Come Sundown

  With a half laugh, she set down the beer and rose. “I’ll send you the week’s schedule. It’ll change because some guests wait until they’re here to book a riding lesson or a trail ride—and the sleigh rides we’ll have going starting next week.”

  She walked over, shrugged into her coat. “If you have any questions about how to work it, shoot me an e-mail back. Or come into my office.”

  “That’s not a yes or no on the first of May.”

  She smiled. “It isn’t, is it? Thanks for the beer,” she added, and strolled out.

  On a low chuckle, Callen patted a hand over his heart. One of the biggest appeals, to his way of thinking, of a sassy, contrary woman—especially one with a good, sharp brain—was the challenge presented.

  He’d never been able to resist a challenge.

  * * *

  By the time Billy Jean rang up the last tab and finished the routine closing of the Saloon, her feet were barking like her mother’s irascible Jack Russell terrier.

  She looked forward to getting off them, sliding into bed even if it was alone, since she’d shown her boyfriend (cheating, lying, no-good bastard) the door a few days before.

  More, she looked forward to adding the night’s tips to her Red Dress Fund.

  She’d found it while doing some online shopping and had fallen in lust. She visited it in her shopping cart every day; and by her calculations, tonight’s tips would allow her to click Buy.

  One hundred and forty nine dollars and ninety-nine cents.

  A lot of money for a dress, she thought as she shut off the lights. But not for this dress. Plus, it was a reward for hard work, and a symbol of her new status as a single woman.

  She’d wear that red dress her next night off, maybe head on down to the Roundup for some drinking and dancing. Then they’d see what’s what, she decided, with lingering bitter thoughts of her ex.

  She wandered out into the cold. Heard the crunch of her boots on the gravel stir up the quiet. She’d let the last group of customers linger a little longer than she should have. But those tips, those tips added up.

  And she could sleep half the morning if she wanted.

  She just loved working the last shift.

  She got into her car—a secondhand compact SUV she’d be paying off for what right then seemed forever. But it got her where she wanted to go and back again.

  She headed away from what they called Bodine Town, with its restaurants and shops and offices, wound her way on the unpaved roads, snaking by woods and dark cabins, onto the bumpy corrugation that jostled her kidneys and made her wish she’d stopped in the ladies’ before she’d locked up.

  But once she got to the paved road, she could hit the gas. Her little car could move like a jackrabbit, and at this time of night, the road would be clear as a summer morning.

  About fifteen minutes, she told herself, and she’d be home.

  Then her car bucked, made a couple of coughing noises, and died.

  “Well, goddamn it! Goddamn it, what is this!”

  Snarling, she turned the key, pumped the gas. And when nothing happened, smacked the wheel.

  What the hell was she supposed to do now?

  She sat a moment, eyes closed, until she could gather herself. After slamming out of the car, she yanked up the hood. Cursing again, she stomped back to grab a flashlight out of her glove compartment.

  She could change a tire—and had. She knew how to add water to a radiator, gas to the tank, and check battery cables. Other than that, she might have been staring at a rocket engine.

  She left the hood up, paced over to kick the front tire before digging her phone out of the purse she’d left on the front seat.

  Her first instinct was to call Chad—the cheating, lying, no-good ex. Then she remembered they were exes. She considered calling one of her divorced parents, but neither of them lived that close by.

  She toyed with doing a search for a twenty-four-hour road service or calling her friend Sal. Sal was closer, but—

  She heard an engine, saw the swish of headlights, and thought: Thank God!

  When the truck slowed down, stopped behind her car, Billy Jean hurried over to the driver’s window.

  He said, “Looks like you need some help.”

  She gave him her best smile. “I’d sure appreciate it.”

  — 1992 —

  Another Thanksgiving came and went. Alice knew the days by squares and numbers on the calendar. He hadn’t taken that way—yet. She marked time by it, and tried, tried so hard to imagine herself at home, around the big table in the dining room.

  Ma making two big turkeys—one for the ranch hands. If she tried hard enough, she could smell it scenting the kitchen. Grandpa would grill beef, too, and Grammy would glaze a ham. Her favorite.

  And all the trimmings, too. Mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green beans, brussels sprouts—not her favorite. Biscuits and gravy.

