Finding Grace

A Daddy Dom Romance

Ava Sinclair
 Copyright © 2022 Ava Sinclair
All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
 Contents

Title Page
Copyright
Grace
Sawyer
Grace
Sawyer
Grace
Sawyer
Grace
Sawyer
Grace
Sawyer
Grace
Sawyer
Grace
Sawyer
Grace
Sawyer
About The Author
Hook Up With Ava
 Grace

I knew I’d one day bury Pa. I just didn’t know it would be this
soon.
The white cross at the head of his grave stands in stark contrast
to the mound of dirt it marks. Two days ago, the earth covering
Pa’s pine box was hard-packed and settled. Today it’s upturned,
tossed, and exposed to the elements that will eventually wear it
smooth once more. Pa’s body is part of the cold, hard mountain
now. It seems kind of fitting.
“What now, Grace?” Charity Coombs asks as she puts a hand
on her bonnet to steady it against a gust of wind. There’s hope in
her voice, hope that I’ve changed my mind.
I turn to look at the few folks who showed up to bid Pa farewell
as they climb back into their wagons. With their Christian duty
now fulfilled, they hasten to leave lest they be seen with me for
too long. I look back down at Pa’s grave as I give my answer.
“Now I go home, tend the stock, build a fire, and plan for spring
planting.” I pause. “I do what Pa would have done today if he
weren’t dead.”
“There’s a difference.” Charity’s husband Zed speaks up.
“Your dad had folks willing to trade with. Folks willing to help.
They ain’t gonna help you, girl.”
“That’ll be just fine, because I don’t plan on asking for it.” I
turn away as another gust of wind sweeps across the hilltop. It
feels for all the world like an icy hand on my back pushing me
towards home, and I’m reminded of a day from my childhood
when I’d felt my father’s palm between my shoulder blades as
he guided me away from my ma’s grave. “Mourning won’t fix
nothing,” he’d said. “And there’s chores waiting.”
“Bye, Pa.” I whisper my final words to the man who raised
me rough in the valley, leaving him to the slow work of
nourishing the soil. Charity and Zed trail silently after me and I
don’t have to look back to know what expressions they’re
wearing. Charity’s thin mouth a grim line of disappointment.
Zed’s bushy eyebrows knitted beneath his furrowed brow. Both
share the same thought: How much longer can they risk
association with the Fallen Woman of Drake’s Pass? They had
an excuse when Pa was alive. He was practically kin. But now?
I’d been alone with Pa when he’d passed. I’d cleaned his
body. I’d even wrestled it into the casket I’d bought when he
became unable to swallow water. What few folks knew he’d
taken ill came around to check on him daily. Pa hadn’t even
gone stiff when Rev. Stillwater stopped by to visit.
“He was a good man,” the preacher had said. I’d not looked
up from where I was tying a piece of cloth across the top of pa’s
head to hold his mouth shut. I wanted him presentable for the
wake that started just after dark. We hadn’t had visitors since I
could remember but by evening the house was full of people
standing around talking to each other but not to me.
This morning I had the men load Pa’s coffin into his
buckboard – my buckboard now – and had driven it up the
wind-whipped hill myself to where the open grave waited. Zed
and a few others hauled the coffin to the top and we all stood
around as Reverend Stillwater hastened through his perfunctory
verses and promises of a hereafter with streets of gold. He’d
raised his voice above the wind to emphasize that this reward
was only available to good Christians or repentant ones. That
was the only time he’d laid eyes on me during the short service.
“Good boy, Charlie.” The horse has been waiting patiently
for me, his eyes trained on the gravesite. Folks say animals are
dumb, but I’m sure of two things – Charlie knows Pa is dead
and Charlie will miss him more than I will. For the past two
weeks the big bay gelding has looked past me to the barn door
at feeding time as if waiting to the person who fed him these
past seven years to show up. A couple of times he craned his
neck out of the stall and nickered loudly towards the house. If
anything was going to make me cry through all this, that would
have been it. But I held it together and will keep on holding it
together.
Zed tips his hat to me as he helps Charity into their wagon.
We head off in different directions, them down deeper into the
valley and me towards a narrow road that doglegs to the farm
with its enviable flat meadow, sparkling creek and house that
always needs repair.
The barn is in better shape because pa always said livestock
comes first since we rely on them more than they rely on us. It’s
not that the sheep or cows would freeze to death in the snow;
they don’t mind the weather. But come nightfall predators stalk
down from the hills. Without the safety of a barn, come morning
you find blood and drag marks where your best market calf once
stood.
The afternoon is dark, and it’s not just because the sun is
setting early. The clouds are getting thick and the air smells like
snow. We had an unusual warm spell this past week, which
made it possible for the men to dig pa’s grave. If he’d hung on a
few more days his body would have had to sit in the barn like
Hank Reeves’ did that one winter when the ground stayed
frozen solid for three months straight.
I pull Charlie to a halt and steady the oil lantern hanging
from a pole on the side of the wagon seat. I don’t need light to
see by, but the gray feels like it’s pressing in and there’s
something about a lit lantern that settles me. I’m careful to strike
the match between gusts so as not to lose it the fire. The wick
catches right away. I shut the little glass door and watch the
lantern fill with a soft halo of light.
I think back to a time when I was innocent, remembering my
mother’s slim white hands lighting this same lantern before
opening the book she’d bought with her from the old country. I
remember her reading to me in a language I had just started to
learn in secret. I remember my father coming in to demand she
speak English before striking her across the face. I remember
how she didn’t cry, didn’t acknowledge the blow, how she
waited until he left the room before continuing in the tongue
that was not her own.
 “Come on, Charlie.” I flick the reins and the buckboard
lurches forward, the lantern swaying as we head towards home.
***
I knew I smelled snow. I didn’t know I was smelling a
blizzard until I woke up in the middle of the night with the
storm screaming as it pushed icy fingers through the cracks in
my walls. The first downy flakes had begun to fall as I cut what
I figured would be enough wood to make it until morning. By
midnight I wasn’t sure I’d cut enough. There was more maple
than oak in my firewood stash and it burned a lot quicker. I piled
blankets and pillows directly in front of the stove since that was
the only warm place in the house. Rufus, my big farm dog,
settled on my feet, thumping his tail against the wood floor.
I woke to cold gray light spilling through a window framed
with a thick layer of ice crystals. In the fireplace, coals
smoldered in a bed of surrounding ash. I added the last, large
piece of oak and teased the embers to a blaze before wrapping
myself in blankets and shuffling to the kitchen. I felt stiff and
end-of-day tired even though it was daybreak. The little bucket
of water I’d drawn for morning use was slushy with ice. I
dipped some into a kettle. Rufus was up and stretching as I
made my way back to the stove. He whined when I leaned down
to ruffle the fur on his head. He sat patiently watching as I
unwrapped some salt pork and biscuits from the day before.
Both were rock hard, but Rufus didn’t mind. I nibbled my
breakfast as I watched my dog eat what would have been Pa’s
breakfast if he was still here.
Charity told me when news got out about Pa’s illness, folks
started laying bets on how long I’d last up here. But one man
didn’t have the decency to wait before trying to cash in on my
misfortune. Silas McCreed showed up at my door just two days
after I found Pa slumped in his chair with one boot on, the left
side of his face limp and drooping like it was trying to slide off
his head, his left arm and leg hanging heavy and useless.
There was no mystery as to how McCreed found out so fast.
Homer Perkins had stopped by the day before to deliver some
corn he owed Pa. When I told him what happened, he left the
corn on the porch and headed to town to fetch back the doctor.
By morning, every soul in Drake’s Pass knew that Clem Alton
had struck down with apoplexy.
Silas McCreed didn’t mince words. He addressed me in a
tone so cool butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth. I was a
smart woman, he said, if not a moral one. He told me what I
already knew - that he’d offered to buy the farm from Pa several
times. With Pa gone, I was free to sell out. What did I need with
a farm anyway? he asked. If I sold to him, he’d do right by me.
He’d give me enough money to leave Drake’s Pass for the city
which – from what he heard – was better suited for a woman
like me. Now wouldn’t it be nice for me to start over where
nobody knew me? Somewhere I could be accepted?
There was triumph in his eyes as he glanced through the
doorway into the bedroom where my father lay tucked under a
quilt, drool running from his crooked mouth. At the sound of
Silas’ voice, he’d gurgled and groaned, and I knew then that he
wasn’t completely gone. Not yet.
I told Silas that if I was going to sell the farm it wouldn’t be
to some vulture come to circle my dying father. The slick smile
instantly faded.
“I didn’t figure a daughter who shamed her father the way
you shamed Clem would care so much,” he’d said coldly. “If
you think hanging onto your pa’s farm will redeem you, you’re
mistaken. Did you ever stop to think that maybe the shame of
what you did caused this, Grace? What if your pa’s suffering is
God’s punishment for your whoring ways?”
My pa had groaned again with what could have been outrage
or agreement.
The sound had made Silas smile. “I could tell you stories
about what the folks in town say about you, and how your Pa
never took up for you even once.”
“You don’t have to.” I’d stood up. “And don’t think you can
rile me up enough to sell the farm just to spite Pa. The way I see
it, revenge is wasted on the dead, and he’s as good as gone.”
Pa groaned again but I ignored it, keeping my eyes on
McCreed.
“I have no interest in moving,” I continued. “I have no interest
in being accepted, either, whether it’s by the people of Drake’s
Pass or anywhere else. We all get what we deserve, Mr.
McCreed. I know Pa didn’t care about me. He didn’t care about
my mama, either. Maybe God is showing him what it finally
feels like to be helpless. You have always gotten whatever you
wanted. Maybe God is showing you it doesn’t always work that
way. Maybe I deserve to be alone and what better place than my
own house?” I’d walked to the door then and opened it. “Get
out.”
He’d risen from his chair, brushing off his expensive suit
like my very presence had left it dirty. I didn’t flinch, didn’t
speak. I just held the door. At the threshold he’d stopped.
“Little whore,” he said, putting on his hat. “We’ll have this
conversation again soon enough, only next time you’ll be
coming to me. And when you do, you’ll be begging me to take
your farm.” He looked me up and down. “You may beg me to
take more than that.”
“I’ll never be that desperate,” I’d said, and maybe it was my
tone or the general tension, but Rufus up and growled at
McCreed, who decided it was time to finally leave.
Once McCreed was gone, I’d knelt and hugged Rufus.
Animals are better than people and always will be. My
neighbors may have abandoned me, but Rufus is my sidekick.
He knew what I needed that day, and he knows what I need this
morning as we trudge through the snow on the way to the barn.
It’s slow going; the thick powder is up to my thighs. Rufus leaps
ahead of me, pounding a path for me to walk.
Getting into the barn is a chore. My fingers are numb by the
time I’m able to push away the snow blocking the door and
swing it open. I’m met by a waft of warm air scented with the
smell of hay, manure, and lanolin. I breathe it in, these natural
earthy smells that I never really appreciated until enduring the
stench of the city with its smoke and sewers and stale sweat
generated by too many people too close together.
Looking at the hay stores makes me feel a little less
impoverished. If there’s one single blessing from this past year
of pain, it’s the hay harvest. There’s more than enough thanks to
the flat meadow with its rich soil. My acres of land yield enough
to graze the sheep and produce what the animals will need for
the winter.
The sheep are bleating at me from the side of the barn where
they are housed in pens facing inward towards a narrow alley
where I toss hay. Thirty ewes push their necks between the
board fencing as they begin eating. One ewe in a separate pen
isn’t interested in the food. She’s pawing and pacing and Rufus
notices her the same time I do. He runs over, his head and tail
low and drops down on the ground, eyeing her hard.
“Already, girl?” I ask, climbing into the pen. The ewe’s
flight instinct kicks in and she throws herself against the railing.
I shush her as I kneel, my hands finding her warm, swollen
udder. I look under her tail. Her swollen vulva is slick with
mucus. I press against her side. Through the thick wool I feel
the force of her contraction. Her lambs are on the way.
I have time to feed the cows before playing midwife. I give
Greta her grain and hay before feeding Blue, the young bullock
Pa bought last year to breed Greta next fall. Rufus barks just as I
get the cows settled and I rush back over to where he’s standing
sentinel by the laboring ewe. The first lamb’s head is emerging,
the pale pink tips of its soft hooves framing the slick white face.
The ewe moves around, arching her back until she finds the
position for her next push. The head slides the rest of the way
out. She bleats in protest of her condition but beyond that
doesn’t object.
It was my mother who taught me how to deliver lambs, how
to recognize the signs that the ewe needed intervention and what
to do if she did. This first birth proceeds beautifully. Two pushes
and the lamb, slick as an eel, slides from the ewe to flop
unceremoniously onto the floor, the impact shocking its first
breath from its lungs. I step in and rub it down with straw until
it breathes again and lets out a little cough. Its mom turns,
speaking to it in the language of sheep as she licks its face.
The next lamb is larger. I’m overcome by a sense of dread
when I see just the large muzzle and no feet. The ewe’s
contractions are fast and hard. Her body is struggling to evict
the baby, but it won’t move forward.
 “Steady…” I corner her and reach in, my hand moving
along the lamb’s neck to its left front foreleg that’s folded back
at an angle. The ewe screams as I grasp the lamb’s knee and
bring the leg forward. I do the same on the other side and kneel,
keeping traction on the feet so the lamb doesn’t slip back inside.
This time with each push, I gently pull downward, and the big
ram lamb eventually slips out to join his sister on the straw. I
rub this one down, too, and when there’s no response I stand and
lift the lamb by his back legs, slapping him hard on his sides
until he takes his first breath.
With two healthy lambs safe on the ground, I let my head
fall back and close my eyes. I gave up praying after Ma died,
but I still send thanks when it’s due and offer them up just in
case someone is listening. I look around the barn. Thirty more
ewes. Thirty more births. Not all will be easy. My arms are
caked with blood and birthing fluid that will congeal in the cold.
I need a bath, but that will mean first chopping wood, feeding
the fire, hauling in the tub and melting bucket after bucket of
snow into warm water for bathing.
I think of the city, of the small rooms warmed by heat drawn
through pipes and hot water that filled tubs in minutes. You
could have that again, an inner voice whispers. But I know the
price that comes with the promise of a life of ease and comfort.
I’ll work myself into the very ground of this farm before I’ll rely
on another person.
 Sawyer

The man in the oversized coat doesn’t know I’m watching

him. He thinks I’m asleep, but I’m not. The best I can do is rest
where I sit wedged between two other men who smell worse
than the empty livestock car heading towards the coal mines and
the steady paycheck they promise.
My hat is pulled down over my face, but beneath the rim I
can see the man in the big coat edging closer to the Chinese boy
who can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. He was coughing
when we boarded the train and for the last two hours has been
lying on his side, his legs tucked up, like a baby. The pocket of
his loose-fitting pants is gaping slightly and the man in the coat
is focused - cat-like - on the contents. He edges closer, his
tongue darting out to brush his cracked lips. When he’s a couple
of feet away from the boy he reaches out, preparing to pick his
pocket.
“Hey!” I call out loud enough to startle the men around me.
The would-be thief locks eyes with me. “Leave him be.” I nod
at the boy.
“This ain’t your business,” he growls.
“Yeah?” I get to my feet. “And whatever’s in that boy’s
pocket isn’t yours.”
The boy wakes up, his eyes widening as he sees the other
man standing over him. The boy rolls over on his back and
scoots away. The thief is angry, but not stupid. He’s a big man,
but I’m bigger. And younger. He mumbles something under his
breath and turns away.
I feel sorry for the boy now huddling in a corner with his
hands stuffed in his pocket to protect his treasure. As much as I
hate to think about it, by nightfall he’ll be robbed or worse.
Every man on this train is here because he’s desperate –
desperate enough to swap sunlight and clean air for eighteen
hours a day underground, desperate enough to walk into a tunnel
knowing how quickly they can become tombs.
“Tommyknockers, them’s what causes cave-ins.” The older
man who struck up a conversation with me when I first boarded
the train spoke with an air of authority. He said he’d worked the
mines in Pennsylvania before deciding to come to West
Virginia. He said some thought the Tommyknockers were the
ghosts of dead miners who just wanted more company in the
afterlife, but he had a different theory. “Look at those
mountains,” he’d said, gesturing through the slats in the train
car. They look like giants, like living things. Don’t they, kinda?
You can’t just gut them without disturbing something down
deep inside, without waking something up. He said survivors
reported hearing tapping before a collapse. “The
Tommyknockers. They give you a warning, give you time. If
you hear that, you drop your pick and you scoot. There’s no
mercy for the stubborn. You can get another job. You can’t get
another life.”
I didn’t offer my opinion on his story. I didn’t tell him that if
spirits were real and vengeful, one would have already come for
me. Besides, if ghosts are real, they’re just a reflection of the
person they were. Joe Boggs was a lazy drunk who couldn’t find
his ass with both hands. I can’t imagine him crawling from his
grave to follow me this far east.
The train picks up pace as it comes down the mountain. The
car sways side to side and I sit back down. Through the slats I
catch sight of modest houses and barns, horses and cows. The
train starts to slow. The buildings are closer together now.
Once the train chugs to a stop, we all get to our feet, eager to
escape the stench and breathe our first fresh air in days. When
the door finally swings open, we squint against the bright light.
There’s no warmth in it, though. Spring may be close but winter
isn’t ready to leave judging by the chill.
I wait patiently until it’s my turn to hop down. The drop is
only three feet, but it feels like ten. I stretch legs grown stiff
from long hours and little movement. Drake’s Pass is narrow,
the buildings built precariously close to the mountains. The
railroad tracks run right beside the muddy street where horses
struggle to pull carts heading away from a nearby mill. There’s a
jail, a mercantile, a boarding house, and a doctor’s office.
Further up the street is a newer building – McCreed’s Mining
Company. We make our way there now, hoping the
advertisement that drew us wasn’t a false promise. Silas
McCreed, the owner, is a relative newcomer to the mining
industry - a rich man intent on getting richer.
Two men exit the building and stand on the porch clutching
their lapels, like lords surveying a bunch of serfs. It’s clear that
any interaction will be done out here and not inside. I move to
the back of the crowd.
“Gentlemen!” A tall, thin man of about thirty-five steps
forward. His well-groomed moustache, bowler hat, and spotless
suit puts him in stark contrast to those who’ve come to stand in
his presence. “Welcome to Drake’s Pass. My name is Silas
McCreed and I’m the owner of the McCreed Mining Company.
I assume you’ve all come looking for the same thing – honest
pay for honest work.” He points to the mountain looming where
the road out of town disappears in the distance. “That’s Hawk’s
Head Mountain. For the past year my men have been blasting a
tunnel into its bowels and there are tons of coal ready to be
hauled out. I might be new to mining, but with your help I plan
to make McCreed a well-known name in the coal industry and
you? You’ll be sharing in the wealth and glory of this journey”
I look around. Are the other men buying this? Younger men
look towards McCreed with hope, older ones with the cynicism
that comes with nearly killing yourself to bring glory to men
like this. But what choice do they have? What choice do I have,
even if my circumstances are a lot different?
A crowd has turned out to gawk at us newcomers. I notice a
woman on the periphery. She sticks out like a sore thumb not
just because she’s dressed like a man in breeches, a checked
shirt, boots, and a coat that looks about three sizes too big for
her. It’s her expression that gets my attention. She’s looking at
McCreed with a hatred I can feel from here.
McCreed is still talking. He’s telling us that the company
will provide housing and will soon finish construction on a
company store where we can buy anything we need. When a
grumble arises from the crowd at this statement, McCreed raises
his hands. He assures the men that this store won’t be run like
stores owned by rival mining companies. He vows he won’t put
his workers in debt. The men don’t look convinced. They
exchange glances, whisper among themselves. But McCreed
knows what we all do – that even if this is all lies, we’ve come
too far to turn back. Most of the men couldn’t afford to leave
even if they wanted to. The talk is designed to send us into the
mines with hope. Can I really blame the men around me who
want to believe they’ve done the right thing by coming here?
“If this sounds like something you want, just line up here
and we’ll get you signed on,” McCreed says.
I end up at the back of the crowd behind the would-be
robber from the train. A table has been set up at the front of the
building. The sun which has been ducking in and out of clouds
since we arrived has disappeared. The would-be robber stomps
his feet to keep warm. There are holes in his boots.
I notice that Silas McCreed isn’t doing the hiring. He’s
walked down off the porch and is moving around the line,
eyeing us the way a buyer might eye livestock. I assume he’s
looking for weakness so he can decide ahead of time who won’t
make the cut. Judging by the other men I don’t have anything to
worry about.
The woman is still there, still watching along with some
other men. I wonder why they’re here. She’s closer now and I
get a better look at her. She has honey-brown hair and a pretty
face. But there’s no softness in it. The other men give her a wide
berth, maybe because despite her small size she looks like she
could fight a man and win.
After an hour, the line is only ten deep now. I’m glad
because I’m starting to get hungry. I’ve didn’t bring a lot of
money but I have enough to get me to the last place anyone
would look for me, enough to put myself up at a boarding house
for a bit, enough for hot meals, enough to last until pay kicks in
good. Enough to take me somewhere else if I have to go.
“Hey! Hey, what about us?” The would-be-robber is
shouting to the man doing the hiring, who’s leaving with his
book.
Silas McCreed hops back up on the porch. “Folks, folks…if
I could just get your attention. We’ve hired all the men we need.
We may need more, but for now hiring is done!”
A grumble erupts among the few of us who are left. “You
said you needed lots of workers!”
“And we do. We do. But more men showed up than I need
right now! I can’t help that!” When the men around me start
yelling, McCreed holds his hands up. “I’m not the only one
looking for workers, folks. The livery stable is hiring. So is the
mill. Try there.”
The objections continue but McCreed has retreated to the
safety of his office, and I’m left dumbfounded. Even though
there were a lot of men ahead of me, every one of them was
smaller. Why would I get passed over? Maybe the ghost of Joe
Boggs did follow me east to curse my chances.
“This is bullshit.” A red-faced man still clutching a company
flier walks past, jerking a thumb towards the mining office.
“Bullshit.”
I just tip my hat at him. I’m disappointed, too, but I’m not
going to waste energy on it. I look down the road towards the
mill. That hot meal and bath will have to wait. I start walking.
And then I see her again. The woman. She’s walking towards
me, well, stomping is more like it. She moves directly into my
path.
“Hey,” she says. “You headed to the mill?”
I stare down at her. “Yes ma’am. That’s the plan.” It feels
strange to call her ma’am. She looks younger now that I’m
seeing her close up, but she doesn’t correct me.
“You don’t want to work at the mill.”
“No?”
 “No.”
I tip my hat back. “And why is that ma’am?”
“Because the mill owner is a drunk and always in debt. He’s
always hiring because he can’t keep help.”
“That so?”
“It is.”
I motion to the group of other men that are walking in the
same direction. “You want to warn them, too?”
“Nope.” She doesn’t even acknowledge the others. “I’m
only interested in you.” She crosses her arms. “My family needs
a farm hand. If you’re looking for work, we can’t offer you as
much as McCreed, but in addition to what we pay we can
guarantee you a share of the profit come time to sell lambs and
cattle and corn.”
I smile down at her. “Is that so?”
“That’s the second time you said that to me. What? You
think I’m playing a game?” She looks towards the mining
company. Silas McCreed is back on the porch. She glares in his
direction then turns back to me. Her voice is earnest as she
continues. “We’ll also provide you free room and board and
meals.”
She glances back towards McCreed and this time when she
looks back at me the toughness in her eyes is replaced by
desperation. I’m full of questions; why would her family send
her out to find a farm hand? Wouldn’t a brother have been a
better choice? Her face is wind-burned and her hands calloused.
What kind of shape is this farm in if a girl like this is working so
hard? The refusal sits in my mouth, ready to be spoken, but
something stops me. The woman before me is trying her best to
look aloof, but she’s not. She’s in dire straits and something
about her…
“Alright,” I say. “I can’t guarantee how long I’ll stay, but I’ll
commit to two weeks to start.”
“That’s fair,” she says. “Come on.”
She turns and heads towards a buckboard hitched in front of
the boarding house. I glance back towards the mining company.
Silas McCreed smirks in my direction before heading back
inside.
***
“What’s your name?” she asks. We’ve been traveling for
about ten minutes before she speaks to me.
“Sawyer Blaine. What’s yours?”
“Grace Alton.”
“Well, Grace Alton. If you don’t mind my saying, it strikes
me as unusual for your family to send a young lady dressed as a
man out to do a man’s work.”
Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t look at me as she replies.
“Folks live differently out here,” she says, flicking the reins.
The horse tosses its head and moves into a rapid trot. The
wagon bumps along the rutted road making too much noise for
conversation to continue. I hold on tight as the buckboard takes
a turn leading through a patch of woods. Wind whips through
trees on either side. The woods are dark and deep, but the
clearing we eventually come into is as pleasant a sight as I’ve
ever seen, and I can imagine in the spring how this unusually
flat field would sit like a bowl of green in the circle of
mountains.
The barn is big and sturdy. The farmhouse is small and has
seen better days. Sheep bleat in greeting, bounding up to the
fence edge as we pass. A dairy cow raises her head from a
trough of water, her expression curious. I survey the farm,
looking for the rest of her family, but I don’t see anyone.
Grace guides the wagon to the barn and gets out. I hop
down, too. Grace doesn’t say anything as she unharnesses the
horse and leads him into the barn. I follow. He stands in the
aisle, hoof cocked lazily and puts his head down as she removes
his bridle. The collar follows, along with the rest of the harness
which she lays over a stall door. There are quite a few stalls. I
assume there were more horses at some point.
“Mr. Blaine,” she says. “I need to be straight with you. I
wasn’t exactly honest back there in town.” She hesitates,
choosing her words. “I don’t have a family. My Pa died a couple
of months back. There was just me and him so I’m alone. A lot
of townsfolk don’t approve of a woman running a farm up here
all by her lonesome. I figured I could do it by myself, but I was
wrong. I need help.”
“You could have just told me this in town. So why didn’t
you?”
“Because you might have been like them. You might have
said no.”
“What makes you think I won’t say no now?”
Grace crosses her arms. “Well, I figured you wouldn’t want
to walk all the way back after riding on that train all day. You’re
bound to be hungry. Figured if I fed you and showed you where
you’d be sleeping, you’d realize I’d do right by you. But I had
to get you here first.”
I let what she says sink in.
“Okay, Miss Grace,” I say slowly. My mind drifts back to
the pickpocket, the mean look in his eyes as he moved in to rob
the helpless Chinese boy. “And what would you have done all
alone out here if I’d been the kind of man who wasn’t interested
in doing right by you?” I move towards her until her eyes go
from bold to nervous and she backs away. “What would you
have done if I was one of those men who’d gotten off that train
as interested in finding the nearest whorehouse as he was in
finding a job, huh? What then?” I take another step towards her.
She reaches under her coat and pulls out a gun. She’s fast, but
I’m fast her. I catch her wrist and slam it against the wall. She
yelps and the revolver tumbles to the dirt floor.
She’s even bolder than I thought. Bolder, but more reckless.
And smaller. Under the coat the body I’m pressing against the
boards is thin. The wrist I’m holding is delicate. I could crush it
with little effort.
“Are you?” she asks. Her throat pulses as she swallows
nervously. She is looking at the floor and I know it’s because
she’s afraid to look at my face and see she misjudged me, that
she’ll find me looking at her with lust. But she wouldn’t. I don’t
want to fuck her. What I want to do is put her over my knee and
spank her ass for putting herself in danger. I don’t say this,
though.
 “No.” I slowly release her and lean down to retrieve the gun.
“I’m keeping this, by the way. For now.” I open the chamber to
find it empty. She turns beet red as I raise my eyebrows.
“I thought it was loaded still. It was in Pa’s drawer where he
left it before he died.”
I sigh and shake my head. “I’m not going to lecture you on
what you just did. What I am going to do is put this horse of
yours in a stall and then go wash up. You got water?”
“Yeah. There’s a pump in the kitchen.”
“Think you can draw some up and heat it for me? And fix
some food? While we eat you can tell me what needs to be done
around here. I’ll stay the two weeks. After that we’ll just decide
from there. That sound okay to you?”
She takes a few steps away from me, nods, and turns to the
house without a word.
 Grace

