24. Kinleigh
TWENTY-FOUR
KINLEIGH
PRESENT.
Garrison has already been down to the cellar to tend to Colton by the time he and my father leave for town. The only reason I’ve been allowed to stay home is because of Garrison, though I still can’t seem to figure out what he’s playing at. My whole life he’s been kind of an asshole, and I question the validity of him being my father’s blood brother. I have no evidence, because my dad has never spoken about his childhood. He and Garrison don’t look alike, I don’t think, but then again, half of Garrison’s face is shrouded in a dark beard, and both of them wear their cowboy hats to their eyebrows. Regardless of all that, I’m being left relatively unattended today for one whole hour.
The guards stand out back, per usual, though how great are they at their jobs? Colton came in here months ago, and they didn’t know until he’d already gone through the entire office. I think maybe the fact that they’re leaving me unattended is a test, or—worse yet—a tease? Let her have her lover for an hour, I’m gonna kill him soon anyway. That’s what I imagine my disgusting father saying.
I don’t care what his reasons are. What his plans are.
Now I have reasons. I have plans.
I’m setting him free, at any cost. And he’ll set those women free, I know he will. Colton Beckett isn’t just a good man—he’s the best man, and he’ll save them. He’ll know what to do with the information I give to him and he’ll put a stop to all of this.
But he needs a head start.
I can’t think of a way where he and I can easily leave this place together. If my father comes home and we’re both gone, immediately he’ll hunt us down. But, if he returns and I’m there, going about my usual tasks, he may not check on Colton for an hour, maybe two. Hell, he could hit the scotch and forget about him for a day. By then, it’ll be too late. The corrupt sheriff’s office won’t be able to stamp out how far this will go.
News trucks.
Reporters.
FBI agents.
We will be free, Forrest will be locked up, and… I don’t know what comes next. Right now, all I can do is make this sandwich and focus on what I do have: a small plan. Pieces that have slowly come together to complete my plan. And even though I’m terrified I won’t be able to pull it all off, I have no problem losing my life in the attempt.
Slathering Dijon on toasted wheat, I add sliced tomatoes and crisp sheets of romaine, pieces of bacon I cooked for Garrison and my father yesterday, and add lots of cheese and extra turkey.
It’s one of Colton’s favorite sandwiches. And then some.
He needs the calories so he can go through with my plan.
Knowing my time is not unlimited, because Garrison again has left me just enough crumbs to understand my father’s timelines for the next few days, I take the plate with the sandwich and slip down into the cellar.
Garrison beat Colton this morning, but it looks like he let him shower again, too. His wrists, bandaged by Garrison at some point, are red and worn from weeks of wearing unforgiving, leaden cuffs. His frame still stands strong and tall as I take the last step, closing the distance between us.
I push the plate toward him. He stares at the sandwich with gratitude, but I can see the wavering questions behind his eyes. How much more of this? How much longer?
I lick my lips and follow him as he sits on the mattress, his cuff clinking against the plate as he lifts the sandwich to his mouth.
My chest tightens as I pull in a deep breath, my nerves scattered everywhere. Colton is the first person I’m speaking for in years. And though I know my voice is there, speaking aloud is something I told myself I’d never do again.
I wanted to be a mother to Colton Beckett’s babies. One of the earliest things I’ve ever known about myself is that I wanted to be a mother… And Forrest fucking stole that future from me.
I vowed to never speak again. After having something so intimate and almighty taken from—such a big piece of what makes me who I am—why talk? If I can’t decide things for myself, I don’t need a voice.
But then Colton, by the grace of God or, more reasonably, the death of his father, came back. He didn’t come back for me but he came back, and, though the situation isn’t ideal, we’ve been brought together.
God is telling me to keep going.
I have to believe that.
“You look beautiful,” he says, unable to speak clearly with his mouth full because he’s starving, but somehow, knowing he’s dividing the task of curing his hunger and telling me that I’m beautiful is so incredibly spot-on for Colton.
My chest tingles, and I know, whether I feel completely ready or not, now is the time.
“Tomorrow,” I start, keeping my eyes on him, my lips hardly moving, voice low. I think part of my volume is the result of disuse, but as Colton’s wide eyes come to mine, his hands releasing the sandwich, I realize it’s mostly nerves. “They have a meeting in town at six. It’s a monthly meeting. I think it’s with the other transportation teams, I’m not sure. But they get shit-faced. Completely roasted. My father is home and dead to the world in a scotch coma by eleven, midnight at the latest.” I breathe, my pulse terrorizing my sense of calm as Colton's eyes search mine, his shock rendering the moment frozen.
“Colton,” I whisper, “eat your sandwich and tell me you understand.”
He only nods, and I continue, because if there’s one thing neither of us have at this house, it’s time.
“Be ready at eleven, okay? The grandfather clock will chime. Listen and count, wait for eleven. I’ll do the rest.”
He nods again, inching nearer to me on the bed. He reaches out, his strong hand hovering behind my neck, like he wants to hold me or offer support but I quickly tug my head left once, indicating for him to stop.
“We’re getting out of here,” he breathes aloud, more to himself I think than me.
I see hope building as his frame grows, shoulders lifting, spine straightening. Heat swarms my chest, nearly suffocating me. Colton, my beautiful love, will be free. He’ll be able to have a wife and babies, he’ll be the sexy ranch hand husband and wonderful daddy I always knew he would be.
“I’m not going with you.”