  She’d make the cranberry sauce. She liked watching the berries pop as they boiled up. Reenie would make deviled eggs. They took time, and too much patience.

  And just when you thought you couldn’t eat another bite? All those pies!

  She imagined herself as a little girl, sitting beside her sister at the kitchen table, making little tarts with the leftover pie dough.

  Ma humming as she rolled out more.

  But even as Alice’s lips curved, the images wouldn’t stick. They flickered and faded away until she was lying on the cot in that terrible room, the irons heavy on her leg, and her arms empty.

  He’d taken her baby.

  Though her milk had dried up—painfully—the phantom ache in her breasts remained, a terrible reminder.

  She escaped into sleep—what else did she have? In sleep she tried to go back home. Thanksgiving turkey, riding a fast horse while the sky exploded with sunset light.

  Would she ever see the sun again?

  Putting on lipstick, buying a new dress. Lying out under the summer stars with a boy who wanted her.

  Would anyone ever touch her with care and sweetness again?

  She willed herself into her bedroom. Pink walls and movie-star posters, the windows bringing the sky and mountains to her.

  But when she opened her eyes, her reality weighed like lead on her soul. Four dull walls, a concrete floor, and a locked door at the top of a set of steep steps.

  No, she’d never see the sun again, its rise or its fall. Her world had no window to bring it to her.

  No one would ever touch her with care or sweetness. Because only Sir existed. Only Sir, who pounded into her every night. And when she screamed because her body hadn’t healed from childbirth, he pounded harder and slapped her into silence.

  She’d never see her bedroom again, so pink and pretty, or sit around the big table at the ranch and share Thanksgiving dinner with her family.

  She’d never hold her little baby girl again. Her Cora with the tiny pink fingers and toes.

  The loss of it all, the emptiness inside her at the loss of a child she hadn’t believed she’d wanted and had loved so much, so quickly, smeared every thought like fetid smoke.

  She ate because when she refused, he poured soup down her throat, dragging her head back by the hair, pinching her nostrils closed. She washed because when she stopped, he beat her and scrubbed her with cold water and a hard brush until her skin broke and bled.

  She begged for her baby. She’d be good, she’d take care, she’d do anything if he gave her baby back to her.

  She’s somebody else’s problem now.

  That’s what he’d told her. He had no use for daughters.

  She hoped he’d beat her to death, but he seemed to know just how far he could go.

  He wouldn’t let her die as she wanted. Just let her die, let her slide away into sleep where she could sit on the front porch rocker, looking at the mountains while she sang to her baby.

  If she’d had something sharp, she’d have used it to slit her own throat. No, no, his firs
t, she thought—all but dreamed—lying on the cot, eyes shut tight so she didn’t have to see her prison.

  Yes, she’d kill him first, then herself.

  She wondered if she could somehow sharpen one of the plastic spoons he brought her with her meals. Or her toothbrush. Maybe her toothbrush.

  She could try, she would try, but God, she was just so tired.

  She only wanted to sleep.

  As her mind drifted she imagined tearing up her sheet, making a noose. There was nothing to hang it on, but maybe if she tied it to one of the steps, wrapped it tight enough around her neck, she could choke herself.

  She couldn’t go on this way, couldn’t wake day after day, night after night in this terrible place, knowing he’d come down those stairs.

  Worse, even worse than the brutality, the rapes, were all the endless hours of aloneness. An aloneness that grew deeper, wider, blacker, without her child.

  She made herself get up, studied the sheet with dull, listless eyes.

  Should she tear it into strips, braid the pieces? Would that make it stronger for what she needed?

  So hard to concentrate when every thought had to fight through a fog. She toyed with the sheet, looking for weak spots, easy-to-tear spots.

  The concept of killing herself seemed no more frightening than solving a routine math problem.

  Even less so.

  But she had to wait, she reminded herself. He’d come down soon. Wait until after he leaves again. Killing herself might take some time.

  Today, she thought with a tired sigh. She could die today.

  Escape.

  She stood again, but this time the room swayed.

  No, she realized, she swayed. And her stomach pitched.

  She barely made it to the toilet, dropping to her knees as that pitching stomach emptied.

  Clammy, queasy, she caught her breath, sicked up more.

