by Nora Roberts
“You’ve gone to sagging here and there,” he said as he stripped. Leaning over, he pinched her breasts, her belly. “I can tolerate such things.” He climbed on top of her.
He smelled of cheap soap and kitchen grease, and his eyes held that wicked, burning light she knew too well.
“I can do my duty. You feel my staff, Esther?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You say: ‘I want my husband to use his staff to take mastery over me.’ You say it!”
She didn’t weep. What did words matter?
“I want my husband to use his staff to take mastery over me.”
He rammed into her. Oh, it hurt, it hurt.
“Say: ‘Take what you will of me, for I am your wife and your servant.’”
She said the words as he pounded and grunted, as his face contorted with a horrible pleasure.
She closed her eyes, and thought of the trees and the air, of the last rays of the sun, and of the stars.
He kept his word, so she made the trip up the stairs and onto the porch once a week.
When the baby was a year old, she worked on the nerve to ask him if she could fix him a fine meal to repay him for his kindness. To celebrate Rory’s birthday.
If she could convince him, then show him she was obedient, she might get to the shotgun.
He came down with her evening meal, picked up the baby as always.
But this time, without a word, he carried the baby to the steps.
“Are we going outside?”
“You eat what I brought you.”
Fear made her voice sharp. “Where are you taking the baby?”
“Past time he was weaned. Time he spent more time with his father.”
“No, please, no. I’ve done everything you said. I’m his mother. I haven’t nursed him tonight. Let me—”
He paused on the steps, out of her reach. “I got a cow. He’ll get plenty of milk. You do as I say, and you’ll come up and sit outside once a week. But you don’t, you don’t.”
She fell to her knees. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Please don’t take him from me.”
“Babies grow to boys, boys to men. It’s time he knew more of his daddy.”
When the door shut, locked, she got shakily to her feet. Something snapped inside her. She could hear it, like the crack of a dry twig inside her head.
She went to the chair, sat, folded her arms, rocked. “Hush now, baby. Hush now.” And smiling, she sang a lullaby to her empty arms.
— Present Day —
More than ready to go home, Bodine stepped out into the lingering wild lights of sunset. She justified leaving earlier than usual—knowing she’d concentrate better on reports, spreadsheets, and schedules at home.
She just couldn’t shoulder more grief on top of her own without breaking down.
Then she stepped out under a sky licked and laced by reds and purples and golds, and saw Callen standing with the horses, entertaining a young couple and their deliriously delighted toddler.
“Horsie, horsie, horsie!” He chanted, bouncing on his mother’s hip, stretching out to bang his hands on Sundown’s neck.
She noted Callen confabbing in low tones with the father, then the father whispering something in the mother’s ear that had her shaking her head quickly, then biting her lip, then giving Callen a long look.
“Up to you,” Callen said. “But I can promise this one’s gentle as a lamb.”
“Come on, Kasey. He’ll be fine.” The father, already grinning, pulled out his cell phone.
“Just sitting. Just sitting,” Kasey insisted.
“You got it.” Callen swung into the saddle—a move that had the toddler clapping as if he’d performed a magic trick. “Want to come up here, partner?”
When Callen held out his arms, the little boy would have leaped straight into them. Conflicted, the mother held him up, then pressed both hands to her heart at the sight of the toddler squealing with joy in front of her.
“Horsie! I ride horsie!”
“Smile at your daddy so he can get your picture.”
“I ride horsie, Daddy!”
“You sure are, Ricky. You sure are.”
“G’up!” Ricky shouted. Sundown turned his head and looked at Callen with what Bodine could only call a grin. “G’up, horsie!” Ricky craned around, looking pleadingly at Callen. “G’up.”
“Oh God.” Kasey blew out a breath. “Maybe, just walking a few steps. Is that okay?”
“Sure is.”
“Kasey, get pictures. I’m switching to video. This is great.”
“Put your hand right here.” Callen guided the boy’s right hand, laid it on top of his own on the reins. “Say, giddyup, Sundown.”
“G’up, Thundow!”
When Sundown walked forward, the boy stopped squealing. For a moment, his sweet little face was awestruck, his eyes were filled with shocked joy. “Mama, Mama, Mama, I ride horsie!”
