Past the old cabin and by a field where longhorns grazed in the storm, the game mare sprinted.
A jagged streak of lightning fired the sky and Delilah shied, swerving. Shelby pitched forward, held fast to the mare’s mane and somehow managed to stay astride. Heart hammering, she righted herself and caught sight of the blue glow of the exterior lights of the ranch, outbuildings shimmering eerily through the rain.
“God, help me,” she whispered. The bunkhouse was dark, but security lights still offered a beacon. Thankfully, no illumination came from the stables. No one had noticed that Delilah was missing.
Still Shelby was careful, slowing Delilah and dismounting far out of the pool of light cast by the outdoor lamps. Her boots squished in the new mud. Ears straining for any sound of dog or man, Shelby quietly led her mare into the warm, dry stables. She unbuckled the bridle, slid it off Delilah’s head and locked the mare in her stall. All Shelby wanted to do was escape as fast as she could, to sneak into the darkness before she was caught, but she took the time to brush Delilah and cool her down, hoping against hope that none of the hands would notice any change in the Appaloosa’s appearance when they checked the horses in a few short hours.
She hung the bridle on its peg and silently prayed that no one would see it and wonder why it was soaked.
Then she opened the door a crack and slid outside. Most of the trucks that had been parked near the machine shed were missing and she couldn’t see the dog anywhere, but she sensed someone—something—watching her.
You’re imagining it,
she told herself as she took off at a dead run through the fields, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that hidden eyes assessed her every move. Biting her lip, she silently begged God that her convertible would still be parked in its hiding spot. Nevada’s worries had made her jittery. The storm only added to her case of nerves. She couldn’t wait to put miles between her and her father’s ranch.
She had to pick her way across the creek and she slid on the slick grass and mud as she climbed the bank. Shoulders huddled against the rain, she sprinted to the spot where she’d parked her car behind the barrier of mesquite trees. The little yellow convertible was just where she’d left it—top down, the interior drenched with rain.
Shelby didn’t care. It would dry.
“Thank you,” she whispered, just in case God was listening.
Gratefully, she climbed behind the wheel. She wiped the rainwater from her eyes, glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that her lips looked swollen, her pupils huge in her eyes, her hair damp and lank. But she smiled at the reflection. She’d go home, sneak into the house, shower and change and dream of Nevada the rest of the night. Everything was fine.
The engine sparked quickly and she rammed her little car into reverse. She backed up two feet before the wheels started spinning and the Porsche slid to one side. “Come on, come on,” she said, easing up on the accelerator and then punching it. Again the tires spun, unable to take hold. She threw the car into first and stepped on it. The convertible lurched, wheels whirring wildly, then settled back as she eased off the gas.
“Don’t do this to me. Please. Not now.” Over and over she tried until the windows were fogged. Sweat had broken out under her arms and she realized she was just digging her back tires into deep ruts. When she opened the car door and stepped outside, her boots sank into the mud.
Great,
she thought sarcastically,
just damned great!
She picked her way through the thicket of mesquite to the lane where a fast-moving stream of water was rushing over the gravel and flooding the already-swollen ground. Things were definitely going to get worse before they got any better.
Back at the car, she knelt beside a back wheel and felt beneath the wheel well to discover that the tire had not only settled into a deep rut of its own making, but the entire back end of her Porsche had sunk nearly to its rear axle.
She’d never get out without a winch.
“Now what?” she wondered and looked through the sheeting deluge toward the ranch house nearly a quarter of a mile away. She knew how to get inside, knew where an extra set of keys to her father’s Chevy pickup were hung, could find a chain in the machine shop and with the help of flashlights, ingenuity, effort and a lot of luck, could wrap the chain around the axle, hook the other end to the trailer hitch, and, barring any further disaster, tow her car out of the muck.
Maybe.
If all the ranch hands had gone into town.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. They were paid so that someone—usually the foreman—was on the premises around the clock, but on Friday nights they generally skipped out. She could only hope.
It was risky at best, a disaster at worst, but what other choice did she have?
“Just go for it,” she told herself and started running toward the house. She was soaked to the skin and as dirty as a pig rooting in a bog, but it didn’t much matter considering the task at hand. Breathing hard, exhaustion only kept at bay by adrenalin, she ran down the lane and slowed before she reached the cattle guard a hundred feet from the bunkhouse. Acutely aware that the watchdog or some equally mean-tempered hired hand might be stirring, she moved stealthily, thankful for the steady pounding of raindrops plopping into puddles, the rush of wind across the hills and the wild gurgle of rainwater running through the gutters.
The dog was still missing, so she walked straight to the ranch house, left her muddy boots on the back porch and stepped into the kitchen. Biting her lip, she reached to the right. Her fingers encountered the extra set of key rings hung on hooks in the wall. Keys jangled noisily. Somewhere outside the dog barked. Shelby’s stomach clenched in fear. She didn’t waste any time. She snatched every set of keys from the hooks. Stuffing them into the pocket of her shorts, she managed to slide into her shoes and softly shut the door.
So far, so good.
Shelby was off the porch and around the edge of the building within seconds. She slunk through the wet shadows and made her way into the wavering pool of lamplight in the yard, where she walked directly to the truck. Glancing over her shoulder and spying no one, neither man nor beast, she opened the door.
Instantly the interior was awash with illumination. Shelby slid behind the wheel and pulled the door shut. The interior light blinked off, but she was shaking, certain she would be caught. Heart thudding, she tried the first key. No luck. She gritted her teeth. The second failed as well. Her fingers were practically useless, her nerves stretched thin when the third wouldn’t slide into the lock. What if she’d left a set in the house? What if none of these worked? What if—
“Who the hell are you?” a voice bellowed.