It’s all I can do to keep from running from the barn. Once
inside the house, I lean my back against the shut door and try to
slow my breathing. I’m shaking with anger. For a moment,
Sawyer Blaine made me think I’d made a terrible mistake in
bringing him here. I know it was meant to be a lesson, but I
didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one little bit.
I brought him here to be a hired hand. He’s supposed to
answer to me, even if I was less than honest. In my mind, the
whole thing was supposed to play out differently. I knew I
wouldn’t be able to hide the truth of my situation, but figured
once we were here, I’d just lay it out to him – cool as a
cucumber – and he’d stay on because he needed the work.
Instead, he’d made me feel like an errant child and it stings.
When Pa died, I told myself I’d never answer to another man
again but standing in that barn with him looking down on me
made me feel like a little girl facing an adult.
I wish I could go out there and fire Sawyer Blaine for
insolence, tell him to just walk on back to town, that his services
aren’t needed. But the truth is I do need his services. I need his
strength. It’s taken two months of almost killing myself to make
me admit that I need someone to help me do the things I can’t
do for myself. I need someone to cut up the tree that fell two
weeks ago and now threatens to dam up the creek. I need
someone to repair the roof on the house. I need someone to dig
up stumps in the lower field. I need someone who can turn one
of the young bulls into a steer to fatten for market.
 I knew men would be coming to Drake’s Pass to hire on
with the mine. I’d been picking up feed at the mill when I
overheard that there would be more applying than could be
hired. The idea of bringing a man here made me feel like a
failure, and the night before I went to town I had sat on the floor
and cried as I’d looked at the calloused hands that were failing
me.
My father never loved me. The only thing of value I’d ever
gotten from him was this farm. Another man I thought loved me
had betrayed me. The only thing I’d gotten from him was the
resolve to never trust again. But there I was, finally forced to
face the truth. I couldn’t rely on the townspeople for help. Even
if my reputation hadn’t made me a pariah, once word was out
that Silas McCreed wanted my land no one would lift a finger to
help me hang on to it. I could see his smirk yesterday. It was the
same smirk he wore the day I rejected his offer. He already
considered my farm good as his. I guess he didn’t figure on me
hiring from outside. He probably thinks I can’t afford it, but I
found some money Pa had tucked away and while it’s not much,
it was enough to hire help, at least for a little while. I told
myself it’s just a necessary part of doing business. It’s no
different than needing a horse. I can’t pull a wagon. Getting a
horse to do it doesn’t make me weak.
I smooth my hands on my pants as I pull my thoughts back
to the present. I have an employee now, and he needs food. Food
and hot water. I see to the water first, priming the pump using
water from the pail on the floor. Once the water runs clear, I
pump more into a large metal bowl and carry it carefully to the
stove where I manage to set it down without sloshing. The fire
has long been out. I build another one, teasing a warm blaze
from twigs and coals before adding wood. While the water
boils, I prepare the food. I unwrap the loaf of bread I baked this
morning and place it on the table along with some salted ham.
In the pantry I survey my stock of canned food and reach for a
jar of apples I put up last fall. I pour them into a pan and heat
them until they are warm and bubbling. My small house is
fragrant when Sawyer walks in.
Seeing him standing in my doorway triggers a flashback of a
day two years ago, one much warmer than this one. I recall Pa
rising from his chair to open the door for the young solicitor
who’d come to inform him of some money he’d inherited from
an elderly aunt. I’d been wearing a flowered dress. My hair was
piled high on my head. There was sweat on my brow, and I
remember wondering why this well-dressed gentleman was
staring so hard at me given the state I was in, why there was
such appreciation in his eyes. It had made me feel flushed – the
first of many feelings I’d have for the fellow I wish I’d never
met.
I force the memory aside. Sawyer doesn’t look at me like
that. His nod is respectful as he walks in. He thanks me for
warming the water and rolls up his sleeves as he stands over the
bowl warming on the stove. He’s a big man. His forearms are
well-muscled and corded with veins. His hands are large and
calloused. I go to fetch the plates.
“What happened to your pa?” he asks.
The sound of his voice startles me. The dishes rattle in my
hands.
“Apoplexy.” I walk over to the table and set out the plates
and cups. “I came in to find him slumped in that chair yonder.” I
nod to what had been Pa’s favorite seat in the house. “As soon
as I saw him, I knew he wouldn’t be long for this world.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be.” The words sound harsh, even to me. But I mean
them.
Sawyer picks up a towel. He dries his arms, looking at me in
a thoughtful way that makes me feel unsettled. His silence
demands an explanation he doesn’t deserve, but one I can’t help
but give.
“He didn’t love me,” I say.
“That’s a shame.” He tosses aside the towel. “I was always
told girls were the apples of their daddies’ eyes.”
“Not if they’re rotten.” I speak the words quietly, but
Sawyer must have strong ears because I can tell he heard. He
continues to study me like I’m a book he wants to read. I don’t
like it.
 “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stare at me like that. “I pick
up a knife and begin cutting a thick slab of bread. “I’d also
appreciate you remembering your place around here, Mr.
Blaine.” I raise my eyes to his. “You’re a hired hand. That’s it.
Even if it’s for two weeks you work for me. That means I’m in
charge. That means you don’t talk to me like you talked to me
out there in the barn, understand?”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something, waiting
for him to blow up or laugh or leave. But Sawyer doesn’t do
anything. He doesn’t even smirk.
“Yes ma’am.” There’s no sarcasm in his voice. He reaches
up and takes his hat off and puts it down on the table beside his
plate. The chair scrapes across the floor as he pulls it back and
sits down. I take his plate and pile it high with the food I’ve
prepared. He watches in silence and when I put the plate in front
of him, he thanks me as polite as can be. I fix my own plate and
sit across from him. We eat in silence for a few moments before
I clear my throat.
“So where do you come from?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine. They are a light gray and stand out
against the sun-bronzed skin of his face. For a moment I wonder
if he’s going to answer me.
“Kansas.” He’s finished his ham and stewed apples and is
swirling the hard crust of bread in the drippings on his plate.
“Are there coal mines in Kansas?”
“Yes ma’am. In the southeast section. I never worked coal,
though.”
“But you came here to work in a mine?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“So, what did you do in Kansas?”
“Worked the family farm on land as flat as this table. Raised
cattle, wheat, sorghum…” He looks out the window as if he’s
seeing what he’s talking about instead of my small holding with
a few cows and a flock of sheep.
I wait for him to go on. He doesn’t. I look at his plate. He’s a
big man. I haven’t given him enough. I ask him if he’d like
more food.
“If you can spare it, I’d be mighty grateful.”
I take his plate and cut another slab of ham and dish up the
last of the stewed apples. I cut another slice of bread, thicker
this time. I return the plate, taking mental stock of what I have
in the larder and fretting that it may not be enough for someone
who eats so much. He thanks me.
“Why did you leave Kansas? Are you in some kind of
trouble?”
I wait for him to state the obvious, that I should have already
asked him these things. He doesn’t. He just shakes his head.
“Ma’am, if you’re wondering if I’m a danger to you, I’m not. If
you’re wondering whether I’m dangerous in general, I’ll tell you
that I’m not above using force to protect those who need
protecting. Given that you don’t like me looking too hard at you,
I’m going to ask that you show me the same respect. Think you
can do that?”
I color up, realizing that I was staring at him as boldly as
he’d stared at me. I feel myself bristle, but what can I say? I
need him. He knows it. I return to my food and for the rest of
the meal I avoid looking at the man across from me. You’re in
charge, I tell myself again. You’ve got the upper hand. So why
doesn’t it feel that way?
 Sawyer

My first night at the Alton farm brings heavy snow. In

Kansas you can see the storm before it gets to you. Here the
wind and clouds hide behind the mountains and are on you
before you know they’re coming.
“I need to cut firewood,” Grace frets. She sits down and
pulls on her boots. I can’t help but notice they’re as worn as her
coat and gloves.
“I’ll cut it,” I say.
“No.” She glares up at me and although she told me not to
stare, I allow my gaze to linger on her for a moment longer than
I should. Even with her blue eyes narrowed in anger she’s pretty
with her sharp little chin and smattering of freckles across her
high cheekbones and the bridge of her pert nose. Her thick hair
is plaited in a single thick braid that hangs over her right
shoulder. Only when I start wondering what it would look like
undone do I finally look away.
“Ma’am, did you hire me to work, or did you hire me to
argue with you about working?” I pull on my coat.
“I’m not a ma’am.” She corrects me as she jerks the
shoelace of her boot. It breaks in her hand, and she mutters a
curse under her breath. “It’s Miss. I’ve never been married and
never will be.”
“All right then,” I continue. “Miss…I can chop twice as
much as you can before nightfall. There’s a whole tree needs to
be chopped up, remember?”
After we ate, I went out and took stock of what needed to be
done around the farm. The priority was a big dead oak tree
leaning towards the barn. How it hadn’t already fallen seemed
like a miracle. It was just one of several neglected chores that
made me believe this farm was in decline long before Grace’s
father died.
“You got any putty?” When she nods, I stand up. “Good.
Why don’t you use it to patch some of these gaps in the wall
while I get up that firewood?”
I’m out the door before she can object or remind me who’s
in charge. I don’t know what happened to Grace Alton, but I
know a wounded soul when I see one. I saw the same hurt in my
Mama’s eyes – saw it until I was big enough to do something
about it. But by then, even without the man who put her through
hell, she was just the shell of the happy person she used to be,
and I’ve prayed every day since I left that she’d find the peace
Joe Boggs stole from her.
Grace is awfully young to be carrying the kind of hurt that’s
made her this scared and angry. She’s like a kitten trapped in a
hole. She needs help but can’t stop spitting and showing her
claws. Most men would have headed back to town after she fed
them – some of them using her own horse for good measure.
I’m not like most men. I want to help her fix things, but I know
it’s going to be a fight because the deeper part of me – the part
driven to protect those who need it – wants to fix her, too. But
those claws seem awful sharp…
Was her father responsible for her pain? Was she among the
things he neglected before he died? There are signs that Grace
has been trying hard to fix what she can. There’s a pile of rough-
cut boards by the barn. She’s used some of them to replace
busted fencing. I imagine her hauling the heavy planks, one by
one, through frost-sheathed grass and struggling to hold them as
she hammered them in place. They aren’t straight, but she’s
been getting the job done. Unfortunately, it’s in competition
with other chores that need daily attention.
The animals are obviously a priority. They’re well-fed and
gentle in the way animals are when someone pays attention to
them. The trough in the barn is full of clear water she’s hauled
from the creek. That alone must take a good part of her day, but
her attention will pay off when the market lambs are born.
The wind is biting as I take my axe to the fallen oak. I work
fast, and the cut wood piles up as ice begins pelting my face.
Grace appears at my side and begins gathering the firewood.
The top of her boot is gaped open where the string broke. Her
coat is thin and patched. I want to tell her to go back inside and
get warm, but I know she won’t listen. I keep cutting. She keeps
hauling wood. The wind begins to blow; the ice stings my face
like needles. On one of her return trips, I see she’s added an old
shawl over her coat. She clutches it tightly against her body as
she kneels to gather more wood. Even with the extra layers she’s
shaking. I want to offer her my coat, but I know if I tried, she’d
refuse. As darkness falls, I’ve cut enough to get us through
several days, no matter how cold. I help her in gathering the rest
of the wood.
By the time we’re finished, firewood is stacked to the
ceiling of Grace’s front porch. Through the window I can see
the glow of the fire she’s built. With all its flaws, the little house
looks like a cozy haven. It beckons me, but I don’t want to
presume I’m welcome.
“I can sleep in the barn, Miss, but I’ll need blankets if you
have them.”
She looks towards the barn, absently picking at the sleeve of
her threadbare coat. By making the offer, I’m shouldering any
discomfort she’d feel for forbidding me a room in her house.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Blaine. You’ll take my
father’s room provided you don’t mind sleeping in a man’s
deathbed.” She crosses her arm. “But only until the weather
breaks.”
“Of course.” I nod, grateful for the consideration. I follow
her into the house. She’s still shaking; little pellets of ice cover
her shawl. She shrugs it off and hangs it on the back of the chair
by the stove as I feed the fire with several pieces of good, dry
oak. I remove my hat and hang it along with my heavy coat on a
peg by the door.
 Grace walks to the window and looks out. “I don’t think the
wind has ever howled like this.” She pauses. “Thanks for cutting
the tree down. I hate to think of what would have happened if it
had fallen.”
“Well, now you won’t have to. And you’ll have a warm
house to sleep in.” I look around, nodding at putty stuffed in one
of the gaps. “That’ll help.”
She sighs. “Needs more than putty, though. Needs a lot.”
A strand of hair has fallen across her face. I clench my fist
against the desire to smooth it back, to rub the pad of my thumb
across the full lower lip that’s still dark from cold. “Maybe you
can work on fixing up the house now that you’ve got help for
the bigger problems.”
She scoffs at this. “I can’t. What needs fixing takes money I
can’t afford to spend. What I’ve got is going to pay you.”
I think of the money in my own pocket. I don’t need hers as
much as she thinks I do. “Miss Grace, board and food will suit
me just fine until you can pay me out of the profits come
spring.”
“What if something happens. What if I don’t have a profit?”
“You will,” I say. “I’m not worried. There’s a lot of folks in
Drake’s Pass. You’ll have a good market for your crops and
your lambs.”
Grace plucks at the sleeve of her shirt; it’s obvious to me
now that this is a nervous habit. She presses her lips together
and I can tell she’s got something more to say so I wait.
“Mr. Blaine, we may not have any luck selling stock to the
folks in Drake’s Pass come spring. We’ll likely have to take my
animals further away, maybe as far as the market in
Millersville.”
I think of the train ride. Millersville is a day’s ride by
horseback.
“You don’t think with the extra workforce in the mines
there’ll be a demand for mutton and veal, Miss Alton?”
“Not any produced by me.” She turns away. “Would you
like something warm to drink, Mr. Blaine? I’ve got some tea.”
 “Yeah, that sounds real good.”
Her back is to me as she pumps some water into a pot and
takes it to the stove. So far when I’ve fallen quiet, she
volunteers information, but I can tell by the set of her jaw and
sudden tension in her shoulders that the topic of why the
townspeople won’t do business with her is closed for now. As
curious as I am, my instinct tells me not to press her.
Grace walks to the kitchen and takes down a tin of tea. She
dips leaves into each cup and then reaches in with her hand and
removes something else which she slips into her pocket. As I
warm my hands by the stove, she brings over the cups and fills
them with water. The sweet scent of tea wafts up from the
chipped cups, evoking memories of a time when my life was
comfortable.
“Here.” She hands me a cup of tea and reaches in her pocket
and holds something else out to me – a roll of bills. “Your first
two week’s pay.”
“Traditionally a man is paid after he does his job, Miss.”
“I’m not traditional, Mr. Sawyer.” She holds out the money.
“You did a good job today. I’m counting on you to keep your
word and continue to do a good job for the next two weeks.”
Her fingers brush mine as I take the money. “If you stay longer,
I’ll pay you until what money I have runs out. After that, if you
still want to stay, I can pay you out of what I make on the
animals.”
I look down at the money in my hand, wondering how long
it took her to save it. Outside the wind howls and rattles the
shutters. I put the money in my pocket.
“Thank you, Miss Grace.” I take a sip of the tea. “And thank
you for letting me stay in the house where it’s warm.”
“I sleep with a knife.” The mistrustful look is back in her
eye, and it would be amusing if there wasn’t real fear behind it.
What happened to you, kitten?
“You won’t need it for me.” I finish my tea in one swig and
set the cup down on the table before turning back to her. “I’ve
been with my share of women, but never had to force one to my
bed. Surrender is sweet; anything else is bitter, but you don’t
seem like the surrendering type.”
“You’re right. I’m not.” Her voice is shaking but whether it’s
from anger or emotion I can’t tell. She turns away. “I’ll show
you to your room.”
Her father’s room is Spartan with gray walls and a metal bed
with a thin mattress that makes me wonder if the barn wouldn’t
be more comfortable.
“The mattress is clean.” Grace says this almost defensively.
“Sheets are, too.” She walks over to the wardrobe and opens it
and I see her pa’s suits hanging inside. On the top shelf are some
quilts. She takes them down. “My ma made these. They’re
clean, too.”
“I don’t doubt they’re clean,” I say, nodding at the quilts.
“But I’m not. What do you do for a bath here?”
She eyes me warily. “Got a tub out back. I haul it in, heat
water.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do.” I start past her. “Where out back
is the tub?”
“You mean to say you’re gonna get naked it my house?”
I turn back to her. She’s still holding the quilts. Her
expression is incredulous.
“I don’t plan to get a bath with my clothes on.”
“I don’t want a naked man in my house.”
I take a step towards her. “So, your pa never bathed?”
“That’s different.” Her words rush out. “He was family.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, praying for patience. This
little gal is giving me a headache.
“Look Miss Alton,” I say. “I was more days on a train than I
care to count. The only comfort was the straw covering the
floor, and it wasn’t clean even before we got on. That train
didn’t stop if someone needed to piss or shit. Men just dropped
their pants and did their business in the corner. Some got motion
sick and threw up. I got off that train, came here, and worked in
the same clothes I traveled in. And you’re going to stand here
and tell me that a naked man in the next room is more offensive
than the way I smell?”
She doesn’t immediately answer. “It’s snowing outside.
Pump’s probably froze already. You’ll have to get your water
from the creek.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do. Now where’s that tub?”
She tells me where to find it and I head back out into the
wintry weather. The snow is mixed with ice and blowing
sideways. The tub is by the barn, and I expend more than a few
curse words chipping away the ice that’s blown around the
edges, sealing it to the ground. I apologize to Grace for the mess
when I come back inside. Snow coating the tub starts to melt as
soon as I put it in front of the fire. Grace wordlessly gets a mop
that she uses over and over as I trek back and forth to the creek
for water so cold it takes extra wood to heat it. Grace finds a
large piece of canvas to line the tub and I thank her for this. I
wasn’t exactly looking forward to the hard metal against my
sore body.
It takes a good hour to fill the tub. The water isn’t as hot as I
like, but it’s warm enough. Grace gives me soap and a piece of
cloth for drying. She asks me if I have a nightshirt and it occurs
to me that I don’t.
“You can use one of Pa’s,” she says. “It’s in the wardrobe
with his suits. Might be a tad small, but it’s better than nothing.”
I wait for her to leave the room before stripping out of the
smelly clothes I’ll toss on to the porch after my bath. It feels
damn good to sink into the bath. I know men who go a lot
longer between cleaning than I do without a thought but one of
the worst things about leaving home was staying so dirty for so
long. I sigh with contentment as I lean back against the tub. The
little house is dark except for the glow of firelight dancing on
the walls. Outside the wind howls.
I close my eyes and allow myself to think of home. Working
a ranch was hard, but there was something to show for it. We
had a fine house with fine things. My mama was house proud
and although she wouldn’t brag, she allowed herself a satisfied
smile when visitors would comment on the expensive rugs or
fine China on the table.
 “I’ve got Joe to thank for all this,” she’d say, but I knew the
truth. She also had Joe to thank for the bruises she hid with long
sleeves or for the nights I’d find her stumbling up the stairs
drunk on whiskey she began drinking to mask the pain of his
cruelty and whoring. One morning when a servant expressed
concerns about how late Mama was sleeping, my stepfather
laughed and said, “She’s drunk. Eventually she’ll drink herself
to death if I’m lucky.”
I’d have left sooner if I weren’t worried about Mama, but I
wanted to be there for her, to protect her. As a teenager I begged
her to stop drinking. She’d done that but couldn’t do the other
thing I begged her to do – leave. Joe Boggs told Mama he’d kill
her if she left, and I was convinced that he enjoyed hurting her,
that cruelty brought him pleasure. He used to hurt me, too, when
I was little. But then I became bigger, and one day when he
raised his fist, I caught it and told him if he ever raised it to me
or mama again, I’d kill him.
He didn’t think I was serious. He was wrong.
Joe Boggs found other ways to hurt mama. Once I made him
afraid to bruise her body, he worked on bruising her spirit. I
watched her shrink down to nothing from the pain of being told
she was worthless. I knew she’d never leave, and because I
didn’t want to leave her, I made myself indispensable to Joe. I
became the best ranch hand. I feigned deference. I stayed out of
his way and waited – waited for him to slip up. And he did. I
knew he eventually would. The day he hit Mama again was the
last day of his life.
I begin to wash, scrubbing myself hard. I rid myself of dirt
but can’t rid myself of the memory of how Mama grieved the
man who abused her, how betrayed she looked when I came in
and told her he wouldn’t hurt her anymore. The back of her head
was bleeding from where it had struck the wall when he hit her.
She knew what I’d done, and we both knew she’d never tell. But
she told me I had to leave in a way that made me realize she’d
never forgive me for saving her.
I was part of Mama’s story for as long as I could be. I can’t
help wondering how it will end. I know they’ll never find Joe
Boggs. Ma hid her abuse so well that no one would suspect
she’d have had a motive and her grief would be genuine. With
Boggs declared dead she’d be safe and have a place to live.
Would my absence make me a suspect? Time would tell.
What is Grace’s story? Something about her awakens the
same protective urges I grew up with, only this time it’s
different. She’s determined, headstrong, but also really scared.
What’s made this kitten so jumpy? I want to find out and fix it.
I stand and let the water sluice off my body. I tousle my
freshly washed hair. It’s the same sandy brown as the father I
barely remember. I step out of the water and dry off. I’m
suddenly tired. In the morning I’ll get up before Grace, feed the
fire, and dump this water. I think of her sleeping in the other
room and glance towards her door. I hear a scuff – probably a
mouse – and wrap the towel around my body before heading to
the next room, and sleep.
 Grace

