LOST AND COLD, ROSLYN FOUGHT AGAINST THE EXHAUSTION THAT DRAGGED AT HER. Lost to reason and cold inside.
Eyes scrunched tightly against the coming light, she struggled to ignore the morning rumpus of shuffling bovines, clucking hens and nickering horses. Even the pigs added to the dawn’s farmhouse blues.
Pressing her knees into her chest, arms wrapped over her head, she dug her fingers into her scalp. She twitched as straw chaff pierced her dress and jabbed her side. It didn’t hurt much. Extra flesh to pad her frame had fallen from her restricted diet long ago. Soft cushioning weight to make her comely was no longer an issue for her family. No point wasting good food on a gully like her. More hay rubbed and chafed the skin of her cheek leaving it red and itchy, but oh, it smelt sweet. It reminded her of lazy summer nights as a child hiding from her troublesome siblings.
She shifted and her head moved. A stab of pain rendered her speechless.
Her hand lifted, dithered a moment, and then pressed down until the pain drew back the clouds of her memory.
A bruise. It was hot and swollen, the size of a big man’s fist.
Roslyn trembled. Her lashes fluttered open, almost afraid to expose her eyes to vision and render her fully awake to her nightmare.
Sickening in its clarity, a hand heavy with muscle slammed into her face. Forked lightning ripped a jagged scar through her panic. Thunder. It rolled across the dark, grassy plains in her mind. She had run. Run into the raging storm tearing across the land as if its spinning winds and icy rain could save her from the hell of her life. In the chilly dark safety appeared as the barn. She’d hidden from the monster in her house, thanking the storm for rampaging.
Her father wouldn’t risk damaging his thick neck in such violent weather.
And now?
Roslyn didn’t know what do.
The dawn was washed out, lifeless like her.
She had to go back. Return to a man who wouldn’t beat her in a rage, but would be smile eerily as he whipped and burnt the word of god into her flesh. Could she flee? Keep running until her legs gave. She had the clothes on her back, and fifty dollars sewn into the hem of her gown. What kind of life would that buy her? Passage to the next town? Food and lodging for a week? Then what? How would she, a lone woman, support herself as a lady?
Walking back into the house might well kill her.
Forcing herself upright, she let her head spin. Nausea rose. Maybe she’d bring up her guts over her father’s shoes and disgust him enough to leave her alone.
Roslyn stiffened. The fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted and prickled. She swallowed, and let her gaze flick to the man standing in the last shadow holding against the early morning light.
Beauregard Kellington.
Her vision was hazy, her mind groggy and succumbed to hopelessness. It should have been impossible to place a name to that body.
His hat was low on his head. The rim cast darkness to his jaw leaving pinpoints of light to burn straight at her.
Curiosity bubbled to the surface past the numbing hysteria. How long had he been there? He’d probably been tending the spooked horses, bunked in the barn knowing the storm would bother them. Had he seen her arrive? Crying, stumbling, babbling to herself of a demon calling himself her father? That explained the lantern and blanket. She hadn’t noticed them until that moment. The square of fine cloth covered her from ankle to hip and the lantern was set just above her head, its orange flame as dim as her soul.
Returning his silent study, voices of the past and present merged into a roaring damnation of a man they couldn’t hope to understand.
‘His mother was an Injun witch. That’s evil in those sallow eyes. The coldness of a killer. Eyes are windows to the soul, and his are black gold. Sold his spirit to the devil, he did.’
‘What decent, god fearing man takes an Injun to wife? Her get is as savage, mark my words.’
‘Old Man Kelly should’ve drowned him in the river as a baby. Like a sickly pup.’
These same voices praised her father. Called him a honourable, hard working man.
Gossip was good for nothing. Small town stupidity had bred fear of an innocent boy. Heaped cruelty and disdain on a young man forced to grow too fast. Watched the man he’d become with jealousy and hatred.
The cold, savage thing he’d become was because of them.
And her.
For all the foolhardy gossip, his eyes were peculiar. A light brown enriched with an extraordinary radiance. The yellow colour was burnished, and buffed until gold medallions splattered with darkness remained. Angry coyote eyes. Were they cold? Could a warm colour like gold chill you? Yes. When the cold leeched from the ice formed around a heart and soul empty of good emotion, yes. Warm gold could freeze you dead.
