Felipe tipped his hat back on his head as he looked over his work. The broken gear in the windmill was gone, replaced by an intact, freshly greased one, everything within whirring as the wind drove it on. Now that these repairs were finished, he could head home for supper.
And his wife. She would be waiting there too.
He’d missed her when she was in the sanatorium, but it was even worse when he knew she was at home, in her bed. Her absence today was a hollowed-out gash along his left side, where she should have been.
There was nothing for it but time. He’d get used to the loss, since it wasn’t truly a loss. She was only waiting for him in her bed—not in a grave.
He’d slept terribly last night, his arms aching with the lack of her, his legs twitching with the knowledge that she was just down the hall. His head had been full of strange dreams—dreams where Franny was painted in shades of gray and refused to speak to him, no matter how he pleaded. Out of desperation, he’d wrenched her mouth open.
Only to find that her tongue had been torn out by the root.
He’d awoken with his heart trying to smash out of his chest and clamminess coating his skin. He hadn’t been able to sleep after; the only image his mind could summon was her with her mouth spread wide.
Even now, as he mounted up for the ride home, the memory of it made his skin crawl. He shook it off. She was fine, waiting patiently in her bed, where she belonged.
He gazed off at the horizon, where the green of the mountains joined the blue of the sky. He’d wanted to give her a kiss this morning, the curve of her cheek and the slope of her collarbones calling to him.
His gaze had lingered on her lips as he’d pondered stealing a kiss. And then, deep within his mind, the dream image bloomed—her mouth spread wide, showing him what he’d torn out.
He’d shaken himself hard and bit the inside of his lip until the tang of copper coated his tongue. He’d left her without a backward glance.
His horse broke into a trot unasked, no doubt feeling his oats and the scent of renewal in the air. Everything surrounding him was bursting forth with life. It was impossible to be unmoved, even with the dark thoughts curling through his mind like acrid smoke.
Franny would have been in high spirits, with all of creation in a mood like this. But she could enjoy spring from the house just as well.
If he repeated that enough, the both of them would believe it in time.
The house came into sight, smoke puffing from the stove pipe and everything looking orderly and peaceful. Exactly as it should.
He put his gelding up in the barn and fed and watered the other horses before going over to the mare due to foal. She’d been waxing this morning—the foal was coming soon.
The mare poked her head over the box walls when she saw him approach, looking as low as a horse could.
“No baby yet?” he asked as he rubbed at the stripe running down her face.
She tossed her head as if to say no and whickered mournfully.
He scratched behind her ears. “It’ll be soon enough, mama.”
He gave her one last pat, then went to the house to find his wife.
“Afternoon, Gracie,” he called to the girl in the kitchen. “Did Franny give you any trouble today?”
“No,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I haven’t heard a peep from her room all day.”
Good. A lack of peeps meant his wife must be resting like she was supposed to.
Only she wasn’t.
When he opened the door to her room, she was nowhere to be found.
She was gone. But where?
He tore the bed apart looking for her, the sheets snapping and billowing as he tossed them to the floor. He realized it was ridiculous—she obviously wasn’t there—yet he was unable to stop himself. He dropped to his hands and knees to peer under the bed: nothing. He searched his room, then his parents’, then back to hers.
“Franny! Franny!”
No answer. Not even from that dog of hers.
He took one last look around her room before noticing the open window.
She wouldn’t.
But she would. Any woman who’d sneak up to the high country on a lion hunt wouldn’t be daunted by going out a window.
He’d have to go after her. What if she were in danger and he couldn’t catch her in time?
He stumbled down the hall, fear making his jaw numb and tingling. He put his head into the kitchen. “Gracie, did you see Franny leave?” He already knew the answer, but he had to ask.
“No,” said Gracie, her brow knitting as she took a step away from him. Wonderful, now his temper was scaring the help. “Is she not in her room?”
“She’s not,” he said grimly. The little fool had climbed out of the window. Of all the stupid things to do…
“Should I help you look for her?” Gracie was obviously hoping that his answer would be no.
“No, I’ll go do it.”
When he found her, she was going to wish she’d never left.
Oh, but it felt good to be out.
Franny turned her face to the sun, closing her eyes against the brightness of it. The warmth wrapped around her, a blanket woven of heat and the scent of flowers and the breeze. A cover made of spring.
She already felt much, much better than she had in that bed. And nothing had happened to her.
She was stretched out on a rock by the old oak, just out of sight of the house.