The day you were born I knew you’d never be no good. Just
like your damn mama. She knew I wanted a son, but there she
was beaming like sunshine holding a girl child I never wanted.
She gave you all the time she should have been giving to me. I’d
come in to find her teaching you her language so you two could
talk in secret.
Bitch.
I took her in, gave her a place to live and what did I get?
You. Grace, that’s a hell of a name for a whore. I should have
turned you away when you come crawling back here. Should
have slammed the door in your face. It’s a good thing I’m a
Christian man. That’s all I’ve got to say.
Ma’s grave is covered in flowers every spring. Lupine and
bluebells and asters. They’re pretty, like she was. She deserved
better than Pa when she was alive and the way I saw it, she
deserved better than Pa in death, too. I had Pa’s grave dug on
the opposite side of the hill, the rocky side where grass doesn’t
grow even in the spring and where the wind hits hard from the
west. I had to pay the man extra to put the grave there, but it
was worth it. Thinking of Pa all alone is as close to revenge as
I’ll ever get.
I’m not a whore. I loved Dylan Morris, or at least I thought I
did. I thought he loved me, too. And I didn’t crawl back. I
escaped. Once I learned his real reason for taking me away from
Drake’s Pass, I swallowed my pride and came home. A whore?
A whore would have stayed. I’m no whore, Pa. I never was.
Dylan took my innocence. He took it hard and rough. Many
a night since I’ve laid awake wondering if it was like that for
Ma, wondering if whatever sweet words my Pa used to get a
pretty German girl to share his life felt like lies once she was
beneath him. Many a night I’ve wondered if all men are like
Dylan.
It’s that wondering that made me peek through the keyhole
at Sawyer Blaine. Looking ain’t whoring. It’s not a sin to look,
and I want to. What Dylan did to me changed me. It made me
curious. Is that wrong?
I held my breath as I watched Sawyer take off his clothes.
His back was to me at that point and in the firelight’s glow I
could see his broad shoulders. His hands moved to the front as
he undid the placket of his pants. He bent over to push them
down. I couldn’t help but to contrast Sawyer with the only
naked man I’d ever seen. Dylan’s buttocks had been pale and
smooth. Sawyer’s were well-muscled, like his legs. I could have
looked away. I could have but I didn’t. I waited for him to turn
and when he did it confirmed how different men could be. The
part that got hard on Dylan is not hard on Sawyer, and yet it’s
bigger. He stepped into the water and my gaze moved to his
face. Dylan was handsome, but not like this. Dylan was
handsome in the way a statue in one of Ma’s books was
handsome. He was a fine-boned gentleman. Dylan was nothing
like the man I was looking at. Neither were the men Pa wanted
me to marry before I met him – the sons of family friends. They
were rough boys with rough hands and bad teeth, and I was rude
to them when Pa wasn’t looking. I didn’t want them to want me.
Ma once told me I deserved good love from a fine man. I
thought Dylan was that man. But he didn’t love me, and he
wasn’t fine. Sawyer is fine.
When he looked up, for a moment I thought he saw my eye
in the keyhole. My foot scraped the floor as I backed away. I’d
run to my bed and ducked under the quilts, listening as Sawyer
eventually got out of the tub and went to the adjoining room. I
heard him going through Pa’s wardrobe looking for the
nightshirt. A few minutes later there was a creak as he opened
my door. My heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t move. I
couldn’t move. Was he coming to me? To my bed? I’d told him
I had a knife, and I did but it was under the mattress. He’d
turned away, though, and I realized he’d just opened the door to
my room so the warmth could get in. He was heading back to
Pa’s room, the too-short nightshirt coming to mid-thigh.
It’s not like I want him. I don’t want any man. So why am I
laying here with this ache between my legs now that he’s
sleeping in the next room? I shift under the blankets, trying not
to think of how Dylan told he the first time was never good for a
woman. It’ll get better, he’d said. And it had. He’d touched me
in a way that felt good, and said it was okay because he was
going to take me to the chapel and marry me just as soon as his
folks got the letter he’d wrote telling them about me. He wanted
them to be with us for the wedding and in the meantime, I
should get used to the fine things in town like running water and
gaslights and pretty dresses with silk underthings because there
were more where they came from, and he knew I’d clean up
good. He could tell from the moment he looked at me I was a
diamond in the rough, oh yes, he could. He could tell that I was
desirable and with the right kind of training I’d learn fast how to
please a man.
I shouldn’t feel this way, not after what I’d been through. I
clench the quilt and shift in the bed, aware of how the ache
between my legs has spread like a fire to my breasts. My body is
remembering things I want to forget – the hot mouth drawing on
a nipple, the fingers stroking and pushing into my womanhood.
That’s what Dylan had called it at first. But each time his
language had gotten courser and bolder. I’d learned new words
for my anatomy. Tits. Pussy. Cunt. Were those words dirty? I
asked him and he said some men liked using dirty words. Some
men liked dirty women. I asked him if I was dirty, and he said I
ran my mouth too much and taught me a different use for it.
Whore. I’m not a whore, but Dylan was training me for the
job with false promises as payment. I had no way of knowing.
Stupid, lovesick little fool. You really thought that fancy city
man would love a little thing like you? Daddy got that right.
Dylan left me with a whole lot of shame and an ache that I
thought needed a man’s attention to ignite. But Sawyer Blaine
hasn’t paid me that kind of attention. What if he had tried?
Would I have really reached for that knife? Or would I have let
him come in. Would I have let him pull the covers back and
expose me to the cold air of the room, let him cover my body
with his, let him feel how hard my nipples are, how wet I am
between my legs?
Don’t do it! I send my hands orders that they ignore.
Shaking fingers brush the downy curls between my legs, the
mere touch sending a shudder rippling through my core. I move
onto my belly, burying my face in the pillow. I press the top of
my pubic mound against my hand and move my hips in the way
Dylan taught me. Pussy. Cunt. I’m not a whore. I move faster,
my fingers snaking back to stroke the slick petals between my
thighs as the pressure builds and builds. There’s a magic spot,
Dylan said, and my fingers find it. I’m panting into the pillow,
my breath making it hot against my face. I can barely breathe
and turn my head away, gasping for air just as the stifled cry
emerges from my throat before fading to a moan and then a
whimper, my hips rocking and rocking as I try to think of
anything except the man in the next room.
 Sawyer

Would Grace have made it through the storm’s aftermath

without me? I don’t know, but she would have died trying. She
wore a look of determination as she helped me clear a path
through the snow to the barn the next morning. When I used the
axe to bust ice in the creek, she was right there to dip her bucket
in the frozen slush to draw water. I watched with admiration as
she hauled it back up the hill knowing by then that offering to
do it myself was useless.
Not that there wasn’t plenty of other things to do. I drove the
cows out into the snow and mucked the stalls, dragging carts of
steaming manure out to the growing pile by the barn. Grace is
smart; she knows the value of saving barn waste to nourish the
soil for spring planting. Her horse’s hooves needed trimming, so
I took care of that.
Shingles had blown off the roof in the fierce winds that
followed the storm. When I saw her put a ladder by the side of
the house I walked over.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to fix the roof.” She looked at me like I was an
idiot for asking.
“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re going to need fresh
shingles for the patch. I’ll need to cut them, so I need to go up
there and figure out how many I’ll need. It doesn’t make any
sense for you to go up there if I’m going to have to just go
behind you.”
 “We don’t need any fancy shingles.” She pointed to several
uneven pieces of wood that I assume were cut from fencing
boards. “I can use these. We’ll worry about shingles later when
there’s not so much other stuff to be done.”
I was trying to be patient. “You’ve got seven pieces of wood
there. That’s seven trips.”
“No. it’s not.” She jutted her chin out in defiance. “It’s one
trip because you can hand them up to me.”
“I can, but I won’t. There’s a ton of other chores to do here
without standing on a ladder handing you wood I could carry up
myself in one trip. Besides, what’s the point of doing the patch
twice. I can cut shingles in an hour and have it patched for good
by dinner time.”
“Mr. Blaine, I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here.”
It was time to call her bluff. “Then I’ll leave. You can have
your pay back. I’ll walk out of here today.”
It was clear from her expression that she wanted to tell me to
just go, that she could handle it herself. If this had been the first
day that’s just what she would have done. But by now she had
come to realize that she’d been right to hire someone, and that
my being here just might allow her to make a go of this place.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Blaine.” The tension in her
voice was unmistakable. Grace Alton didn’t like giving an inch,
even when she had to.
She was sore at me the rest of the da and served me dinner
in silence. I could tell she still didn’t trust me. Hell, she didn’t
trust anyone, so I was surprised when she asked me this
morning to go pick up supplies in Drake’s Pass. She’d do it
herself, she said, but a few of her ewes looked close to lambing
so she needed to stay. Her pantry stores were drained, and my
appetite was part of the reason. I sensed some apprehension as
she handed me more of what little money she had left.
“I’ll be back by dinnertime,” I’d assured her. “Don’t you
worry. I won’t take your horse and your money and leave.”
“I’m not worried,” she lied.
 The trip is a slow one. The storm has been followed by
warmer temperatures, sending streams of snowmelt running
downhill to cut deep ruts in the road. The horse is used to
navigating them, though; I hardly have to steer as he moved
around them.
Drake’s Pass isn’t much better when I arrive. The streets are
filled with frozen mud and the businesses are packed with
patrons short on both money and patience. My first stop is the
mill where I stop to get several bags of feed.
“You new here?” A bald man with an angular face and shifty
eyes approaches me. “Name’s Holleran. Kyle Holleran. This is
my mill. I haven’t seen you before.” He looks me up and down.
“You need work?”
I recall what Grace said about the mill hiring men and not
paying them. It’s clear Holleran has already run through the men
he hired from the McCreed rejects and is looking for new
workers already.
“Nope,” I say. “Looking for feed. You got any?”
Holleran sighs heavily. “Yeah, but I’m running low. Hired
some guys recently but they turned out to be lazy, so I let ‘em
go.” I follow him to a back room. On the way we pass some
men and boys who seem new to the job given the way he stops
to correct what they’re doing before motioning to a stack of feed
bags against the wall. “Just got five bags left.”
I ponder the situation. Who knows how long it will be
before he has more? “I’ll take them all and a bag of flour,” I say,
handing over the whole of what Grace has given me. Holleran
follows me to the loading dock and watches as I easily toss the
bags into the back of the wagon.
“You sure you don’t want to hire on here?” he whines.
“Pretty sure,” I say, and get in the wagon. Holleran stands on
the loading dock staring, and I wonder for the life of me why a
man would choose to drive men away rather than to pay what
they’re worth.
The next stop is the mercantile. Grace’s money is gone, but I
have my own. The horse moves to the hitching post without
being asked and pins his ears at another horse already tied there.
 “Don’t start anything, Charlie,” I say, giving him a pat. He
blows loudly through his nose in what sounds like a protest.
The mercantile is busy. Women mill around picking up
essentials, the hems of their homespun dresses caked in mud.
Some are trailed by wailing children motioning to barrels
holding candy the family can’t afford. Strain is written on nearly
every face. I wait patiently at the counter until a portly man in a
white apron walks over. He has wire-rimmed spectacles, red
cheeks, and the bushiest moustache I’ve ever seen.
“Can I help you, sir?” He has the loud voice of someone
used to talking over a lot of noise.”
“Yes, you can.” I look down at Grace’s list and read off the
items she needs.” Salt. Sugar. Coffee. Dried beans.” I look
around the store, remembering how Grace had spread the
thinnest layer of jam on her biscuit. “You got any dried fruit,
jam, stuff like that?”
“Sure do.” The shopkeeper is already putting items I’ve
asked for on the counter.
“Good. If you’ve got it, some dried peaches, dried apples,
and some strawberry jam. And some vinegar.”
I walk away from the counter as he continues to get the
things I’ve asked for. On a shelf I see lavender soap. The soap
Grace gave me for bathing was homemade and smelled of
tallow. This smells like spring. I take a bar to the counter along
with some chocolate. I need some clothes mended so I pick up
needles and thread. I remember the roof. It won’t do to patch
parts of it at a time. The whole think needs to be replaced. I buy
enough nails to do the job along with more putty for the chinks
in the walls.
The tally ends up being what Grace paid me for my first two
weeks of work and then some. She’s not a dumb woman. She’s
going to realize what I did and object, but I’ll cross that bridge
when I come to it.
“I don’t take credit,” the shopkeeper says.
“Don’t need it.” I pull out the money and pay.
 “Name’s Horace Baysden,” he says, putting out his hand. He
has a strong, certain handshake.
“I’m Sawyer Blaine.”
He arches a brow. “Don’t recall seeing you here before.”
“Probably because on my first day here I got hired on at the
Alton farm,” I say as a prim-looking woman with a pinched face
and tight bun moves to stand behind the shopkeeper.
“It’s not decent, Grace Alton having a man out there alone,”
she says. “But that girl never has been the decent sort.”
“Stop your gossip, Linda.” The shopkeeper scowls and the
woman reddens and turns away.
“My wife,” he says almost apologetically.
Outside I’m loading the last of my purchases into the wagon
when a man approaches. I instantly recognize him as the mining
company owner Silas McCreed.
“That’s quite a load you have there, friend,” he says, and
something about the way he says “friend” makes me mistrust
him.
“Yep.” I wedge a sack of dried fruit in between the sugar
and coffee.
“Headed up to the Alton farm?”
I turn back to him. He’s giving me a knowing look. When I
don’t answer, he continues.
“I heard she hired you on. Don’t know what she’s paying
you, but it can’t be much. And it won’t be for long.” He pauses
and tips his hat back. He grins wolfishly. “How would you like
to make a lot of money?”
I raise the gate on the buckboard and secure it. “You had a
chance to hire me, McCreed. Remember? I came here with the
other men. You chose some less able men before you chose
me.”
He laughs. “Oh, my good fellow. You’re wrong. I intended
to hire you all along, but not as some earth dwelling drudge. Oh,
no. The job I have for you is quite…specialized.” He nods
towards his office a few doors down. “How about we go have a
little talk.”
My first impulse is to say no, but my instinct tells me that
I’m better off knowing what this man has in mind. “We can talk
here,” I say. “I don’t really want to come back out and find my
stuff stolen.”
McCreed looks up to a boy sweeping the store’s porch.
“Willie!” he calls and a boy stops sweeping and walks over.
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell your boss you need to stay out here and watch this
wagon. Anyone so much as looks at it, you tell them they’ll
have to deal with Silas McCreed. Got that?”
“Yes sir,” the boy says, and McCreed looks at me with a
satisfied grin. He wants me to notice this, to notice how much
sway he has in this town. He wants me to know I’m dealing
with someone powerful.
Charlie was ready to go. Now I have to leave him hitched a
while longer. He stamps in protest as I follow Silas McCreed to
his building. It’s the only brick building in town, and the heart
pine walls are adorned with trophies – elk, bison, and antelope
he tells me he’s traveled to kill. He’s a man who hunts for fun
instead of food. In his personal office a huge bearskin rug sits on
the floor. I recognize the head.
“Grizzly,” I say.
“You’ve seen one?” He approaches me with two glasses of
whiskey and hands me one.
I nod. “More than one.”
“Bagged that beast on the last hunting trip I took with my
father.” He gestures to a portrait of a severe looking man. “I’ll
never forget that day because it was the first time, he told me he
was proud of me. That’s my singular goal in life, to honor his
vision of the McCreed name.” He lifts his glass to his father’s
image. “It was a big vision. Coal. Timber. Livestock.”
“What’s this got to do with me?” I ask, taking a sip of the
whiskey. I can tell by the way it goes down, hot and smooth,
that it’s.
 McCreed tips his glass in my direction. “I like that. You get
right to the point.” He walks over to his desk and offers me a
cigar. When I shake my head, he bites the tip off and puts it in
his mouth and lights it. He’s making me wait for his answer. It’s
how he stays in control. I knew a man like that once. He’s dead
now.
“What do you know about that gal you’re working for?”
“Miss Alton?” I tread carefully in my answer. “Her parents
are dead. All she’s got to her name is that farm. She wants to
make a go of it.” I pause. “She’s got her pride. She didn’t want
to ask for help until she had to.”
“Yep. And I knew she would.” McCreed eyes me through a
veil of cigar smoke. “That’s why I passed you over. As stubborn
as Grace Alton is I knew she’d come looking for a hired hand. I
knew she’d pick the strongest man she could, so I left you
dangling there like an apple ripe for the picking.”
“And why would you do that?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he asks another
one. “What do you think of that land she’s sitting on?”
“It’s unusual to find a place that flat and fertile in the
mountains,” comes my honest answer.
“That’s right. And I’ll be straight with you. I want that land
for my own. A man like me can do a lot with that place. What
can a woman like her do? Grow a few sheep? Few bushels of
corn? Some hay? The mountain behind her farm is rich in coal.
There’s a good stand of timber in the woods.”
“So, offer to buy her out,” I say.
“I did. She refused… What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
The smile he wears now is more forced. “She won’t sell.
She’s stubborn. She’s also a whore. Bet she didn’t tell you that.”
I don’t reply.
“Yeah, left her Daddy in the middle of the night to follow a
solicitor to Charleston. She wrote two days later to say she was
getting married, but it didn’t happen. Of course, she was too
proud to see what he really wanted from her. Word is that fellow
had a side business – a whorehouse. Grace was one of his girls
before she ran from him just like she ran from her pa. If I’d been
Clem Alton, I sure as hell wouldn’t have taken her back. But he
was a Christian man if not a smart one. He wouldn’t sell to me,
either. When he died, I figured it I’d finally get that farm. I gave
her time to see how hard it would be to run a place like that on
her own. I was patient. But when I made her an offer she was
just as stubborn as her pa.” His face grows hard. “I’m fresh out
of patience now.”
I nod, knowing now what he expects. “And you want me to
be your eyes and ears?”
“More than that,” he says, “I want you to make sure that
farm doesn’t succeed. I have to walk a delicate line. A lot of
people liked Clem, even if they don’t care for his daughter. I
don’t want to appear directly responsible for her failure. I let
Holloran’s Mill sell her feed. I let the mercantile deal with her.
But I’ve put the word out to the local stockmen who owe me
favors not to buy a one of her lambs. But I know her. She’ll just
take them over the mountain. Unless something happens and
they don’t survive due to some…misfortune. Same with the
crops. Seeds planted too shallow or deep won’t sprout.” He
pauses. “You hear what I’m saying to you?”
I nod. “I hear you.” It’s a struggle to keep my tone neutral.
The distaste I feel for this man’s plan is only second to my
distaste for his assumption that I’d agree to it.
“Grace won’t be any the wiser,” he says. “Make everything
look like an accident or bad luck. Soothe her sadness. Hell, fuck
her if that’s what it takes. Women in love are even more
trusting. It’s not like you’ll be sullying a good girl. She’s already
spoiled. At the end of the day when she’s ready to sell the farm
I’ll give her a fair price – maybe not as much as I originally
offered since there’s a price to pay for tuning me down – but it’ll
be enough to take herself away from here. And you? You’ll be
handsomely paid for your participation.”
He downs the rest of his whiskey and takes another drag on
his cigar. The plume of smoke he exhales heads towards me like
a train.
 “What do you say, friend?” He holds out his hand. It’s a
devil’s bargain, but if I don’t take it, he’ll find another way to
hurt Grace. It’s true I don’t know her very well, but I know her
well enough to want to protect her.
I take his hand. It’s soft and he winces at my grip. “It’s a
deal,” I say, but inside I’m saying something else. You bastard.
You aren’t getting away with this. If I’ve made a deal, it’s with
myself to protect Grace Alton from your cruelty.
***
What I learned from Silas McCreed answers a lot of the
questions I had about Grace. I can understand now why she
distrusts men. Not a damn one ever treated her like she
mattered. Girls loved by their fathers don’t run away. Whoever
this solicitor was made her believe he loved her. I can’t imagine
how deeply it must have hurt for Grace to learn the truth.
Maybe a hundred years from now women won’t have to live
under the laws of men. But for now, men like Clem Alton run
households and men like Silas McCreed run companies and
towns. Grace Alton is stubborn, but I can tell that the man who
wants her farm won’t stop until he gets what he wants. He won’t
quit until she’s broken. By pretending to join forces with
McCreed, I’ll know his next move. The trick will be in
thwarting it.
Should I tell Grace? She’s got a temper. I’ll need to think
this through.
I replay the conversation with McCreed over in my mind as
I head back to the farm. As I approach the crest of the hill
overlooking her homestead, I hear hammering and and flick the
reins to get Charlie to move faster.
You’d better not, I think, but sure enough the first thing I see
when I get to the top is Grace on the roof. She has already
hauled up two boards and is struggling to hold one in place. At
the sound of the horse, she looks up. What happens next takes
us both by surprise. She’d been bracing herself with her foot,
but it slips. Her scream splits the air as she begins to slide. The
wagon is still moving as I jump out and run to the house. She’s
slipped from the edge and is holding on, her body swaying back
and forth.
 “Don’t let go!” I run to her as fast as I can and reach her just
as she loses her grip and falls nearly two stories to the ground. I
catch her and we collapse together in a puddle of slush.
She groans as she lays beside me and then slowly sits up. I
do the same, marveling that neither of us broke anything. I’m
grateful, but I’m also angry. She didn’t listen. She won’t listen.
Given what happened today, she has to listen. She can say she’s
in charge all she wants, but things are about to change between
me and Grace Alton.
Her Daddy may be gone, but she needs discipline to make it
through what’s coming. I’m the man who’s going to give it to
her.
 Grace