Roslyn shivered and thought that frost might coat her bones as those eyes watched her. She felt the impact as their gazes connected to her marrow, and flushed all over, wishing she could hide. Make her shame physical, a wall, and cower behind it.
Indistinguishable as his features were in the umbra, she remembered him well. His hair was ebon, thick. It touched his collar and brushed his ears and forehead. Dusky face raw-boned, a feral gauntness honed razor-sharpness to angles and planes that failed softening by shapely, arched eyebrows. High cheekbones added depth and splendour to a visage that would otherwise have too square a jaw and too firm a mouth.
A strong face, a fierce face.
Looking too long and hard at Beauregard made big men scared. Roslyn Roseberry looked long, hard and felt her small body unwind.
Had it really been fifteen years? The first time they met was as children. She, eight, bright eyed and bursting with hope. Him, a little older, a sedate thirteen, a needy boy becoming a damaged man.
She couldn’t forget who he’d been for who he was. Her body wouldn’t allow her to feel fear of him because her girlish heart considered him safe.
“You can’t go back.” His tone was as empty as his expression. “He might kill you this time.”
She knew that.
“Good morning, Mr Kellington.”
A long silence became awkward and charged with the unsaid.
“If I were you I’d be wondering what I was doing here.”
The pinpoints of burning light moved in measured flicks, and she knew he took in the bruises.
She gave him her better side and plucked at her damp gown. The luxurious blue silk looked pernickety in his presence. “I–”
“I’ll help.”
“What?”
He said nothing else. He didn’t move. Beauregard never did say pointless words or make pointless movement. He was still like a lake and as quiet beneath the surface.
He wanted her to run.
Was her desperation to be free so obvious?
Tears burned the back of her eyes. “I don’t have enough money to survive. No skills but keeping house. How can I–”
“I can give you two hundred dollars.”
“I–”
“The house will be awake soon. He’ll come for you. I can’t fight ten men, even for you.” He paused. “I won’t stick around for it.”
Unlike others, he wouldn’t turn a blind eye. His business reputation would suffer if he rode away without a word. His abrupt departure might even tie him to her suspicious death should her father lose all control, but that was the strength of Beauregard’s honour. He wouldn’t stick around for it because he hadn’t the power to intervene.
“So I leave.” Roslyn shuddered at her bedraggled state, disgusted with herself. Why must he convince her of a truth she knew? “And then what?”
“Then you get along. People make lives for themselves all the time.” Beauregard left the shadows and strode to the nearest stall. Saddling his gelding with a competency born from a lifetime of practice, he mounted, long-legged, smooth and easy. “Come.”
“My clothes.” Her heart beat too fast. The world was dark at the edges. “My things. My–”
“Worth your life?”
“They’ll know.”
“Always known how to care for myself. Come.”
The darkness was held back by the power of that outstretched hand.
Scrambling to her feet and staggering forward her fingers grabbed his. Gasping, she let him pull her onto the saddle. His arms settled lightly on her waist, a respectable distance between his chest and her back.
He led the gelding from the barn then put his spurs to the beast and set them flying across Roseberry Ranch and towards the coming dawn.
The journey was a haze. Hours past with no reason to them. A flask was pressed to her lips. Water. She drank deeply before sagging, once again entombed in a fog of emotion. A trail. The heavy snorts and briny whiff of a laboured steed. Dust flew into the air, kicked up by storming hooves as they barrelled into an unkempt yard.
Roslyn dismounted with the grace of a foal on its first legs.
“Easy.” Beauregard was next to her, warm and vital. “Go on. The horse needs settlin’.”
Powerful hands guided her a few steps forward until she remembered she’d walked on her own power for twenty three years and took off across the yard towards the wooden house.
It was a simple grey thing with a veranda and boxed in by barren flowerbeds. Even the bright day it promised to be wouldn’t cheer its palpable melancholy.
A house that wanted to be a home.
She took the steps like a drunk and fell against the door. She made a limp-handed fumble for the doorknob. What person left their house unlocked? A force of nature that didn’t fear interference from others, that’s who. The splintering door swung open, a threshold to her unknown future. What civilized woman entered a bachelor’s residence un-chaperoned? A desperate one, she told herself. She tumbled in bringing mud, leaves, and wind with her. Dragging breath into her lungs, Roslyn steadied and grew lucid. Alive and on the run, but alive. She blinked away the miasma that had kept her locked mute and terrified the last three hours.
