Chapter 1 #3
Good Christ. And he still isn’t done after that.
I tune both of them out so I can go back to thinking of a quick and peaceful way to die.
Hanging, for one. I’ll need a flimsy chair, strong rope, and something to loop it over.
The scratchy fibers of the rope won’t bother me for long.
Not once I kick the chair out from under me. Then I’ll just…just hang there.
Until the end.
But I shudder at the imagery of my legs kicking at empty air and throw that notion away.
Or Crowley’s gun. Even though I’ve never touched one before, maybe I could—another sharp pain twists my abdomen. I’m sorry, baby. It’s not that I want to do this, but I’m just trying to save us from having to live like that. There’s just no other choice. It’s the kindest thing for us both.
The wagon hits another deep rut that sends a wave of nausea through me and interrupts my thoughts. So, hanging’s ruled out. A gun, maybe, but not likely, because I don’t want to miss. Or what about a knife? That way I can—
“Cut me. Loose.”
I turn my head and see the boy awkwardly cutting the fabric ties around Dove’s wrists.
What on earth do they think they’re going to do now?
When the last of the fabric falls away, I can’t help but to caution her even as I eye the knife with a new, keen interest. “Well, look at you. You’ve freed your hands, but now what?
It’s only going to be a harsher punishment for you when we stop.
” A punishment that will likely break her spirit along with her small body.
“No,” she says resolutely as she saws through the boy’s bonds. “We’re turning around. Not going with him.” When the boy’s hands fall free, he throws his arms around her waist. Hand running over his hair in comfort, she looks at me with determined eyes. “What about you? Your choice.”
My choice. Choice of a quick death or choice of possible freedom? Choice of eternal peace or a lifetime of misery? If it doesn’t work out, I’ll still have the option of the knife after. I stick my hands out over another pang of discomfort. “Fine. What are you going to do?”
Calm as can be, Dove tells me her plan. “Hit him in the head. Skillet.” She points to a cast iron skillet that fell out of a box from one of those deep ruts we ran over. “He falls off...we go back.”
I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “Are you crazy? That will never work.”
Dove’s eyes get a little shiny as she puts a hand to her flat stomach. “My husband is there. My baby’s here. We need him.”
Something twists inside me at her determination. At her hope. She doesn’t even look pregnant, but she’s already attached to her baby and doing whatever she can to ensure their freedom.
How odd that freedom can look so differently for some people.
“If you pray, now’s time.” Then Dove walks on her knees to the front of the wagon and fumbles with the canvas.
Good Christ, she’s really doing this. Ignoring the upset in my belly, I straighten, heart daring to reluctantly hope she succeeds.
Then she slowly stands, parts the flap, and raises the skillet.
The back of Crowley’s nasty head appears, and something deep inside me sends up a useless prayer that this slip of a woman can deal him a killing blow.
Higher and higher, her arms raise until—oh, no!
Catching sight of her, Crowley growls something and shoves her back.
Somehow the boy catches her. “I got ya, Dove,” he grunts as he pushes her back up. “Now knock him a good’un.”
Dove swings the skillet, the resounding crack sending a cold smile to my lips.
That had to hurt, and I can’t think of another man more worthy of the pain.
Well, I can think of a few others, but I’ll be satisfied with this one.
He must fall off the wagon because Dove takes the reins after the kid yells something about the horses.
Good God, it couldn’t have been that easy.
Was it that easy?
A dash of reluctant hope stirs my blood.
Does this mean we’re free now? But wait...
if we go back to town, Joe’s bound to be suspicious if he sees the wagon back again so soon, especially without Crowley.
Another stabbing sensation shoots into my belly along with a sense of urgency.
Oh, God, maybe these pains aren’t because of being used.
I think I’m about to deliver this baby.
With my breaths coming in uneven pants, I halfway hear someone yelling Dove’s name and telling her to pull back on the reins. She does, sending a box toppling from its stack and glancing off my shoulder as the horses abruptly come to a halt.
Christ, this really worked...she really did knock that bastard Crowley off.
Strong arms suddenly drag Dove down from the seat and out of view.
Arms of the husband that she was so intent on returning to?
Bitter jealousy eats at my insides and tugs a tear from me that I quickly wipe away.
With barely a backward glance at me, the kid slowly eases out of the wagon.
Of course he wouldn’t want to stay here and keep me company.
He doesn’t even know me, and my foul mood after being raped and sold didn’t exactly lend me to kindness towards either of them.
For the smallest moment, I move past the jealousy to the raw hurt that lies beneath it.
What must it feel like to have someone give a damn about you?
Someone worried if I was hurt anywhere. Someone to tell me how sorry he was that this happened to me, and that my baby and I were going to be all right.
Someone who would take care of us and never betray us like Joe did.
Someone who’d say something like Dove’s husband does to her now. “I’ve got you, darlin’. I’m here, and you’re safe.”
But then I come back to reality and harden my heart.
“Get it together, Mara. No one’s here for you except yourself.
” I roll to my hands and knees and crawl over the spilled supplies, wincing when something sharp digs into my knee.
What is—? The boy’s pocketknife. He left it.
I slide shaky fingers over it, the cool metal reassuring in a foreboding manner.
Just shy of the edge of the wagon, I prop myself up again and focus on breathing in and out.
In and out.
Maybe I don’t have to use this knife just yet.
Maybe I can get someone to take me away from here.
Anywhere.