Callen walked Sundown in a couple slow circles while the boy bounced, grinned, and even hooted up at the sky. On the final return trip, Callen sent Bodine a quick wink.
“Gotta say adios, partner.”
“More, more, more!” Ricky insisted when Callen started to lift him out of the saddle.
“That’s enough for today, Ricky. The horsie has to go home.” As Kasey reached up, Ricky leaned away.
“You’re a real cowboy now, Ricky,” Callen said. “Real cowboys always listen to their mas. It’s the cowboy code.”
“I a cowboy.” And with some reluctance, Ricky went to his mother. “Kiss horsie.”
“Sundown likes kisses.”
Ricky planted wet kisses on Sundown’s neck, then pointed to the patient Leo. “Kiss horsie.”
“Leo likes kisses, too.” Bodine stepped up. “Some horses are shy about kissing, but not these two.”
Kasey shifted so Ricky could smack his lips on Leo’s neck.
“Ride this horsie. Please. Now. Please.”
“I have to take him home now and get him his dinner. But … Are y’all going to be here tomorrow?”
“Two more days,” the father told her.
“If you bring Ricky down to the Activity Center tomorrow, we’ll see what we can do.”
“We’ll do that. Hear that, Ricky? You’re going to see more horses tomorrow. Say thank you to Mr. Skinner,” his father instructed.
“Thank you! Thank you, cowboy. Thank you, horsie.”
“Anytime, partner.”
Bodine mounted, turned Leo around.
“Adios,” Callen said, flicking the brim of his cap as they walked the horses away.
“Adios,” Bodine echoed.
“Gotta play to the crowd.”
“I’m not even going to mention insurance, waivers, liability.”
“Good. Don’t.”
“Since I’m not, I’m going to say that’s just what I’m looking for, that interest, in having the horses around Bodine Town now and then. And why doing a little show for kids and families is going to work. I didn’t expect you to be here, with the horses.”
“I called up. Guy at the desk said you were heading out ’round five.”
“I’d arranged for transportation home. Canceled that while you were giving young Ricky the biggest moment of his life. I appreciate it. I appreciate it because it was an unexpected antidote to a horrible day.”
He took a study of her. “You got through it.”
“And I’ll get through tomorrow. I’m going to warn you, Garrett Clintok’s tried to lay some trouble at your door.”
“I already know it.”
“He twisted my words. I want you to know he twisted my words. I never said—”
“Bo.” Callen cut off the building rant with quiet. “You don’t have to explain to me.”
“I need to say it. I never said things he said I did, and it pisses me off he’d try using me, and worse, so much worse, Billy Jean to cause you trouble. I straightened it out with Sheriff Tate, but if—”
&nb
sp; “Tate knows what’s what. I’m fine with Sheriff Tate.”
Fire sparked in her eyes. “Because the sheriff’s not an idiot, but it pisses me off. It pisses me off, and Clintok’s getting an earful next time I see him.”
“Just let it go.”
“Let it go?” Shocked, outraged, she shifted in the saddle. “I don’t let things go with liars and bullies. With people who say I said what I didn’t. With people who ambush my brother and his friend, and have that friend held down so he can try to beat the shit out of him.”
Callen pulled Sundown to a stop. “Where’d you hear about that?”
“Chase told us today, and he should’ve—”
“He broke a spit oath.” With the look of a man disillusioned, Callen shook his head, walked on.
“I’ll say he was riled to boiling at the time—as I know spit oaths are sacred. To twelve-year-old boys.”
“Age doesn’t have a thing to do with it. An oath’s an oath. And the past is the past.”
Men, Bodine thought. How could she have grown up surrounded by them and still have them irritate the living crap out of her?
“You can skin Chase for sticking up for you, for providing evidence of what a snake Garrett Clintok is, if that’s your stand on it. But if the past was the damn past, Clintok wouldn’t still be trying to ambush you.”
“That’d be his issue, not mine.”
“Oh, for—” Disgusted with anything approaching reason, Bodine kicked into a canter.
Callen paced her easily, and couldn’t seem to leave reason behind. “I don’t see why you’re pissed at me.”