I wasn’t expecting to fall from the roof and wouldn’t have if

the sound of the wagon hadn’t distracted me. Sliding down the
roof had only taken a split second but it felt a lot longer. The
next thing I knew Sawyer was on the ground beneath me and I’d
lost my grip. He’d broken my fall.
Now he’s pulled me back to my feet and stands looking me
up and down. “You okay?” he asks.
I’m standing. Nothing hurts. “Yeah,” I reply. “I think so.”
“Good. Get in the house.” The concern in his voice is
replaced by something flinty and hard and I’m shocked into
speechlessness as he takes hold of my upper arm and pulls me
inside.
Once inside he slams the door and turns to face me. “What
did I tell you, Grace?” It’s not Miss Grace anymore…
I know what he’s talking about. He told me not to go up on
the roof, but I’m not about to have this conversation.
“The roof needed fixing,” I say. “I don’t answer to you. I’ll
do what I want. This is my house.”
“For now, it is,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He closes the distance between us. “You want to keep this
place, Grace?”
“What kind of damn stupid question is that?”
 “Answer me!” It’s not a gentle command. He’s raised his
voice and I involuntarily flinch.
“You know I do.” I glare at him. “What’s this all about?”
He turns away. For a moment he doesn’t say anything.
When he turns back, he points to a chair by the fire. “Sit down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Sit down or I’m going to put you over my knee and make it
so it hurts to sit.”
I want to call his bluff, to tell him I’m not about to let him
talk to me like a child. I want to tell him to make me sit if he
thinks he’s man enough. But I get the feeling if I say that, he
will. My heart quickens and I feel a surge of something warm
and tingly in my lower belly. My face grows hot as I plunk
myself down in the chair and glare up at him.
Sawyer pulls a chair away from the table and positions it to
face me before taking a seat himself. “How well do you know
Silas McCreed?”
“Well enough to know he’s a son-of-a-bitch.”
“A son-of-a-bitch who wants your land?”
I nod. “Did he tell you that?”
“He did.” Sawyer pauses. “He offered me a job.”
My own mirthless laugh rings through the room. “Well, of
course he did. I guess he got wind you were working for me and
offered you more to go to the mine.”
“He didn’t offer me a job at the mine.”
I’m puzzled. “What then?”
“He offered me another job. One where I could make more
money. He offered me a job of staying on here, earning your
trust, and sabotaging your farm so that you become desperate
enough to sell it for less than he originally offered.”
The only sound in the room is the crackling of the fire as I
absorb what I’ve been told. “And what did you say?” I finally
ask.
 “What do you think I said?” he answers peevishly. “I told
him I would, but it was a lie.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him to go straight to hell?” My
voice shakes with anger.
“What good would that do?” Sawyer is as calm as I am
agitated. “He’s your enemy, Grace. You need to know what your
enemy is thinking. It’s the best way to outwit him.” He turns and
opens the stove, tossing a piece of wood inside before turning
back to me. “It’s also the best way to protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“Yeah, little lady, you do. McCreed could hire men to come
here in the middle of the night and burn you out, but that’s not
his style. He’s got political ambitions. He aims to destroy you
while keeping his hands clean.” A shadow passes over his face
and his expression grows hard. “I’ve known men like him – men
who enjoy breaking other people, especially women. I’m not
about to stand by and let him do it.”
“And why do you care?” I get to my feet, unsettled because
I’m no longer angry but also afraid. I don’t want to believe what
Sawyer is saying, but I know it’s true.
He doesn’t immediately answer. When he does it’s not what
I expect. “I don’t really know why I care, Grace. You’re spiky as
a porcupine and stubborn as a mule. But you’re also tough,
resourceful, and determined to hang on to what you have, and I
admire that. I aim to help you.”
“And if I don’t want your help?”
“You do want it.”
I look away, ashamed because we both know he’s right.
“But you need to understand something,” he continues. “The
very thing that’s made you a survivor could get us both killed if
this goes sideways. I get that you don’t have a whole lot of trust
in me. I get that you don’t want to listen to me. But that’s going
to change. This is your farm, your land. Yes, I know you didn’t
ask me to take this risk but I’m going to do it just the same and
until you’re out of danger, I’m in charge. Disobey me there’s
going to be consequences.”
 I stare hard at him, a retort hot in my mouth. I don’t have to
ask him what the consequences are. My eyes stray to his hands.
They’re large and calloused. He’s a big man – a big man who
threatened to put me over his knee. The knowledge that he could
so easily do that is infuriating. It also leaves me feeling strange.
I try to ignore the tension in my belly that’s moved lower to
settle between my legs.
“You want to put some coffee on?” he asks. “I’ll go unpack
the wagon.”
“We don’t have much coffee left,” I remind him.
“I got more if you don’t mind making me a cup.”
“Sawyer.” I call after him as he heads to the door.
When he turns back, I summon the courage to ask the one
other question on my mind. “What else did Silas McCreed say
about me?”
He regards me for a moment then reaches for the knob. “Not
a thing,” he says.
I wait until he leaves to sigh in relief. When I’d fled Dylan,
coming home was the only choice I’d had. I don’t why I thought
Pa would take pity on me, or magically transform into the kind
of man eager to avenge his only child. As far as Pa was
concerned, my refusing to become a whore didn’t matter; I was
a whore just the same, and when he confided to the preacher
about my shame, he was told it was his Christian burden to keep
me at home. Of course, the preacher’s wife couldn’t wait to
spread the word of my shame, and along the way the story
became exaggerated. The way the town gossips told it, I hadn’t
run from being a whore, I’d reveled in it, and returned home
used and discarded.
It makes no sense that Silas wouldn’t reveal my past, until I
think about it. He’s probably saving it for later when he can best
use the information to his advantage.
I doubt Sawyer would stay if he knew the truth. What kind
of man would champion a fallen woman? I blink back tears as I
imagine Sawyer’s handsome face twisting into an expression of
disgust once he finds out the whole story. I want to be hopeful
but my past hangs over my head like an anvil that can come
crashing down any moment.
The smell of brewing coffee fills the kitchen just as the door
opens and Sawyer comes back inside. He’s carrying two huge
bags that he dumps on the table. I walk over to examine a sack
of flour that’s a lot larger than I can afford. When he returns
there’s more. A pit forms in my stomach.
“No.” I shake my head. “No. I can’t afford this. You must
have opened a line of credit at the mercantile. I don’t know how
you did it since…”
He stops me before I tell him that no one in town would
extend credit to a woman like me. “I didn’t, Grace.” He nods at
the table laden with things I need and a few I don’t. I find
myself staring at the chocolate and soap with a longing I can’t
hide.
“So how…?”
“I chipped in.”
I don’t know what to say. If you only knew who you were
helping…
“I can’t afford to pay you back.” The words are hard to say.
“It’s all right. Once we drive those lambs to market and
bring in the crop, you’ll have secured your success as a
landowner that Silas McCreed can’t dispute while having more
than enough money to pay me back.”
I motion to the table. “Chocolate? Soap?” I raise my eyes to
his.
“You work hard,” he says quietly. “You deserve something
nice.”
I’m not used to nice things. I’m not used to anyone doing
nice things for me. A lump forms in my throat. I reach out and
pick up the soap and bring it to my nose. I’ve never smelled
anything so good. Sawyer has been respectful when I’ve bathed
and stayed out of the house. I use the same homemade soap for
bathing as I use for my clothes, so I always smell vaguely of
tallow.
“It’s so nice,” I say. “Like spring.”
 He smiles. “It’s lavender. It’s my mama’s favorite.”
“You have a mama?”
“Yeah.” He sounds sad. “And she always said you know a
real lady by whether she likes lavender.”
“I’m not much of a lady,” I say, and Sawyer just smiles.
“Let’s get the rest of this stuff put up,” he says and
something in the way he looks at me makes the lump in my
throat grow bigger. He’s stern, but also kind, and the feelings I
have are new and almost as frightening as the predicament he’s
promised to save me from.
 Sawyer

The day I hopped that train east, I made a bargain with God
that if he’d forgive me this one thing I’d done, I’d try not to
borrow trouble ever again. Killing a man is no small thing,
although the magnitude of my actions didn’t really hit me until I
forced myself to look at Joe Boggs where he lay in that open
grave. He still wore the same surprised expression he’d had
when he’d seen me standing there with the gun.
“Wait, now…” he’d said, holding up his hands. Those had
been the last words he spoke. He’d never raise his hands again.
Not in supplication. Not to hit my mama, either.
If the law ever gets around to looking at me, it’ll be after
investigating a long list of other suspects. Half the county hated
Joe Boggs. The other half feared him. Like mama, most took the
abuse in silence whether the crime was the financial ruin of a
rival or roughing up an acquaintance as a reminder to pay – or
overlook – an outstanding gambling debt. Quite a few men
wanted him dead as much as I did. The only difference between
me and them was that I killed him first.
“Don’t borrow trouble,” my mama used to say. I could walk
away from all this. I could head right down to Drake’s Pass
without a word and hop a train north or further east. I’m not just
borrowing trouble but borrowing trouble that isn’t even mine.
Maybe losing this farm would be a blessing in disguise for
Grace if it meant getting her to leave for a town where she can
start over.
 The trouble is, that’s not what she wants, and after seeing
Mama denied her own choices, I can’t justify leaving Grace
denied hers. It’s more than that, though. When Grace served me
breakfast this morning, I caught the scent of lavender on her
hair. The day before I helped her haul water in for her bath and
after she’d put the last bucket in the tub, I’d gone out to do
chores. The whole time I kept looking back at the house
imagining her in the tub, naked. She doesn’t know I’ve heard
the soft moans coming from her room in the night, and more
than once. I know what a pleasured woman sounds like, even if
she’s pleasuring herself. Grace has needs. Grace is a woman.
But inside she’s a wounded little girl in need of protection and
love and that makes me want her in a way I’ve never wanted a
woman before.
Don’t borrow trouble. Wanting Grace Alton feels like
borrowing a whole different kind trouble. I told her everything
Silas McCreed said except that stuff about her past. It takes
strength to swallow one’s pride. She had to know the kind of
judgement she’d face when she got back home. Once a woman
is branded a whore that stain sticks with her the rest of her life
while men who whore never lose a night’s sleep.
I could see the worry in her eyes when she asked me if Silas
had said anything else. It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to
have. I didn’t want Grace to feel like she had to defend her past.
Who am I to judge? Killing is worse than whoring. Even if Joe
Boggs deserved it, I’m not God
It’s warming up and the soil in the upper field turns easily
under the blade. Charlie ambles along, pulling the plow as
competently as he pulls the wagon. I’m at the end of the second
pass by the barn when I hear a commotion. A sheep is in
distress.
“Stay here,” I say, and jog over.
Grace is kneeling in one of the lambing pens by a frantic
sheep. I recognize it as one of the ewes she said was delivering
for the first time. At Grace’s side is a small lamb still slick with
birthing fluid tinged with yellow. Having delivered animals of
my own, I know that color signals distress. I head over and join
her in the pen, taking the head of the ewe.
 “Thanks,” Grace says. She’s gripping the front feet of the
second lamb the ewe is struggling to deliver. It’s a big one and
in a proper birth the nose should be showing between the
hooves. There’s no nose to be seen.
“Head turned back?” I crane my neck for a better look.
She nods grimly. “Hold her, Sawyer,” and I’m thinking
that’s the first time she’s said my name when she slips her hand
inside the ewe up to the elbow. The animal wails in protest but
when Grace pulls her hand back out, she’s guided the lamb’s
head into place.
“Push,” she says to the ewe, and it’s like the animal
understands. Grace pulls along with the contraction, keeping
pressure downward. The lamb’s head slips all the way out.
Grace sticks a finger in the lamb’s mouth to clear its airway
while waiting for the next contraction. The ewe pushes again.
Grace’s sleeves are rolled up. Her arms are muscular for a
woman’s.
The second push expels the shoulders. On the final push the
lamb slides out, its body steaming on the pile of straw. It’s not
breathing. Grace rubs the lamb’s side with a handful of straw as
the mother looks back in confusion at what just came out of her.
When the rubbing doesn’t work, Grace gets to her feet and lifts
the lamb by the legs. She needs to swing it.
“Not enough room,” I say, holding out my arms. She hands
the lamb off to me. I step over the side of the pen and move to
an open area of the barn and, holding the lamb by the back legs,
swing it up and down to force fluid from its lungs. I do this until
I hear a cough. It’s breathing.
Grace is smiling as I hand the lamb back to her. She rubs it
some more. The ewe has discovered the first lamb and is
making little motherly noises as she licks it clean. Grace checks
the gender of the larger twin.
“Male and a female. Two healthy babies.” She gazes around
the barn and the lambing pen filled with expectant mothers.
“Lots more to go.” Her eyes soften as she looks at me. “Thank
you.”
 “Don’t mention it,” I say, but what I want to say is how
beautiful she looks, even with her arms and dress a mess and her
hair coming undone around her flushed face.
There’s a pail of water nearby for washing up. Once her
arms are clean, she dries her hands on her apron. “I’d better go
have a look at the other ewes.” Grace opens the gate but as she
does, Rufus starts barking at the sound of an approaching horse.
Grace walks to the doorway. Even from where I’m standing, I
can tell her dander is up. I walk over and look outside.
“It’s Silas McCreed,” she says. “But not for long.”
I pull her back into the barn and turn her towards me. “Okay,
this is where you’re going to listen to me. We know why he’s
here.”
“I don’t care why he’s here. I’m going to get my shotgun, so
he knows what to expect if he doesn’t leave.” When she tries to
pull away, I tighten my grip and give her a little shake.
“No, you’re not getting your shotgun. We’re going to beat
this son-of-a-bitch at his own game, remember? You don’t have
to be nice. He’s not expecting that so act the way you normally
would. Just don’t lose your head. He’s here to further this
scheme he’s cooked up, to see if I’m going to play along like I
said I would. Just keep that in mind no matter what he says,
okay? Can you do that?”
Her chest is heaving, and her color is high. “I don’t know. I
want to hit him with a hammer.”
I try to suppress a laugh. “I get that. But you can’t and we
both know it. You go assaulting Silas McCreed, and he won’t
need me for the plan because you’ll be in the town jail. Now
keep your head out there.”
I reluctantly loosen my grip and let her walk from the barn. I
wait until I hear Grace tersely ask him what he wants before
coming out to join her.
“Just here to see if you’ve reconsidered my offer.” He looks
past her then. “Well, well. What do we have here?” Silas
McCreed grins as he pretends this is the first time we’ve met.
“You Grace’s new beau?” He nods in my direction. “If you’re
aiming to wed this one, you should know she’s not the kind to
make your mama proud.”
“He’s a hired hand, Silas.” Grace knows my presence is no
surprise to McCreed, but she’s playing along just as I asked.
Still, there’s strain in her voice and I know she’s anxious over
his alluding to her past.
“Sawyer Blaine,” I say, walking up to extend my hand. His
eyes meet mine and I read satisfaction in them at how I’m
keeping with the script. “I came out to hire on at your mine, but
I missed out.”
“So, you came here.” He looks around and sighs. “I’ve been
offering to buy this place so if you’re looking to help Miss
Grace here the best thing you could do is convince her to sell.”
“Never,” Grace hisses, and Silas shrugs.
“You heard the lady, Mr. Blaine. She aims to stay here and
run this farm into the ground and probably stick you for the last
month’s pay to boot. While I’m here I might as well make my
trip worth it. I can find a place for you at the mine if you still
want a job.”
Beside me, Grace’s eyes are shooting daggers. “He’s my
hired hand, not yours.”
“I say we let the man make up his own mind,” McCreed
says.
Part of me wants to laugh. He thinks he’s so smart. He
thinks the two of us are setting Grace up. He has no clue that
she’s playing along beautifully.
“You know, I kind of like working the farm,” I say. “I
believe with my help it could turn a profit. I believe a man is
ultimately rewarded for hard work. Miss Alton has given her
word that she’ll pay me and so far, she hasn’t given me any
reason to question her character.”
“Is that so?” McCreed rubs his chin then takes up the reins
to his horse. “Something tells me Miss Grace hasn’t clued you
in to what kind of character she’s displayed this last year. But
once she goes in heat, you’ll get the idea.”
 “Get off my farm, you bastard.” Grace’s face is hot with
rage. McCreed’s wide smile tells me he enjoys humiliating her
like this.
“Of course, my lady.” He says lady with no small dose of
sarcasm before turning his horse. As he leaves, he calls to me
over his shoulder. “Friend, if you change your mind, you know
where to find me.”
Grace is stomping back to the house as McCreed pushes his
horse to a canter heading away from the farm. I follow her
inside and find her removing the apron stained with blood from
the birthing sheep. She doesn’t speak as she tosses it in a bucket
with some other clothes she’ll wash later.
“Go on,” she says. “Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
Her hands are shaking, and her chest is still heaving with
anger. “Don’t you want to know what McCreed meant when he
said I wasn’t the kind of woman a man would proudly take to
his mama?”
I wait a moment before answering. “I don’t have to,” I say.
“He told me in town.”
She whips her head around. “You said he didn’t say
anything else about me.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.”
Grace gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t believe me.
“Did he tell you I was a whore?
“It doesn’t matter.”
Her voice is shaking now with the effort not to cry.
“I wasn’t a whore. There was a man…” Her voice breaks.
“He told me he loved me. He told me he’d take me away from
here, away from Pa. I trusted him. I was stupid and weak and
silly, and I trusted him. When we got to the city, I found out the
truth. He wanted to put me to work. But I wouldn’t do it. I
wouldn’t. Not even when he beat me. Not even when he …” A
flash of pain crosses her face with the memory. “I wouldn’t. I
ran away in the middle of the night. I stole money. I got on a
train. I came home….”
I walk over to her. She’s still talking, still telling me she’s
not a whore. I take hold of her arms, gently. “Hey, hey, hey….”
It’s as if she’s forgotten I’m there and looks up at me as if
confused.
“Listen to me, Grace Alton. Men have been doing women
wrong since the Garden of Eden. I can’t speak for the people of
Drake’s Pass, but the way I see it, if a woman is a whore, she’s
no worse than the man who lies with her …”
“I’m not a whore.” Her voice breaks with emotion. I can feel
her trembling.
“I believe you. You don’t strike me as the kind of woman
who would trade one misery for another. If your Pa had been
good to you, you wouldn’t have run away unless you thought it
was to a better life. There’s not a person in this world who
doesn’t have something they’re ashamed of and not a one of
them is fit to judge you, least of all me. You understand?”
Tears are running down her face. She nods, her breath
catching in her throat. Her face has grown red. Too red. I narrow
my eyes and put my hand to her temple. She’s warm.
“You feeling okay?”
“Not really,” she says. “I woke up with my head hurting.”
I curse under my breath. “If you woke up feeling bad then
what were you doing out there in that cold barn delivering
lambs?”
“It had to be done.”
“Well, you’re not doing anything the rest of the day except
getting in that bed and resting.”
She pulls away. “Are you crazy? I can’t go to bed. There’s
sheep to check and water to haul and…”
“And I can do it for you. Better take a day to rest now than
to wear yourself down and be of no use for a week.”
“I’m not going to bed.”
 “Oh?” I step back and begin rolling up my sleeve.
“What are you doing?” she asks nervously.
“Fixing to spank you.” I give her a look to know I’m serious
because I am. “Of course, if you’d rather go get in that bed we
can wait. The way I look at it, you’re going to end up over my
knee one way or the other given how stubborn you are. It can be
now, or it can be later.”
“If you think I’m going to let a man hit me in my own
house…”
I shake my head as I begin rolling up my other sleeve. “Hit?
I’d never hit a woman. Warm her backside until she straightens
up and takes care of herself? You bet your bottom dollar I’ll do
that. But if it’s a matter of the house being a problem, I can take
you to that woodshed out back.”
With my sleeves rolled up I move towards Grace. She backs
away until she reaches the wall. I put my hands on either side of
her, hemming her in.
“What’s it going to be, little girl? You going to lay down or
am I going to have to spank you until you do?”
She’s trying hard to look brave. Her stubborn chin juts out
and her full lips are set in a stubborn line. I notice little things
about her – the pretty blue of her eyes, the sharpness of her
nose, the sprinkling of freckles. Does she have any idea how
bad I want to kiss her? Probably best that she doesn’t.
“Well?”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt for me to lay down,” she says.
“Good girl. I want you to rest. Don’t you worry about a
thing. Come morning you’ll feel a whole lot better. You’ll see.”
She walks to the room, looking back at me just before she
enters.
“Don’t think your being nice to me means I’m going to trust
you any more than I trust any other man,” she says.
I nod. I believe her. I also believe I’ll be changing that
before this is all over.
 Grace

