Unbridled (Redford Ranch #4)

Prologue

DALLAS

He’s never once hit me. And he loves to point it out.

“You act like you’re some abused wife. It’s so fucking dramatic, D. You know there are actually some women out there getting their asses beat, right? I’ve never laid a finger on you.”

He’s right. He’s never left a mark. At least, not one anyone could see.

“I’m not talking about that. I’m saying that when you tell me you’re going to sue me for full custody if I leave you, that’s fucked up, and it’s controlling. You’re using the twins to try to manipulate me into staying with you.”

He laughs without an ounce of humor. “So, you hate me now—is that it? You hate me because you don’t get to do whatever you want, like fucking everyone in this entire town. Sorry for marrying you and ruining your chances of becoming a whore.”

I swallow, my insides growing numb.

It always happens this way. He starts making things up about the person he thinks I want to be, who is always a whore and never his wife or the mother of his children.

At this point, I’m starting to believe it too.

But I can’t say that, of course. My basic instincts of self-preservation and survival are starting to kick in.

He’s getting that glittering black look in his eyes.

The one that makes me start to believe all his dark threats about burying my body in the vacant lot next door if I keep pissing him off.

“Matt, you know that’s not true. I love being your wife. I just hate when we fight. The boys shouldn’t hear us talking like this.”

He grabs the glass of pure vodka, tilting it back over his lips before wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm. He rears back, throwing it against the mirror beside the bed. I flinch as they both shatter, glass spraying everywhere as he stumbles toward me.

Please, please don’t wake up the boys …

They’re just down the hall, sleeping peacefully.

Being a stay-at-home mom to two-year-old twins has me running ragged on the daily.

I spend an hour every night just trying to bathe them, get their pajamas on, and read a bedtime story while they somersault around the room and roll Hot Wheels over each other’s backs.

“Then prove it, bitch. Suck my dick right now and show me that you want to be my wife and make me happy.”

He starts unbuckling his pants. The numb acceptance has already begun spreading through my limbs, preparing me for the task I knew was coming. I slide the ponytail holder off my wrist and use it to tie my long, curly hair back. He pulls his pants down and sits on the edge of the bed.

Sometimes, I do things for survival that make me want to vomit. I have to mentally exit my body to be able to get through it.

But I do it for the boys. I don’t care how my husband hurts me anymore. I just want the twins to stay safe, to sleep through the night and wake up and have a good morning, completely unaware of the horror their father puts their mother through in the room down the hall.

Sometimes, I find myself wishing he would hit me. Just once.

If he hit me, then I could say he physically abused me.

If he hit me, I would have a visible mark to represent all the invisible ones.

I get down on my knees by the side of the bed, his dark eyes are watching me as he sits on the edge of the mattress.

You can do this. You have to get him to calm down, to stop being so angry. If you don’t, the fight will only escalate. He’ll wake up the boys. They might see something, something that could scar them for life.

I lick my lips and open my mouth, sucking him between my lips. I close my eyes, pretending I’m somewhere else, anywhere else.

I’ve gotten really good at this part—the dissociation.

I can almost fully escape it, floating outside of myself like a ghost, only casually observing what’s happening in this prison, disguised as a master bedroom.

After a few minutes, my knees start aching. I’m mentally calculating how many slices of deli meat are left in the fridge before I’ll have to go to the grocery store. I’m thinking about the damp load of towels in the washer that will need to be transferred to the dryer before the mildew sets in.

The glass.

I have to clean up the glass before the boys wake up. They will get terrible splinters if I miss even the tiniest sliver.

Finally, he finishes and shoves me away from him. I go to the bathroom and spit into the sink before brushing my teeth and gargling with mouthwash.

I step into the shower. I already took one earlier today, but I need to get clean. I twist the knob and sit on the cool tiled floor, curling up into a ball under the spray until the water turns to ice.

Finally, I somehow return to my body and towel off before putting on a big T-shirt that once belonged to my dad. It swallows me, which oddly gives me a sense of safety. I pull on a pair of boy shorts underwear and thick sweatpants.

When I step into the bedroom, still towel-drying my hair, I see that Matt has already fallen asleep. A heavy exhale of relief escapes my lungs.

I tiptoe out into the hallway, making my way to the boys’ room down the hall of the cookie-cutter builder-grade home we purchased recently.

When I peek into their room, I see one sweet, perfect face sound asleep. Behind Dawson, Dutton’s soft, curly dirty blond head is turned toward the wall. The gentle rise and fall of their bellies tell me they’re both sleeping soundly.

I close the door and tiptoe toward the living room. I grab a clean cup from the cabinet and fill it with water from the fridge. After downing half of it, I press the cold glass to my forehead and sigh.

“You kept them safe tonight, but what about tomorrow?” I mumble.

The weight of my bleak situation settles on my shoulders. I would do anything for my children. I would sacrifice my life, my soul, my dignity, and my health—both physical and emotional.

And here I am, wondering if all of it will even be enough if their father kills me anyway and they’re left to the mercy of his cruelty and his sick, twisted mind.

I’m nearly crumpling under the thought when my phone lights up on the kitchen counter, where I must have left it after cleaning up from dinner.

I pick it up, seeing my friend Rosie’s name on the screen. I swipe to read her message.

