Ava’s Revenge (An Unbounded Novella) (2 page)

I didn’t really believe that.

His hands fisted on the table. “Someone you want to see?” His muddy eyes felt like the cigars he’d once burned into my skin. Scars that had also disappeared—at least on the outside.

“No. You had a hard day. A stroll might help you relax, that’s all.”

“I’m tired. I just want my dinner. Bring it.”

No more delay. Praying the flames had done their job, I glided to the fireplace, my movements seemingly unreal, a dream. I cut the bread on the hearth first, as slowly as I dared, and then filled his plate.

As I set it down on the table in front of him, his hand whipped out and gripped my breast. The knot in my stomach quadrupled in that instant. “I know what you can do to relax me,” he said, squeezing tighter.

I wanted to vomit. I wanted to jerk away or tell him he was hurting me, but I knew from experience that would only make it worse.

His hand moved down to my stomach and back up again, rubbing and squeezing. “You like that, don’t ya? Yeah, you live for it. I know you do.” He chuckled and released me, his hand going for the knife. He sliced off a chunk of meat. “I got a few new things in mind tonight. To relax me, as you say.” He chuckled as if we shared some kind of special joke. “I got more of that tranquility potion. Remember the one from a couple years back? You’ll take it after you clean up dinner.”

For a man who had never shown an ounce of creativity in other areas, he knew all sorts of depravity in the bedroom—or living room, or kitchen, or barn—things that I had never dreamed existed in my girlish fantasies of married life. The idea of taking his potion, bought from some traveling snake oil salesman, frightened me beyond belief. It brought complete immobility, made me an observer to whatever indignities he would subject me to. And it would last for hours. What if Hannah needed me?

Simon had been forty when we married, just weeks short of my eighteenth birthday. At the time, I was nearly a spinster in the eyes of my parents, who had given me away like a foal to a new master. After the first year of being sadistically raped by Simon, I’d stopped talking to my parents. They should have been able to see behind the face he showed the world, the life he kept just for me in the privacy of our home. I knew it was a man’s right to keep his woman in place, but that wasn’t the relationship I’d dreamed about. Or planned with my first and only love, Gabriel, who at sixteen had been too young and penniless to prevent my fate as Mrs. Brumbaugh.

Maybe it was my double black eyes or the choke marks around my throat, but after losing baby number four, my widowed father had finally taken my side, realizing far too late what he had condemned me to. For my father, it was no longer the broken arm, the black eyes, or the bruises that could be explained as a man keeping his spirited young wife under control, but the slaughter of his posterity—the future.

I didn’t let myself believe it stemmed from love. That was too dangerous.

He’d confronted Simon, and they’d fought. A year later my father was dead, still suffering from the leg injury he’d earned that day. His farm passed to Simon. I didn’t mourn my father. I was nothing more than a corpse myself, unable to feel anything but fear. Until Hannah.

Simon took a bite of food and grunted with enjoyment. I moved to get myself a plate with a thin slice of meat and only two small pieces of potatoes. He liked my company so he could brag about the day, and he would be angry if I didn’t eat or if I ate too much.

“I’m planting the south field next week,” he said. “You’ll bring out our food. I’m hiring Wilson’s boys to help.”

A rustling from the cupboard clogged my response in my throat, but there was no cry, so Hannah was probably just moving in her sleep.

I still didn’t know how she’d happened, but the moment I’d realized I was expecting, I’d talked nonstop about the son Simon would have and what people would say. How he’d have someone to bestow his legacy upon. I’d made sure plenty of witnesses were at the birth, and when it was a daughter—after the fear subsided—I was fiercely glad. A daughter I might be able to protect from his anger. A daughter wouldn’t follow in her father’s footsteps.

But whenever he had to hire other men’s sons, he remembered that Hannah wasn’t the heir I’d promised. He’d never forgiven me for what he thought of as my betrayal.

“I’ll do that,” I said. It’d actually be nice to cook for someone who might appreciate the effort.