Fire.
The house is on fire. I try to call for help but can’t speak. I
feel something against my forehead, so cool it burns.
Water.
I open my eyes. The room is spinning. There’s no fire, but
Sawyer is sitting by my bedside. He’s pressing a wet cloth
against my face. I remember now, remember how Sawyer
ordered me to lie down. But it was daylight then. It’s dark now.
I’ve slept the day away. The cow. The sheep. The horse. They
need tending. I try to get up.
“Whoa, whoa. Where are you going?” His big hand presses
against my upper chest. My bodice is damp with sweat. It’s
soaked through to the mattress.
“Chores,” I say, trying to move his hand, but he’s too strong.
Or I’m too weak.
“No, little girl. You’re sick.” He sounds worried. Worried
about me. “You’re real sick.”
“Sick?” I repeat his words even though I realize now why I
slept so long, why I’m hot and cold by turns, why my dress is
soaked. The slight fever I woke up with is raging out of control.
“I can’t be sick.”
“I don’t think you’ve got any choice in the matter.” He
pivots and I shift my gaze to the bowl of cool water he’s placed
on the table by the head of my bed. He dips the rag in it, wrings
it out, and presses it to my face once more.
“I can’t be sick,” I repeat, but my voice seems far away,
even to me and the room swirls into darkness.
***
I’m not in my room anymore. I’m in another room. I hear
the distant sounds of an off-key piano, raucous laughter, and
men shouting. A woman is crying. That woman is me.
“Put it on.” Dylan is holding a dress. Red satin. Red as the
virgin blood that stained my thighs when he told me it was okay
because we were already married in God’s eyes, and we’d be
married in the law’s eyes too once we got to Wheeling. “Put it
on.”
I look up at the dress and know it’s like what I saw on the
other girls in the tavern. I know the black lace will barely cover
my breasts. I know I’ve been lied to. I sink to the floor, putting
my bruised face in my hands. Dylan fists my hair and hauls me
up.
“There’s no use crying. You got no one to blame but
yourself. What kind of woman runs away with a man she barely
knows, huh?” He shakes me. “Huh?” His breath is rank with
whiskey. “I’ll tell you. A whore. Now you listen here. I’ve done
had you, so it’s not like you’ve got anything left to lose. I don’t
want what’s been used. Your daddy don’t want what’s been
used. You got nowhere to go, but if you are good to the fine
gentlemen of this establishment, you’ll adjust. If you don’t…”
He grips my jaw and wrenches it up so I’m looking at him. “You
don’t, and I’ll hurt you bad.” He stares into my eyes, and I
shudder. “I’ll hurt you real bad.”
Nooo! I scream and thrash but the arms around me are
strong.
“Grace, Grace. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got
you.” A man’s voice, but not Dylan’s. I open my eyes and they
adjust to the dim light of my room. Outside the wind is howling
cold against the house but Sawyer’s body is warm. I’m in his lap
and he’s clutching me to his chest. He’s rocking me. I whimper.
My body aches all over.
 “I didn’t know,” I say. “I didn’t know he’d do that to me. I
didn’t know.”
“Hush now. Hush now. Nobody’s going to do anything bad
to you ever again, Grace. I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re
safe..”
Things go dark. Safe. He said I was safe.
Safe…if I’m safe why am I scared? My heart is pounding
because I know what I must do. No one saw me take the knife
from the table. They were too busy goading the man in the
oversized hat, laughing as they pushed him in my direction.
“Go on, boy. She’ll make you a man.”
He’s young and skinny and not much older than me. He’s
not much taller than me, either. He’s not like Dylan, who
watches smiling from the corner. He’s guileless. It’s his
birthday. I’m the present. Dylan told me his friends had already
paid for the privilege. He tells me the young man is nice, but not
to let it spoil me. “They won’t all be nice,” he says.
I take his hand. The knife in my garter is sharp against the
back of my leg. The other men leave, telling their young friend
to give it to me good and hard. Once we’re alone, he stands
there looking at me.
“You’re a whore,” he says.
I want to say no, but I can’t say anything.
The shy look on his face fades. He looks braver now.
Meaner. “So that means you have to do what I say.” He takes a
step towards me. “Take your clothes off.”
I keep my eyes on him as I untie my skirt. It drops to the
floor. I unlace my bodice and take it off. I’m in just my chemise
and garters.
“The rest of it.” His eyes are hard with lust. His cock juts
against the front of his pants. I lift my leg and put it on the chair,
reaching for the top of my stocking.
My daddy taught me where to stick a pig to kill it. The first
time I slid my knife into the jugular of a hog I sobbed as it
squealed and bled out. I don’t feel anything now that I’ve taken
the young man by surprise. I have the knife at his throat and
wonder if his daddy is a farmer, too. By the terror in his eyes, he
seems to know how close he is to death with my knife point
pushed into the skin. One move and the tip will be into that
pulsing vein. I drive my knee into his crotch. He falls, and I’m
grateful for the boisterousness downstairs that means no one
will hear. There’s a heavy pitcher on the wash basin. I lift it and
bring it down on his head. I step away, fearing that I’ve killed
him, but he’s not dead. He’s breathing, but not moving.
I take his money. I take his clothes and put them on. I hog tie
him with my bodice strings and gag him with a washcloth. The
window to the room overlooks an alley. There’s a steep,
shingled eave underneath the window but I’m more afraid of
staying than falling. I slide down feet first, grab the gutter and
look down. The drop is not as perilous as I thought. I let go and
land on hard dirt of the alleyway.
I stand. The young man’s hat is beside me. I pick it up, dust
it off, and put it on as I walk away. I stick to alleys and move
between carts and wagons. In the distance I can hear the train.
I’m afraid to look behind me but more afraid not to. I expect any
second to hear my name, to see Dylan running towards me, his
fists clenched and eager to renew my fading bruises.
The train platform is clear. I cry out to the conductor. He
tells me the train is about to pull out. I collapse at his feet. He
looks down at me, realizes I’m a woman. I hold up money. I’m
blubbering. Begging. I tell him I need to get on this train. He has
a kindly face and a white moustache. I can tell he’s puzzled as to
why I’m dressed as I am. He looks out to the street. I grab his
leg.
“Please. Please.”
He takes the money, helps me up. He guides me to the car.
“You didn’t even ask where the train is going.”
“I don’t care,” I tell him. Only when I’m in the seat and the
engine pulls away do I learnt that my prayers have been
answered; it’s going in direction of home.
***
Water. I’m in water. Am I being baptized? I was already
baptized but maybe they’re doing it again. Maybe the first one
didn’t take. Pa says even with Christ’s cleansing water after
what I’ve done, I may be outside His grace. The water is cold.
I’m shaking. I don’t want to drown. I tell him this.
“You’re not going to drown, Grace, but we’ve got to get this
fever down. This is the only way.”
“Cold. Cold.” I look down. I’m not in the river. I’m in the
washtub. The fire in the grate burns hot but the water is cold.
I’m shaking. Sawyer’s hands are gentle but firm as he holds me
in the water. He scoops some in his hand and pours it on my
burning face. I fight him, my teeth chattering.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say. “I’m sorry I let you down. I’m not
bad. I’m not.”
“Ssshhh… You’re not bad, Grace.”
“Daddy. Do you mean it?”
“I mean it. You’re a good girl. Better than any of them ever
deserved.”
“Daddy!”
I look up expecting to see my father’s face, but it’s Sawyer
who’s looking down at me with the kindness my father never
showed, giving me the absolution I was denied. I feel a father’s
love from him, and it makes me forget the past, the sickness, the
fever. Suddenly everything feels still and calm.
“I’m naked,” I say without knowing why I said it.
“Yes, little girl, you are.” He scoops water over my shoulder.
“We need to get that fever down. I’m praying this works.” He
touches my face. “How do you feel?”
“I’m naked,” I repeat, and move my arms to cover my
breasts.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Grace.” He puts a finger under
my chin and tips it up. “You understand? I’m not going to touch
you the way that man who took you did. Nobody is ever going
to hurt you like that again. Nobody.” There’s a ferocity in his
voice. A protectiveness. “You understand?”
“I understand,” I whisper.
 He helps me to my feet. I’m too weak to stand. He wraps a
blanket around me and picks me up. Sawyer carries me like a
child to the chair and gently sets me down. I watch as he
remakes the bed with fresh linens. He goes through my armoire
and finds a fresh chemise.
“I’m going to dress you,” he says, and he does. He’s gentle,
like a loving daddy. He picks me up again like I don’t weigh a
thing. He lays me on soft, clean sheets and covers me with a
fresh quilt. He sits down on the edge of the bed and rests the
back of his hand against my forehead.
“Am I going to die?” I look at him through hooded lids.
“Not if I can help it.” He pulls the quilt up to my chin. “And
I’m not going to leave your side, so you just rest. You’re safe.
You’re safe with me.”
Safe. The darkness descends again. I steel myself for the
flood of awful memories that only come when I’m sleeping. But
they don’t come. Not this time. I sleep.
***
It’s light when I next open my eyes. I turn my head towards
the window expecting to see the pink rim of dawn, but it’s gone
past that. I draw a breath through parched lips and thirst hits me
like a fist. I look to my right. There’s a pitcher of water and a
glass. I move to prop myself up.
“You’re awake.” Sawyer is suddenly at my side. “Let me
help you.”
I’m too weak to protest. Even if I could I don’t think my dry
throat would support the formation of words. I let him lift me to
sitting. He props me against two pillows then pours me a glass
of water. When I reach for it, he tells me to let him hold it, that
my hands are still too shaky.
I let him. My first sip is tentative, my second eager, the rest
frantic. I drain the glass, grabbing his hand like a baby afraid of
losing its bottle.
“More.” The word emerges in a rasp.
He pours another glass. “Slower now,” he says. “You don’t
want to choke.”
 Nothing has ever tasted so good. When I ask for a third,
Sawyer tells me to wait, to lie back against the pillow. I’ve been
a while without water and my brain needs time to register that
I’ve had it. I look up at the ceiling. The water has worked
wonders. My vision clears. I am aware of my surroundings. I’m
aware that I was sick, but…
“How long have I been in bed?” I ask.
Sawyer pours more water into the glass, but only halfway.
“Three days,” he says.
I stare at him. “Three days?”
“You were sick, Grace. Real sick.” He furrows his brow as
he says this. I look around the room. Disjointed, hazy memories
start to reform and fall into place. Sawyer discovering I was
sick. Sawyer ordering me to bed like a recalcitrant little girl,
giving me the choice between resting and getting spanked. I’d
acquiesced. After that? I notice the dress I’d been wearing in the
barn washed and hanging from the edge of the armoire. I look
down. I’m dressed in a gown. The sheets and quilt on the bed
are different than the linens I’d laid down with. I turn
questioning eyes to Sawyer.
“I had to change your clothes. You soaked them.” He looks
away. “You soiled them.”
My face reddens from shame. “Sweet Jesus.” I close my
eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. You needed taking care of, so I took
care of you.”
I open my eyes and force myself to look at him despite my
embarrassment. “It’s not your place,” I say. “You hired on as a
farmhand, not a nursemaid.”
The side of his mouth quirks into a smile. “I didn’t mind.
You’re a fighter, Grace, do you know that?”
“I don’t feel much like a fighter.”
“I’ve seen men half as bad off die. You were hot as a poker
and out of your mind but some part of you listened to me when I
had to take care of you.” He pauses. “I’m really proud of you.”
 “Proud?” I draw a ragged breath, the lump in my throat
appearing suddenly. Sawyer has saved my life and he’s proud of
me?
“Thank you,” I say. “But I think you’re the one who
deserves the praise here. You didn’t have to …”
“I wanted to.” He cuts me off and I feel his hand close over
mine. “I wanted to.”
His hand is warm and large, but he holds mine in the gentle
but firm way one might hold a bird. He reaches up to push a
strand of hair away from my face.
“Why are you so nice to me?” I ask.
He doesn’t immediately answer. He looks out the window.
When he looks back, he gently squeezes my hand before
answering. “I care about you, Grace. I don’t think you’re used to
that, but you deserve somebody who wants to look after you.
From what I gather, you’ve been looking after yourself for way
too long. I think you got sick because you were tired.” He
smiles. “You’re too sweet and pretty to be so tired all the time.”
“You think I’m sweet and pretty?”
“Well, you’re sweet like a tart apple. Gotta get past the sour
first. But yeah, you’re sweet. And pretty as a picture.” He
pauses. “I mean to take care of you, Grace.”
The latter is not a question. It’s a statement, and something
in the way he says it elicits a warm tug of desire in my lower
belly that moves between my legs. It’s all I can do not to press
my thighs together to alleviate it. Good lord, what kind of
wanton woman reacts like this on what could have been her
deathbed just a day before?
But Sawyer doesn’t give me time to consider this. He’s
grown serious.
“You need more than a man. You need a minder. I’m not
going to let you grind yourself down again. From now on,
you’re going to have to listen to me. You can’t do everything all
the time. You can’t work sunup to sundown like you’ve been
doing without consequences, so when I say rest, you’re going to
rest. When I say to let me handle something, you let me handle
it. You understand?”
I think of the day he ordered to bed. He had threatened to
spank me, and it wasn’t the first time. Between my legs the
throb won’t go away.
“Answer me, Grace,” he says. The command is gentle but
delivered with enough force that I know he means for me to
answer.
My rebellious spirit yearns to oppose him, but it’s drowned
out by my tired, wounded heart ready for what he’s offering. I
know it won’t be easy, but what he’s done for me…my own Pa
never did as much.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I understand.”
 Sawyer