Rosie

Sorry, I know it’s late. My mom brain still hasn’t adjusted back to a normal sleep schedule. We should have a playdate at the ranch soon so the twins can all play together!

I smile, quickly typing out a reply.

Dallas

Hey! That would be amazing. We’d love to. I don’t have a normal sleeping schedule yet either, haha.

I don’t mention it’s because I’m living in constant fear of my husband.

Rosie responds with a heart and another text.

Rosie

Friday morning works for us. I’ll make little sandwiches. Bring their swimsuits if the weather is nice!

I blow out a breath, wondering if I can trust Rosie with the truth about what’s happening in my marriage. My instinct is not to tell anyone because no one will get it. No one can possibly understand what I’m going through.

How can I explain it to someone if I don’t even understand it myself?

There’s no reason for me to be packing this bag. I don’t even know why I’m doing it, but somehow, I can’t stop. I feel compelled to add in more snacks for the boys and Band-Aids, just in case.

I shove the forty dollars of cash into the side pocket, where I’ve already collected three hundred dollars by asking for a little bit of cash back every time I’ve gone to the grocery store for the past few months.

I promised myself that once I got to five hundred, I would do something about it. Maybe I’ll use it on a therapist. Maybe I’ll put it in a bank account for the boys’ future.

Maybe I’ll finally find the courage to leave Matt.

Yeah, right.

My feet have been cemented in this marriage since day one. How can I leave my kids’ father for being mean sometimes? Am I really that weak of a person that I can’t take being called a bitch every once in a while?

I’m not weak. I refuse to become a victim.

The phone in my hand starts buzzing. I see my mother-in-law’s name on the screen. I swipe to answer it.

“Hey, Sandy.”

“Hey there, Dallas! How’s it going? I was just calling to check in. Matt mentioned you two had a spat, so I was worried about you.”

I blink in surprise. Sandy has always been a neutral party in my and her son’s relationship.

She respects boundaries as a grandma and offers to babysit so we can go on date nights.

Overall, I have no complaints. We’re not close, but aside from her showing up at the hospital as soon as I gave birth and pressuring us to let her see the boys right away, she’s always been kind to me.

And I know she was over the moon to meet her first grandkids and became a grandma.

“Things are … well, I mean, yes, we’ve been fighting. It’s hard with kids, you know.”

I don’t really know what else to say. I shove the black duffel bag back behind my hanging clothes in the closet so that it’s hidden, angry with myself for even thinking about quitting. When I finally come to my senses, I’ll have to unpack this bag without him finding out it ever existed.

“Well, I completely understand, of course. Marriage is … hard—really hard. It takes a lot of work.”

My father-in-law, Daren, has cheated on her at least once—that I know of.

“Yeah, I get that. I’m hanging in there. I just want what’s best for the boys.”

“I know you do. You’re an excellent mother, Dallas. The best. We’re just so thankful we have you in the family.”

A tiny swell of hope blooms inside me.

I’m not a quitter. I’m not one of those divorce statistics who just gave up on their marriage when things got tough.

A few months ago, when things were bad, we saw a pastor who doubles as a marriage counselor, and he encouraged us to think about what we love about the other person, especially when we’re starting to doubt the relationship. I exhale, closing my eyes and picturing my husband.

He’s not ugly. He’s not the handsomest man I’ve ever seen either. He’s medium height, around five foot nine.

He’s not all bad. He got me a necklace for my birthday last year. He ended up throwing it at me later that night, but it’s the thought that counts … right?

“I really appreciate you saying that, Sandy. It means a lot.”

Dutton runs through the house, his screaming brother right on his heels.

“It’s my turn to be the ’ductor!” Dawson screeches, rounding the corner of the kitchen island. He has a toy train clutched in his little hand.

I think about reprimanding them or telling them to go outside, but the more experience I gain as a boy mom, the more I realize there’s no reason to intervene unless someone is bleeding. The sound of them playing doesn’t bother me.

Being a mother is all I’ve ever wanted to be. I wasn’t one of those girls who dreamed of much else other than what I would name my babies and how I would decorate the playroom.

“Well, I just wanted to call and let you know I’m here if you ever need to talk. You’re the best thing that ever happened to him—I hope you know that. Kiss those sweet boys for me. Bye!” She hangs up the phone.

My heart warms at her words.

I reach down to preheat the oven, my spine snapping straight when I hear the garage door opening.

Shit. Matt is home.

I mentally scroll through the day and make sure I hid my emergency bag and deleted any of my searches pertaining to cheap apartments in the area, job postings for women with little work experience, or what to do when you’re afraid of your husband.

My breathing slows when I hear the door open. After training a pleasant smile on my face, I turn toward the heavy steps.

“Hi, honey. How was your day?” I stay near the stove, a wood spoon in my hand, ready to stir the simmering pot of chili.

My heart sinks when I see the expression marked with anger and annoyance.

“Boys! Quiet down,” he snaps, eyes turning to me. “You just gonna let them scream like that?”

I try hiding the trembling in my lower lip. “They’re just playing.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Soft bitch.”

I turn back to the stove, exhaling slowly. He comes up behind me, breathing down over my shoulder. I stir the chili, trying to ignore him.

“Smells good,” he finally says before disappearing into the bedroom.

My lungs decompress after the door slams shut.