Simon took a second bite of meat, and this time his face furrowed. He swallowed and took another mouthful. This one he spat out, half chewed, onto the floor. “The middle is cold, and the bottom’s burnt.”

“You were late,” I said, reaching for the plate. “I only just started reheating it. Let me fix it for you. The rest will be hotter now.”

He swept the plate from my grasp. The rare porcelain hit the wood floor and shattered, sending meat, gravy, and chunks of potatoes and carrots flying.

I jumped to my feet, my heart pounding against my rib cage.

“So it’s my fault?” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “My fault? I give you everything. A roof over your stupid head. Food for yer lyin’ trap. Clothes for yer skinny little frame. Even porcelain dinnerware.” He was on his feet now, his anger making him seem tall.

I heard Hannah’s faint cry.
Don’t let him hear her.
From the corner of my eye, I could see the steady glow of her life, even through the mostly closed door of the cupboard.

“Maybe you don’t deserve anything I give you!” He grabbed the neck of my dress and tugged, but the fabric didn’t give. Instead, I was propelled forward, my head connecting with his chest. He shoved me back into the table, and it skidded several feet across the floor. The cups and utensils clattered to the ground. The sliced bread teetered on the edge.

Hannah let out a wail.

I bolted forward, thinking to somehow grab her and get outside, maybe leave her with a neighbor until Simon calmed down, but he was faster. Catching my hair in his fist, he pulled me back and yanked me around. I slid across the floor to slam my head against the solid oak door.

Hannah’s cry grew louder.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Simon screamed. His footsteps to the cupboard were heavy and determined.

Hannah cried harder.

Panic fueled me as I launched myself toward Simon. I reached him as he opened the cupboard door. Little Hannah was in her cradle, her face red and her mouth open. I saw two of her, my head still fuzzy from the blow. She took a breath and let out another scream.

“I said shut up,” he growled.

I reached for him, but I was too late. His fist came down on Hannah.

The crying stopped.

His hand was ready for another punch, but I lashed out at him. Anything to stop him from hurting Hannah further. Maybe she was just stunned. Maybe I was imagining that the light around her had gone completely out.

“You leave her alone!” I screamed. “Or I’ll tell! I’ll tell everyone about the monster you are! And they’ll believe me. Hannah hasn’t been sick a day in her life. They’ll know you’re a murderer.” It wasn’t true. So many took ill and died. No one would think twice about Hannah.

“Whore!” Simon hit me on the side of the head. His next punch took me in the stomach with a blow that was all too familiar. Then I was on the floor and he was on top of me, fists pumping. I felt my teeth cave inward. Blood filled my mouth.

“You won’t tell anyone nuthin’. Not ever again!” His hands went around my throat, blocking all the air. “I’ve seen you making eyes at Barker and even the pastor. Maybe you wonder what it’d be like to be with them. Maybe Hannah belongs to one of them. Eh? She certainly ain’t mine.”

I tried to shake my head, but his grip was too strong. My sight was foggy on the edges, a sure sign that I would soon pass out. I couldn’t let that happen. There might be a chance for Hannah. Maybe the darkness I saw from the cupboard came only because of my own injuries.

Except that Simon’s own body glow was so bright I could see it with my eyes closed. I could feel his rage, his sense of betrayal. I also saw an image of the farmer who had just come from England and was working the land two homesteads over. He had a twenty-year-old daughter with silky black hair. Simon was already planning my replacement.

My sight darkened. Before I passed out completely, the pressure on my throat eased. I tried to move, but my body refused to obey. Everything hurt. Worse than anything I’d ever known. When I finally pried my eyes open, I saw Simon, his pants around his knees, felt him pushing up my dress. My underclothes ripped. His weight pressed down on me.

His face was close to mine. He was breathing heavy, not with exertion now, but with arousal. “Just one thing left I’ve been wanting to try,” he grated. A knife glinted next to my cheek. “Once, I almost . . . but I didn’t. Don’t need no potion for this.”