I’ve never been one to scare easily. I’ve stared danger in the
face on more than one occasion with steel nerves. But seeing
Grace so sick shook me in a way that made me realize how
much she’d come to mean to me. Flesh and blood men? They
can be defeated. But Lady Fate? We’re at her cold mercy, and
when Grace struggled in her fevered delirium all I could do was
pray she made it through. Pray and take care of her.
She’s gaining strength by the day but keeping her from
working has meant getting strict with her on more than one
occasion. Something has shifted in our relationship since she
came out of her fever. I mean to show her what it means to have
both the love of a good man and the caring of a daddy. She’s
missed out on both. She’s hungry for both. I’m going to satisfy
those appetites.
Maybe this is Lady Fate’s work, too. If it is, that’s a better
kind of mercy.
“Your bath’s ready,” I tell her.
“I’m not an invalid.”
“I know. You’re making progress but being stuck inside has
made you as cantankerous as a chestnut mare. A warm bath
might improve your mood. Off with the shift.”
She eyes me warily, then sighs and reaches for the tie at her
throat. I’ve seen her naked and she knows it. I cleaned her while
she was sick. Grace is honest enough to realize that hiding her
body from me now would amount to false modesty. But when
the gown slips off, I shift so she won’t see how readily my cock
stands at the sight of her. It’s one thing to look on a woman’s
nakedness when she’s prone and lost to the world in fever. It’s
another to see her moving towards you with that unconscious
sway in her hips. She raises her hand to unpin her hair and it
cascades around her shoulders. Her breasts are small with large,
pert nipples. Her waist is long for one so short. The deep cleft of
her pussy is just visible through the sparse curls on her pubic
mound. When she turns towards the tub, I’m afforded an
enticing view of her firm, round backside.
Grace silently slips into the water. “Thank you,” she says.
There’s trust in her eyes and I couldn’t find a vein of gold that
would make me feel richer. She’s been hard used; it takes a lot
for her to feel safe enough to be naked in front of any man.
I want more than anything to wash her, but don’t object
when she reaches for the soap. It’s worn down from when I
bought it; I remind myself to pick up more when I go to town
tomorrow.
“I’m going to go out and get the eggs,” I say.
She nods and I leave but the thought of her in that tub, the
thought of her hands sliding over those sweet breasts and those
hard nipples causes a fierce ache in my loins. I’m sorely
tempted to relieve my own tension at the mental image of the
lithe, naked young woman behind the farmhouse door. By the
time I come back inside, she’s dressed and walking towards the
tub with a bucket.
“No, you don’t,” I say, walking over to gently take the
bucket from her hand. “Let me bail it out.”
“Sawyer, I feel fine and I’m going to go stark raving mad if
you don’t let me do something.”
“You can cook dinner if you’d like.”
“That’s woman’s work.”
I grin, resisting the urge to kiss the pout right off her lips.
“You’re a woman, right?”
 “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be stuck in the
kitchen. I miss milking the cow and hauling hay and…”
“You have my permission to start all that again in the
morning. But for now, I need you to fix us some salt pork,
beans, biscuits, and stewed apples. I also need you to make a list
of anything else we might need. I need to make an appearance
in town tomorrow.”
She eyes me thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ll be seeing
McCreed.”
“I don’t have much choice. Seeing him there means you
won’t have to see him here. He’ll be expecting a report on how
things are going.”
“What will you tell him?”
I sigh. “I’ll tell him what he wants to hear, Grace. And in
case he does come around we are going to make the farm look
less prosperous.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“I was walking with Rufus up the trail the other day and
came across another meadow. You know it?”
She nods. “Yeah, Pa used to call it the high meadow. It’s
nice.”
“It is,” I agree. “It’s smaller than the lower meadow, but the
grass is good. If we fence it, we can put some lambs up there.
That way if McCreed or one of his men come nosing around he
won’t see a bunch of lambs. He’s expecting me to sabotage you.
That means he wanted me to make sure some lambs didn’t make
it.”
The fire in her eyes makes me wish I hadn’t detailed his
plans.
“He wanted you to kill innocent lambs? I’m going to kill
him!”
“Hey now.” I take her face in my hands. “You aren’t the
killing type.”
She turns away. “And I suppose you are?” There’s scorn in
her tone. “Why would you be? You’ve never had a reason to
hate someone this much.”
If you only knew, little girl. If you only knew. I don’t address
her comments. I tell her I understand her anger because I do, but
I also remind her that I’m handling things now. “That means
you keep yourself in check or else I will. You got that?”
There’s challenge in her eyes, but also gratitude. Grace is
strong-willed. She hates the limits I’m imposing, but her
rational side knows they’re necessary.
“I’ll try.”
“You’ll try and succeed. Understand?
“I’ll try,” she says, moving to the pantry and I could push
things but decide to leave it for now.
While Grace cooks dinner, I head out to the meadow to drive
a few fence posts. The weather is finally warming. Grace’s farm
dog, Rufus, trails at my heels and noses the path as we walk.
Occasionally he stops and raises his head to sniff the air, and it
occurs to me that the only hitch in my plan for the second pen is
the isolation. This is wild mountain country, and I’ve seen scat
of both bear and bobcat. When I was sitting up with Grace
during her illness, I heard what I thought was a woman
screaming in the distance. I nearly jumped out of my skin but
realized it wasn’t a human that made the noise, but a mountain
lion. This didn’t bring me much relief. This time of year, a big
cat with cubs to raise will be looking for easy prey. I look down
at Grace’s dog. He’s a big fellow and provides good protection
for the flock, but he can’t be in two places at once. If predators
pick off the lambs, Silas McCreed will get his wish despite our
best efforts.
I spend two hours sinking posts and am grateful when I hear
Grace’s voice drifting towards me from further down the hill. I
whistle for Rufus, who comes bounding through the grass and
leads the way home. Home. I’m starting to think of the farm that
way, but it’s not my place. It belongs to Grace. My job is just to
help her keep it. I try not to think of how much I want to keep
her. The feeling grows stronger every day.
***
 Each time I head into town, my appreciation for life on the
farm increases. Silas McCreed may be king of Drake’s Pass, but
he’s king of shit as far as I’m concerned. At the depot, men are
unloading lumber for hastily erected rooming houses and livery
stables. But the town’s only street remains carved with ruts and
riddled with puddles where mosquitoes breed in the spring
warmth. The sound of distant clanging from the mines is a
muted backdrop to the noises of piano music and drunken
laughter coming from the most successful operation – the
saloon. Across the street a woman in an ill-fitting dress emerges
from the newly opened McCreed Company Store trailed by
three children. Her expression speaks to the obvious worry that
the meager groceries she’s purchased won’t be enough for her
brood.
Like other big coal operations, McCreed issues credit in
paper form called scrip to coal miners. It’s meant to be used
between paydays when money runs short, which it always does
despite the promises men like him make to workers. Miners
who arrive with nothing are required to buy their own tools at
the company store, which carries everything from food to
clothing to furniture. The scrip is only good at the company
store which charges more for goods than Baysden’s Mercantile.
That’s where I’m headed today with my list and when I walk in,
I see Silas McCreed huddled with the Horace Baysden. It
appears to be a tense conversation and when McCreed sees me
and turns away, the shop owner is clearly relieved.
“Mr. Blaine!” McCreed smiles as he walks over. On the way
he plucks a piece of penny candy out of a barrel and pops it in
his mouth. Behind him, the shopkeeper’s face turns red at the
open theft. “How are things on the farm?”
I look past him. “Maybe we should talk outside?”
He grins knowingly and we walk out onto the porch where
two elderly men sit chatting in rocking chairs. Silas nods down
at one of them. “How about you gentlemen move on?”
“We can talk on the street,” I say, but McCreed holds up his
hand. “Nah, these fellas should be up and moving. Too much
sitting around makes old men stiff. Go on now, get. We’ve got
business best done in private.”
 One of the men looks like he wants to say something. He
has a jagged scar down the side of his face and the hardened
look of a war veteran. I clench my jaw in anger at McCreed’s
disrespect as the old men leave their seats and shuffle off the
porch.
“When I take this store over, the first thing I’m going to do
is rip this damn porch off. A proper business doesn’t need a
bunch of folk loitering on the premises.”
“You’re taking this store over?”
He nods. “Eventually. Of course, old Horace doesn’t like the
idea, but I’ve been telling him it’s just a matter of time before
business dries up. As it is, he’s been having a real hard time
getting goods to stock the shelves.” He sighs. “Whole orders
have gone missing, bags of sugar come off the train busted. Just
bad luck I guess.” He gives me a knowing grin that makes me
want to punch him. “So, how’s Grace Alton’s luck these days?”
“Let’s say fortune’s not exactly smiling on her,” I reply.
McCreed chuckles. “Oh, you’ll have to do better than that
for what I’m going to pay you when this is over. I want details,
man.”
“All right.” I nod. “She put me in charge of lambing. Little
Miss High and Mighty decided having a hired man meant she
didn’t have to get her hands dirty. It turned out to be a bad year.
Half of the babies were stillborn. Another quarter died before
the first week.”
“And how did you explain that?” he asks.
“I blamed her. Told her I found mold in the hay in my first
week, that she’d been storing it wrong and that I’d seen this
before in sheep – mold causing sick or weak lambs.”
“Did she cry?” He’s grinning broadly now. At my side my
hand forms a fist, and I can’t help but think how satisfying it
would be to drive it into his face, to feel the bones of his nose
break to release a warm gush of red flowing down his starched
shirt.
“Yeah,” I say. “She cried.” Grace loves her sheep and I
know her well enough now to infuse my lies with the truth of
her character. If anything happened to even one of her precious
lambs, she’d blame herself. And she’d grieve because unlike the
man standing before me, she has a good and caring heart.
“You keep giving her things to cry about, Blaine.” He
pauses. “How’s the crop?”
“Well, I’ve been rethinking that part of our strategy,” I say.
And this is true, too, but not for the reason he thinks. I intend to
defeat McCreed at his own game. Hiding the lambs in the high
meadow still gives Grace lambs to sell but sabotaging the crop
like he wants me to will hurt her in the long run. I need to make
him think it’s in his best interest for Grace’s farm to have a good
yield.
“Go on then,” he says.
I tip my hat back. “Grace isn’t dumb. If the crops fail in the
same year she loses a bunch of lambs she might blame me. The
way I see it, it would be better for all involved if you ended up
buying the farm with a good harvest in the offing. It would
guarantee a good profit in the first year.”
McCreed crosses his arms. “You miss the point. That bitch
turned me down.” He frowns. “And not just for my offer to buy.
The haughty little whore acted like she’s too good to let me in
her bed. The reward here isn’t profit.” He spreads his arms
wide. “You think I’m hurting for money? No, the reward is
seeing her broken and riding away from the farm she wanted to
keep with barely enough money to start over.”
Forget breaking his nose. I want to knock McCreed’s teeth
down his goddamn throat, but I play it cool as I continue.
“I get that,” I say. “But you hired me to do a job and I can’t
do it if she suspects I’m up to something. There are a hundred
other ways I can make things go wrong.”
McCreed doesn’t reply. He just looks off like he’s thinking it
over. “You fucked her yet, Blaine?”
“No,” I say, keeping my tone cold. “I have higher standards
for my whores.”
This causes him to burst out laughing and I know I’ve won
his approval with one cruel comment. “So,” he says when his
mirth subsides. “How you plan to bring her down if you’re
planning a decent crop?”
“The stream could get dammed up. Can’t tend the animals
without water. And it’s wild country up there. Bears. Wildcats.
If a few ewes disappear or a calf, that’ll leave her heartsore and
discouraged.”
“Heartsore.” He smiles. “Leave her heartsore. Kill her stock.
And break her heart while you’re at it. Teach her a lesson.”
“I’ll do it.”
He claps me on the back. “Listen, you do this job to my
satisfaction, and I’ll have more work for you. A man like me
likes to keep his hands clean. People who turn me down have a
way of coming into bad luck. Take that sawmill in Dayton.
Fellow running it made awful accusations about me and one
night his whole place burns to the ground. They never did find
out who did it.” He smiles. “I hire good men. Discreet men. And
when the job is done, they’re well-paid men. Grace Alton isn’t
the only one around here who needs taking care of.” He glances
towards the door of the store. “Horace Baysden has the same
stubborn pride as that little bitch. Some people just don’t know
when they’re outmatched. Get me that farm and I’ll pay you so
well you’re gonna want to stick around and help me get this
store, too. Sound good?”
I force a convincing smile, but behind it I feel the spark of a
righteous rage I promised myself I’d keep under control – a rage
that’s catching fire and threatening to consume me. “Yes sir,” I
say, and head back towards the door.
“Hey, you about to do some shopping, are you?”
My hand is on the door handle, and I realize I’ve almost
made a mistake.
“Wouldn’t you rather shop at my store? Selection’s a whole
lot better than his. I’ll even set you up with a credit account.”
“Well, Mr. McCreed, if it was just me I would. But don’t
think it’s going to look suspicious – Grace sending her man to
shop at the store of her enemy?”
He sighs. “Good point. I guess you can go on in there.”
 I’m fuming as he walks away, and it doesn’t make me feel
any better to see the usually friendly shopkeeper has turned cold
and suspicious in my company. I want to tell him he has nothing
to worry about, that I’m no friend of Silas McCreed, but I can’t
show my hand. Not yet. Not with so much at stake for Grace.
I load up on supplies, keeping account of what I still have
left. I’m mindful of my balance. Financial need didn’t drive me
out here, but I know at some point I’ll have to replenish my
funds. I don’t worry about it today, though. I imagine Grace’s
skin scented with lavender and gardenia as I select the last two
bars of soap. I get salt, molasses, and coffee. There are bare
spaces on the shelves that used to hold sugar and other shelves
are bare, too. I think of what McCreed said as I pick up the last
small tin of tea and some dried peaches and apples. I also get
two boxes of nails for the fence I’m building.
“How’s Miss Alton?” The shopkeeper doesn’t look at me
while he boxes my order.
“She’s good,” I say.
He looks at me like he wants to say something. Was he one
of the townspeople who turned his back on her? Who judged
her? When Silas McCreed came to town to open a mine, I
would imagine local business owners saw his arrival as a boon
for the small mountain town. Now the shopkeeper is being
victimized by the same man who’s victimizing the woman he
and others condemned.
On the way out of town I see a sign for puppies outside a
farm and pull the wagon into the drive. A large fierce looking
dog bounds towards me, barking ferociously.
“Can I help you, sir?” A man comes out of a nearby barn,
trailed by six smaller versions of the larger dog. When the
bigger dog hears his voice, it quiets down.
“These the puppies you got for sale?” I ask.
“Yup. Good guard dogs.”
The barking mother dog is now wagging her tail. “How are
they with stock?”
 “Gentle as a lamb,” he says. “But they’ll hunt down
anything that don’t belong. Foxes, raccoons, possums. Good
with any animal they’re raised with and hell on any animal
they’re not.”
I reach down and pick up one of the puppies. It has a thick
gray coat and brown eyes. The paws are huge, indicating the
size he’ll be when he’s grown. He reminds me of a smaller
version of Rufus.
“I don’t own the dad,” the farmer says. “He’s my brother’s
dog, but he’s a biggun. Same kind.”
As we speak another dog runs around the corner. The farmer
tells me he’s from last year’s litter. “If you’re looking for a well-
started dog ready to go to work, you might want this one.” He
laughs. “I’ve got more dogs here than I need.”
I smile. I may have found an answer to our predator problem
in the upper meadow. I tell the farmer that I’ll take the older
dog, but the puppy is looking at me with such affection I can’t
put him down. I decide I’m coming home with a nice surprise
for Grace.
 Grace
It feels good to be outside again. Before Sawyer left for
town, he told me I was allowed to go out but sternly warned me
not to overexert myself. It feels odd, having someone care
enough to forbid me from doing something. I’ve helped with the
household chores since I could walk. Some of my earliest
memories were of baking with my mother. I have vague
recollections of helping her collect eggs, and of her patience
when she taught me how to crack them against the side of the
bowl. The eggs seem large in my memory, but really, I was just
so small.
When she died, I became the lady of the house even though
I was just a little girl. The father who took no pride in having a
daughter recognized my utilitarian value. My mother had made
me capable, and I quickly learned to work hard and hold back
tears whenever I felt lonely and unloved. Those feelings were
my constant companions. I built a shell around my heart to keep
it from breaking anew every day. But the need for validation, for
affection, lingered there like a sleeping animal waiting to wake
and feed. Dylan saw an opportunity in my emptiness, but
Sawyer? He sees a broken child in need of healing.
I didn’t realize how heavy my burden was until he came
along to lift it. I didn’t realize my desire to be guided until he
stretched out a hand. I’m taking it, but my grip is tenuous. I’m
still afraid to completely trust, even though Sawyer is nothing
like the man who used me. Even when I was naked and
vulnerable, he didn’t take advantage of me. Maybe he thinks my
past has left me without woman’s desire, but he would be
wrong. I ache for his touch. In quiet moments I find my gaze
drawn to his strong arms and wonder what they’d feel like
wrapped around me, or to his long fingers, imagining them
probing inside that aching, quivering place between my legs.
And his hands – large, hard, calloused. He’s threatened to spank
me like a child. and the threat fills me with waves of anger,
trepidation, and a distracting arousal I cannot understand. A
spanking is not sex. Why do I grow wet at the thought of being
held over his knee and punished? It makes no sense, and the
feelings I get when I ponder his discipline leave me confounded.
The lambs are frolicking in the field and as I watch them, I
think of what Sawyer told me Silas McCreed asked him to do.
Anger boils up in me, the pressure of it hurting my chest. He
would hurt my animals, and for what? Land he does not even
need. McCreed is like the fox that once came and killed thirty of
our chickens in one night. Even though it couldn’t eat more than
one, it got caught up in the thrill of killing and would not stop
until it had slaked its feral lust for senseless slaughter. I don’t
normally have a problem with wild animals, but one that kills so
savagely must be dealt with. In a perfect world, men who
behave like beasts would be treated as beasts and removed. But
it’s not a perfect world and now the threat of one selfish man
hangs over my farm like a cloud, and the only shield I have is
another man I barely know.
Across the field I see the head of the path Sawyer has cut
leading up to the high meadow where he plans to hide most of
the lambs. When I told him I wanted to see the meadow, he
ordered me to wait, that we would walk there tomorrow. But
why should I? The day is warm, and I’m stiff from so little
exercise. It’s still early, too, and while this is direct defiance of
Sawyer’s order, it’s not so dangerous as climbing on the roof.
Besides, I can be back well before he gets home and will act all
surprised tomorrow when he shows me the work he’s done on
the fence.
I start to whistle for Rufus, but he’s sleeping amid the lambs,
so I head for the trailhead alone. It’s a steep climb up to the high
meadow, and I feel guilty that Sawyer has had to haul the posts
up on his own. I plan to make up for it by helping with the
remaining fencing.
 The meadow is lovely. The same stream that runs through
the farm further down the mountain snakes through this
meadow as well, although it’s narrower up here. The water
sparkles in the light and silvery darters flit from rock to rock.
The meadow isn’t large, but it’ll be sufficient to grow the lambs
for market. When they’re big enough we’ll drive them down the
mountain to sell. How and when that happens remains to be
seen. For now, we just need to hide them.
I resent having to do it but understand the necessity. I don’t
like having the sheep where I can’t see them, though. I scan the
hills, wondering what might be watching from the trees. How
will we protect the sheep up here? Rufus is a good guardian for
the livestock, but he’s not as young as he used to be. I couldn’t
live with myself if he died up here trying to defend the sheep.
I sit by the stream. Up on the ridge a flash of russet moves
through the trees. It’s a herd of white-tailed deer, and that brings
me some comfort. Deer are plentiful here, and hopefully they’re
prey enough for what might be hunting in the surrounding
woods. I raise my face to the sun and yawn. The climb up to the
meadow has left me more exhausted than I want to admit. I lay
back in the warm grass, listening to the babbling of the brook.
Before I know it, I’m asleep.
***
“Grace! Grace!” The sound of my name swims to me
through the current of a dream drifting through my mind. I
should get up and answer, but I’m warm and comfortable and
curl into myself.
“Grace!” The harsh tone is accompanied by a firm grip on
my arm. I’m pulled up and out of sleep and stand – momentarily
disoriented – blinking into the afternoon light. I look up to see
Sawyer’s grim expression.
“What the heck are you doing up here?”
“I wanted to see the meadow…”
“Yeah, and I told you we’d come up here tomorrow –
together.”
I wrench my arm from his grip, feeling irritated. “And
what’s wrong with me coming up here? If it’s safe enough for
the lambs, it’s safe enough for me.”
“That’s not the point, Grace. You need to listen to me…”
I look up at him, at his dark eyes flashing at my obstinance.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing corded, muscular
forearms. His hands – those large hands – are on his hips. I did
promise. I should own to it, but some part of me wants to find
his limit, to see if he’ll carry through with what a protective
Daddy would do in the face of a defiant little girl.
“I’m not going to listen to you on this, Sawyer. It’s stupid.”
I make to move past him and when I do, the renewed grip on
my forearm does not come as a surprise. I struggle, issuing
empty threats and insults as he heads to a large rock beneath a
nearby willow. I know what he means to do. I’m anxious and
scared. I’m indignant and furious. But I’m also aching with need
for a taste of loving correction, for the unknown of it.
Sawyer sits down on the rock. I pull back against his effort
to draw me across his lap, but I’m no match for his strength.
Within seconds, I’m restrained across his hard thighs. His arm
goes around my waist like an iron band. Cool air raises
gooseflesh on my exposed bottom as he lifts my skirts. I’m not
wearing a petticoat today and for a second, he grows still as if
surprised by my nakedness. I’m holding my breath.
“Grace, you’re going to learn that I mean what I say. If I tell
you not to do something, it’s for your own good. I told you I’d
spank you if you didn’t mind me, and that’s what I mean to do.”
That is the only preamble. The next sound is that of his hard
hand cracking against my upturned bottom and my yelp of pain.
The burn sinks into my skin, and there’s no time to recover
before he lands a second hard smack. His hand is large and hard,
and he isn’t gentle. I instantly regret both my curiosity and my
defiance, although I make a good show of the latter with a string
of curses that melt into infantile bawls. Hot tears stream down
my face into my open mouth. I writhe helplessly, my bottom
absorbing stinging punishment I beg to be released from. I can
only imagine what the scene must look like from his perspective
– my reddening bottom, my legs kicking and churning, and
between them the drenched fleece of my pussy. To my extreme
shame, arousal has risen with the pain. The two are mingling
and even though I would give anything to end the punishment,
between my legs there is that aching, rhythmic clench of desire.
If he touched me there now, I’d come. I know I would. My tears
are from regret, agony, and the sweet shame of my wanton
nature. What kind of woman reacts like this?
Sawyer tips me off his lap. I sway on shaky legs. My hands
move back to rub the sting out of my flaming cheeks. They are
hot to the touch. The throbbing between my legs does not abate.
I glare at him through my tears.
“You beat me!”
“I spanked you. We both know there’s a difference. You
earned that spanking, and I’ll never strike you anywhere else
other than the padding God put there for that very reason.” He
stands up and tips my chin so I have to look at him. His
expression is no longer angry. He sighs, producing a
handkerchief that he uses to blot away my tears.
“I thought something had happened to you when I got back,
and you weren’t at the farm. I figured you might have come up
here, stubborn as you are. When I saw you lying in the grass, I
thought…”
“You thought what?” I ask through hitches of breath.
“I thought something had hurt you.” He shakes his head.
“There’s a big cat up here. I’ve seen the tracks.”
“A big cat?” Fresh tears sting my eyes. “And you want to
put my lambs up here?”
“I wouldn’t put them up here without protection, Grace. And
I don’t want you up here without protection, either. That’s why I
spanked your pretty ass. You need to be reminded that when I
tell you something, it’s for a reason. Now come on. We’re going
back down to the farm.”
He turns and walks away, and I know I’m expected to follow
so I do. My mind is racing with questions. How does he plan to
protect my flock? Is he planning to sleep out in the field with a
shotgun? I look to my right and left, as if expecting the tawny
blur of a big cat to drop from one of the rocks at any moment.
 When we reach the end of the path, we cut through the
sheep field to the barn.
“Wait here,” he says once we’re inside. Rufus has followed
us in and drops down to lay at my feet. I kneel beside him,
taking his head in my hands. There’s gray on his muzzle. I
scratch his head. He whines. But wait. That’s not him whining. I
look up and another dog runs into the barn. It looks like Rufus,
only bigger and younger. Rufus stands and growls. The other
dog sniffs him all over. The two stand face to face, their bodies
stiff and for a moment I think they’re going to fight. Then the
larger dog drops down in a posture of submission, recognizing
Rufus’ standing. I’m trying to sort this all out when Sawyer
walks in. He’s carrying…a puppy?
I walk over, my eyes asking the question my voice has yet to
form.
“I picked that fellow up from a farm outside of town. He’s a
seasoned guard dog. Nothing will bother the lambs with him
there.”
“And this one?” I ask, reaching out to touch the puppy and
Sawyer puts it in my arms. I can’t help but laugh when it licks
me in the face. I inhale the sweet scent of puppy breath before
burying my face in the thick fur of its neck.
“That’s a little girl. It’s not related to that fella, but when
she’s older we’ll have a new generation of protectors for the
flock.”
It’s not lost on me that he said “we,” or that even when we
aren’t together Sawyer is thinking of ways to solve any
problems that might arise.
“I love them,” I say.
He smiles. “I thought you would.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have gone to the high
meadow without you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“But you should have told me about the lion.”
“I was going to tell you tonight. I need to trust you to mind
me even if you don’t understand why I need you to. It’s not
because I think you’re dumb or anything like that. It’s just that
my way is to look for danger. I’m always thinking of ways to
keep you safe. I need to know that you’ll do what I say even if
there’s not time to explain.” He pauses. “There are worse
predators in this world than that lion.”
“Silas McCreed?” I say, and he nods. “Did you see him
today?”
“I did,” he replies. “And I think I know how we’re going to
beat him.”
 Sawyer

Men like Silas McCreed suffer from a delusion that makes

them think they’re strong when they’re only strong in the way a
wolf is strong when it’s preying on a sick deer. Let a bigger wolf
come along and suddenly they’re whimpering in fear. I’m going
to be that bigger wolf, and before it’s all over, the bully of
Drake’s Pass will be personally begging for Grace’s forgiveness.
I’m committed to seeing she gets justice for what he’s putting
her through. I’m committed to her protection.
Grace’s need for protection is why I tanned her pretty little
bottom up in the high meadow. On the way back as she’d
sniffled and rubbed her sore backside, entirely oblivious to how
this innocent gesture stirred my desire. As much as I’d tried to
turn my mind to the tasks at hand, my thoughts kept returning to
the sight of her bare-assed over my lap, and the wetness I’d
glimpsed between her soft thighs.
“That spanking hurt,” she said, her tone sullen.
It’s hard not to smile, harder still not to kiss that pouting
mouth. “Good. I want you to think about what you did every
time you sit down the rest of the day.” I pause. “I’m going to
unload the cart. And don’t ask to help. You’ve got your hands
full.” I nod down at her feet where the puppy is pulling on the
hem of her dress.
Outside, the new dog is already making himself at home. He
and Rufus are sniffing around outside gate to the pasture, so I
open it and the older dog leads the way in. The cow – not used
to the strange dog – snorts a warning that spooks the sheep, but
within the hour they’ve decided he’s no threat. He moves to a
group of lambs resting in the shade of a pecan tree and flops
down with them, his head up and ears perked for any trouble.
Oh yes, this fellow will do just fine.
In the distance, lightning flashes over the mountains; a storm
is coming, but it should be a while before it gets here. I have
time to cut some fence posts for the high meadow, and to think
about my plan while I work.
Like most arrogant men, McCreed doesn’t know when to
shut the hell up. He likes to boast about his power. As much as it
made my stomach churn to say those things about Grace, I
proved myself distasteful enough to be taken into his confidence
and that was all it took for him to show his hand.
McCreed said he likes to keep his hands clean. He bragged
about using other people to do his dirty work. I’m willing to bet
this isn’t his first time. He came to Drake’s Pass with a fortune
to spend. He’s eager to be rich, and despite his boasting about
the McCreed name, it doesn’t ring familiar. He may come from
money, but he doesn’t come from big money.
There are a lot of mining opportunities in these mountains
without taking over such a remote town. I think of the men on
the train. A lot of them – including me – were looking to get far
away from some trouble in our lives. Was that why McCreed
chose to invest his money somewhere so far from Dayton? Was
he worried that someone might discover soot from that sawmill
fire on those clean hands?
I come in from work later to find Grace has fixed a hardy
dinner of ham and gravy, peas, and biscuits. After we eat, I ask
her if she has pen and paper. She finds both in her father’s desk.
I write a letter to a distant cousin in Ohio to ask what he knows
about a sawmill fire in Dayton. I’m signing my name when I
look up to see Grace staring over my shoulder.
“Why are you so interested in a fire in Ohio?”
“You can read.”
“Yes, I can read.” She sounds indignant. “My father taught
me. Poor vision runs in his family. His own Pa was nearly blind
by the time he was middle-aged. He figured he might need me
to read for him. Reading lessons were the only thing he gave me
that felt like a gift. I love to read. I found letters in my mother’s
old trunk that she’d saved. I read them all. I read the Bible, too.”
There’s pride in her voice.
“That’s more than I’ve read,” I tell her.
“Sawyer, does this letter have something to do with Silas
McCreed?”
“It sure does. I’ve begun addressing it for mail, hoping my
cousin still lives at the address I’m writing from memory.
“McCreed had someone set it.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I aim to find out.” I turn to her. “My cousin
deals in timber up that way. I’m thinking he can put me in touch
with the guy who owned that mill.”
“To what end?”
I stand up. “If someone burned your house down wouldn’t
you want to know who did it?”
“What makes you think McCreed did it?”
“Because he told me.”
She looks skeptical. “He told you?”
“He did. He was bragging about it.”
Grace is silent for a moment. “He must really trust that
you’re loyal to him.”
“I haven’t given him any reason to think otherwise. As far as
he knows I’m as heartless as he is.”
“As far as I know, you’re as caring as you seem. After all,
you haven’t given me any reason to think otherwise.”
I look up from the letter. “Meaning?”
She shrugs her slim shoulders. “Just that people so often see
what they want. We accuse others of fooling us when we’re just
fooling ourselves.”
 I stand and pull her to me. “Grace Alton, do you think I’m
on McCreed’s side? Tell me now and I’ll leave.”
“You’d leave?” The question is whispered.
“If that’s what it takes to prove to you that I’m not on his
side. McCreed can destroy you. He doesn’t need me to do it. I’m
committed to seeing him destroyed before he can do that, but if
you doubt me, none of this is going to work.”
“Sawyer…” She sighs heavily. “If it’s hard to trust, it’s not
because of you. It’s because of me. When Dylan showed up
with his promises and compliments, I saw what I wanted to see
– a man in love. I saw it because I was hungry for someone to
take me away, to give me a life free of my father’s rule. You’ve
awakened a new hunger in me, one that I can’t even explain.
When I look at you, I see both a father figure and …something
more. Something that calls to the woman in me. In you I see all
I need but I worry that it’s blinding me.”
“To what?”
“To the unknown. I don’t know anything about you. You’re
smart. You’re strong. You’re decent. What draws a man like you
to Drake’s Pass?”
I killed a man. I think the words so loudly in my head that
I’m afraid she can hear them. Am I wrong not to tell her? If I
frighten her and she asks me to leave, Silas McCreed won’t
waste time finding another man to do this job. I think of the
sawmill. What’s to stop him from burning this house with her in
it?
“I’m here for opportunity,” I say, and while it’s not a lie, it’s
not the full truth, either. But I can’t tell her the truth. Not yet.
“Opportunity.” She repeats the word. “I don’t know if you’re
telling me your whole story, only that I want to be part of it. Tell
me, Sawyer. Does that make me the biggest fool in West
Virginia?”
I put my hand to her face and brush my thumb across her
lower lip. Her eyes smolder with desire. What I feel for her is as
wild and fierce as the storm moving into the valley. I want her
more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life and when I
lower my mouth to hers, she stands on her tiptoes to meet the
kiss halfway. Her slim arms wind around my neck and her
tongue fences with mine in a far bolder manner than I’d
anticipated.
My little girl has a woman’s fire, and I can’t resist her heat. I
cup a small, round breast and feel the nipple grow hard through
the homespun fabric of her bodice. My other hand slides up her
dress. Her bare pussy is slick and tight around the finger I slip
inside. My cock is painfully hard, and when her little hand
strokes me through my pants for a split second I think I may
come. No woman has ever had this effect on me.
The exploration will have to continue in the bedroom. I
sweep Grace into my arms and kick open the door of her room.
Her bed is small, but big enough for her to lay on. When I lift
her skirt and push my face between her legs, she utters a little
cry of surprise and I realize she wasn’t expecting this kind of
attention. Modesty overtakes her; I feel the pressure of her hand
trying to push my head away, but two licks later that same hand
is wound in my hair and her legs are spread wide to allow me
access. I grab her ass to still her bucking hips as she christens
my tongue with her sweet arousal.
I could feast on her for hours were it not for the demanding
ache in my own loins. I rise and look down at Grace, delighting
in her flushed face, her eyes glazed and disbelieving at the
pleasure I’ve wrought.
“Undress, little girl,” I say. I’m already shedding my own
clothes. When I unfasten my pants, the sight of my freed cock is
met with a gasp.
“Is it normal for a man to be so …substantial?” Grace asks,
and I can’t help but chuckle. The man who went before me was
apparently lacking in more ways than one.
“No,” I say. “I believe I am blessed.” I sit naked on the edge
of the bed. “But don’t worry. Your wetness will ease my passage
inside, and you’ll be glad for my girth once you feel it. Finish
undressing, little girl.”
She complies, standing to shed her dress. When she was ill, I
struggled to view her dispassionately. Now I don’t have to. I
drink in the luscious image of her naked body, the high, firm
breasts tipped with large, dusky nipples, the gentle slope of her
waist, the sweet swell of her hips, the deep cleft of her pussy,
and the perfect globes of her ass.
“You’re beautiful.” I reach up to unpin her hair. It spills
down her back in shiny waves, releasing a scent of lavender.
“Am I?”
“Don’t you doubt it for a second or I’ll spank you.”
She shoots me a naughty grin. “If I believe you, will you
still spank me? Not so hard as you did today, but there was
something in the way it felt, something I can neither understand
nor explain.”
“You don’t have to explain, little girl.”
I lay her back on the bed, moving between her thighs. The
head of my cock presses against the lips of her pussy. I slide into
her heated grip, staring into her eyes as I savor the sensation of
her body. Her legs curl around my body; her heels dig into my
lower back.
“You don’t have to be gentle,” she says. “I want to be taken
by you, to feel like yours. Take me, Sawyer.”
How can I say no to such a request? I had underestimated
Grace’s passion. She revels in my aggressive thrusting, her
moans mixing with the sounds of thunder outside. The storm
has reached the farm. Lighting fills the room with dazzling
flashes of light. Each one illuminates Grace’s face. Her eyes are
closed, her mouth open with cries of pleasure. She is perfection,
and while I would love to prolong our ecstasy I can’t hold back.
Her orgasm wrings the seed from my body, drawing it into hers.
My cries join hers, feral and deep. When they subside, we are
left only with the sounds of our panting and peals of thunder.
“I’m yours then?” she asks.
“You’re mine. And God help the man who comes between
us.”
 Grace

