Chapter Thirty-One
The following day Runa felt a great deal better, and she and Steve were able to smile at each other over the table, even though she still felt shamed by what she had told them the night before. When they had come in for dinner, both Steve and Bucky made points of stopping to tell her that everything would be all right; Steve before dinner, Bucky after. Runa had managed a laugh when Bucky told her that, and she had told him that she agreed.
“Somehow, everything will come out all right.”
“Somehow.” Bucky agreed with a small smile, giving her a hug that she returned impulsively before he left her alone to clean up the dinner dishes. Once she was done she went out to check the wash she had hung up, hoping it was dry. As she was checking on the clothes, thinking they could stand a little more time in the sun, she heard the familiar sound of approaching hoofbeats. She turned and raised a hand to shade her eyes, seeing two figures on horseback riding up to the ranch.
It wasn’t until the figures got close to the house that she saw it was Brock, accompanied by a man she didn’t recognize.
She fought back a groan and lowered her hand, stepping forward as he dismounted in front of the stable, tying his horse up by the corral, as did the other man while Brock waved Falsworth away. They exchanged words for a moment, but it was long enough for Runa to get to the porch. Brock turned and headed towards her, giving her a smile that was too broad.
“Mister Brock. What a surprise.” She forced herself to smile.
“I was out riding and realized I was passing by your ranch on my way back to town. Thought I would stop in and say hello.” He looked over her shoulder. “I see Monday is still wash day.”
“It seemed best to stick to my old routine. There was no set wash day when I arrived.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”
Runa hesitated. She didn’t want him in her house, not really, particularly with how he had been talking to her at the celebrations.
“Of course, if the house isn’t fit for company, I can sit out here.” Brock drawled, making Runa bristle.
“The house is perfectly fit for company. Won’t you and your friend come in? I have coffee on, and there is some pie left from last night.” She forced herself to smile.
“He won’t mind waiting outside. Not fit company for a lady. And I would love to try your pie, after having sampled some of your cake the other day.” Brock grinned down at her as she turned to open the door. “And perhaps we can finish the talk that was so rudely interrupted on Friday evening.”
“I don’t have anything more to say on that subject.” She said as she led him into the house. “The dining room is through here. You can sit at the table while I get the pie and coffee.” She said, motioning towards the table as she passed it on the way to the kitchen. She got down two mugs and filled them with coffee keeping warm on the back of the stove, before going to the pantry and bringing out the scant remains of the pie from the previous night’s supper.
As she was placing a slice of pie on a plate, she felt him come up behind her. He placed his hands on her hips as he stepped close, causing her to tense.
“Mister Brock, please let go of me.”
“Let me take you away from all this, Runa.” He purred. “Back to Washington, where you belong. Or anywhere else. We could tour all of Europe, the entire world. Go anywhere you wanted to see. With my family connections, getting you a divorce from that cowboy would be easy.” He promised her. “We could be together just like I promised.”
The memory of that promise helped to put steel in her spine. His promises were nothing but lies. She recalled what Steve had said about telling a child a lie often enough, which made her think on him. His smile and how it felt when she woke up pressed against him in the mornings. Thinking on Steve made her think on Bucky, the hugs he gave her and his light teasing, his reassurances and comforting presence. She couldn’t leave the two of them. Wouldn’t. “I don’t want to travel the world. My place is here.” She managed to keep her voice even as she said it, though barely. Brock’s fingertips dug almost cruelly into her hips and she gasped at the sudden pain, squirming to get away from him, but he held her tight.
“He doesn’t even want you.” Brock spat out. “I heard in town he left you to go visit the whores in the saloon instead of the one in his own bed.”
“It wasn’t like that! Now let go!” She fumed, “You’re hurting me!”
“Not nearly as much as you’re hurting me, Runa.” He said in that silky purr of his, but it didn’t make her stomach flutter the way it used to. Now, it only frightened her. “Not as much as I will hurt you, if you don’t do as I say and come away with me.”
“Let go of me and get out of my house right now.” She said, grabbing the plate of pie and twisting so she could shove it at his face. He jerked backwards to avoid getting hit in the face, the pie smashing into his shoulder instead, but it was enough of a distraction that he loosened his grip on her somewhat. It was enough for her to pull herself free and lunge to the side, desperate to get away. He reached out and caught her by her wrist, jerking her arm back towards him, causing her to cry our sharply in pain.
“I am not going anywhere until I get what I want.” He growled, “And what I want, little Runa, is you.”
She groped frantically at the countertop, her fingertips brushing the handle of the knife she had used to cut the pie. She made another frantic grab and snatched the knife up, swinging it around and catching Brock in the arm with it, cutting through his clothes and opening a line up in his tanned flesh, blood trickling from wound. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it was enough to make him bellow in pain, recoil from her and release her without thinking. Runa dropped the knife and bolted for the door but he reached out and grabbed wildly, catching her by her hair and making her scream like a cat that had just had its tail trod upon.