  Tears came as she curled on the floor, breathless, shivering. Tears of grief, and a strange kind of joy.

  She heard the locks thunk. Heard his boot steps—heavy, heavy.

  Shoving herself up, bracing on the sink, as her head still spun a little, she faced him.

  She found her hate again as the long fog lifted into a terrible clarity.

  Placing a hand on her belly, still saggy and loose from giving birth, she found a reason to live again.

  “I’m pregnant,” she told him.

  He nodded. “It best be a son this time. Now clean yourself up, and eat your breakfast.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  — Present Day —

  In the apple-crisp morning, with the eastern sky abloom with rose and gold, Bodine shouldered her briefcase and strode toward the stables.

  She heard the chickens humming the way they did while Chester and Clyde had their morning wrestling match outside the bunkhouse. The dogs broke off their tumbling to race to her, tongues lolling, eyes bright—as if they hadn’t seen her in a month.

  Nothing much started the day off with a laugh like a couple of madly happy dogs, so she rubbed and scratched them into insanity until they picked up their wrestling match.

  She waved to a couple of out-and-about ranch hands, spoke casually to a couple more busy mucking stalls in the stables.

  She stopped short when she saw Callen in his sheepskin jacket, comfortably worn boots, and dung-brown Stetson settling a saddle on the impressive Sundown’s back.

  “Going for a ride?” she asked him.

  He glanced over. “Sundown needs to stretch his legs, and I can use him at the resort today.”

  “He’s an asset. He can go on the books, too, if you want.”

  “No need for that.” While Callen cinched the saddle, the horse turned his head, nipped the hat off Callen’s head. “What have I told you about that?”

  Sundown merely stuck his head over the low door, offering Bodine the hat.

  “Why, thank you. It’s a nice hat.”

  “It won’t be, if he keeps playing with it. Something you need?”

  “I’ve got what I need, and that’s a horse of my own who needs to stretch his legs. I’m riding to work this morning.”

  “It’s a good morning for it. I’ll wait for you. We might as well ride over together. Can I have my hat back, boss?”

  She passed it over to him as she turned to walk to Leo’s stall. Heard Callen’s frustrated “Now, cut that out.”

  As she saddled Leo, she wondered if she could teach him a couple of tricks. With his fondness for carrots and peppermint treats, bribery could work.

  She heard the stable hands hooting with laughter. When she led Leo out, she saw why.

  Sundown sat on the concrete run with the patient air of a man taking a break in an easy chair, while Callen leaned against the stall door, scrolling through his phone.

  “That horse beats all, Cal,” one of the hands called out. “He beats all to hell and back.”

  Callen looked over, smiled at Bodine. “Ready?”

  “I am. Are you?”

  Callen pushed off the door, took Sundown’s reins. “Let’s get going.” The horse pushed to his feet with the same indolent ease as his owner.

  After a short study, a little nose snorting, the horses apparently deemed each other acceptable.

  In the stable yard, Bodine swung into the saddle. “I had a route in mind, one that’ll give Leo a good run.”

  “That’ll work.”

  They started at a walk, warming muscles, as the light brightened and the sky blurred from rose to blue. The crisp air moved in the light wind, fluttering over her face, smelling like a winter potpourri of snow and pine.

  “Did you get a chance to look at the schedule?” Bodine asked him.

  “Yep. I see the farrier’s coming around tomorrow, and the vet the day after. I’ll make myself known to them. The new man’s starting this morning, so I’ll keep an eye on him, see if we were right about taking him on.”

  “Next week’s Thanksgiving.”

  “I heard that.”

  “We get a lot of groups and families over that long weekend. I thought we might try out that little show, if you’re agreeable. Nothing we’d advertise off-site, just a little bonus for people already here.”

  “I guess we can see how it goes.”

  “I’ll schedule it.”

  They rode down an incline, across a narrow ravine, and up again where a herd of deer slipped silent as spirits through the woods. The tops of the lodgepoles whooshed in the wind.

  “Time to stretch those legs.” Bodine nudged Leo into a gallop.

  Cold slapped her cheeks as Leo’s hooves rang over the road. He kept his ears up, his head high, showing her he enjoyed the ride as much as she. Callen rode beside her, his horse matching Leo’s stride as if harnessed in tandem.