“But I will wait,” she said. “I’ll wait as long as I have to.”
He kissed her once more, then released her. “You’d better go,” he said.
Her mare was tethered nearby. Susan swung into the saddle and rode out into the sunlight. Looking back, she paused. Bull stood framed in the doorway of the barn, his shirt open, his hair damp and rumpled. She filled her sun-dazzled eyes with the image.
“Go,” he said.
Susan nudged the mare to a trot. “I love you, Bull,” she whispered as she rode away. But she knew he hadn’t heard.
* * *
The Prescott house showed no sign of life as Susan rode through the ranch gate. Her uncle’s big Cadillac was gone from its spot next to the porch. Ferg’s T-bird was in its usual place, but she could see no sign of Ferg, who often slept until midday. With luck, she’d be able to slip into the house unseen, shower, and change before anyone noticed her appearance and started asking questions—questions she could only answer with a lie.
How much longer could she stay in this house with these toxic people? It was as if she was being crushed by the pressure from all sides. She needed to get out. She needed to go home to Georgia, move out of her parents’ house, and find an apartment with some roommates.
But leaving here would mean leaving Bull.
The dimly lit stable was quiet except for the familiar sounds of horses drowsing in their stalls. Ordinarily, Susan would have turned her mare over to the stable hand to be rubbed down and put away. But the young man who’d readied her mount that morning was nowhere to be seen.
Never mind, she could take care of the mare herself. After unbuckling the cinch and straps, she lifted off the saddle, removed the pad and the bridle, checked the refilled feeder and water bucket, and let the mare into the stall.
She had stepped outside the stall to find a clean towel when she heard the bolt slide shut on the door and sensed a presence behind her. Turning around, she almost collided with Ferg.
She gasped as his strong hands seized her shoulders. His eyes glittered beneath heavy lids. She could hear him breathing in the stillness, the sound strangely terrifying.
“Let me go, Ferg,” she said. “If I scream, somebody’s going to hear me.”
“Nobody who’d care. Your folks went to Lubbock with my dad. And I gave the stable boy the rest of the day off.”
“I said, let me go!”
His grip tightened, fingers digging into her flesh. “Not until you tell me where you’ve been. Or maybe I know. You go out alone and come back smelling like a hog wallow—or maybe a Tyler. What’ve you got to say for yourself, girl?”
Susan willed herself not to show fear. “You and I aren’t engaged anymore. Where I go and what I do is none of your business. You don’t own me.”
One hand released her shoulder. The palm came up in a resounding slap that blackened her vision for an instant. Stars flashed like midsummer fireworks before her head cleared.
“You’re mine, you little bitch!” he snarled. “Your father promised me. We shook hands on it. So you might as well get used to the idea.”
Susan knew he could hurt her again, but she had to make a stand. She glared up at him. “My father had no right to make that promise. And I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth!”
The color darkened in his florid face—always a danger sign. “It’s Bull Tyler, isn’t it? The bastard’s put his filthy hands on you, and God knows what else! So help me, I’m going to kill him! But first—”
His arms yanked her against him. His mouth came down on hers in a bruising kiss. “No—” Susan began to struggle. “Stop it! Let me go!”
She fought him,
kicking, biting, and twisting, but she was no match for his strength. His hand ripped open her blouse and yanked her jeans off her hips. His weight pushed her down on her back, into the straw. One hand pinned her in place. The other fumbled with his belt. She screamed as he pushed into her, but she knew there would be no rescue. She could only lie sprawled beneath him, struggling as her world exploded in pain, humiliation, and a dark, helpless rage.
CHAPTER 12
SUSAN SCRUBBED HERSELF RAW IN THE SHOWER, SOAPING HER BODY again and again. But it was no use. She still felt dirty. She might be able to wash the last trace of Ferg’s rape off her skin. But it was embedded like a cancer in her memory. It would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Like a replaying loop, she recalled the moment he’d pulled back and sat up, leaving her bruised, bleeding, and utterly humiliated. “Served you right,” he’d said with a contemptuous laugh. “Just so you’ll know, I didn’t use a rubber. If I got you pregnant, tough luck.”
“I’ll tell my parents . . .” she’d muttered, her throat hoarse from crying.
“No, you won’t, sweetheart.” He ran a fingertip down her cheek in a mockery of tenderness. “If you do, I’ll tell them it was your fault. You came on to me. You wanted it. And they’ll believe me because they want to—because believing you would be . . . inconvenient for them.”