Now she stood surprised. Cobwebs hung heavily from the ceiling beams and rounded the corners. The scratch and scurry of mice raked across her ears, and a musty smell of abandonment thickened the air. The windows were heavy with dust and blocked the light. The curtains were clogged with grime. The main room was for simple country living. The discoloured walls were whitewashed, once, and the floor was a faded patina instead of wax glossy. A rocking chair with peeling paint sat next to a well-worn sofa pushed against the wall, a faded throw decorating the back. On the other side of the sofa was a bookcase filled with soft backed volumes. A six-seat table of fine work and spindled legs sat in the middle of the room. At the back of the house was the kitchen. The black stove was cold, but Roslyn knew it would warm the entire house when heated. A tarnished kettle sat atop it, and above hung cast iron pans. The surfaces were clean, untreated slabs of wood. Underneath, plain oak cupboards stretched all the way down to the bare plank flooring.
Stiff as she was, Roslyn didn’t just turn her head, but her whole body to see the closed door that led to the bedroom.
She stood there, cold, damp, and wished that this house were hers. That she could bar the door and refuse entry because it was her home. No man could beat her, or force her to his will. No weak willed brothers would throw her to the dogs save their own skin. No brittle, spineless mother would condemn her for being as god made her.
The front door closed sending the room dark.
The peppery scent of a male cocooned her.
Arms holding a stack of wood, Beauregard started on the stove. “Sit before you fall.”
“I’m cold.”
“Spare clothes in the bedroom. In the trunk.”
Protest wobbled on the edge of her tongue. Go into his bedroom? Alone? The alternative was to stand there and catch her death.
Prim sensibilities set in their rightful place, below survival, she moved.
If the Pastor could see her unmarried, bold self now.
Careful not to look at the bed, or his private things, she found the trunk against the wall closest to the door. Neatly laundered and folded garments carried the faint scent of lavender when disturbed. The scandal shocked her, a proper lady wearing trousers and a shirt? Roslyn thought of all the beautiful gowns purchased when she was younger in a bid to sell her to a rich husband. Even her old, worn gowns would be better than this. Something he said came to mind, are clothes worth my life? She ripped off the dress. Struggling with her corset ties, hot tears drenched her chin.
He wouldn’t come in here. He knew she was changing. Her fears of being raped were stupid. Weren’t they? All men were opportunists, but Beauregard wasn’t just a man. He was a predator that followed nature’s rules. In nature, the strong preyed on the weak.
Her panic grew until her nails scratched at her skin. Her terror-soaked limbs quivered, making her clumsy.
Cold air hit her naked body with the force of an avalanche.
Sick, throat-tearing sobs broke from her chest.
The shirt reached past her knees, and the trousers pulled tight across her buttocks and hips, but were baggy at the waist, groin, and thigh areas. Her breasts were loose beneath the shirt. Surely it was too baggy to show anything? Her voluminous under things wouldn’t work under these man clothes.
She took time to worry, to gnaw her lip, to pray to god for salvation. Feet bare, she wiggled her toes then decided dry feet in boots were better than wet stockings in boots.
Her mind tried to reach beyond her immediate state, but tripped, and failed to see a future that ended in her happiness. There was vast nothingness before her. Not true. Nothingness was a step behind Beauregard. He was an anchor keeping her sane, a rudder directing her mindless grope for freedom.
Had she thought to go to him before? Of course, but after endless years of the bigoted fools in her family hurling insult on top of abuse, she struggled even to meet his eyes most days. The discovery she approached him just to say hello would have brought the wrath of Elstein Roseberry on them both.
Her father was an endless source of vitriol when it came to Beauregard. Her failure as a female was the trigger to his rage, but for her to risk any kind of communication with Beauregard was like playing chicken with the end of days.
‘Half-breed son of squaw,’ was one of her father’s softer slurs about Beauregard that he had no problem saying well within earshot of the man himself. No matter that Beauregard regularly did business with the Roseberry Ranch since he bred the best horses within a three day ride. Her father maintained that Beauregard was a no good redskin bastard. It didn’t matter to him Old Man Kelly made the beautiful Cherokee woman he brought home after his first wife passed his legal wife on the steps of the church. ‘Where is it written God accepts these savages as anything but unclean animals? Is it not a sin to lie with the animals?’ No matter before the marriage and its mongrel offspring the Kellingtons were known as an honourable family. Respected for their good business statewide. It held no sway Beauregard Kellington was seen in the company of his clean-living, white half-brothers. A little apart, yes. Almost as distant and cold to them as he was unapproachable to the masses, but still, firmly within the Kellington family circle, and not just because he lawfully owned a third of the Ranch left to them by their sire. The quiet, reclusive man kept to himself and rarely made trouble. Not counting the man he supposedly murdered as an adolescent. Put aside the gunslinger he’d beaten near to death on the cusp of his eighteenth birthday for reasons unknown. Don’t count the many stare downs he’d had with young bucks in the town that wanted to pick on the local pariah. These things were forgettable because what more could you expect from an Indian savage?
