THE GURGLING WOULDN’T LET HER DIE IN PEACE. Lashes heavy with grit, Roslyn lifted her head and groggily looked about.
Beauregard looked just as dead as before.
The day was bright and sunny, white fluffy clouds scudding across the vast blue. The mountain range was pretty in the distance, and the rolling ranch land a splendour of nature.
A gentle breeze ruffled Beauregard’s hair. His leather Stetson rolled brim over crown until it bumped into the veranda. His bloody clothes seemed tight on his body, and his face was a shiny pink mass of bloated flesh. This stillness was so ugly, so unlike the vivid, restless energy he represented.
It made her queasy knowing she clung to a corpse.
Regret lay heavy on her heart. He had suffered because she was too weak to face her father’s fist. It mattered not he’d chosen to help her. With his honour he would never have turned her away.
Roslyn was about to fall back and give up, but a wet burble eked past Beauregard’s puffy lips. Frothy blood ran a trail from the corner of his mouth. She propped herself on her forearms. She focused on Beauregard’s chest and watched an almost imperceptible rise and fall. “My word, you can’t still be here. You can’t. Heaven’s waiting for you.”
How could a man’s body let alone his will survive that beating? Then again, Beauregard Kellington was no mere man, and his will was made of steel. She’d witnessed that for herself years ago. She’d known he was valiant even when she was too young to understand what the word meant.
Gasping, Roslyn pressed her fingers to his throat. A heartbeat pulsed against her skin. Weak, but there, insistent, demanding.
Out of instinct rather than any real knowledge she grabbed Beauregard’s head and turned it to the side toward his shoulder. More blood, a deep, deep red dribbled past his lips and streaked from his nostrils. His chest heaved and he dragged down what she suspected was his first full breath in a while.
How long had she been immobile with madness as he laid suffering?
She sat for what felt like longer thinking of what to do next. Leaving him as he was equalled murdering him with her own two hands. She could go for help on his gelding. Who would help them? His brothers. What direction? She turned her head this way and that. Nothing but miles and miles of terrain that looked identical. Yes, there were mountains yonder, but she didn’t know where the main Kellington Ranch house was in relation to them. There was a worn trail leading off from the yard, but she was intelligent enough to deduce that path led to town. The hoof prints left by the departed mob convinced her. She could go to Dawson Lake and fetch the physician, but what if Franklyn Junior, or someone else associated with her father saw and grabbed her?
They were on their own.
“Beauregard.” She scooted closer to him. Her grip on his hand tightened. “I don’t know what to do. Mother taught me some skill in healing, but nothing like what you need.” She nibbled her raw lips. They were dry and cracked. She was thirsty. How his body must crave moisture too. “I need to get you out of the sun, don’t I?”
Would moving him damage him more? His beating was a horrifying blur in her mind, but she recalled kicks aimed at his back and stomach. What if by trying to help him she made it worse?
Roslyn squeezed his hand. “There’s nothing for it. You have to be moved. I can’t care for you here, and we need the protection of four walls.” Her heart skipped a beat. “And it’s better in case they come back. Can you stay alive for me? It would break my heart to let go and return to find you’d left me.”
It might seem impossible, but so was a half Indian half white man giving his life for a girl he barely knew.
Roslyn released his hand and placed it gently on his chest.
Pushing to her feet, she remained hunched like an old woman and shuffled to the veranda. Her muscles screamed, but she climbed the steps and flailed a hand to push open the busted door.
The house was too warm, but she was grateful for the stove. She wouldn’t have to bother getting it fired up. She knew before the day was through she’d have boiled more pans of water than she had before in her whole life.
Roslyn ran the tap and put a pan to boil. She entered the bedroom and stared at the bed. She ripped the heavy blanket away until she could reach the thinner bottom sheet. She dragged that off and dumped it out the way. She gathered up the blanket then trudged outside. She dropped it next to Beauregard’s body.
She knelt, and neatly folded the blanket lengthways in creases that reminded her of accordion bellows.
She pushed on his shoulder and tucked the edge of one fold as far under his back as possible. She did the same at his feet, but it was easier. With a lot of unladylike curses she got the blanket under his bulk and marvelled at her success.
She checked his breathing then picked up the blanket edges at his head and heaved. It was slow, arduous, but he moved. She towed him, pulling and yanking with steadfast determination.
She reached the veranda stairs and almost dropped to her knees in defeat.
How the devil would she carry him up those?
