the night, or into the morning. She’d had a little dresser, and its drawers had swelled and stuck every summer. She’d hidden books in the bottom drawer because Daddy didn’t approve of her reading anything but the Bible.
There were good memories mixed with the bad in this room. Of reading late into the night in secret, of dreaming private dreams, of planning adventures with Hope.
And, of course, of the beatings.
No one would ever lay hands on her again.
It would make a reasonable office, she decided. A desk, a file cabinet, perhaps a reading chair and lamp. It would do.
She would sleep in her parents’ old room. Yes, she would sleep there, and she would make it her own.
She started to go out, but couldn’t resist. Quietly, she opened the closet door. There, the ghost of herself huddled in the dark, face streaked with tears. She’d shed tears of a lifetime before she was eight.
Crouching, she ran her fingers along the baseboard, and they trembled over the shallow carving. With her eyes closed, she read the letters with fingertips, the way the blind read braille.
I AM TORY
“That’s right. That’s right. I am Tory. You couldn’t take that from me, couldn’t beat that out of me. I’m Tory. And I’m back.”
Unsteadily she got to her feet. Air, she thought. She needed air. There was never any air in the closet, never any light. Sweat sprang to her palms as she backed up.
She turned to dash from the room, would have run from the house. But a shadow wavered outside the screen door. The afternoon sun poured in behind it, outlined it into the shape of a man.
As the door squeaked open, she was eight years old again. Alone, helpless. Terrified.
4
T he shadow said her name. The whole of it,
Victoria
, so that it flowed out like something rich poured from a warmed bottle.
She might have run, and it shamed and surprised her to find there was still that much rabbit inside her that wanted to careen away, plunge into a bolt-hole at the first snap of a twig. The ghosts of the house circled around her, whispering taunts in her ear.
She’d run before. More than once. It had never saved her.
She stood where she was, frozen. Panic swam up sickly from gut to throat as the door creaked open.
“I’ve frightened you. I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet, the tone a man uses to soothe the injured, or complete a seduction. “I wanted to stop by, see if you needed anything.”
He stood just inside the door so the sun beamed behind him, blurred his features. In her mind, thoughts tumbled, going soft so they spilled over each other. “How did you know I was here?”
“Have you been away so long you don’t know how quick the grapevine climbs in Progress?”
There was a smile in his voice, calculated, she thought, to put her at ease. It meant the fear showed, and made her too easy a target. That, at least that, she could stop. She folded her hands. “No, I haven’t forgotten anything. Who are you?”
“That sound you hear’s my ego crumbling. Even after all these years, I could’ve picked you out in a crowd. It’s Cade,” he said, and stepped closer. “Kincade Lavelle.”
He stepped out of the harsh light, until it fell behind him into sun and shadow. The keenest edge of fear ebbed with the glare, and she saw him clearly.
Kincade Lavelle, Hope’s brother. Would she have recognized him? No, she didn’t think so. The boy she remembered had been thin of body and soft of face. This man’s build was rangy, hinted of tough in the muscles of the forearms showing under the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt. And though he smiled easily enough, there was nothing soft in the sharp bones and high planes of his face.
His hair was darker than it had been, the color of walnuts, with the curling tips bleached out by the sun. He’d always been one for the out-of-doors. She remembered that. Remembered she’d sometimes see him walking the fields with his father in a kind of swagger that came from owning the land your
There were good memories mixed with the bad in this room. Of reading late into the night in secret, of dreaming private dreams, of planning adventures with Hope.
And, of course, of the beatings.
No one would ever lay hands on her again.
It would make a reasonable office, she decided. A desk, a file cabinet, perhaps a reading chair and lamp. It would do.
She would sleep in her parents’ old room. Yes, she would sleep there, and she would make it her own.
She started to go out, but couldn’t resist. Quietly, she opened the closet door. There, the ghost of herself huddled in the dark, face streaked with tears. She’d shed tears of a lifetime before she was eight.
Crouching, she ran her fingers along the baseboard, and they trembled over the shallow carving. With her eyes closed, she read the letters with fingertips, the way the blind read braille.
I AM TORY
“That’s right. That’s right. I am Tory. You couldn’t take that from me, couldn’t beat that out of me. I’m Tory. And I’m back.”
Unsteadily she got to her feet. Air, she thought. She needed air. There was never any air in the closet, never any light. Sweat sprang to her palms as she backed up.
She turned to dash from the room, would have run from the house. But a shadow wavered outside the screen door. The afternoon sun poured in behind it, outlined it into the shape of a man.
As the door squeaked open, she was eight years old again. Alone, helpless. Terrified.
4
T he shadow said her name. The whole of it,
Victoria
, so that it flowed out like something rich poured from a warmed bottle.
She might have run, and it shamed and surprised her to find there was still that much rabbit inside her that wanted to careen away, plunge into a bolt-hole at the first snap of a twig. The ghosts of the house circled around her, whispering taunts in her ear.
She’d run before. More than once. It had never saved her.
She stood where she was, frozen. Panic swam up sickly from gut to throat as the door creaked open.
“I’ve frightened you. I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet, the tone a man uses to soothe the injured, or complete a seduction. “I wanted to stop by, see if you needed anything.”
He stood just inside the door so the sun beamed behind him, blurred his features. In her mind, thoughts tumbled, going soft so they spilled over each other. “How did you know I was here?”
“Have you been away so long you don’t know how quick the grapevine climbs in Progress?”
There was a smile in his voice, calculated, she thought, to put her at ease. It meant the fear showed, and made her too easy a target. That, at least that, she could stop. She folded her hands. “No, I haven’t forgotten anything. Who are you?”
“That sound you hear’s my ego crumbling. Even after all these years, I could’ve picked you out in a crowd. It’s Cade,” he said, and stepped closer. “Kincade Lavelle.”
He stepped out of the harsh light, until it fell behind him into sun and shadow. The keenest edge of fear ebbed with the glare, and she saw him clearly.
Kincade Lavelle, Hope’s brother. Would she have recognized him? No, she didn’t think so. The boy she remembered had been thin of body and soft of face. This man’s build was rangy, hinted of tough in the muscles of the forearms showing under the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt. And though he smiled easily enough, there was nothing soft in the sharp bones and high planes of his face.
His hair was darker than it had been, the color of walnuts, with the curling tips bleached out by the sun. He’d always been one for the out-of-doors. She remembered that. Remembered she’d sometimes see him walking the fields with his father in a kind of swagger that came from owning the land your
Similar Books