Elstein Roseberry hated with a passion, and his hate had locked on Beauregard.
So she might have been brave enough to risk her own neck, but never his, knowing he might agree to place himself in grave danger.
It was arguable that she’d been wrong, and he didn’t mean to help her, but cause her harm. She hadn’t said a word to him since that horror-filled afternoon fifteen years ago. It was arguable that secret had bonded her to him but not him to her. It was perfectly logical she might be mistaken, and had walked right into a trap to get even with her father.
Her breathing increased.
She was being ridiculous. It was the gossip again, making a damn fool of her common sense.
So Beauregard was brutal when defending himself. What man didn’t resort to violence when challenged? Maybe not with the same bone-crunching, neck-snapping, life-ending ferocity Beauregard reacted with, but violence was violence, right? She knew his was an animal rage that could turn him against his own kin, and had in the past, but it must have a purpose other than mindless destruction, mustn’t it?
Pulling her soggy clothing to her chest, she left the bedroom and exited into a wall of heat.
BEAUREGARD PRIED THE GOWN AND FRILLY UNDER THINGS FROM HER CHILLED, CLAWED FINGERS. He pointed to the table. Sat on the surface was a black coffee, steam rising from its dark surface.
Roslyn fell on it with both hands and curled it into her chest. A dainty sip was followed with shudders of pleasure that seemed to break free from a deep place within. He could almost see the coffee burn a trail of awareness through her veins.
Hell, she barely startled when he took a seat opposite. He didn’t want to loom, or make her feel unsafe. Though it was the god’s honest truth she was in the most peril she could possibly find herself in.
Wasn’t that just like her?
“Better?”
Cradling the cup in her hands, she nodded.
Beauregard didn’t pretend holding her in his arms as she drifted in and out of consciousness on the ride off Roseberry Ranch was anything but sweet torture. That his body hadn’t burned to press her pliant softness closer for a fleeting glimpse of heaven. He didn’t bother to ignore that her presence in his house was a deviant pleasure he revelled in.
How he felt mattered not a whit.
She needed to be gone before the sun hit its highest peak. He’d help her get to safety, cover her tracks as best he could.
Then he’d forget her.
Forget the slim, five-foot beauty that smelt like fresh cut grass and soap no matter the season. Put from his mind her diamond-shaped face, understated curves and sweet femaleness. The flaxen hair, soft as silk, yes he remembered well its softness, would cease to haunt him soon after she left, no matter fifteen years had passed since the last time he’d touched the heavy mass.
Her big, big, blue, blue eyes met his and her lids drew back until too much white showed. Her gaze skittered away then jumped back only to drop.
Christ Almighty, he’d never forget her.
Beauregard crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned back in his chair, one hand on the table the other at ease on his thigh.
No, he’d never forget the girl, or the exquisite flower she’d become, but he’d try his damndest to forget the wraith crumpled before him. He was aghast. The damp of a stormy night couldn’t leech colour from skin. She’d taken hard knocks before, he knew it, the whole Roseberry Ranch knew it, but she’d never seemed hollow after. As if each blow from Elstein’s fist crushed her life’s essence until a warmed-over corpse was all that remained. Her eyes were ringed with sooty circles, the effect made worse by the bruise blackening her eye and cheek. Bleached bones had more meat than her body, a body he’d often admired from afar and considered perfection.
Thumb tapping a steady beat on the tabletop, he saw no point acting soft. There’d be hell to pay soon enough. “We have half a day before they organize a proper search. Probably less. What family do you have?”
“I’ve run from them.”
“No others?”
Roslyn scratched her head. Shook it despondently a few moments later. She found a hay stalk sticking out near her temple and plucked it from its nest. Flushing, she used the hand to try and ferret out the other strands.