Dragging him upon the blanket would kill him, she was sure.
A ramp then.
Back in the house Roslyn slowly turned a circle. She needed something light enough for her to carry or drag, but tough enough to support a man’s weight. Straight enough to act as a smooth surface to slide on yet rough enough to grip to the steps and remain in place. The mattress was too wide, and she doubted she had the strength to move it far. Besides, she needed it inside for Beauregard. She could get it on the floor to place him on, but to get it outside, through two doorways when she could barely lift her arms above her head without blacking out?
Her mind hit a wall. She wasn’t a man, and this was man thinking. She knew how to embroider, arrange flowers, dab a hot forehead with minted water when fever ran too high. She knew how to flutter a fan and simper with enough innocence and subtle provocation to set a man on his ear.
Did any of that knowledge make her father happy? Did all her ladylike ways help her survive the mob or Franklyn Junior? No. Acting like a savage saved her. Drawing blood and fighting like a demon saved her life.
If she had that much ferociousness hidden inside, she had enough gumption to get this done.
Her eyes landed on the kitchen surface. It looked big enough. But was it too heavy? Nailed down? Yes, it was heavy, but not nailed down, merely resting on wooden brackets. She’d never remember how, but she got it to the floor. Broke her fingernails down to the beds though. Funnily enough those breaks stung more than the cuts on her face.
The blunted edges of the wood made a squealing noise as she dragged it across the floor and out the door down the steps. She laid it out and stared in disbelief. It was perfect. There was even room for her to walk on the edge of the steps.
She grabbed the blanket and got to it.
It was hard, so hard, and her arms threatened to pop out her sockets. Her balance gave more than once, and her will faltered when it seemed the task would never end.
But it did end.
A timeless series of moments later Beauregard Kellington was across the threshold of his house.
The water had boiled. Panting, Roslyn moved it off the hot stove and poured the water in a pail. She set another batch to boil. Drank gustily from the spout of the tap.
In the bedroom, she wrestled with the mattress. It dropped to the floor in a puff of dust. She coughed and stepped all over it to make sure no mice had taken up residence. The last thing Beauregard needed were vermin biting his toes and infecting what little blood he had left.
She found spare bedding neatly folded at the bottom of his clothing trunk, enough for several changes, and made the bed.
Roslyn dragged Beauregard into his bedroom and again managed the impossible by getting him on the mattress. She arranged his limbs to the best of her ability, but she’d learnt her lesson. She made sure his head was to the side so he didn’t drown in his own bodily fluids.
Physically, she stalled. Her knees hit the mattress and she steadied herself with a hand on Beauregard’s thigh. It was hot and mushy. She snatched her hand back as if stung, and cradled it to her chest, eyes wide and scared.
Beauregard was a perfect specimen of manhood. Even her prissy, virgin self knew that. His body was corded with muscle. No part of him should feel like the pulp of rotting fruit.
Roslyn used this knowledge to bolster her lagging energy reserves and fetched a knife from the kitchen after changing the pan water. She brought the half filled pail with her.
She divested Beauregard of his boots and socks. Amazing how bare toes made a human body seem vulnerable.
Propriety stilled her a moment before the first hack.
Her laughter was bitter and shaky. “Look at me, Beau. I’m wondering if it’s proper of me to undress you.” She wiped the back of her hand over her perspiring brow. “Seeing as they left not one square inch of you unharmed, it all needs to come off, don’t it? You won’t hold it against me. Society will, of course.”
As if his heavy breathing was an answer, she nodded firmly.
Kneeling between Beauregard’s thighs she started at his ankle and slipped the knife under. She sliced the fabric to his knee. She trembled. The knife moved without her consent and sawed to his hip.
She set the blade down and ripped the trouser leg wide open.
Head snapping to the side, Roslyn retched.
Raised a lady, sheltered and cosseted when her worth was considered priceless, the most she’d seen of an unclothed male was a bare chest.
She knew what healthy flesh looked like.
“I’m having a hard time not fainting atop you, Beau.” She dropped her chin to her chest. “That would annoy the blazes out of you, I suspect. Me swooning, and expecting you to gentle my fall when you’re hanging by a thread, depending on me to get you through this.”
Roslyn imagined her stomach full of rocks and looked at the exposed leg. The mottled purple and red bruises were angry looking. His knee, well, it was a bulging mass. This thigh was engorged, lumpy and squidgy. It resembles raw meat, she thought. A fresh slaughter ham-fistedly butchered.