His features twist, and it takes him a visible moment to steady his temper and collect his words so that anger doesn’t fit into the space between us. He can’t be angry with me. Surely, he must understand, it has to be this way for escape to have the highest opportunity of success.
“If I leave, he’ll notice right away, and he and his men might catch us both. And not just us. If we’re in the middle of trying to get to those women and girls, or if we’re freeing them and we get caught—” I shake my head, desperate tears littering my cheeks.
I think the reality that my plan is going to happen and that Colton is not going to be here anymore is finally dawning on me.
“He will kill us and them.” I shake my head and swipe at the tears that Colton eyes with pain etched in his features. He’s so handsome. The once clean-shaven jaw is now a decent beard, and I’d love more than anything to feel it burn the flesh between my breasts, along my throat, between my thighs… but fantasies are for people with free will and choices.
Not for captives.
“Just… be dressed and completely ready around eleven. Okay?”
His nostrils flare, and the chain clinks as he moves his hand to rest on top of mine on my thigh. He wraps his fingers around mine. “Okay,” he says, before stealing a tiny, quick kiss from my lips, lowering his voice to quieter than a whisper. “Thank you for sharing your voice with me.”
Hot tears of guilt and pain sting my eyes, but there’s no self-loathing in store for me.
At the top of the stairs, the cellar door hits the wall, and heavy boots tear down the stairs.
My pulse spikes and both Colton and I jump to our feet, the plate shattering on the cement floor, pieces of Colton’s favorite sandwich now mixed with shards of ceramic.
My father appears at the foot of the stairs, eyeing the scene at hand. “I knew Garrison was letting you feed the pet,” he growls, kicking a piece of meat covered in dirt.
Silence fills the small cellar.
I only look at my father, with my lips resealed, waiting for more violence and evil to come from him. Stomping down here to scare us apart isn’t good enough.
He ignores me, though, which I’d typically very much enjoy. But not right now, because his sights are set on Colton.
And unfortunately, Colton’s sights are set on me. I can feel his gaze blistering my skin, the way he devoutly gives his attention to me when my father so clearly hates it.
“If you lay another finger on her,” he warns my father, making my stomach clench.
I love that his instinct is to protect me, but he’s in shackles for another day, and my father will burn his own world to the ground if it means he defeats any happiness I may feel.
When my father’s hands drop to his belt, my body responds on my behalf, despite the fact that I am eager to hold strong, to stay on my feet and prove to him that he can’t ruin me. He won’t defeat me.
But I’m on the ground with my knees drawn to my chest, arms hugging my body, face pressed into myself in an attempt to hide.
Colton shouts. He shouts so loud, the cellar vibrates with anger and fear.
The first crack of the belt against my back is biting and raw, the pain so vibrant that among my cries, I cough, rocking back against the agony.
“You wanna be a big man, is that right, Beckett?”
Another crack of the belt, this time along my face and neck. My hands find the concrete and I keep my eyes squeezed shut. No position is good, the belt is unavoidable. He’s punishing us for our love, and I know what’s next. I know how my father thinks.
“You can’t protect her. You never could. After all, any man who runs off isn’t a man who can take care of his old lady.”
Another crack of the belt, followed up with his hand on my head, ripping hair out as he lifts me to my feet. My hands fly to my head, grabbing him where he grabs me, my scalp a tight ring of fire beneath his grasp.
“You know how a real man keeps his lady?”
Finally, my eyes move slowly through the space to find Colton. He’s watching my father’s hands, and his eyes are wide with horror.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Colton rasps, his voice growing thin, almost a little distant.
I want to say, No, please, don’t do this. Not in front of Colton. Don’t do this to me in front of the man that I love. Please.
But my voice isn’t for him anymore. And it wouldn't stop him. If I begged, it would only make it worse. This much I know.
I keep my lips pulled together tightly, and pray for it to end soon. Pray for Colton to close his eyes. Pray for it to be tomorrow at eleven.
From his waistband, my father pulls out a pistol, pressing the cold end to my temple as he works his zipper with his other hand. It’s not the first time he’s raped me at gunpoint. It’s not the first time he’s raped me at gunpoint with an audience.
But this disgust I feel, this new range of low, this unexplored hate seeping into my veins as he beats me with the butt of the gun, laughing maniacally—this is the first time I’ve wished I were dead.
“If you close your eyes I’ll hit her again. And if you make a move to be a hero, I’ll shoot you both.”
My father forces me to lie on my back then he proceeds to tear off my clothes. Yank off my jeans and shred my blouse and panties. He keeps his jeans around his knees as he presses himself into me, his boozy breath sour against my face.
Colton vomits. He shouts and he vomits, and at one point, as my father wraps his hand around my throat and pushes himself into me so hard and so deep that I feel my body physically tear and bleed, he goes completely calm. I turn my head to look at him, and he’s on the floor, face pressed to the concrete just two feet away from me. He’s blinking, eyes holding mine, begging me to get lost with him, pleading with me to fall into his gaze and escape until this ugly moment is all over.
I do.
I watch him. I study him. I think about the dandelion chains, the horseback riding, the secrets swapped over the lunch table and firsts we shared together.
And when it’s over, my body bruised and strained from trauma and assault, Forrest drags me upstairs, naked and bleeding. The last thing I see in the cellar is Colton, on the floor, holding my gaze.
Tomorrow , I mouth before the cellar door closes and I take a steel-toed boot to my ribs and pass out.