Honestly, it wasn’t making much difference
“Don’t fuss.” Beauregard scrutinized her clothes and bit back laughter, because it wouldn’t have been the nice kind. She resembled a child playing dress up, and he could see too much through the thin linen. It would shock her dear lady heart to know how much of her he saw.
Ignorance was bliss for delicate snowdrops.
“Thank you for the clothes. And the coffee. And, well, everything.” Her shoulder jerked. “I’ll never be able to pay you back, you know.”
“Wouldn’t ask you to.”
“Two hundred dollars is a lot to never see again.”
“There’s no debt.” He doubted there’d ever be a balance due between them. Some things were sacred. “What direction you headed?”
“Any he won’t think to look.”
Beauregard took the cup she’d drained and refilled it. He slid it over the table surface and ignored the roll and pitch of his heart when she snagged it like a lifeline. “Hungry?”
“Yes.” Her voice was small, her stomach’s hunger a roar. “But you don’t have to–”
“Best to start a trip well fed, I’m thinkin’.”
Beauregard went about opening and closing cupboards. There was nothing fresh. He didn’t live here if he could help it. His last visit has been early spring to make sure the structure was sound. The house possessed no steel cages but it was a prison no less.
He sifted a hand through a bag of oats. Dry, fragrant, free of vermin. “Watered oatmeal okay?”
“Anything you offer is appreciated.”
The stove was hot now. He threw in more wood and set a pan of water on the burner. It boiled in silence. Well damn if he didn’t find her some left over sugar. The porridge thickened and he spooned it into a chipped bowl wishing he had fruit and cream to give. Sugar would have to serve. He placed the sad, simple meal in front of her and stepped back.
Her nostrils flared. Rather then manhandle the spoon – like he knew she wanted – she attempted a smile of thanks. It was weak, wobbly, but it was the thought that counted.
“Won’t you join me?”
“I ate when I woke.” He sat. “Eat. Atween bites talk.”
“About?”
“Last night.”
She picked up the spoon and was a real lady. Back straight, face composed in serene indifference she sugared, and ate. “You know well enough my situation.”
“Maybe.”
Her gaze clashed with his, fiery, and unapologetic. “My father’s abuse is hardly secret.”
“His reasons why are held pretty close.”
“A father needs reasons to discipline his get?”
Beauregard didn’t like being difficult, not to a distressed female, but he wanted to know. Needed to know. “Well, what riled him?”
“Franklyn Buckley Junior.”
Beauregard’s scalp crawled. The past stretched between them and gouged deeper scars. “I see.”
“Do you? Men rarely do.”
The lion cub had claws. It made him warm inside. “You need a reminder who you’re talking to?”
“It’s ugly.”
“When isn’t it?”
Roslyn wondered what saint she’d crossed to be placed in such a position. Was this justice for her sins? She despised everything about this day. Humiliation was a constant companion in her life, but somehow she’d managed not to feel ashamed in Beauregard’s company. No more. Today rips that comfort from me, she thought. “Franklyn Junior bragged to my oldest brother Homer he and I were intimate.”
“Were you?”
Her spoon paused half way to her lips. She trembled. This time it wasn’t from a chill. The cub was mad. “Do you need a reminder?”
“Go on.”
“He claims he caught me unawares resting by the creek. That I offered myself, and that he took that meant for my husband.”
It was no secret in town Franklyn Junior wanted Roslyn. Elstein Roseberry never accepted the address because a farmer’s son wasn’t high enough on the instep. That didn’t stop the young man following the object of his obsession around town on her visits. Nor did his drunken avowals of devotion in the local saloon and brothel cease.
“Your father is hard man, but to take his word over yourn? An outsider over kin?”
“Say it plainly. Aloud if you think it.”
“Trysts go bad.”
“Filthy defamations.” The spoon slammed down. The bowl rocked spilling porridge. “I went to the creek but I thought I was alone. I went there alone, spent time there alone, and left alone. No man has known me. That fiend stalked me my whole life. Everybody knows it.”
“The runnin’?”
“That don’t make me guilty. Wouldn’t you run from pain?” She made a noise, unpleasant and critical. “No, not you. You’d fight.”
“I am what I am.” Beauregard hesitated. “Why? You’ve taken the hits before. You bore it. Why seek me out now.”
“I wasn’t–”
“No lies. Not to me.”