On a happier day, she’d scaled that very tree to escape him, even as she’d wanted to be caught. And after she had climbed down…
But there’d be no climbing for her today—not for long while. Her belly wasn’t ready for that.
She sunned herself like a lizard, quite sleepy and indolent. She kept an ear and an eye out for Felipe at first, then just an ear as the sun lulled her into a complacent languidness.
He wasn’t home. He was no doubt out riding somewhere and wouldn’t return until evening. She had only to be in her bed before sunset.
She would only close her eyes for a few moments before going back…
She awoke slowly, her limbs tingling and the scar along her belly tight and smarting. She blinked into the golden light flooding her vision, her brain still fogged. The rock bit hard into her back and her joints ached as she sat up.
She tossed her braid over her shoulder and winced at the twinge in her belly. Perhaps sleeping out of doors hadn’t been the best of ideas. Being stuck in bed for so long had made her soft.
Then she looked at the sun.
Oh no. It was sitting just above the horizon, about to slip down past the mountains on its neverending journey across the sky.
If he got home before she did…
She jumped up, stiff and achy, and turned to rush back to the house.
Too late.
Her husband strode toward her on long legs that ate up the ground with each step. There was a wolfish glint in his dark gaze and the line of his mouth was flat and hard. He looked as if he could eat her up—not in a pleasant way.
She could try running for it, but the expression on his face was so Gorgon-like it turned her to stone.
And where would she run to? And why? What could he do to her? In all the years they had known each other, he had never actually harmed her.
Let him yell. She was used to it. More used to that than his adoration and affection, which had been in short supply for all his protestations of love.
She stood her ground, staring him down, her fists against her thighs. Yet for all her bravado, there was something in his expression, in the tic of the muscles of his cheek, that gave her the chills. She didn’t think she had ever seen him this angry, even when she’d snuck after him on the lion hunt.
His gaze threatened to ignite her skin and the air between them burned her lungs.
“Felipe,” she tried, “I know you’re angry, but nothing—”
He lifted her in his arms as if she were no more than a sack of grain. His grip was hard, impersonal.
No hello, how are you, or even what the hell are you doing out here? Only manhandling.
She was his wife—he’d said he loved her. But this wasn’t love, this imprisonment of his. Not the impersonal hardness of his hands on her, the grimly blank expression on his face—and especially not his intention to lock her away.
She briefly thought of kicking, punching, writhing—anything to break his hold. But the terrible look on his face as he’d marched to her, raw with fury, not even a hint of the man she’d known left there…
And her father’s expression today—not angry, but sadly pleading as he told her to obey her husband…
They were against her. They meant to confine her, to silence her.
She felt as if her will, her very life force were draining away. So she lay there, as inert as a sack of grain, with no more thoughts or sensibilities than one.
Because if she was more than just a sack of grain, her heart would be breaking.
That was not her back his arm was pressed so tightly against. That was not her braid swinging in time to his steps. Not her heart tearing open, harder and more painfully than her stomach had been.
A sack of grain didn’t have those things, so it couldn’t feel such things.
And neither could she.
He stomped up the porch steps, Trixie jumping and yapping at him, no doubt thinking he was playing some game.
Poor Trixie. She didn’t understand the malign intent animating him. But her mistress certainly did.
As they made their way through the front room, Franny saw Gracie’s skirts and shoes from the corner of her gaze. She could only imagine the horrified look on the girl’s face.
For his part, Felipe simply swept past Gracie, ignoring her questioning gasp.
Once they were in her room, he tossed her onto the bed hard enough to make her bounce. The window rattled in its frame as he slammed it home, and he smashed the door shut behind him as he left—all without a single word.
She sat in the middle of the bed, panting, her incision aflame. Lord, but he was angry.
She told herself she didn’t care.
The door lock clicked.
She blinked at it, forgetting the pain in the center of her.
He had locked her in.
Her mouth fell open and her heart stopped.
He locked me in.
She could still go through the window if she wanted, but the implication was clear. If she left again, he would not come after her. Not this next time.
When he’d said forever, he’d meant it.
Her throat burned and her breath stuttered. No, she would not cry. He didn’t deserve it. She might love him with all her heart, she might never leave this room again because of her love for him, but he didn’t deserve her tears.
He didn’t want her leaving this room? Fine, she wouldn’t.
She would die in this room.
But she wouldn’t cry.
She rolled to her side and stared at the wall, dry-eyed.