode down the bank. “What are you doing? If you wanted a bath, why didn’t you tote water to the house and warm it?”
In a sudden, uncharacteristic act of modesty, she turned her back to him, trying to hide herself. “Go away.”
He stripped off his jacket. “Come on out of there. You’ll catch pneumonia. If you want a bath that badly, I’ll tote the water.”
“Go away!” she screamed, dropping to her knees and hunching over.
“Don’t be a fool!” He waded in and caught hold of her, yanking her to her feet. Her fists were full of gravel. Her breasts and belly were raw from scrubbing. “What are you doing to yourself?”
“I have to wash. You didn’t give me the chance—”
“You’ve washed enough.” He tried to put the jacket around her, and she pulled away.
“I’m not clean yet, Michael. Just go away and leave me alone.”
Michael grabbed her roughly. “Will you be finished when you’ve stripped your skin off? When you’ve bled? Is that it? Do you think doing this to yourself will make you clean?” He let go of her, afraid he would do her physical harm. “It doesn’t work that way,” he said through gritted teeth.
She blinked and sat down slowly, the icy water swirling around her waist. “No, I guess not,” she said softly. Her tangled wet hair hung limp around her white face and shoulders.
“Come back inside,” he said and helped her up. She came without resistance this time, stumbling as they reached the bank. When she bent for her clothing, he pulled her along without them. Half shoving her into the cabin, he slammed the door.
Yanking a blanket from the bed, he threw it to her. “Sit down by the fire.”
Angel pulled the blanket around her shoulders and sat. She didn’t raise her head.
Glancing back at her, Michael poured her a cup of coffee. “Drink this.” She did as he told her. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t get sick. What are you trying to do? Make me feel guilty you went back to prostitution? Make me feel guilty for dragging you out of that brothel again?”
“No,” she said quietly.
He didn’t want to pity her. He wanted to shake her until her teeth fell out. He wanted to kill her.
I could. God, I could kill her and be glad of it!
Seventy times seven.
I don’t want to listen to you. I’m sick of listening. You ask too much. It hurts. Can’t you understand? Don’t you know what she’s done to me?
Seventy times seven.
His eyes were hot with tears, his heart pounding like a war drum. She looked like a bedraggled child. Shadows lay dark beneath her blue eyes. Let her suffer. She deserved it. There was a mark on her neck that made him sick. She put her hand over it and turned her face away from him. He could almost see her shrinking. Maybe she had a tiny bit of conscience left. Maybe she did feel a little shame. Oh, but it’d wear off soon enough, and she’d be ready to cut him to ribbons again.
I can’t help how I feel, Lord. If I thought she could love me, maybe—
As you have loved me?
It’s not the same. You’re God! I’m only a man.
“You shouldn’t have come for me,” she said dully. “You should never have come near me in the first place.”
“That’s right. Blame me.” Maybe she was right. He felt sick. Clenching his hand, he glared down at her. “I said vows, and I’m going to stick by them no matter how much they’re choking me now.”
She looked up at him with bleak eyes. “You don’t have to.” She shook her head.
“It’ll work. I’ll make it work.” Didn’t you promise, Lord? Or was I imagining it? Was she right all along and it was just sexual attraction?
“You’re only fooling yourself,” Angel said. “You just don’t understand. I never should’ve been born.”
He laughed derisively. “Self-pity. You’re drowning in it, aren’t you? You’re a blind fool, Angel. You can’t see what’s right in front of your face.”
Nor can you.
She stared into the fire. “I’m not blind. I’ve had my eyes open all my life. You don’t think I know what I’m saying? You don’t think it’s true? I heard my own father say I was supposed to be aborted.” Her voice broke. She regained control and went on more quietly. “How can a man like you understand? My father was married. He already had enough children. He told Mama she just wanted a hold over him. I never knew if that was true. He sent her away. He didn’t want her anymore. Because of me. He stopped loving her. Because of me.”
She kept on in that quiet, agonized voice. “Mama’s parents were decent people in a good neighborhood. They wouldn’t take her in, not with an illegitimate child. Even her church turned her away.” The blanket fell open, and Michael stared down at the reddened marks on her skin. There were lines of red where she had torn at her own flesh.
Jesus, why are you doing this to me?
It was easier retreating into anger than seeing into her tortured soul.
“We ended up on the docks,” she said, emotionless now. “She became a prostitute. When the men left, she’d drink herself to sleep while Rab went out and drank the money away. She wasn’t very pretty anymore. She died when I was eight.” She looked up at him. “Smiling.” Her own mouth curved. “So you see. It is true. I shouldn’t have been born. It was all a terrible mistake from the beginning.”
Michael sat down heavily, tears at the surface again, but not for himself this time. “What happened to you then?”
She bowed her head and clasped her hands tightly together. She didn’t look at him. It was a long, heavy silence before she spoke very quietly. “Rab sold me to a brothel. Duke has a thing for little girls.”
Michael shut his eyes.
She looked up at him. Of course he was repulsed. What man wouldn’t be at the thought of a child fornicating with a grown man? “That was just the beginning,” she said dully, lowering her head, unable to look at him. “You can’t even begin to imagine what happened from there. Things done to me. Things I did.” She didn’t tell him it was a matter of survival. What did it matter? She had chosen to obey.
&nbs
p; He looked at her through his tears. “You think you’re to blame for all of it, don’t you?”
“Who else? Mama? She loved my father. She loved me. She loved God. A lot of good love ever did her. How can I blame her for anything, Michael? Should I blame Rab? He was just a poor, dull-witted drunk who thought he was doing the best for me. They killed him. Right there in the room, in front of me, because he knew too much.” She shook her head. He didn’t have to know everything.
“You’re not to blame, Amanda.”
Amanda. Oh, God. “How can you still call me that?”
“Because it’s who you are now.”
“When will you ever understand?” she cried out in frustration. “It doesn’t matter who does things to you. You can’t pretend they didn’t happen.” She clutched the blanket around her, hugging herself. “You take it all into yourself. What’s happened is what I am. You said it yourself and you’re right. I can’t wash it away. I can’t get clean. I could strip my skin off. I could drain my blood. It wouldn’t make any difference. It’s like a foul stench I can’t get rid of no matter how hard I try. And I’ve tried, Michael. I have. I swear to you. I’ve fought and I’ve run. I’ve wanted to die. I almost succeeded with Magowan. Almost. Don’t you see? Nothing matters. Nothing ever made any difference. I’m a prostitute, and that’s what I was meant to be.”
“That’s a lie!”
“No, it isn’t. It isn’t.”
He leaned toward her, but she drew back, hugging herself even more tightly and looking away. “Amanda, we’ll make it through this,” he said. “We will. I swear a covenant with you.”
“No, we won’t make it. Just take me back.” When he shook his head, she pleaded. “Please. I don’t belong here with you. Find someone else.”
“Better than you, you mean?”
Her face was white as death, her pain stark and raw. “Yes.”
Michael reached out to put his hand on her shoulder, but she withdrew from him. He knew why now, and it pierced him to the core that she thought she was so unclean he shouldn’t even touch her.
Francine Rivers Page 20