She stared. Inhaled slowly. “I can’t marry that man.” A shaky exhale puckered her lips. “I won’t.”
Beauregard’s fingers curled into a fist.
Franklyn Junior must have mouthed off to Homer in front of witnesses who’d spread the tale.
By sundown Miss Roslyn Roseberry’s reputation would be worth less than mud.
The solution was marriage.
Buckley wouldn’t be held at the alter under watchful twin barrels. He’d gleefully skip there to make his fixation legal.
Watching Beauregard, Roslyn glimpsed a wolverine rage. His head jerked from her, but she saw his irises flash with a muted glow. The skin around his eyes pulled taut, and his jaw worked, back molars grinding.
His disgust embarrassed her. It was bad enough wearing the bruises, but for him to know how her good name was sullied – the disgrace of it.
There was no sense in holding back. The rest may as well come out.
“My father is not a man you cross. He was either going to beat me to death or make me marry. The storm seemed a sensible alternate to the picking of two evils. I ended up at the barn because I needed a haven.”
Buckley would hunt her. Obsession knew no bounds. Elstein would search just for the opportunity to beat her one last time before handing her over to a man whose rumoured proclivities rained Sodom and Gomorrah in brimstone.
“I’ll take you west,” Beauregard said voice deadened. “There’s a stagecoach which heads to Utah.”
“I’ve never even been to Denver.”
“Hm. I’m thinkin’ you shouldn’t stop until you reach California.” It was a journey no young lady should undertake alone, but take it she must. “Two hundred and fifty will get you there. It’s your best shot.”
“I know it. I–”
The sound of the veranda steps creaking made them stiffen.
Beauregard eased onto his feet. His empty palms stung. In his mind’s eye he saw his rifle slung over his saddle pommel. A mistake. How had he made that mistake? Too distracted by the crushed blossom wilting at his table, that’s how.
Despite Beauregard’s expressionless calm, fear stole Roslyn’s breath. The present fell away and all that was left was a scared girl and her warrior who was no more than boy. Her whisper was feather soft. “Shall I run?”
“Not this time, sweetheart. Come.”
IT TOOK FOUR TRIES TO OBEY. Roslyn knew this was bad, bad enough to set her shaking from head to toe.
The front door crashed open as Beauregard went to open it.
Two men grabbed him and dragged him into the yard.
Roslyn screamed when a third man came up from behind and brained him with the butt of a rifle. He hit the dirt on his knees, but didn’t go all the way down. The man with the rifle aimed it at his head.
Wide shoulders filled the doorway. A man. White hair belied him as weak. There were few men in the county stronger. “I always knew you were a whore.”
Faint on her feet, Roslyn could no longer see Beauregard, but she could hear what happened beyond the threshold.
Heavy blows pummelled his flesh.
Agitated horses trumpeted and pranced in fear of the rowdy men, adding to the cacophony. Their cruel insults were almost harsher then the blows they landed on the victim they surrounded.
Against all hope, Roslyn prayed for mercy. Mercy for Beauregard. She took a jerky step, hand reaching, tear-filled eyes beseeching. “Beauregard didn’t touch me. He meant no harm–”
Elstein grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out the house. He flung her from the porch into the arms of a man she barely recognised. The cowpoke leered at her few times, but wasn’t genteel enough to warrant introduction.
Face devoid of compassion he held her close, too close. Struggling in his hold she felt his maleness pressing into her belly. His eyes darkened to caverns of black intent.
Slowly, he rubbed against her and licked his lips.
This crude, sexual treatment threatened to leave her speechless, but her fears for Beauregard overrode any attempt at self-preservation by staying silent. “Father, please. Beau–”
“Don’t speak his name, unfaithful bitch.” Spittle hit the back of her neck. “God knows I’ve tried, but you chose the life of a slut over that of a respectable woman.”
Roslyn was spun around. An arm clamped around her waist, another across her chest. The ranch hand fondled her breast roughly through the shirt, his hips thrusting into her back. The hard jut of his arousal was enough to send her into a conniption, but she held off the fainting spell.
It was the sight of Beauregard, blood spattered, swaying on all fours, and surrounded by six armed men, one with a hempen noose, which just about broke her.
Her brothers came into view.
She knew a moment’s relief before her mind took in the details.
Baby-faced Benjamin was younger than her by five years, could be strong, but right then looked close to wetting himself. Homer was older by a decade, and appeared far too excited by the commotion to think of helping his only sister.