Bleakness rose like a tide smothering the kindling fires of hope she’d stoked since discovering him breathing. Would his whole body look like this? Was there any point fighting to prolong his life when surely he’d succumb to these massive injuries?
If he looked like this outside what was going on inside?
Blinking away a bit of dirt that fell from an eyelash, she put aside her feelings and focused on the task at hand.
She assumed the pulpy feel came from blood welling under the skin. Was it like blisters? Should she lance the lumps to let the blood pour out? Or should she ice the wounds to reduce the swelling rather than rub hot water on them?
“I don’t know, Beau. Nothing I learned covered this. I can read, you know. If only I had a medical book so I could look–” She surged to her feet. She wobbled a moment then rushed into the living room. She limped over to the bookcase, methodically scanning the spines from the top corner. “Please, lord, have mercy on us just this once.” She neared the bottom row. Defeat formed a tight ball of anguish in her breast when a title jumped at her. She pulled the slim volume into her hands and searched the contents.
It was basic, bush medicine really, but if the author stood before her she would lick the dirty soles of his feet with a smile if asked.
Back in the bedroom, she sat on the bed and read the pages. Satisfied she could simply use the treatment of bad bruising all over, she returned to cutting off his clothes.
She dithered at his groin. It was engrained too deep to not fear this part of him. She chastened herself and unveiled his maleness. She didn’t care what it was supposed to look like. Ignoring it was the only way for her to cope.
The warm water was needed, but not right away. She got another pail from the kitchen and headed outside. She could hear water running at the back of the house. A small creek was there, and it was nice and cold. She filled her pail and lugged it back.
She found no scissors, so used her knife to cut strips from the thin under sheet she’d set aside earlier. Those she soaked in the cold creek water then placed on his forehead, neck, and chest. More covered his arms and stomach. Then she cut more strips and soaped those up in the warm water. She bathed him, starting at his toes. Though her hand shook from exhaustion she was gentle, focusing all her energy in causing him as little pain as possible though she doubted his body distinguished one pain from another. When she reached his groin, she affected a disinterested mien and washed it like she would a finger. That done she placed more cold cloths over where she’d cleaned then removed those she placed on his upper body back into the cold water. She bathed his chest and face. Replaced the cool cloths.
She emptied the bloody water on the veranda, too tired to go down the steps, and let the pail fall with a clang. She removed the last pan of hot water and left it there for her own tending.
Her stomach lurched as she remembered her sewing lessons. Flesh was just like any other fabric, she supposed. She found needles and thread in a rusty tin under the sink. She used the stove to light a candle, and ran the needle through the small flame until it glowed orange. The thread would be clean, wouldn’t it? She consulted the book then dropped the thread in the boiled water for a minute or two before twisting it dry. She realised her hands were dirty and washed them as best she could with such hot water then rinsed the thread again.
Kneeling by Beauregard’s head, Roslyn threaded the cotton to her needle. “I’ve never done this before. I’m afeared I’ll mess it up, but that gash on your forehead is too big. It’ll rot, and we can’t have that, can we Beau? There’s too much else wrong with you.”
The gash was clean from her earlier ministrations. Her stitches were uneven and stupid looking to her eyes. It might have gone better if her hands weren’t shaking, but it was the best she could do.
Out of ideas, Roslyn consulted the book.
“There’s not much else I can do. It’s hot in here, so I’ll tuck you in with a thin blanket. No fretting. I’ll make sure you don’t get cold.”
She did just that, tucked him in, and smoothed back his hair.
“You’ll think I’m gone, but I just have to fix myself up. If I get sick we’ll both die. Wouldn’t that be a shame after all this hard work we’ve done, Beau?”
Roslyn did the same for herself as she did for him.
An hour later, aching, but clean, dry, and dressed in a new overlarge shirt and trousers, Roslyn checked her patient.
She reapplied cool cloths and listened to him breathing. After a full ten minutes she was certain that though shallow, his breaths came easier. He wasn’t bleeding from the nose or mouth anymore. Surely that was a good sign.
The sun was lower now, evening had come.
Roslyn crawled onto the mattress beside Beauregard and held his hand. His skin was cooler to touch and she drew strength from that.
Hunger chewed holes in the stones she imagined in her belly until the clenching pangs brought forward her next worry. How in the world would she feed them?
