Chapter 16
Lucy
There’s something about spending your day with a three-year-old that can really pull you out of a bad mood.
As if Fern’s rambunctious nature is physically scaring away all my sorrow and guilt and fear.
We play ponies, run around in the yard, and then spend most of the day cuddled up on the couch watching her favorite movies.
I couldn’t help but hug her just a little bit tighter than normal, not fully sure how long I’ll get to spend with her.
Because if Tate and I truly are over, I don’t know if I could stomach living here.
“Lucy?” Fern mumbles quietly halfway through the Disney movie she picked out.
“Yeah?” I nuzzle her hair with my cheek.
“I love you.” She says it so simply, so quickly. As if stating any other fact of life.
And I’m surprised when tears spring to my eyes.
I wipe them away quickly, thankful that she can’t see them based on our positions on the couch.
I squeeze her tight, freezing this moment in my mind and wishing I could stay right here forever.
“I love you too, honey,” I whisper back and plant a kiss on the top of her head.
When four o’clock rolls around and Theresa relieves me of my nanny duties, I spend some time in my bedroom, simply wallowing. But after an hour of those four walls slowly closing in on me, I decide I need some air. To just get away from the ranch house for a little while and breathe. Think.
I tell Theresa I’ll be back in a few hours and hop into my car.
It squeals and shudders a bit when I start it, and I realize I’ve only driven it once or twice since coming to Montana.
I should probably get the whole thing checked out now that I have a bit of savings from this job.
I make a mental note to call around town for a mechanic sometime this week, and then I head off down the long, dirt road.
The Thatcher Ranch property is pretty vast, so it takes almost ten minutes of driving to actually get off of it and back onto the main road into town.
I glance out the window at a nearby herd of cattle grazing in the field to my left.
They look so peaceful. And I wonder if Tate is out there.
Past the cattle, somewhere on the property.
Of course he is. I was a bit surprised when he didn’t come back to the house around 4 p.m. like he normally does. I guess he really does just hate me now. Maybe Theresa will tell him that I’m gone so he can go spend time with Fern.
A flash of headlights from up ahead pulls me from my thoughts, and I see another car driving down the dirt road. I assume it’s someone in the Thatcher family or someone who works on the property, and I slow, moving a bit over to the side so they can pass.
But as the car comes into view, my stomach drops.
No.
It can’t be.
That can’t be his car.
But when the blue Honda comes to a stop in front of me, barring my way, and my gaze meets that of the driver’s, it’s as if my world has shattered for a second time within the last twenty-four hours.
My hands are frozen around the steering wheel as my foot holds the brake. A thousand questions flit through my mind. Do I get out of the car? Do I run? Do I hit the gas and simply try to get around him?
But I do none of those things. I simply sit there. And wait.
Matthew stares at me for a long moment through both of our windshields, and then he gets out of his car, slamming the door and making me jump.
He approaches my car slowly, his gaze glued to mine the whole time as he casually saunters up to the driver’s side door and peers through my window. “Get out of the car, Lucy,” he says loud enough for me to hear through the glass.
But I don’t even have the strength to shake my head, much less move to open the door.
When I don’t answer him, he reaches for the handle, yanking the door open. I yelp in surprise, shrinking backward, into myself.
“What the fuck are you doing in Montana?” he asks me, hovering over me, leaning into the car.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my eyes squeezed shut, my head in my hands—as if that’ll protect me from whatever wrath he wants to throw my way.
Which I’m sure is a lot. I know it’s a lot.
He’s been stewing in this for almost two months.
Months of being angry with me, hating me.
I can only imagine what he wants to do now.
“Answer me!” he yells, grabbing my wrist and pulling me painfully out of the car.
I whimper, barely managing to plant my feet on the dirt road before falling. “How did you find me? How did you find out where I was?” I say, trying to sound defiant, but instead, I feel like a tiny, little mouse. A little mouse he could crush under the weight of his gaze.
“Well, you forgot to turn your phone location off until a few hours into your stupid, little trip, so I knew what direction you were going in. And I got Becca to finally tell me you were nannying somewhere. I checked agencies, I checked local listings, and I finally found an ad from Thatcher Ranch and gave them a call. After calling about a thousand other places, this one was finally right,” he explains.
Becca. My younger sister. She’d texted me a few days after I’d left begging to know where I was and if I was okay.