“He forced you,” said Elstein.
There were many things Roslyn wished she were. Taller, smarter, prettier, braver. There were many things she wasn’t. She wasn’t so evil as to sacrifice another being to save her own skin.
She spoke clearly, without a tremor, because the truth was as clean and pure as Beauregard’s innocence.
“No.”
From his lofty stance on the veranda, Elstein didn’t have to raise his hand too high for the backhanded slap that set her ears ringing, her nose dripping red.
“Say he forced you and justice will be done.”
The man with the noose slid it over Beauregard’s head, tightened it around his neck.
“Not one hand.” Roslyn knew another blow was coming so said it again, quickly, loudly. “He laid not one hand on me.”
The next blow was harder than the first.
She slumped, and the metallic taste of blood bathed her tongue.
“Enough.” Beauregard’s voice was hoarse. “She didn’t do anything. You sick bastard, leave her be.”
The sickening crunch when he was kicked in the face made her sob. Blood bubbled from his broken face and dribbled over his forehead.
Elstein spat tobacco juice and looked at Franklyn Junior. “Still want her?”
The young man stared at Roslyn with dark possessiveness. He glared at Beauregard. “He put his filthy redskin seed in her.”
“You had her first.”
“I won’t raise a savage as mine.” Franklyn Junior met Elstein’s gaze steadily. “My family won’t accept it. Not an Injun bastard whose sire killed my Pa. No loose woman will be welcome.”
Elstein smoothed his fingers over his bristled chin. Scratched his cheek as he considered his next move. He slanted a look at someone out of Roslyn’s line of sight. “And a widow? What welcome would she receive?”
The gathering fell silent. Tension and anticipation thickened the air.
Flicking a glance at Beauregard, all abroad, Roslyn stopped squirming. He wasn’t looking at her, but she could feel he wanted to. Giving into the urge to comfort her would make her father madder. It was why she’d stopped saying his name.
“What god fearing man would turn aside a grieving widow?” Buckley asked. “Injun squaw or not.”
Alarmed by the turn in conversation Benjamin shot a look at his sister. He swallowed throatily. “Pa, this isn’t right. Maybe–”
“Boy,” Elstein didn’t look at him. “You will shut your mouth and do your family proud. Else I’ll take my fist to you right here.”
Face scarlet, Benjamin shuffled back and averted his gaze to the mountains in the distance.
Roslyn heard a man dismount.
Robed in black, white dog collar a mockery in the truest sense, Pastor Arrowby strode forward. “I close my ears to talk of murder.”
“No one said a word about murder. Just idle yammering about the plight of the widow.” Hands folded over his belt buckle, Elstein leaned on his heels. “I brought you to marry my daughter to Buckley. Out of necessity that joyous occasion is postponed. We have a new bridegroom.”
Beady eyes glimmering with dark understanding, Homer chuckled.
Beauregard was hefted onto his feet and held there with a gun jammed to the back of his head.
Disbelieving, Roslyn was shoved beside him.
Elstein motioned to the ruined pair. “My daughter and this mongrel wish to experience the bliss of holy matrimony.”
Pastor Arrowby balked. “A half-breed for a son-in-law, Roseberry?”
“Do it.”
Young Benjamin looked ill. “Pa–”
“Shut up.”
The Pastor eyed the shotgun groom and fallen bride. He sniffed, clearly unfeeling of what he thought was their comeuppance, and opened his bible.
Beauregard and Roslyn repeated the words they were forced to say. The phrase, “I pronounce you man and wife,” was so surreal Roslyn wondered if they’d toss mud instead of rice, and if her screams would serve as the wedding bells.
“He can’t kiss his wife all bloody,” Tommy Twin drawled. “See here, Kellington, I’ll take care of it.” He grabbed the back of Roslyn’s head and mashed his mouth on hers.
From somewhere, Beauregard found the strength to lunge and take Tommy down. The three of them fell in a tangle of limbs. Roslyn screamed and tried not to black out when a boot ploughed into her middle.
Beauregard got hold of Tommy’s gun from its holster. Before he could shoot, a meaty hand tangled in Roslyn’s hair and yanked her onto her toes.
Tommy’s brother Tim whistled for attention. “I’ll put one atween her eyes. Set it down, half-breed.”
Beauregard’s chest heaved.