“Oh, just shut the hell up. Men.” Riding her own temper, Bodine urged Leo into a gallop.
“Women,” Callen said under his breath, and let her take the distance she needed even as he kept her in sight all the way back to the ranch.
* * *
He hadn’t meant to kill her. When he looked at it clear, thought long and hard, he understood she’d really killed herself.
She shouldn’t’ve run like that. Shouldn’t’ve tried yelling like that. If she hadn’t tried kicking at him that way, he wouldn’t have had to shove at her. She wouldn’t have gone down so hard, hit her head so hard.
If she’d come along quiet, he’d have taken her on home, and she’d’ve been right as rain.
His mistake? Not smacking her down right off. Just smacking her down, loading her in the truck. He’d wanted a quick taste of her first, that was all. To make sure she’d do for him.
He needed a wife of childbearing age. A young, good-looking woman who’d give him a good ride, and strong sons.
Maybe he’d decided on her too quick, but he’d sure wanted that ride.
He’d done the rest right, he reminded himself. Siphoned the gas out of her tank, left her just enough to get good and away from the center of things. Followed her with his lights off, then gone to the rescue when he saw her car stop.
Got her out of the car just fine, kept it all nice and easy.
Then he’d gotten himself too excited—that’s where he’d gone from right to mistake. Shouldn’t’ve grabbed her, tried to get that taste of her. Should’ve waited on that.
He’d learned his lesson there.
Next time, he’d put her down, truss her up, and get her back to the cabin. Simple as that.
Plenty of good-looking women around to pick from. He’d take his time on it. The bartender one had been pretty enough, but he’d seen prettier. And thinking about it, maybe she’d been older than he should look for. Not so many years in her to bear children, which was a woman’s purpose in life.
Younger, prettier—and it might’ve been that the one who killed herself had been a whore, seeing as she worked a bar. Could be she’d’ve carried some disease.
He was better off he hadn’t taken that ride with her.
He’d find the right one. Young, plenty pretty—and clean.
Pick her out, bide his time, truss her up, and take her to the cabin. He had her room ready for her. He’d train her right, teach her what so many forgot. Women were created to serve men, to submit and obey, to bear sons.
He wouldn’t mind punishing her. Punishment was his responsibility as well as his right.
And he’d plant his seed in her. And she would be fruitful and bear forth sons. Or he’d find one who would.
That might take some patience, some planning.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find one to give him a good ride in the meantime.
In the cabin, in his room, he brushed a hand over the Bible on the stand by the bed. Then reaching under the mattress, pulled out a skin magazine.
Women were mostly whores and trollops, he knew. Flaunting themselves, tempting men to sin. He licked a finger, turned a page, felt righteous as he hardened.
He didn’t see any good reason not to take a woman up on her flaunting until he found the right wife.
CHAPTER NINE
Four days after Billy Jean’s death—ruled a homicide—Bodine drove to Helena for the funeral.
The very next day she stood on the second floor of the Mill listening to Tim McGraw and Carrie Underwood and Keith Urban—Billy Jean’s favorite—play in the background while people paid their respects.
She gave Jessica full credit for creating the right atmosphere. Photos of Billy Jean, some alone, some with friends, stood around the room in simple iron frames. Flowers, bursts of color, speared out of milk or Mason jars. Simple, casual food—cold cuts, fried chicken, mac and cheese, cornbread—ranged on a long table covered with an oilcloth.
Nothing fussy or fancy, and everything speaking of comfort.
People who came could step up to the mic on the stage, say a few words, or tell a story about Billy Jean. Some stories brought tears, but more brought laughter, that great leveler of grief.
A few people brought guitars or fiddles or banjos, played a song or two.
Bodine prepared to slip out, then stopped when she saw Chad Ammon come in, head right for the stage.
Conversation stopped, started up again in murmurs. Bodine stood where she was, scanning the room until she found Chase, met his eyes.
With that one look they agreed to let him speak, and to handle whatever trouble might come of it.
“I know a lot of you think I shouldn’t have come.” His voice cracked a little. “Anybody has anything to say to me, you can say it after I’m done saying my own. I didn’t treat her right. She deserved better than me.”
Somebody called out, “Damn right,” which started up the murmurs again.