The kitchen door burst open and Falsworth entered the kitchen, looking furious. “Let her go!” He demanded, Happy Sam behind him. Brock snarled something out, Runa couldn’t catch it, but his arm jerked slightly as he moved, though he still held tightly to her.
Falsworth’s eyes widened and he lunged forward, but then there was the deafening crack of a gunshot filling the small kitchen. Falsworth stumbled to the side, a dark spot in his chest. Happy Sam caught him, letting out a shout of alarm and grief even as Runa shrieked Falsworth’s name. Falsworth was sinking to his knees, Sam helping him to go more gently, and then he was coughing, blood spattering from his lips.
Runa forgot the pain in her scalp. She swung her weight around, forcing her small frame back against Brock, knocking him off balance so his second shot went wild and did not hit Sam, but the wall instead. Then Sam was lunging forward towards them, leaving Falsworth on the floor as he slammed into Brock, who released Runa. She scrambled frantically towards Falsworth, grabbing the long fabric of her apron and bunching it up in her hands, pressing it to the wound in Falsworth’s chest, tears pouring down her cheeks.
“No no no.” She said, even though she knew it was already too late for the kindly Englishman who had spent many afternoons introducing her to the ranch’s various horses and their peculiarities. The man who always had a smile for her, a cheerful good morning or good evening.
He was gasping something out, blood foaming and bubbling at his lips, but she couldn’t make out the words.
“What?” She asked, leaning down and placing her ear near to his lips.
“Run.” He gasped out. “Run.” He repeated the words and a sob broke loose from her.
“I can’t leave you like this.”
Another cry of pain made her turn, look to where Brock and Happy Sam were wrestling on the ground. The gun was on the floor on the other side of them, near to the doorway into the dining room. She had no hope of reaching it.
Then she realized Brock had caught up the knife she had dropped.
She lunged for the pots and pans as Happy Sam let out a pained grunt, an exhale of air that held agony in it. She looked over to Happy Sam as the man who had arrived with Brock stormed into the kitchen; she saw Happy Sam’s hand over his lower belly, saw the blood flowing out onto the floor. She grabbed the first weapon she had at hand, before charging forward, bringing the heavy cast iron pan down onto Brock’s back as hard as she could. He let out a grunt, falling forward, and she swung the pan again, aiming for his head but getting his shoulder as he ducked aside, bringing a hand up to protect his head. The other man came and caught her around the waist and she struggled, trying to bring the pan around for another swing before he could stop her, but Brock surged to his feet and whirled to face her, bringing up an arm to deflect the pan with his forearm before grabbing her arm and twisting, causing her to cry out again, the pan falling from her hands. He slapped her while the other man held her, slapped her several times, first one cheek and then the other, absolute fury in his eyes, before he pulled her from the other man’s arms and flung her towards the wall where she stumbled. Brock reached and caught her by her hair again, hauling her to her feet and shoving her against the wall.
“I was going to make this easy. Give you a choice.” He pulled her away from the wall and then slammed her head into it so hard that there were explosions of light in her field of vision. “But you had to go and make the wrong one. Now look at what you’re making me do. Now I’m going to have to punish you, and then I’m going to have to hurt the bastard you married. Because you just wouldn’t do the smart thing. Because you wouldn’t do as you were told. I want you to remember that this is all. Your. Fault.” He slammed her head against the wall again and released her, letting her sink to the floor, unable to hold herself upright as the world seemed to tilt.
Then his booted foot connected with her side, knocking the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping. He kicked her again, and again, and again. She curled into a ball, tried to protect herself from the pain, tried to suck in a breath, but was unable to under the force of his rage. Then he was kneeling beside her, grabbing her shoulder and forcing her onto her side. Gasping for air she went easily, and then his fist connected with her face again.
“You never tell me no. Is that understood?” He snarled, and she tried to sob out an affirmative, that she wouldn’t tell him no, but at that point she would say anything to get the pain to stop, to get a chance to get away.
She didn’t know how long he beat her, kicked her, hit her, ripped at her hair. Finally he left her, strode from the house, leaving her to taste her own blood on her tongue. She moved then, small, pained motions, trying to crawl towards Sam, see if they could help each other. She could barely see him, but he was curled into a ball, his hands on his belly, blood staining the flagstone floor, giving her an agonized look.
She never reached him.
There was shouting outside, and it sounded as if Brock was snarling out orders to the man he had brought with him. Then he came back inside, booted feet tromping against the stone floor and she let out a pained little sob, trying to get away now, but it was no use. He grabbed her by her shoulder, held her down.
Then he was shoving a sweet-smelling rag against her face. She struggled, but he moved his other hand to the back of her head, forcing her to remain still, holding the rag against her nose and mouth. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t get away. The cloyingly sweet yet medicinal smell was too much for her, made her gag as she struggled, her struggles making breathing inevitable even though she tried to hold her breath. The more she struggled, the darker things seemed to get, until her eyes finally slid closed and she went still, knowing no more.