Too tired to move another muscle, she drifted. All her life she sleepwalked, but she was so tired she doubted that’d be a problem, and so didn’t have to worry about wandering out into the dangerous environment.
Her father’s face hovered before her, twisted in an evil snarl. Phantom hands travelled over her naked flesh and tried to take what didn’t belong to them. Beauregard’s grunts of pain merged with the jeering insults of wicked, cowardly men.
Roslyn and Beauregard slept.
CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED LIKE MIST CREEPING OVER THE HILLSIDE. A ray of sunlight managed to find the only clean smudge through the bedroom window and hit Roslyn right in the eye. She didn’t remember to pull the curtains. They were ratty monstrosities, but they might have let her sleep longer.
Her whole body throbbed, a substantial horde of hurts clamouring for attention. Shifting her hips brought a low moan to her lips. Her back muscles screamed, and as for her thighs, she couldn’t understand why they hadn’t dropped off overnight if they were in such a snit.
She flexed her hand, relieved to feel warmth seeping into her fingers. Warmth meant Beauregard hadn’t passed on during the night hours. She’d wanted to watch over him as he slept, but her body said, “No more.” She’d needed rest to continue the fight, so rest she had. Kicking back her head, she looked into Beauregard’s face. It still looked like mashed up meat. He hadn’t moved a muscle. She figured he wasn’t sleeping as she had, but was unconscious. She sincerely hoped he’d wake soon. She’d heard of people who got hit in the head and never woke again because their brains died in some way not allowing them to come back.
His chest moved better, his breaths deeper, and more regular.
Roslyn stared for another few minutes, letting her mind make up a new list of impossible things, like how to feed and water a man who was unconscious, how to feed them with no food, when she realised she was wet.
Startling, she froze.
Her side was soaked, smelt like pungent urine, and something else that was sharp and unsettling. Breaking past her shock, she touched the front of her trousers. Not wet. Alright. Roslyn hadn’t had an accident since she was a baby, so it was good to know the last day hadn’t damaged her mental faculties so completely she’d begun soiling herself like a lunatic.
She eased up with a whimper and pulled the sheet off Beauregard. She gaped in horror. A drying puddle of reddish fluid surrounded him and had seeped over to her side.
That could be in no way normal or natural.
She’d fretted over his insides the day before, but seeing undeniable evidence of it had panic clawing at her.
Instead of curling up on her side and weeping until she was too catatonic to do anything, Roslyn remembered her savagery against Franklyn Junior and let that victory infuse her with the spirit she needed to get past the latest discovery.
After adding more wood into the stove and boiling a pan of water while she changed the fouled sheets, she bathed Beauregard again. Lots of soap was used to help stave off infection. She didn’t even cringe over wiping his man parts because she realised it was just flesh. It wouldn’t jump up and spit at her if she touched it.
A trip to the creek gave her more cold water, and Roslyn studied her charge from a few angles as she laid down the cold compresses.
Did the swelling look worse or better?
Her own bruises weren’t pretty, but they weren’t so swollen anymore, just discoloured and ugly looking.
She felt inside what Beauregard looked on the outside.
This time Roslyn wadded up a towel and slid it under his hips. Hopefully it would soak up any further urine during the day. She realised that unlike at her father’s house, fresh linens wouldn’t magically appear at the foot of the bed come morning.
No idea how, but she’d have to launder them herself.
In the living room, Roslyn cleaned herself with warm water and redressed in fresh clothes.
That done she stood in the middle of the room acutely aware of the grumbling at her middle. There was no avoiding it. She had to somehow make food from thin air. I can dribble water through Beauregard’s lips now, she thought, but he’d need real nutrition, and soon if he were to get well. She needed it or she’d collapse.
A quick search of the kitchen revealed large and small sacks of oats and flour, canisters of sugar and coffee. There were jars of liquids, airtights, and a quick sniff identified one as vinegar and another as frying oil. There were a bunch of empty canisters, bottles and preserve jars in another cupboard. There was plenty of muslin and twine too.
Wild ideas kindled.
Beauregard mentioned milking cows put out to pasture. She had no idea how to find them or how to milk them, but they were there for the taking.
She remembered Beauregard’s gelding had a saddlebag, so she retrieved it. It took a moment’s consideration before she slung the off-putting rifle over her shoulder too.
As she was walking away she became aware the horse needed food and water as well. She knew nothing of tending to horses. Turning, she untied the gelding from where Beauregard hitched it. She kept the rope.