He had prepared for this moment. Maybe not exactly like this, but he’d planned my murder. Maybe because he’d decided he didn’t want me anymore, or because that new farmer’s daughter might give him sons. He slid the knife down, and in a single motion, swiped it across my throat, cutting deeply. I gasped for breath, but none came. The blood welled.

Simon gave a deep laugh that sounded demented. His body trembled against me.

I felt strangely disconnected. I didn’t care, not for me. Not with Hannah gone. I couldn’t even feel or care about what he was doing.

Maybe I’d finally found my luck like the first Mrs. Brumbaugh.

Except it wasn’t the end but only the beginning.

BIRDS CHIRPED HAPPILY IN THE
trees. The sun felt warm on my cheek but not on the rest of my face. A cool wind swept through, and the heat on my cheek wavered.

I had to get up. In the next room, Hannah might be awake and need me. I’d have to get Simon’s breakfast before he’d finished with the livestock in the barn. That meant hauling the water, building the fire, gathering the eggs.

I stretched, slowly in case it was earlier than I thought and Simon was still in the bed.

Crackling leaves were the first indication that I wasn’t where I thought I was. The warmth of the sun and the breeze I’d felt weren’t coming from an open window at all.

My eyes flew open. Above me trees loomed, their leaves rustling in the gentle wind. I became aware of sticks and stones digging into my back. My breath came faster, my head rocked back and forth as I looked around, trying to determine where I was.

Nothing was familiar. I was in the middle of the woods, in a place I didn’t recognize. Had I been hurt? What was I doing here? How long had I been lying on the ground?

Simon would be angry.

Hannah!

The thought bolted me to a sitting position. My sweet baby! I needed to get back to her. A glance down at myself showed me fully clothed, but the top of my dress was stained with something dark and stiff. Maybe blood. Where it had come from, I couldn’t say, because I didn’t appear to be hurt. Using a nearby tree, I pulled myself to my feet, feeling dizzy. Which way was home? I had to get back to Hannah.

I stumbled three steps before I saw her. My sweet baby, in her white, multilayered dress that I had worked so hard on during the weeks after her birth. The side of her face was caved in and an insect crawled over her darkened skin.

Memories came rushing back. Simon’s fist crashing down on my precious Hannah. The beating, the knife slicing my throat, his weight on my body.

Hannah!

Collapsing to my knees, I began heaving violently. Over and over. Nothing came up. Not even yellow bile.

When the tortured spasms passed, I crawled to my baby and picked her up, cuddling her limp body next to my chest. Stench wafted up to me, bringing to mind a rotting calf I’d once found with its foot caught in a fence. A calf that had been missing for several weeks.

My mouth opened in a silent scream. I stared at the sky, shoulders heaving, clutching my baby.

My baby! My baby! Oh, sweet Hannah!

It was my fault. I should have left the second I found out I was expecting her. But my fear of Simon had frozen me in place. I’d found a journal tucked in a corner, belonging to his first wife. She wrote that he’d threatened to kill her if she ever tried to leave. She’d thought about killing herself.

I’d stayed, thinking that was the only way to save Hannah. To keep her alive until Simon died—he was already past fifty and had lived much longer than most men I’d known.

Yet I knew the truth. I, Ava O’Hare, had been afraid. Afraid of him finding me and the revenge he’d take. Afraid of how we would survive alone. Afraid of everything.

I killed her. It’s all my fault.

The silent scream finally found voice, ripping out of my throat and piercing the quiet. My heart broke again and again as I relived the nightmare and my guilt. At last the screams became body-shaking sobs. All that was left was the deathly stillness of the little body in my arms and the pain that filled every portion of my soul.

I didn’t know why I was still alive, and apparently unwounded. Had I imagined Simon’s anticipation as he choked the breath from me? Had I imagined the hot slicing of the knife? Nothing made sense. Not how I was still alive or why Simon hadn’t buried me so no one would discover his depravity.