And for that too she knew she would be blamed.
Months, years of marriage to this misogynistic fiend might render her spiritless, downtrodden, prey to his every disagreeable mood, subject to his need for mastery. So many women were, when yoked to a man totally uncaring of his mate. Even when finally released from such imprisonment, for whatever reason, they emerged, for the most part, crushed, unable to form coherent thought or plans for the future.
Molly was determined never to end up like this. She would die first.
While they jounced along, she the unwilling passenger on this road to who knew where, wild schemes whirled around and around in her head, tasted, tested, and as quickly discarded.
A deliberate fall off the horse, and subsequent race away from him into the woods? No. In this weather, in this unfamiliar territory, to what sanctuary might she possibly escape? Quinn would easily capture her once again, and would then, no doubt, exact some horrific punishment.
A grab at his handgun, and a reversal of its barrel to the belly ploy? No. She had no idea where he had thrust the weapon for safekeeping. Into a holster beneath his heavy coat, perhaps, or even between his trousers and vest—either way, too awkward even to search out and obtain. And, with her luck, they’d both end up with bullet wounds.
A careless disposal, here and there, of a bead from her necklace, that followers (of course there would be followers, at some point; Camellia would never leave her sister languishing) might pick up the trail? No, again, more fool she. No necklace, no jewelry anywhere on her drenched and bedraggled person. Even had there been, a simple bead would soon be lost in the muck underfoot.
Articles of clothing, same result. With the additional problem of difficult access. Perhaps she could sweet-talk Quinn into halting for a bit, while she found a button hook somewhere to undo her boots. Ahuh.
Think! she pummeled her weary brain, which, having not completely recovered from this past week’s nightmare, was still functioning at low capacity. Think!
Much as she wanted to curl up into a fetal ball and simply howl, Molly knew she couldn’t—she simply couldn’t—give in to despair. She must go on struggling to survive.
“Quinn, I beg of you—”
Not surprisingly, it was growing more difficult for her to control an occasional wave of shivers, and her teeth were beginning to chatter. When had the air turned so chilly?
“Be quiet,” he ordered, unmoved. “I’m thinking.”
They were plodding along, apparently aimlessly. Had he made no plan for this mad escapade, no decision as to an eventual destination? Better for her chances of escape, certainly, but—how incredibly like this man she had married, to take each hour as it came along, with nothing definite set up, nothing arranged for the future! What possessed someone to be so unprepared for life?
“Could we just—”
“I said be quiet! Do you comprehend anything at all that I tell you?” In the soft steam of approaching twilight, his face was set in lines of granite: saturnine, dark, implacable. “Your disobedience has earned you righteous punishment, Molly. Once we settle in somewhere, I shall have to take your discipline well in hand.”
A less-traveled road jogged off to the side, wending its way eastward to some other county, some other town. Everything seemed just slightly off-kilter, with drowned foliage and mist rising from Juniper Creek, however far away it might be. A surreal scene, rendered almost frightening in its sense of loneliness and isolation.
The area appeared vaguely familiar. Surely this was not the turn-off to the old Rutledge place? Surely he couldn’t possibly be taking her to that hole on earth again!
Somehow the time dragged by. How odd that, despite her wretched physical state, despite the roller coaster up-and-down whirligig of her emotions, Molly could put all that aside in her simple, intense craving for warmth, for comfort, for rest. Ah, how weak a human body could be. Satisfy its most basic needs and the rest would easily follow. At the moment, she would obey almost any of Quinn’s commands, no matter how depraved, if only she might be freed from the back of this poor pack-laden horse and given a modicum of care!
From a well-traveled rutted and muddied road, they had moved onto something more of a beaten path, something with which probably only locals were familiar. Its meandering curves took them closer to the river; even from here she could discern the cascade of rushing water, the gurgle of pools along the rim, the hollow slap of heavy ripples hitting against banks of sand or earth that surely, due to the deluge of rain, must be about to cave in by now.
In the distance, something weighty creaked and cracked, shuddered with an almost human cry of anguish, and then toppled slowly to the ground. Branches tore at other branches; birds were sent squawking and flying away into the leaden sky for safety. The crash, near to being an explosion, actually caused the ground to shake with the force of its fall.
Their horse, already nervous and uneasy, startled, shying away off the track into knee-high wet and tangled prairie grass. An unsympathetic Quinn jerked savagely at the reins.
“Stand still, you fool animal!” he bellowed.
Molly roused from a semi-stupor to beg for kindness. “Please, there’s no need to treat him so harshly. He’s doing the best that he can.”
“I’ll decide what’s best. This pathetic excuse for a rented steed is causing me all sorts of unpardonable delay, just as you’ve been trying to do. I’ll take a whip to the both of you, see if I don’t!”
There was no point in trying to reason with this obstinate, infuriated, half-deranged man. Helpless to intervene, she could only let events play out as they would, for good or ill.
Another crash, closer nearby, of slightly less substance but just as suddenly, sent the horse dancing sideways once again and added a few decibels to the range of Quinn’s curses.
Too much rain in too short a time, Molly, carefully considering, decided after a minute. Tree roots, probably already weakened by age or disease (just as in humans), could no longer hold a towering maple or oak or sycamore in place; with the collapse of any support, over it went, smashing willy-nilly into whatever stood in its way.
Only a chill mist obscured the view now, instead of this afternoon’s downpour, but the wind was plowing steadily through this timber that felt as ominous and eerie as something out of a children’s malevolent fairy tale. Hansel and Gretel, perhaps, whose fate it was to be killed by a witch. Or Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, also doomed.