She rubbed a hand down its nose. It nuzzled her shoulder and nickered softly blowing warm air across her sweaty neck.
“I’m sorry, Mr Horse. I would love to get to know you, and treat you better, but Beau needs me more. Do you think you could care for yourself for a couple of days? There’s a creek back there with all the water you can drink. I’m sure you can find food since this is ranch land, and Beau raises horses. It’s well known he lets them run wild. I would like you to stay close though, if you could, just in case we need you.”
Roslyn kissed the white strip of hair on his nose then left, confident Beauregard had a steed smart enough to take care of itself.
The saddlebag contained beef jerky, a tin of herbs, salt, and a flask of whiskey, another of water. There were other handy items, a box of shells for the rifle, a hunting knife as big as her arm, a tinder kit, a bottle of iodine tincture, and a six-shooter with its own ammunition and holster, but no other food.
Smothering cries of dismay when she hit the bottom of the satchel, she set the weapons on the dinning room table within easy reach, and put the other items in the kitchen area.
She could boil the jerky in water to make beef tea for Beauregard to sip when he woke, but that wouldn’t last long between the two of them.
She had seasoning, a stove to cook on, but no meat.
A wild hen waddled past the front door, clucking.
Roslyn’s belly rumbled.
Loitering in the yard, she worried her hands watching the wild hens and cocks lark about.
In a civilized world Roslyn Roseberry was a lady who delighted in fried chicken during Sunday summertime picnics. How the chicken appeared seasoned, battered, well cooked and on her plate was of no concern to her. In a civilized world a hen was a pecking creature with bright, pretty feathers.
In Roslyn’s new savage world it was chicken.
Licking her lips at the thought of a juicy drumstick, she grabbed the fowl nearest to her. She squealed when its warm body flapped and jolted in her hold. It scared her, how the pretty, clucking bird became a wailing, writhing mass of feathers determined to peck her to death.
Too frightened to figure out the next step, she dropped it.
In a fluster of affront the hen waddled off.
Roslyn flushed and cowered sheepishly near the veranda steps.
When she grabbed a hen what next? She vaguely remembered seeing a woman dunking a hen in boiling water once. Was that how it was done? Like shellfish? Or was it like slaughtering a pig? Not that she knew how to butcher any barnyard animal.
Roslyn approached another bird sitting pretty under a cottonwood bush a ways from the house. She pondered how to kill without causing pain. Shrugging, she grabbed the hen and had the same experience as before. No clearer on how to proceed, she wrapped her small hands around its neck and strangled until it stopped moving.
Horrified, Roslyn guiltily looked up expecting a lawman to storm up and slap her in irons for murdering one of God’s creatures. When that didn’t happen, she set the fowl down and peered at what it had sat on.
A nest filled with brown eggs.
Lord, she’d killed a mother hen protecting her babies. Roslyn rubbed her hands on her thighs and ruthlessly fought remorse.
At least she had chicken and eggs now.
Taking her booty into the house, she set the dead bird on the kitchen surface. The speckled eggs went in a bowl. She stared. The feathers would have to go. Again thinking of the woman dipping the bird in hot water, Roslyn boiled a pan and did that. When the bronzed feathers all but fell off she happily began yanking them out by the handful, comforted she’d guessed that bit right.
She checked on Beauregard and dribbled beef tea onto the slightly parted seam of his lips. It pooled in his mouth only to wet the pillow under his head. She tried again, this time massaging his throat. He swallowed throatily and she sat back with a beaming smile.
The medical book said she had to keep him cool, clean and hydrated, and she was doing just that.
The sunlight reflected off something at the back of the room and Roslyn glanced up at the twinkle.
A mirror.
She minced towards it.
After gathering the courage to look at herself face on she wanted to scream at the malformed creature gawping back at her.
Her once glossy hair was a snarl of parched tangles. The man clothes hung from her slender body giving her the look of a starved child. Eyes wide as china plates, she studied her cheeks, the once rosy apples covered in blotchy plum skin and scabs. Her lips were so dry and cracked she could peel off large flakes without feeling a thing. She pulled her blouse from her front and looked down at her breasts. There were bite marks around her nipples. She pressed the material over her heart.
Nothing had been taken that wouldn’t heal with some time and caring.
She’d fought to make it so, hadn’t she?
Oddly the longer she looked at herself the better she felt.
Words like delicate, soft, fragile had been used to describe her before the mob. The woman in the mirror was tough, weathered, and strong.