She jumped. Squealed. Fell against the steering wheel.
The horn blasted. The dog began barking wildly from somewhere outside as the door to the truck was ripped open.
The interior light blazed on again. In the harsh glare she stared into the florid, determined face of Ross McCallum. His wet hair was plastered to his head, his eyes mere slits, his expression somewhere between surprise and satisfaction. A silver-barreled pistol was clutched in one big fist.
Shelby nearly peed in her pants.
“Well, lookie here, would ya, Dawg! We got us the Judge’s little daughter right here in this damned truck.”
The smell of sour whiskey blew inside the cab. Shelby’s stomached roiled.
“What’cha doin’ Shelby-girl, stealin’ the old man’s pickup?”
“Borrowing it,” she forced out, scared witless. She’d bluff him. Had to.
“And why’s that?”
“None of your business.” This man was her father’s hired hand, nothing more, she reminded herself. But the jagged remnants of the conversation she’d overheard emanating from the bunkhouse earlier played through her mind. Inside she was jelly, more afraid than she’d ever been in her life.
“Somethin’ to do with the car you got hid up the lane?” He jerked his head in the direction of the main road, and her heart sank as his eyes roved over her disheveled state—wet hair, nearly transparent blouse, short, drenched cutoff jeans. From behind him somewhere the dog growled. “Yep, I seen it when I came back from town—that chrome has a way of catching in headlights, y’know.” His eyebrows rose as if he expected her to nod in agreement. “I stopped, saw that it weren’t goin’ nowhere in this storm and figured you’d show up sooner or later.”
Her heart sank. He’d been waiting for her. Watching. Probably laughing inside.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “So what you been up to, eh? Nah, don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’ve been out whorin’ with my old buddy—Deputy Nevada Smith.”
“I’m just here to borrow the truck,” she lied, forcing a false bravado into her voice. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
Nostrils flared in his red, unshaven face. “No I s’pose you don’t.” He seemed to mull what she’d said over, and stupidly she felt a ray of hope. “Lookie, here, I know ye’re in a fix what with the car and sneakin’ around your daddy’s back and all, but I’m willin’ to help you out, get you out of this jam you’re in, keep my mouth shut, if ya want.”
She didn’t believe him. Wouldn’t trust him. Kept a wary eye on the barrel of the pistol he still held tight in his fingers.
“That’s right.” He leaned into the cab, started climbing inside.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Sure you do, honey,” he said, and one big, thick finger reached up to trace the slope of her jaw.
“Get out!”
“Can’t do it.”
“I mean it, McCallum.”
“Oh yeah? And what’re ya gonna do?” He pulled himself into the truck and she scooted across fast, to the far side, scrabbled for the door handle. Too late. One big hand surrounded the back of her neck, dragging her close, forcing her head to his.
Oh, God, he smelled foul.
Open-mouthed, he kissed her and she nearly retched with the taste of him. “Leave me alone.”
“Oh, no, sugar, I ain’t gonna do that. Not now.”
Fear congealed her blood. He kissed her again. Set the pistol on the dash. She hauled back to take a swing at him, but he slapped her hand away and laughed wickedly, as if he enjoyed her feeble attempts.
She struck again, hard, her palm smacking against his cheek. “Get out, Ross, I swear—”
“You ain’t doin’ nothin’ but givin’ me what you give that shit-all half-breed,” he snarled. Then he was on her. She fought and screamed and clawed at his face, and through it all he grinned, pushing her down onto the seat.
Crack! The back of her head smashed against the passenger window. Pain blasted through her brain. Bright lights flashed, then the world started to go dark. She nearly passed out and he tried to kiss her. She flailed, her fingers raking down the side of his face.
“Shit! I just knew you’d be a hell-cat,” he grunted, pinning her beneath him and holding both her wrists over her head in one of his big hands. “And that’s just fine with me. I like a woman with some fight in her.”
She hauled back and spat. To her horror, he licked the spittle from his face and smacked his lips. His free hand felt between them, groping her breasts roughly.
Sick inside, she fought his weight, felt the hardness of his cock straining against his jeans, heard the horrifying sounds of a belt unbuckling and a zipper being lowered. Oh, God, he was going to rape her.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
Nothing.
“Don’t,” she cried, disgusted at the pleading tone in her voice. “Don’t do this thing. Please. Ross—oh, no.” She writhed to no avail. He was too heavy, too determined. Something inside her began to die. Tears streamed down her face and she let out horrid sounds, half screams, half sobs.
No, no, no!
“You’re gonna enjoy it,” he said through lips that barely moved. “All you hot-blooded whores do.”
She tried to knee him, but he was quick. He shifted. Pinned her legs apart. Pushed her hard onto the bench seat. “Come on, baby. Relax a little. You and I, we’re gonna have a good time right here in Daddy’s truck.” He reeked of whiskey. His beard stubble rubbed hard against her face. His hands were rough, his breathing irregular. “You know, pretty baby, I’ve been waitin’ all my life for this.”
For the next week, Shelby walked around in a horrible, disbelieving fog. The sickening, ugly events of the night replayed in her mind, over and over. She showered, bathed, tried to scrub the filth from her, but it was always there, lurking just beneath the surface of her skin and hovering in the bleakest comers of her mind. She was listless and lifeless, hiding her secret, refusing to tell a soul. She avoided going to town, missed as much school as she could because of “headaches” and, at night when no one was around, curled into a ball on her bed while rocking anxiously and biting her tongue so that the tears she cried would be shed silently into her pillow.
Lydia was concerned and tried to feed her when the last thing she wanted to do was eat; her father dismissed her change in personality as a phase she was going through.