I’d simply told her I was fine and that I’d gotten a nannying job.
It’s not her fault that she told Matthew.
She never knew the extent of his abuse. She never knew anything.
And he’s good at playing the worried, supportive husband.
“Well, what now?” I find the voice to snap at him, yanking my wrist from his grip.
I can’t move away—I’m blocked between him and my car—but I level him with the strongest glare I’m able to.
“What now, Matthew? I left. I left you. I tried to make you change for years! I threatened to leave for years. I tried to leave multiple times, and you stopped me. And now I did it.” My chest is heaving now, as if the weight of these words are making me breathless as I hurl them at him.
“So, now what? You gonna drag me back to Washington?”
I’m torn between a sense of pride and regret as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Pride because I’m finally standing up for myself, even in some small way.
And regret because I can see the anger coiling inside of him as my declaration sinks in.
The way his face twists in rage, the way his body tenses, his upper lip curling.
“Matthew …” I say slowly, as if I can somehow stop the storm. But years of experience tells me that I can’t. “I—”
He reaches out, grabbing my wrist and yanking me away from my car. “Yeah, I’m gonna drag you back to Washington, you bitch,” he yells at me, pulling me toward his car.
“Stop!” I shout, pulling back against him, trying to wrangle myself from his grip. But Matthew is strong. He’s always been strong.
“You’re my wife,” he spits at me. “That means something. And I’m taking my wife home.”
I tug against him with all my strength, almost managing to get away, but then he reaches his other hand into my hair, grabbing a fistful of it and continuing to pull me toward his car.
I scream, thrashing against him, crying, pleading, my shoes scuffing against the dirt road.
I hear Matthew yelling at me, my own screams, and then another sound—somewhere in the distance.
A pitter-pattering that doesn’t initially register in my mind until suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a horse and a man leaping from it.
Something slams into Matthew, and suddenly I’m free, tumbling to the ground.
I hear the sound of someone slamming into the Honda and look up to see Tate’s fists wrapped in Matthew’s shirt as he holds him against the car. “You touch her again, and I will break every bone in your fucking body,” Tate says evenly through gritted teeth.
Matthew’s eyes are wide as he holds up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, man. It’s not what it looks like. I’m her husband. We know each other.”
“Yeah? Does being her husband give you the right to drag her down the road by her hair?” Tate’s voice is dangerously low. Terrifyingly calm. Steady.
Matthew’s eyes narrow a bit at that. “Look. This is none of your business. You don’t know anything about her, and I promise, whatever happens to her is justified—”
But his words are cut off by Tate winding back and punching Matthew square in the jaw. He doubles over, cradling his face as a shocked moan escapes him.
Tate steps back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Get the fuck off my property before I decide to enact vengeance upon you for whatever ‘justified’ shit you’ve ever done to Lucy.”
Matthew stares him down for a few seconds, then his gaze flits to me. “This your new boyfriend or something?” he asks, but his words pack less of a punch.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Tate warns.
Matthew shoots him one last glance before his gaze lands on me again. And in this moment, somehow, I know this is really, truly it for us. In the back of my mind, part of me wonders why I don’t feel sad. Regret. Grief. But all I feel is relief.
Matthew shakes his head, turns, and gets back into his car. It isn’t until he’s turned around and driving back down the road that Tate finally tears his gaze away from the car and turns to me.
I’m still sitting in the dirt, and when I move to get up, Tate simply kneels to the ground in front of me, reaching for me and pulling me into his arms.
“I’m so sorry,” he breathes into my hair. “God, Lucy, I’m so sorry.” He rocks me back and forth as silent sobs wrack my body.
“I should have told you I was married,” I murmur, but Tate only grips me tighter.
“I should have listened to you,” he corrects me.
“Mom called me just half an hour ago and told me everything. You never deserved that. And you didn’t deserve me walking out on you yesterday.
I’m so, so sorry. You’re safe here, you’ll always be safe here.
” He’s rambling, but his words are healing.
I cling to him, my tears soaking his shirt.
“Lucy, can you forgive me?” he murmurs, and his voice sounds choked.
I pull back enough to look into his eyes, and in them I see regret and sorrow and fear. “Of course, I forgive you, Tate,” I whisper.
He presses his lips to mine softly, just long enough to warm my heart back up.
I smile up at him through my tears. “Take me home.”