For a moment Roslyn figured he’d let them do it. From the way Tim butted against her hip it might be kinder. These men came for sport, and there was more than one kind in the offering. Beauregard knew that, and she knew it would strip him raw inside.
The gun fell from his fingers.
He crumpled under a hail of blows, knees to his chest, and arms over his head. Legs thrashed back and forth as they pummelled his curled up body. Through the ring of kicking men she watched the tension leave his frame. Still, they beat him until his limp body shunted across the dirt. There was not an inch of him spared.
While Benjamin backed away from the carnage, Homer dove in. He spewed suggestions so vile her soul grew disgusted she shared blood with such a monster.
Her own calamitous predicament forgotten tears leaked down her face to drip from her chin.
As Beauregard died, she died, and she went far away, fled into the abyss of her mind.
Roslyn didn’t struggle when Tim ripped open the shirt to fondle her breasts and pinch her nipples. Sour breath fanned her neck. She burrowed deeper. To the summer she was eight, nursing a forbidden infatuation with a boy who possessed the eyes of a brush wolf, the hair of a raven.
“Get off.” Franklyn Junior’s yell was barely heard over the roaring in her ears. “She’s mine.”
Unexpectedly she was free, and on the ground in a mindless heap. When had they torn open her trousers?
“A woman needs a man on her wedding night,” Tim Twin complained. “She’s already broken in. What’s the bother?”
“The bother is she’s mine.”
Tim cursed but backed off since the others were bored and leaving.
Roslyn watched from swelling lids as the mob of men and the Pastor rode away. Left behind was her father, brothers, and Franklyn Junior.
“Yeah, she’s yours now.” Elstein turned his back on his daughter and headed to his horse, signalling to his sons. “Give it a month so the death of her husband,” he spat the word, “can get around.”
Buckley stood by her head. He nudged her with the toe of his boot. “What do I do with her till then?”
“Enjoy her. Hell, I don’t care. She’s your problem now. Send me word of the marriage when it’s done. I’ll deliver her things.”
Elstein, her brothers, and the Twins rode off leaving Franklyn Junior cursing. “Might as well ease the ache.”
It was empty where she lay. Her body was unyielding as her mind tunnelled and dimmed in a frantic bid to escape.
She heard the clank of a belt buckle, and was shoved onto her back. Her head lolled on her shoulders. Sandy dirt crusted her lips. Her borrowed trousers were tugged to her calves, and a sweaty grip closed around her ankles to spread her legs. Teeth bit her hard. Greedy hands groped her breasts, and roughly petted the flesh of her inner thigh. A hawking spit then liquid wet a place Mother told her to guard with her life. A body, hot, and unwashed was heavy on top of her. Something slimy and hard prodded between her tender woman’s flesh.
Anger exploded within her heart. Ungodly fury forced her mind to return, and Roslyn came back to the land of the living with the ferocity of a cornered bobcat.
Her hands slapped at her attacker’s face, and clawed fingers dug cruelly into his brow. She screeched, raking her nails with all her might, glancing over the jelly of an eye, gouging shallow divots from a fatty cheek. She bucked, wriggled, and scratched, and screamed from the pit of her soul.
“Holy Mother.”
Franklyn Junior reared back, clutching his bleeding face. He moved far enough for Roslyn to slam her knee into his groin.
Her erstwhile rapist shrieked and lurched off her.
Cupping his shrivelling privates he wormed away on his side. “Crazy bitch. Look what you did.” He staggered up, trousers sagging at his ankles. He fumbled to pull them up. “Injun loving slut.”
His boot found the side of her head.
It hurt, but it was better than having the last piece of her torn away. So she’d die beaten and broken. She’d be whole. Franklyn Junior, her father and that murdering mob of thugs wouldn’t make a whore of her. She wouldn’t let them with Beauregard lying next to her after giving his life.
“See if I care about you.” Franklyn Junior’s wild yell receded. She heard him grunt, and the frantic flapping of reins. “Die here with your filthy mongrel. See if I give a shit.”
Roslyn’s breath sawed in and out of her lungs. For a moment she was indomitable.
She crawled to Beauregard’s side, and found his hand, limp, lifeless. She twined their fingers and brought his knuckles to her swollen lips.
“Oh, Beau. Forgive me.”
Roslyn sank until her naked front pressed into the blood soaked earth.
Peace stole through her body and set her spirit soaring. Soaring so high she cracked a smile, a delirious curving of the lips as the darkness swept her away.