better off dead?”
“Breathing was hard.”
In fact the effort to breathe after it happened had been terrifying. She had stayed unmoving in bed or in a chair day after day, unable to think of anything else except her next breath, whether she could draw it, whether it would be enough.
“He said there would be more scarring inside than outside. My throat would be too narrow inside, so any illness, and I wouldn’t be able to breathe, and I would die.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Mama said it would never get better unless I made it better. She made me walk, and when I could walk and breathe, she made me go faster. Until I could run.”
“So running fixed your breathing.”
Hassie smiled at the memory. “Mama thought so. I think scars shrink, and when little girls grow, so do their throats.”
“How old were you?”
She held up eight fingers.
“So you could already talk and sing and shout, and you lost all that.”
“I can whistle.”
“Let’s hear.”
As soon as he said that, her mouth went dry. She only managed a thready warble.
“That’s not much better than your voice. The next town we come to we better see about a tin whistle.”
Trying to decide if this sharing of history went both ways, Hassie nodded absently, then wrote, “Is your home in Kansas near your friends?”
“No, my family has a farm in Eastern Missouri. I go home every winter.”
“You have a wife there, children?”
His face closed. “No.” He rose and started toward the horses. “We better get going.”
She gave the scraps left over from breakfast to Gunner, smothered the fire, and cleaned up. If he was willing to have a conversation of sorts once, he would be again. The thought of another conversation where he talked to her and even listened made her want to run some more.
M RS. P ETTY HAD no right to be so damned happy. Joyful. Sometimes Bret wanted to tell her about things he’d seen and done, crush the smiling and eagerness and softness right out of her, make her properly somber and realistic. Yet what could anyone say or do to a woman like that to change her?
Her father must have died early on. A childish accident stole her voice. The mother’s second husband only tolerated the young girl Mrs. Petty had been. She should have had a line of suitors, but because of her voice she had to marry an old drunk when she was shoved out of the nest.
The drunk left her to starve. Bret Sterling killed the only man who was even close to kin right in front of her, took her from home, and left her with people who tried to force her into prostitution.
And he was going to leave her with more strangers soon.
She had no right to run with her arms outstretched as if embracing the morning, to weave flowers in that excuse for a horse’s mane. Or to hum in the evening as she groomed the horse. Or to smile at him as if he should share all these delights. Or to laugh.
Gunner sat beside Packie as Bret positioned the pack saddle, loaded up, and lashed everything in place. The dog looked as pleased with life as his owner.
“You have nothing to smile about either,” Bret muttered. “You’re a liar and a cheat.”
Twice in the last weeks, a cold nose and warm tongue had awakened Bret. He had no memory of the nightmare starting either time. Still, every two weeks was about how often the dream had haunted him since the first battle he’d been in.
Bret finished with the packhorse and tossed the dog a piece of jerky before saddling Jasper.
Days before they came to the little settlement rumored to be a haven for outlaws, Bret turned off the trail. The rolling hills of open prairie provided no cover for miles in any direction, and he didn’t want to stumble on the town unexpectedly.
When they came to a secluded spot near a small lake, he left Mrs. Petty there and scouted ahead until he located the town. Even with his spyglass, finding a place in the nearby hills where he could observe anyone moving between the few buildings of the
“Breathing was hard.”
In fact the effort to breathe after it happened had been terrifying. She had stayed unmoving in bed or in a chair day after day, unable to think of anything else except her next breath, whether she could draw it, whether it would be enough.
“He said there would be more scarring inside than outside. My throat would be too narrow inside, so any illness, and I wouldn’t be able to breathe, and I would die.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Mama said it would never get better unless I made it better. She made me walk, and when I could walk and breathe, she made me go faster. Until I could run.”
“So running fixed your breathing.”
Hassie smiled at the memory. “Mama thought so. I think scars shrink, and when little girls grow, so do their throats.”
“How old were you?”
She held up eight fingers.
“So you could already talk and sing and shout, and you lost all that.”
“I can whistle.”
“Let’s hear.”
As soon as he said that, her mouth went dry. She only managed a thready warble.
“That’s not much better than your voice. The next town we come to we better see about a tin whistle.”
Trying to decide if this sharing of history went both ways, Hassie nodded absently, then wrote, “Is your home in Kansas near your friends?”
“No, my family has a farm in Eastern Missouri. I go home every winter.”
“You have a wife there, children?”
His face closed. “No.” He rose and started toward the horses. “We better get going.”
She gave the scraps left over from breakfast to Gunner, smothered the fire, and cleaned up. If he was willing to have a conversation of sorts once, he would be again. The thought of another conversation where he talked to her and even listened made her want to run some more.
M RS. P ETTY HAD no right to be so damned happy. Joyful. Sometimes Bret wanted to tell her about things he’d seen and done, crush the smiling and eagerness and softness right out of her, make her properly somber and realistic. Yet what could anyone say or do to a woman like that to change her?
Her father must have died early on. A childish accident stole her voice. The mother’s second husband only tolerated the young girl Mrs. Petty had been. She should have had a line of suitors, but because of her voice she had to marry an old drunk when she was shoved out of the nest.
The drunk left her to starve. Bret Sterling killed the only man who was even close to kin right in front of her, took her from home, and left her with people who tried to force her into prostitution.
And he was going to leave her with more strangers soon.
She had no right to run with her arms outstretched as if embracing the morning, to weave flowers in that excuse for a horse’s mane. Or to hum in the evening as she groomed the horse. Or to smile at him as if he should share all these delights. Or to laugh.
Gunner sat beside Packie as Bret positioned the pack saddle, loaded up, and lashed everything in place. The dog looked as pleased with life as his owner.
“You have nothing to smile about either,” Bret muttered. “You’re a liar and a cheat.”
Twice in the last weeks, a cold nose and warm tongue had awakened Bret. He had no memory of the nightmare starting either time. Still, every two weeks was about how often the dream had haunted him since the first battle he’d been in.
Bret finished with the packhorse and tossed the dog a piece of jerky before saddling Jasper.
Days before they came to the little settlement rumored to be a haven for outlaws, Bret turned off the trail. The rolling hills of open prairie provided no cover for miles in any direction, and he didn’t want to stumble on the town unexpectedly.
When they came to a secluded spot near a small lake, he left Mrs. Petty there and scouted ahead until he located the town. Even with his spyglass, finding a place in the nearby hills where he could observe anyone moving between the few buildings of the
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