Sawyer got his letter to the Drake’s Pass postmaster just in

time. It started raining just as he got back to the farm and didn’t
stop for five days straight. The creek swells and floods, sending
ankle-deep water within yards of the farmhouse and driving the
livestock to higher ground. They won’t pass the rushing deluge
to get to the barn and it hurts my heart to see the lambs
shivering in the wet. Rufus, stiff in the bones, comes inside. The
younger dog we’ve named Jeb keeps steadfast vigil amid the
sheep. I’ve named the puppy Jessie.
When the creek breached its bank, Sawyer and I used the
horse to pull the last bundle of fence posts up to the high
meadow. It was slow going; the path was washed and slick.
Sawyer drove posts in the lashing rain, and we cut our hands
stringing what wire we had.
It was hard work, but harder still was driving the now-
weaned lambs up to the high pasture. They’d never been out of
the lower field, nor away from their mothers. Sawyer had to
carry them one by one through the rushing water to the base of
the path, where they stood screaming to be reunited with the
flock. It took hours to drive them up, during which time Sawyer
suggested we add a collie to the farm. While Jeb is protective,
he is worthless for moving sheep.
We brought along a couple of older ewes to comfort the little
ones. The rest cried after the departing lambs but eventually
settled down, and once at the high meadow the babies became
interested in their surroundings. Jeb warily patrolled the
perimeter of the fence, stopping ever so often to sniff the wet air
and growl.
“I don’t want you up there without me,” Sawyer says this
morning as he comes back from checking on the lambs and
feeding Jeb.
“You think that cat is still up there?”
“I’m sure of it. I saw fresh tracks in the mud just off the
trail. Deer tracks, too. Deep ones. Looks like the cat was
chasing dinner. It’s a big cat, Grace. It’ll feed for a few days,
less if it’s a mama with cubs.”
“If it’s not safe up there for me, why is it safe for you?”
“Because I’m bigger and armed.”
“I know how to shoot a gun.”
“Grace, do you want a trip over my knee?”
I walk over to where he’s sitting and take his face in my
hands. “No, Daddy,” I say, and lean down to give him a playful
kiss before walking back to the beans I’ve been shelling. “But I
don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be here to protect you like
Jeb protects those lambs.”
“Hush now.” I incline my head towards Rufus. “You’re
going to hurt his feelings. Poor old man.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s upset. He’s earned his retirement.”
As if understanding, Rufus yawns and stretches.
I ask Sawyer about the crop. He says all that we’ve planted
has probably fared better than what’s been planted further down
the valley. We’re wondering aloud about the flooding in the
valley below when we hear our horse neigh. A second later
another horse answers. I look out the window and am shocked at
what I see.
“Sawyer, it’s Silas McCreed.”
We exchange glances and I know we’re thinking the same
thing; we got the lambs moved just in time. Sawyer turns to me
and takes me by the arms. “You remember what I said about
obeying me no matter what?”
 I nod.
“Silas doesn’t want to see a woman at ease with herself. He
doesn’t expect to see you confident. He expects to see a woman
dragged down by the loss of her lambs, a woman worried. We
have parts to play in his presence, both of us. Understand?”
I nod.
“And you hold your tongue and your temper, no matter what
he says, alright?”
I nod again.
Sawyer doesn’t wait for McCreed to dismount. His horse is
still sloshing through the slowly receding water when we walk
onto the porch. I hang back in the doorway clutching my
dishtowel as Sawyer descends the steps.
McCreed hops off his horse. He looks past Sawyer to me. I
should lower my gaze, but I don’t. I forget how much I hate this
man until he’s in my presence. Disdain roils in my breast. Under
the dishtowel, unseen, is a paring knife. I grip its handle,
thinking that this is the man who wanted to kill my lambs,
thinking of how satisfying it would be to drive this blade into
his neck. Sawyer looks back at me and our eyes lock. It’s as he’s
reading my mind and I force myself to settle my thoughts.
“Mr. McCreed, what brings you up this way?” Sawyer asks.
“It’s not the kind of day folks generally come visiting.”
McCreed smiles. “Isn’t that the best time to show up? When
someone’s not expecting you?” He looks at me again before
turning back to Sawyer. “The rain’s caused a lot of problems
further down the mountain. Crops washed away; homes
flooded. Louis and Ella Belcher had a dozen head of cow
drown. Not much better in town. There’s flooding in the mines.
We lost five men.”
It does not escape my notice that he delivers the news about
lost cattle and lost men in the same tone.
“Looks like the Alton farm is getting by, even if it’s soggier
than it was when I last came.” McCreed’s gaze wanders to the
pasture. “I’d expect more lambs, though.” He looks back at me.
“Bad year?”
 “Not the best.” I summon the hurt I’d feel if I really had lost
my lambs. “Lots of stillbirths. Must be a bad year for stock.”
“That’s a damn shame, Miss Alton. A real damn shame.
Maybe staying here on this farm wasn’t such a good choice.”
I take a step forward. “It’s a better choice than the one
you’re making. If you don’t have anything better to do than
gloat you need to turn your horse around and leave.”
McCreed smiles and climbs back on his horse but doesn’t
ride off. Instead, he leans forward on his saddle horn and looks
around before turning to Sawyer. “So how do you like working
for a filthy little whore, Mr. Blaine? She’s got to be running out
of money by now. Is she paying you with what’s between her
legs?”
I’m down the steps before I can stop myself, yelling at Silas
McCreed to leave. Sawyer is standing off to the side, looking
tense. I know he can’t come to my defense; he’s supposed to be
nothing more than my hired hand. My outburst has alerted
Rufus, however. He runs out, the puppy on his heels. His
bellicose bark spooks McCreed’s horse, which whirls around
and bolts. McCreed, caught off guard, loses his grip and tumbles
to the ground in the muddy water.
When he climbs to his feet, he’s red-faced with rage. “I
ought to kill that damn mutt.”
“You hurt my dog and I’ll shoot you before you can leave
this yard,” I say. “Now, leave.”
“Just how am I supposed to do that?” He points to his horse
which is already halfway down the path. He looks at Sawyer
then motions towards Charlie munching hay by the barn. “Hitch
up her horse. I need a ride back to town.”
“He doesn’t work for you. He works for me,” I say, taking
some satisfaction in the situation. Just as Sawyer couldn’t
defend me without revealing his deception, McCreed can’t order
Sawyer to give him a ride without revealing his. “My man isn’t
taking you anywhere. You’d better get to walking. Looks like
rain.”
“Bitch,” McCreed says. He leans down and picks up his
muddy hat before pointing it at me. “Don’t you think for a
minute that I’ll forget what happened here today.”
“Don’t think I will either, you side-winding son-of-a-bitch.
The sight of you looking like the filthy rat you are is more
satisfaction than I can stand.”
I can tell he wants to say more, but the rain is already
beginning to fall. This storm is not as fierce as the ones that
flooded these mountains, but it’s enough to guarantee that
McCreed’s painful walk back to town will be even more
unpleasant.
***
“I wish that horse had kicked him in the head when he
bolted.” I’m standing in the kitchen table taking my fury out on
the potatoes I’m peeling.
“You’re going to cut your finger off if you aren’t careful.”
It’s the first thing Sawyer has said since we came back inside.
“How about you put that knife down?”
“No.”
“Grace, put it down or I’ll take it from you.”
I place the knife on the table. “I wish he was dead, Sawyer.”
“I know.”
“The Bible says hating someone is a sin.”
“I’m pretty sure whoever wrote the Bible hadn’t met Silas
McCreed.”
I laugh at this.
“Are you sure it’s just him you’re mad at?” He walks over to
me and puts his hands on my hips. “You sure you’re not mad at
me for not pummeling him into the mud for what he said to
you?”
I shake my head. “No. I understand why you couldn’t. It
would have been satisfying, though.”
“He’s got his coming,” Sawyer says. “But until I can give
you that satisfaction, how about I give you another kind?” He
lifts me effortlessly and puts me on the table, sending potatoes
rolling to the floor. I don’t even care.
 “You’re as tense as a fiddle string, Grace.” His hands move
under my skirt to cup my bottom. I moan as he squeezes. “Tell
me what you need, little girl.”
“I don’t want to say.”
“Say it.” He squeezes my ass harder, and the pain sends a
ripple of pleasure through my core.
“I’m mad. All I can see is McCreed’s arrogant face. I’m so
mad I could cry, but I can’t. All these feelings, pressed against
my chest. It hurts.”
“You need to cry?”
It’s exactly what I need, but since I can’t bring myself to say
it so I just nod. Sawyer pulls me to my feet, turns me around,
and bends me over the table. I hold my breath as he pulls up my
dress. There’s a bread board on the table. Sawyer picks it up and
slaps it against his open palm. My stomach flips in fear. I’m
about to tell him I’ve reconsidered, but there’s no time. He puts
his hand on my lower back and a slip second later the crack of
the board against my bottom echoes through the room. I scream.
The burn burrows through the layers of my skin. I try to stand
but he holds me fast. The bread board falls again. By the third
descent I’m wailing like a child, my fists drumming onto the
table. The board catches the undercurve of my bottom, sending
me up on my tiptoes. I beg for Sawyer to stop and when he
doesn’t, I curse him. This earns me two more blows – one on the
center of each cheek. I can barely breathe for the pain. He puts
the board down. I’m sobbing uncontrollably when he picks me
up in his arms and goes to the chair by the cold hearth. There
are renewed howls of anguish as my bottom meets his thigh. I
try to wriggle off his lap, but he won’t let me. I go limp with
mental and physical exhaustion, burying my face in his shirt and
crying out my frustration. Sawyer says nothing. He just rocks
me and strokes my hair.
Why did I need this? How did he know I needed it? I can’t
remember a time when my life wasn’t in turmoil. I can’t
remember a time when I felt safe and secure. Sawyer is both
lover and guide. He gives me boundaries and the freedom to
feel. He knows the pain I have inside and is helping me release
it. With each cleansing cry, I feel the layers of hurt stripped
away, leaving me a little lighter, a little happier.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You don’t have to thank me, Grace. I’m the luckiest man
alive to be sitting here holding you.”
“You mean that?” I sit up and manage a smile.
“Yes ma’am.” Sawyer trails his finger down the dried tear
track on my left cheek. “It’s not every man who takes a job on a
farm and ends up falling in love.”
“You love me?”
“Don’t you go sounding surprised. If it’s not apparent by
now I must not be working hard enough.”
Fresh tears blur my eyes. “I thought I knew what love was
once. I thought it was vulnerability, weakness. I was wrong.
Your love makes me stronger. Loving you makes me whole.”
I kiss him then and he lifts me from the chair and takes me
back to the table. I don’t care that my bottom is still tender as he
sits me on the edge. I wrap my legs around his waist. He enters
me slowly, moving with firm, deep strokes. There are no
screams of passion this time, just contented sighs, and I feel the
surges of pleasure in my very soul. He’s looking in my eyes as
we come together, my body pumping the seed from his cock and
pulling it into my core. I think of what could come of this. A
child. Our child. The thought suddenly scares me until he says
the words I never thought to hear from any man.
“Marry me, Grace.”
I can barely answer through the tears of joy. My heart says
yes before the word slips from my mouth, heartfelt and certain.
 Sawyer

This latest storm is followed by clear and hot weather that

dries the land and sends streams and rivers back within their
banks. The corn grows two feet in the space of a week, and the
raspberry and blackberry bushes are so full of fruit they bend to
the ground. Grace spends part of her days making jam. The
kitchen is hot and heavy with the sweet smell of fruit.
I wake up this morning to the sound of Rufus and the puppy
barking. My first thought is that Silas McCreed has come back
and reach over for Grace, but she’s not there. I leap from the
bed. She’s likely out berry picking before it gets too hot, but the
barking dogs have me worried for her safety. I rush out with just
my pants on. There’s dew on the ground and the air is thick with
mist.
I follow the sounds of the dogs to where Grace is talking to
an older man. He’s short and carries a walking stick. His tattered
clothes are too big for him; his pants held up with a piece of
rope. His beard is grizzled and unkempt. The mule he leads is in
even sorrier shape. A pack on the animal’s back partially
obscures jutting ribs.
“Good morning.” I speak loud enough to get the man’s
attention. Even though he doesn’t look like much of a threat, I
don’t like any stranger getting too close to Grace.
“Morning, sir.” The man smiles, revealing gaps in his rotting
teeth.
 “Sawyer, this is Ben,” Grace says. She reaches out to pet the
mule. “And this is Danny.”
“What brings you this way?” I ask.
“Heading from Pepper’s Ridge to Drake’s Pass looking for
work,” he replies. “Road was washed out, so I had to go up a bit
and head back down where it was drier. Any idea how far away
I am?”
“Two miles, give or take. It’s all downhill from here.”
“I’ll be glad to get there.” Ben gives the mule a kindly pat.
“Just hope old Danny makes it.”
Grace shoots me a look. I can tell she feels sorry for the
beast.
“How about we feed the both of you since you’re here?” she
offers. “We have hay and corn for Danny. I’m sure he’d
appreciate having his load lightened for an hour or so.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, ma’am. If you’re husband
doesn’t mind…”
“He’s not my husband,” she says.
“Yet,” I say before I can stop myself, and Grace flushes with
happiness.
“I hate to be a burden,” Ben says.
“You’re not.” Grace gives him a reassuring smile. “There’s
ham and biscuits up at the house.”
Ben and Danny follow us to the barn. Once the mule is
relieved of his sack, Grace finds and empty stall and loads a pail
with oats and corn before filling the manger with hay. I fetch the
mule a bucket of water and then we go inside. Ben eats like a
man starved, thanking us between bites of food. Grace packs
him some extra to take along.
“This is a fine place you have here,” our visitor says
between bites. “You must be proud.”
“I am,” Grace says, then looks at me. “We are.”
“Farming is hard work, I guess.”
 “You’d be guessing right.” I nod to the platter in front of
Ben. There’s one biscuit left and he’s looking at it wistfully.
“Help yourself.”
“You’re good people,” he says. “Good people.” He suddenly
looks sad. “It’s a damn shame that people have to be bad when
they could just be good, you know?”
We both nod and I notice that Grace’s brow is knit with
concern.
Later when Ben is on his way, she asks me what I made of
his comment.
“Not much,” I say. “Man like that probably isn’t used to
much kindness. He looks like he’s just trying to make it from
day to day. Speaking of which, now that we don’t have to worry
about flooding I need to think about heading to town to see if
I’ve gotten an answer to my letter. It’s been a few weeks. If it
reached my cousin, I should have a reply waiting for me at the
post office. We’re running low on supplies, too.”
“Sawyer, I feel awfully guilty having you spend so much of
your own money. I promise once the lambs are sold, I’ll pay you
back every single cent.”
“Hush.” I look over where she’s standing at the table. Even
barefoot in homespun with tendrils of hair stuck to her face
from the oppressive heat, she’s prettier than a princess. “Doing
for you feels good. It’s given me a sense of belonging. If I was
mining for McCreed, my money would have gone to the
company store. Rather your pantry than his pockets. Besides,
it’s not like I don’t eat my share of groceries.”
Grace smiles and tells me to at least take some jams and
jellies to the mercantile. She said in past years Mr. Baysden has
bought jam from her. She tells me how happy she is that we
have a bumper crop of berries this year.
“The vegetable crop’s looking good, too,” I say hopefully.
“Grace is a good partner. I can’t wait until the problem of Silas
McCreed is behind us and I can make her my wife.
***
“Are you sure? Can you check again?”
 “I don’t need to check again.” The postmaster, clearly
agitated, fidgets with a pile of letters. “I done told you. There’s
nothing for a Sawyer Blaine.”
My disappointment is acute. Either my cousin didn’t get the
letter or decided not to respond. Either way, the only way to get
the dirt I need on Silas McCreed is by going to Ohio. I don’t
want to leave Grace on the farm for that long alone, but we can’t
leave the place unattended, either.
I thank the postmaster and leave, irritated at having to figure
out what to do next. My mood isn’t approved by having to
navigate the main street of Drake’s Pass. The floodwaters
carved deep ruts in the street and the little moisture they now
hold is a breeding ground for clouds of mosquitoes. Horses
stamp and toss their heads amid the swarms. There’s mud on the
wooden sidewalks; by the time I make it to the mercantile with
my box of jams and jellies, I’m just as filthy as the rest of the
folk. The mud is thick and tacky, and I stamp my feet on the
porch, which is uncharacteristically empty today. As I head
inside, I see why. A notice tacked to the door proclaims, “NO
LOITERING ON THESE PREMESIS BY TOWN DECREE.”
In the store, the shelves are even barer than they were when
I last visited, and Mr. Baysden looks like he’s aged ten years.
Like the porch, the place is empty.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning.” His tone is flat and defeated.
When I set the box on the counter, he brightens a bit. “Grace
Alton make this?”
“Yes sir, she did.”
He takes out one of the jars and holds it up, peering at the
neatly written label through his spectacles. “That gal’s daddy
started bringing jam she made when she weren’t knee high to a
grasshopper. It used to worry me, the thought of that child
working at that hot stove with no ma there to keep her from
getting hurt. Her ma’s the one who taught her you know.” He
sighs. “What a beauty she was. Old Alton never deserved her.
Didn’t deserve Grace, either.”
 His words surprise me, not only because it’s the most he’s
ever spoken but also because he seems sympathetic to Grace.
He sighs then and puts the jar back in the box. “I can’t afford
to buy jam today.”
“I’m willing to barter,” I say.
“I don’t have much to barter with.”
“You’ve got enough,” I say, and he smiles gratefully.
“Thanks. Once I get the word out that there’s fresh jelly and
jam here maybe some people will sneak back in to shop.”
“Sneak?”
He looks at me with the expression of a man who’s said too
much, and I realize that the answer to my problem might be
standing right in front of me. The next words I speak are risky,
but I say them anyway.
“Mr. Baysden, you can trust me. Just because I talk to Silas
McCreed doesn’t mean he’s a friend. I don’t trust that man any
further than I could throw him. What do you mean, sneak?”
He looks to the door as if fearful someone will enter.
“McCreed is destroying my business. He’s hired men further up
on the rail route to steal or damage my shipments. Even the
major and sheriff are afraid to intervene. Did you know it’s
illegal now to even sit on the front porch of my store? He’s
behind that, too.”
“Yeah, I saw the posting.” I pause. “He hired me to do some
of his dirty work, you know.” When the shopkeeper pales, I hold
up my hands. “Don’t worry. You’ve got nothing to fear. He
wants me to destroy Grace Alton’s farm, so she’ll have to sell it
to him cheap. What he doesn’t know is that I’m on her side.” I
tell him about McCreed’s plans, about his obsession with Grace
and her land.
“You know about what happened to her, right, Mr. Blaine?
About how she ran off with that traveling man?”
“I do,” I say. “And I know a lot of people judged her without
understanding what all happened to her. She came back branded
a whore.”
 A guilty look passes over his face. “I know. It won’t right,
but it was hard to side with her and do business with the gossipy
customers at the same time.” He shakes his head regretfully. “I
should have stood up for her, though. I knew there was more to
the story.”
“You can still help her.” I look around the store. “Maybe
even help yourself.”
“How?”
I tell him how McCreed admitted to hiring other people to
do his dirty work before he came to Drake’s Pass. I tell him
what McCreed said about burning down the sawmill in Ohio. I
tell him about sending the letter and not getting a reply. I ask
him if he has any contacts in Dayton.
“I don’t,” he says. “But I’m willing to go up there on the
train and ask around. I’m sure the local newspaper office will
have details on any fire. I can track down the owner. He may not
want to talk, though, if the folks there are as afraid of McCreed
as they are here.”
“I don’t think they are, Mr. Baysden. Silas McCreed pulled
out of there in a hurry and came here to hide. I’m thinking he’s
afraid of something.”
The shopkeeper nods gravely. “I might be on to something.
This afternoon I’ll close the store and ride up to Wheeling. I’ll
take the train from there. McCreed’s got spies all over. If I leave
from here for Dayton, it may raise suspicions.”
“That’s a good point,” I say.
We finish our business. I trade the jam for the store’s last
sack of sugar, some salt, some lye, and use my own money to
buy something special for Grace – a flowered dress that looks to
be just her size. I also get her a pair of knitting needles since one
of hers broke.
“I take it you’re more to Grace Alton than just farm help?”
Baysden looks up from where he’s wrapping the dress in brown
paper.
“I aim to marry her once we take care of this problem with
McCreed.”
 “I’m glad to hear that. She deserves somebody who’s going
to take care of her. I’m glad you’re standing between her and
that son-of-a-bitch. I wish I could have had half the character
you’ve had. I didn’t, but I plan to make up for it. I’ll let you
know what I find out.”
I leave the store with renewed hope but still frustrated at the
setback. I’m running out of money. We need to get Grace’s
lambs to market but I know even if we drive them to
Millersville, McCreed is liable to find out. A man like that
won’t like being beaten at his own game.
I think on how easy it would be to just kill him. I’ve killed
before. I didn’t think I’d ever meet a man I hated more than I
hated Joe Boggs. He was cruel and abusive; I did the world a
favor putting him in the ground and if the good lord disagrees, I
guess I’ll find that out once I leave this life. McCreed is even
worse, but I don’t want to kill him. The dark door that opened in
my soul the day I shot Boggs feels all too easy to reopen; the
easy fix of murder all too tempting. If I kill McCreed who’s to
say I will stop at him. There are a lot of bad men in this world.
The sun is beating down on my back as I load the wagon.
Charlie’s harness jingles as he tries to shake off a fresh cloud of
mosquitoes.
“Mr. Blaine!” I tense as I hear a familiar voice call my
name. “Come into town to do a little shopping for our little
whore?”
My face reddens with anger, but I force myself to remain
calm. “Yep. But this trip has used the last of the money she had
tucked away.”
“That’s good to hear.” McCreed leans on the edge of the
wagon and smiles, then nods towards the package wrapped in
brown paper. “What’s in there?”
“Fabric,” I lie. “She said she needed some homespun for
mending.”
He chuckles. “Old Mr. Basden must be trying hard to please
if he’s wrapping up homespun like it’s fancy. His store’s not
doing so well.”
 “He didn’t have much left,” I say. I’m eager to be away from
McCreed’s presence, but as I’m about to climb into the
buckboard he takes hold of my arm.
“Not so fast. Since you’re in town we need to go have a
chat. I haven’t had a report since I showed up at the farm. I
think every day about how that little bitch smirked when I was
sitting in the mud and how she wouldn’t let you take me back.
Took me a while to get home.”
“She ought not to have done that,” I say. “But it’s not like I
could get involved without making her suspicious. Look, my
horse is getting chewed up standing here with these
mosquitoes…”
“The horse can wait,” he says. “When I tell a man in my
employ to come to my office, he comes to my office.”
There’s a menace in his tone. I don’t like it, but I can’t
afford to betray myself. “Sorry, buddy,” I say to Charlie as I turn
to reluctantly follow McCreed to his office. On the way I can’t
help but notice how unhappy the people here look. The mood is
bleaker than it was when I arrived. Women shuffle by with
hollow-eyed, sickly-looking children. There’s a line outside the
doctor’s office. A man passing me is hacking with a wet, ragged
cough.
Entering McCreed’s building is like stepping into a different
world. He demands I wipe my feet before going inside, and I
can see why. Unlike the town he’s fouled, his personal offices
are immaculate. A fancy rug covers the polished wood floor. Oil
paintings hang on the wall above the leather couch in the main
room. Rather than invest in the town that’s making him rich,
he’s spending the money to surround himself with luxuries.
In his private office he pulls an expensive cigar from the
drawer of his mahogany desk. He bites off the end of the cigar
and lights it. He does this slowly, emphasizing that my time is
worth nothing. As the room fills with the smoky sweet aroma of
tobacco, I think of Grace’s horse suffering outside from heat and
mosquitoes.
“I was glad to see so few lambs at the Alton farm, Mr.
Blaine. When I hire a man to do his job, I always appreciate
knowing he’s done it well. Of course, you never really know, do
you?”
Behind me, two huge men enter the office. They stand
silently flanking the doorframe as McCreed continues. “We had
a deal and for the kind of work I want, the pay is handsome, but
that requires assurances that the job is being done. When I was
at the Alton farm I noticed a new puppy of a breed that guards
livestock. Only one farmer in the area breeds those dogs so I
went by his place and come to find out that you bought not only
a puppy, but an older dog as well and I couldn’t help but
thinking…why would Sawyer Blaine buy two dogs to guard
sheep that aren’t supposed to be alive? Sometimes it’s not what
you see that tells a story, but what you don’t see. There wasn’t a
second dog when I was at the farm, at least not in that field.”
A chill run up my spine. When the door behind me opens
again, I’m not surprised at the man who walks in. Ben, the old
man with the mule has cleaned up as well as a man of his age
can. He walks over to McCreed’s side, where he stands like an
obedient hound.
“Remember Ben?” McCreed says. “Only his name isn’t
Ben. It’s Bill. And he wasn’t a lost fellow looking for work. I
sent him and his mule up the back way and down your trail.
What do you think he found up on that mountain above your
place? If you guessed a bunch of fat healthy lambs close to
ready for market, you’d be right.”
“Grace was kind to you,” I say to the man. “You should be
ashamed of yourself.”
He won’t meet my eyes, not that I expected him to. There’s
no time to dwell on morality, though. All I have in my favor
now is the element of surprise. I leap to my feet with the
intention of barreling past the two men, but they are faster. A
fist slams into my midsection, knocking the wind out of me.
Strong hands grasp me beneath my armpits as I slump. I’m spun
around to face the man I hate more than anyone in this world.
“What’s the matter, McCreed?” I ask. “Too cowardly to take
me on yourself?”
He chuckles at this. “Who needs to bruise their knuckles
when they can hire someone to do it for them? Like I said, I like
to keep my hands clean, but of course you know that.” The
smug smile disappears then as he reaches into the breast pocket
of his jacket. “You’ve been doing more than raising sheep.
Seems to me you’ve been trying to ruin me.”
I stare at the letter in his hand, my dread deepening.
“I have eyes all over this town, even at the post office. The
postman comes to me with anything suspicious and a few days
back he brought me a letter addressed to the Alton Farm since
he knows I’ve got a special interest in that place. And what do
you think I found?” He waves the letter. “A reply to you from
one of your relations.”
He unfolds the letter and clears his throat before beginning
to read aloud.
“Dear Sawyer,
It’s good to hear from you and gratifying to hear you’re settling
happily with a young lady. As for the matter of the information
you need, I inquired and Albert Swan, the former owner of the
Cane Creek Mill did indeed suspect a rival named McCreed had
something to do with the fire that destroyed his business. Mr.
Swan said McCreed had come into a great inheritance through
his widowed Aunt Emma McCreed, whom Swan was wooing.
Silas McCreed was the sole heir and when an otherwise healthy
Emma turned up dead, he suspected she’d been poisoned. He
confronted McCreed and accused him of killing Emma for the
inheritance. He swore to get proof. Two nights later the mill
burned to the ground. This was a few years ago, but he is
interested in speaking to you given that McCreed has confessed
to the crime. His heart is still sore over the loss of his love and
the destruction of his business from which he never fully
recovered. Please be careful in your dealings with this man. Mr.
Swan says he is dangerous.”
Your cousin, Wade
The room is silent. He tucks the letter back in his pocket.
“Mr. Swan is right. I am dangerous. And in case you’re
curious, I did kill my aunt. I was sole heir to her substantial
fortune. Do you think I was going to just let some man swoop in
and take it?” He shakes his head. “I warned him to back off
when he came to me with his suspicions. I offered to buy his
mill and let him leave town. But did he listen? No, and he paid
the price. Afterwards, it seemed safer for me to just start a new
business here, so that’s what I did.”
I pull against the two men. McCreed cocks his head and
watches. My struggles seem to amuse him.
“You boys have my permission to work this disloyal jackass
over. Don’t kill him, though. I want him hurt but conscious. The
real pain comes later today when he sees what I do to his little
whore.”
My attempt to tear away this time is nearly successful. I
even get in a couple of good licks, but I’m outmatched. Fists
seem to fly from everywhere. My last thought before things go
black is of Grace.
 Grace