The woman in the mirror was a survivor.
Roslyn’s mind wheeled to the milking cows. Just one would be enough. Milk not only meant something to drink, but cream, butter and cheese if she figured out how to use the butter churn gathering dust in the corner of the kitchen.
An hour later the rope from the gelding coiled around her upper body. With a flask of water in hand, Roslyn set Beauregard’s Stetson on her head and set off.
She walked until the house was tiny. When she found nothing, she trudged back. The sun travelled beyond its mid point in the sky, and her stomach growled angrily. She plod on, determined to search as much land around the house as possible. Besides, her muscles ached less with the exercise even if it did drain her energy. At the side of the house she passed over what seemed a patch of overgrown weeds. It was the drain and sluice gate that roused her suspicions. She lifted the gate and the steady trickle of water became a gushing stream fed by the creek to wet the soil.
A vegetable garden.
Roslyn squealed in pleasure and thought of the fresh produce she might unearth and add to the chicken.
At this rate she’d be able to feed Beauregard a whole meal when he woke up.
After she learnt to cook, of course.
She didn’t find a cow, but she did find a herd of goats. After watching a kid suckling it was easy to mark her prey. She roped the mamma goat up and coaxed her towards the animal pen. Halfway there she stilled.
Standing placidly by the creek was a small, brown cow. A calf frolicked nearby, making the picture even more surreal.
Roslyn blinked then pinched herself to make sure she hadn’t fallen into hallucinations. Her body ached so much she doubted she could leave reality while awake even if she needed to, but she struggled to accept such a fortuitous piece of luck.
“Well, Ms Cow, I have only the one rope, and me and Ms Goat made friends on the journey. Maybe I’ll find you another day.”
Roslyn continued leading the goat. After a while she turned and found the cow and calf trotting along behind.
Rather than worry over what price fate would demand for this gift, she led all four animals into the pen and closed the wooden gate.
She stared, speechless, before bursting into gut busting laughter. It sounded shrill to her hears, but that made her laugh harder, so hard, she came close to hysterics.
Rope dragging along the ground, she pressed down on the crown of the Stetson when the wind tried to steal it.
Rushing back into the house she checked on Beauregard, gave him more water, and replaced his cool compresses. The whole time she chattered about her morning adventures. She sniffled over the dead hen, but firmly took hold of herself knowing he wouldn’t want to be bothered with her babyish manner.
Roslyn cleaned a dusty glass and enjoyed a cool draught of tap water.
Turning her attention to the dead fowl she picked up her knife and cringed. She chopped off the hen’s head and crusty feet. There was a lot of blood. Shuddering, she dropped the severed appendages into a bucket and toed it out of her immediate line of sight. The bald, saggy skinned bird looked more like food now. Poultry. Taking a firmer hold on the knife, she sliced into the carcass, and opened a fist-sized hole. Staring at the smelly bright yellow and dark red viscera, Roslyn thrust her hand inside the still warm cavity. She scrunched her fingers closed and shrieked as she ripped out the innards. There was so much. It just kept coming. And coming. She accidently popped a round orange thing and gagged. It all went in the bucket. Washing her bloody hands, she trembled. She rubbed salt, herbs and oil onto the pimpled chicken skin then placed it in a baking tin. Past the horror of cleaning bird guts, she became thrilled with her progress, and put the chicken in the oven.
Her stomach reminded her of its empty condition.
She boiled herself an egg and saved the other three for dinner and breakfast. The humble meal was demolished steaming hot. Roslyn groaned deep in her chest and her toes wriggled in her boots.
Nothing had ever tasted so delicious.
Apart from digging in the garden in search of vegetables there was little else she could think to do.
Roslyn returned to Beauregard and lay beside him. She had chicken cooking so forced herself to remain awake, but her mind drifted.
The last two days had been unlike anything she could have imagined in her old life. She wondered if she’d always be this strong from now on. Would her actions always reap such satisfying results? Her body hurt, but never had she felt such a deep sense of peace and belonging. An innate worthiness that had nothing to do with the blueness of her eyes.
She’d found a wooden tub behind the house and might even take a bath before bed. What a slice of heaven that would be. Though she supposed she should try and do laundry first. Maybe she could have the bath then use the dirty water for cleaning the sheets. Or was that counter productive?
Roslyn decided the chicken must need checking and turned to tell Beauregard that she’d be back soon when she got the shock of her life.