Chapter Nineteen The First Night
The house smelled of old smoke, grease, and dust. Thomas pushed the door wide with his shoulder, the hinges groaning, and Violet stepped inside.
Her skirts brushed against warped boards that yielded underfoot with a faint creak.
A single room opened before her, dim even in daylight, with walls stained by years of soot from the fireplace.
She had pictured a hearth with a welcoming glow, a parlor perhaps, a kitchen set neatly in order. Instead, she saw a makeshift table scarred with knife marks, a chair with one leg propped on a stone, a bed shoved against the wall, its color was gray and flat.
Her breath faltered. This was not a home. It was a prison cell.
Thomas’s hand closed roughly around her arm. “It’ll do,” he said, sensing her feelings of disbelief and regret. “You’ll see to it. Scrub it down, cook proper meals, keep it tidy. You’ll make it fit. You’ll make it our palace.” He chuckled.
Violet nodded quickly, though her stomach turned.
Ezra ducked in behind them, his eyes sweeping the room. He gave a low grunt but held his tongue.
Thomas dropped her arm and went to the bed, testing the rope frame with a push of his hand. “This is where you’ll sleep. Where we’ll sleep.” His gaze cut to her, blunt and unblinking. “A wife belongs at her husband’s side.”
Her cheeks burned, her hands twisting in her skirts. She said nothing, though her pulse thudded in her ears.
?
Thomas busied himself, setting his rifle against the wall, loosening his belt with a sigh. He lit a stub of tallow candle and set it on the table. Its weak glow filled the space with long shadows.
“Get supper started,” he ordered. “There’s salt pork in the sack. Don’t ruin it.”
Violet hurried to obey, fumbling with the bag near the fireplace. The meat was coarse and hard, and the knife she found on the table was dull. Her hands shook as she cut. She struck flint awkwardly, coaxing flame to catch on brittle kindling. At last smoke rose, filling her eyes with sting.
She felt Thomas’s gaze on her back. Heat climbed her neck, not from the fire but from the weight of his watching.
When she turned with the pan, his expression was sour. “Slow as a crippled mule,” he muttered. “Better learn fast.”
Ezra shifted in his chair, his mouth tightening.
They ate in silence. Thomas chewed loudly, wiping grease with the back of his hand. Violet swallowed small bites, though each lodged heavy in her throat. The candle guttered low, shadows stretching, pressing close.
When the meal was done, Thomas pushed his plate aside. “Tomorrow you start cleaning. Floor, walls, windows. You’ll make it look proper.” His eyes narrowed. “You’ll earn your keep.”
Her voice was a whisper. “Yes.”
He leaned forward. “Say it louder.”
Her chest tightened. “Yes.”
Satisfied, he leaned back, rubbing his belly. “That’s better.”
?
Night deepened. Crickets rasped outside, and the wind rattled loose boards. Ezra stretched himself near the door, his blanket rolled tight, his face turned to the wall as though to grant privacy.
Thomas stood, stripped off his boots, and let them fall with a thud. His shirt followed, patched and stained. His belly sagged over his belt, pale and soft in the candlelight. Violet’s eyes darted away, shame and fear prickling hot in her chest.
He snorted. “You’ll get used to me. A wife must.”
She sat frozen on the edge of the bed. The candlelight blurred, her eyes stinging with tears she dared not shed.
Thomas lowered himself to sit beside her, the mattress sinking under his weight. His hand clamped over her wrist, heavy and final. “You’re mine, Violet. Remember that. You came here to be mine, and that’s what you’ll be.”
Her breath caught, her whole-body tense as wire. She prayed he would not force more. She prayed Ezra’s presence nearby might restrain him.
For a long moment his grip held. Then he gave a short laugh, low and hard. “Not tonight. You’re skittish as a fresh colt. Tomorrow, maybe. But don’t think to run. There’s nowhere to go.”
He released her with a shove, stretched out, and closed his eyes. Within minutes his snores filled the room.
Violet sat rigid, her heart racing. Relief and dread tangled in her chest. Tonight she was spared, but tomorrow was another day.
She lay down at last, at the edge of the bed, silent tears soaking in her thin pillow.
?
Sleep came in snatches, broken by dreams. She saw the Kiowa camp, the fire’s glow, Grey Horse’s face bent close as his hands wove her hair. She heard his voice: Braiding joins the past, present, and the future … like us.
Then Pale Moon’s voice cut through, sharp as flint: His heart belongs to the past. If freed, it will be mine.
The dream shifted. She stood midstream in a river, Thomas on one bank, Grey Horse on the other.
The current roared around her. She began to struggle to one side, then changing her mind, she headed to the other.
Then quickly she turned back again to the first. Finally, she stood still, not knowing which way to go.
Until the river pulled her under, carrying her away.
She woke gasping, the darkness thick, Thomas’s snores shaking the bed.
Her hand pressed to her chest. Grey Horse… if you are near, come. Please come.
?
Dawn bled gray through the cracks in the shutters. Thomas stirred, scratching his beard, his eyes heavy. “Up,” he barked. “Daylight’s wasting.”
Violet rose, weary and raw. She fetched water from the barrel outside, her skirts brushing dust. The yard was bleak, the barn sagging, the fields barren. A rooster crowed thinly from somewhere unseen.
She stared at the place that was meant to be her home and felt her spirit shrink. The ranch was a lie, as false as Thomas’s smile in his letters. She had left safety, even hope, for this.
Her hands trembled on the bucket.
But then, a faint call from beyond the creek, she thought she heard it—the cry of a distant hawk, or perhaps a signal, distant but real. Her heart leapt.
Grey Horse is near.
She bent her head quickly, hiding the spark of hope that flared anew.
She glanced back at the cabin to see Ezra lingering near the doorway, rolling his blanket tight. It frightened her to think of him leaving, leaving her alone with Thomas.
Thomas counted coins into Ezra’s palm with a sour look, muttering about the cost of guides and the worth of women. Ezra closed his fist around the money, his expression unreadable.
As he walked past Violet, his eyes held hers just long enough to send a shiver through her. “Mind yourself,” he said quietly, so Thomas would not hear. “A man’s house can be as dangerous as the wild. Remember—roads fork. Even the one you’re on.”
Violet’s throat tightened. She gave the smallest nod. Ezra tipped his hat and strode to his saddled horse, swung up, and rode away without another word, his figure shrinking smaller down the dirt road until it was gone.
For the first time since the stage coach, she felt truly alone.