Cooking in the summer used to feel like ungrateful work.

There I’d be, sweat pouring off my face as I set dinner before
my father, hoping against hope that this would be the day he’s
show a shred of appreciation. It never came. God forgive me,
but I don’t miss the man. I don’t miss him at all.
Life with Sawyer is so much different. The way he praises
my cooking makes the hours I spend in front of the woodstove
worth it. He thanks me for everything whether it’s a hot meal or
a cold glass of water.
This afternoon I’ve baked a blueberry cobbler. As I wipe the
sweat from my eyes with the back of my arm, I can’t help but
smile at the sight of the flaky golden crust with blueberries
bubbling around the edges. I imagine Sawyer coming in from
town and sitting down to ham, greens, and biscuits as he tells
me about his day in Drake’s Pass. I imagine how he’ll rub his
belly and say he can’t eat another bite before laughing that he
just found room for more when he sees dessert.
The late afternoon sun slants across the kitchen floor.
Sawyer should have been back by now, but who knows what the
road is like between here and town since the flood. There may
be trees down or boulders even; navigating his way to and from
town in the wagon probably just took longer.
Still, after another hour I start to worry. I think about the big
cat whose tracks Sawyer saw on the trail. I try not to imagine
her high on a rock looking down at the passing wagon, her
muscular body tightening just before she leaps onto the horse.
Cougars kill with a bite to the back of the neck. My pa told me
that years ago after he and his friends killed a big male lion a
few counties over. I remember looking at the lion’s body
stretched out on the back of the wagon with a mixture of
sadness and awe. The lion’s paws were huge, the teeth in its
gaping mouth sharp and white. I told Pa I’d like to have seen it
alive. I was only seven and didn’t know any better. Pa told me
I’d better hope to never see one. The cat on the back of the
wagon could easily kill a grown man. It had happened before,
he said. I look out the window towards the high meadow. Would
the cat make its way lower down towards the valley?
I tell myself I’m silly to worry about such things, and my
relief is palpable when I hear the jingle of the harness and look
out to see the buckboard approaching from the distance. I rush
out onto the porch, not caring that I’m sweaty and wearing a
too-short dress that shows off my calves. No matter how I look,
Sawyer always tells me I’m beautiful. He says it so often that
I’ve started to believe it.
He looks tired today, though. His head is down so that I only
see the top of his hat. And why on earth is he wearing a jacket in
this heat? An uneasiness overtakes me as I make my way down
the steps. Sawyer usually drives the wagon to the door, hops out,
and gives me a kiss before we lead Blue to the barn for
unhitching. Today he goes straight to the barn. I run down the
steps and follow, but as soon as I round the corner it’s not
Sawyer I see driving the wagon. It’s Silas McCreed. I stop short,
then scream as a large man rises from the back of the wagon and
vaults over the side. I turn to run but only get a few steps before
arms go around my middle in a grip tight enough to take my
breath away. The only thing tighter is the grip of fear, not for
myself, but for Sawyer.
“Where is he?” I ask. I don’t want to cry but I can’t help it.
“Where is Sawyer?”
“You mean lover boy?” McCreed smiles a mean smile as he
sheds the hat and coat he used to disguise himself. “Ruben, why
don’t you bring Miss Alton over here to the back of the
wagon?”
 The man holding me is enormous. I struggle as he drags me
to the wagon. I resist, fighting the moment I look upon the
lifeless body of the only person to ever love me. At the back of
the wagon, Reuben shoves me forward and my heart leaps.
Sawyer is not dead, but he has been badly beaten. One eye is
swollen shut; the other is only half open. His face is purple with
bruises and blood from a badly split lip has reddened the gag
forced into his mouth. He’s hogtied.
“Sawyer.” I say his name and reach for him, but McCreed
jerks me back by my hair.
“Sawyer. Sawyer!” He mocks me in a sing-song voice as
Reuben cackles like the simpleton he clearly is.
“You two thought you were smart, didn’t you?” McCreed
whirls me around to face him. “Up here playing house when
you’re nothing more than a filthy little whore. What did you
think, Grace? That this man was going to make a respectable
woman out of you? He was sure trying.” He keeps hold of me as
he reaches into the cart. “He even bought you a gift tied up all
pretty-like. I unwrapped it for you. It’s a dress, see?” He holds
up the garment. It’s fine – finer than anything I’ve ever owned.
I look past him to Sawyer, whose one eye is fixed on me. It’s
as if I can read his thoughts through his half-stare. Stay strong, it
says. Stay strong and think. I’m so mad I’m shaking. I don’t
know if I have it in me to keep my wits, especially when
McCreed lays out his plan.
“On the way up here, I was pondering the sweetness of
revenge.” McCreed’s voice is low and dangerous. “It’s like a
good cigar. It needs to be savored. It needs to be special. So, you
know what you’re going to do?”
I don’t answer. I just stare at him, willing my hatred to stop
his heart.
“You’re going to put on this fancy little dress. Then you and
me and Reuben and Loverboy here are going to go up to that
high pasture. Once we’re up there, I’m going to make you watch
as Reuben does to your sweet little lambs what your sad sack of
shit man didn’t have the guts to do. Reuben is going to kill them
one by one. Then he’s going to hold your beloved still and make
him watch while I have my way with you and when it’s over…?
Since you love this land and that worthless son-of-a-bitch so
much, Reuben is going to dig two holes – one for you and one
for him – in the woods so you can be here together like you
planned.” He runs a head down the side of my face. “Now, what
do you think of that?”
I don’t think. I just act. I turn my head and bite down on
McCreed’s hand, catching the lower half of his little finger. The
bone crunches between my teeth. He screams and tries to push
me away but I’m feral in my rage. I loosen my bite only to
renew my grip at the top of the same finger with nothing short
of savagery. Reuben’s arms are around my waist, pulling.
McCreed is screaming at him to stop, that it’s tearing his finger
off. I only let go after the second blow to the side of my face.
McCreed stumbles back, his eyes wide with shock. He looks
afraid – afraid of me – and it’s not hard to understand why. I’m
sure I look every bit the madwoman, smiling with purposeful
malice with my attacker’s blood running down my chin.
McCreeed reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief and wraps
it around his hand, moaning. Blood blooms on the white fabric.
“Bitch!” He lunges forward, backhanding me so hard I fall
to the ground. My ears are wringing, but I don’t care. I get to my
feet, forcing myself to continue smiling. “You’re going to be
sorry you ever touched me, Silas McCreed.” I turn to Reuben.
“And you’ll be sorry you came with him.”
“I don’t like the looks of her,” says Reuben. “She looks like
a witch.”
“And she’s going to die like one – cursed.” McCreed says.
“Strip her dress off.”
When Reuben hesitates, I approach McCreed, undressing
myself. I keep my eyes locked on his. My only weapon is a
boldness that the men didn’t expect and don’t know how to
handle. When I’m standing naked McCreed throws the dress at
me and orders me to put it on. I don the dress, suppressing the
sentimentality that should have accompanied such a gift. It fits
perfectly. I unpin my bun. If I’m going to die, it’ll be with my
head up and my hair down. But I’m not going down without a
fight. McCreed stands watching, bent double from pain. He’s
still clutching his right hand. Blood has completely soaked the
handkerchief.
 Keep your wits.
Everyone has a weakness. As Reuben hauls Sawyer out of
the back of the cart I see fear in the big man’s eyes, fear of me.
He said I looked like a witch, and I don’t doubt it, with my hair
wild around my shoulders and dried blood caking my lips and
running down my chin. McCreed has removed the bloodied
handkerchief and is re-wrapping his hand, whimpering all the
while. As he focuses on that, I turn to Reuben.
“You’ll pay for what you’re doing,” I say, walking towards
him. “I’ll call upon the spirits of the wood to take vengeance on
you and yours. There will be no peace for you if you do this
thing.”
“Mr. McCreed! She done put a curse on me!” Reuben moves
back, leaving Sawyer tottering on his still-bound feet. I rush to
steady him.
“You bumbling idiot!” Silas yells. “She’s no witch. She’s
nothing but a goddamned whore. Undo the bastard’s feet. We’ve
got to get up that mountain before dark. I want enough light for
them to see what I’m going to do!”
“But she cursed me!” Rueben says again, not budging. I
stare at him with all the menace I can muster and make a
random sign in the air with my fingers.
“The evil eye is on you now,” I say, and he pales.
“She put the evil eye on me!” Reuben babbles.
“Shut your superstitious fool mouth!” McCreed is furious. “I
should have brought your brother along, too. That way I’d have
had one working brain between the two of you.”
The big man looks chastened and despite all that’s
happening I feel a stirring of sympathy as Reuben kneels to cut
the ropes at Sawyer’s feet.
“You keep a grip on him. I’ll take her.” McCreed jerks me
forward. “Bill said the trail is to the left of that oak. We need to
get a move on.”
I look over my shoulder as McCreed begins leading me
away. Sawyer is walking now, but his hands are still bound.
Reuben is strong, but slow and while McCreed is armed, his
pistol is on his right side. He’s right-handed, and thanks to me
that hand is injured. Has Sawyer made these observations? I
have no way of knowing how bad he’s hurt. When I glance
back, he’s limping slowly with his head down.
“Look back one more time and I’ll have Reuben beat him
some more.” McCreed’s grip on my arm tightens. I grit my
teeth. “Uppity bitch. Your farmhand isn’t so high and mighty
now, is he? You’ll regret the day you ever turned me down.” He
quickens his pace; pure rage is driving him forward. “Nobody
crosses Silas McCreed and gets away with it, especially not a
goddamn woman.”
“Only cowards bully women,” I say. “And only fools
underestimate them.”
He laughs. “Keep talking, little bitch. I’ll show you soon
enough how helpless you are.”
We trudge onward, the trail getting narrower as the ledges
around us shadow the path. I want to look back but don’t,
knowing that if I do McCreed will punish Sawyer further. In the
distance I can hear the lambs.
“Listen to those babies,” Sawyer says. “Soon enough you’ll
hear them crying as their throats are opened. You know, I think
I’ll have Reuben do them one by one, right in front of you.”
“Bastard!” I say, and at that exact moment an unearthly
scream splits the air, echoing off the surrounding rocks.
McCreed stops, looking around.
“What was that? What was that?” Rueben’s voice is frantic.
A chill runs through me. I know exactly what it is, but I also
know I can use the sound to my advantage. “It’s the spirit of the
wilds, Rueben. I told you I would call to her. I’ve called up a
demon and she’s come to avenge me!”
Beside me, McCreed is looking up at the surrounding rocks,
allowing me to steal a glance in Sawyer’s direction. Rueben has
let go of Sawyer’s arm. “I told you!” He points at me. “I told
you she was a witch!”
“You oaf!” McCreed’s face is red with rage as he points at
Swayer. “Take hold of him!”
 “No!” Rueben shakes his head. His eyes are wild with fear
as a second louder scream comes from overhead followed by a
low, echoing growl.
“You’d better run if you don’t want me to send that demon
to eat your soul,” I say to Reuben and he does just that, ignoring
McCreed’s orders for him to stop.
“It’s just a bobcat!” McCreed yells after him, but I know
better and this time when I look back Sawyer’s open eye is more
alert, his posture more upright. He’s clearly been faking the
extent of his injury.
There’s silence now except for some pebbles falling from
above. I look up and there on a jutting rock I see small, spotted
animal slink out of sight. A cougar cub. Sawyer was right. We
are close to mama and her babies. The cries were a warning.
Beside me, McCreed is looking at the ledge, but clearly missed
what I noticed.
“We should turn back,” I say.
“We aren’t turning back for some little bobcat.”
“It’s not a bobcat,” I say. “It’s a lion.”
“Right,” McCreed says, and although his tone is mocking,
he’s pulled his gun, and just as I suspected, his grasp is weak
thanks to his shattered finger. He’s trying to adjust his hold on
the weapon when I reach for a stick on the path and swing with
all my might. It connects with his injured hand, sending the
pistol sailing from his loose grip to clatter down the rocky
grade.
McCreed screams in pain, his voice as high and keening. My
gaze meets Sawyer’s. His eyes are scanning the ledge. He looks
worried.
“Bitch!” McCreed looks from me to the gun lying on some
rocks just off the trail before heading down to pursue his
weapon. When he does, I run over to Sawyer.
“There’s a knife in my boot,” he says, and I kneel to grab it.
I make short work of the rope; within a minute Sawyer is free. I
can hear McCreed in the brush, moaning in pain as he looks for
his gun.
 “Come on,” Sawyer says. “Let’s get down the mountain.”
“No!” I back away. “McCreed’s gone after his gun. If he
gets it, he’ll kill my lambs.”
“Grace, if he finds his gun, he’ll kill us.”
“Sawyer…” I know he’s right. We need to move but I can’t
make myself do it. McCreed bursts back onto the path, weapon
raised. Sawyer moves to shield me and I open my mouth to
scream but it’s not my scream I hear. It’s another, louder and
unearthly. Something sails overhead. The cougar lands on
McCreed, hitting him from the side. I can’t move. I can’t believe
what I’m seeing. Her teeth sink into his neck at the base of his
skull. His eyes widen in disbelief. He opens his mouth but no
sound comes out. The cat is huge and stares at us as she keeps
her grip on McCreed’s neck.
“Stay still,” Sawyer says, and I obey. Neither of us move as
we keep an eye on the cat. She has a death grip on the back of
McCreed’s neck. He’s looking directly at us, his mouth moving
as if trying to cry for help. If it were anyone else, I’d feel pity.
But there’s none for this man. He knows he’s dying. He knows
we’re watching him. Does he know the cold satisfaction I feel?
McCreed’s legs twitch once, then twice. His eyes roll back in
his head and then go blank.
My heart is hammering wildly in my chest. What I’m seeing
is horrifying and primal but perversely fascinating. The cat
backs into the undergrowth off the trail, pulling the body as she
goes. I look away only when Silas McCreed’s boots disappear
into the brush. He’ll never hurt another soul.
 Sawyer

The walk back to the cabin was quiet. I think both Grace and
I were in a state of shock. The only time the silence was broken
was when she asked if I was all right and I assured her I was.
After all that had happened, her first concern was for me.
At home – home – she sits me down in a chair and proceeds
to tend to my wounds. The swelling in my shut eye has gone
down and I can open it, but my face still throbs with pain,
especially my lip. I wince as she dabs it with a mixture of warm
water and salt to stave off any infection.
“I killed a man, Grace.”
She’s holding the rag an inch from my lip. There’s no
judgement in her expression, nor is there surprise.
“I figured it was more than work that sent you to Drake’s
Pass.” She dabs my lip again. “Hold still.” Satisfied with her
work, she drops the bloody rag into the bowl at her side. “What
happened?”
I tell her about Joe Boggs, about how he abused my mother.
I tell her about the day I decided she’d never have a life while
he had his. I tell her everything. She listens and afterwards has
just one question: why didn’t I tell her before?
“I was afraid. I’ve been afraid for things in my life – like I
was afraid for you and for my ma. But I’ve never been afraid of
things, although I was afraid Reuben and his brother might
accidentally kill me in McCreed’s office. But even that wasn’t
as bad as the fear I had of losing you. I was afraid if you knew
I’d killed somebody you’d send me away, that you’d think me
just another bad man come to do you wrong.”
She smiles sadly. “If I were a man, I’d be sitting in jail right
now for killing somebody. Don’t think I haven’t thought about
it. God forgive me, I even thought on killing my father a time or
two. When I was little, I thought it was just the way of men to
be cruel. I didn’t have anything to compare it to. My mother
escaped through death, but I was so little I didn’t know how to
get away, especially after I was forced to take her place with all
the housekeeping.” She shakes her head. “And then there was
Dylan and McCreed…” She pauses. “I’m not one to judge
where killing is concerned. The Bible says if you’ve thought of
doing a sin it’s the same as doing it.”
“Not sure I buy that.” I smile and it hurts. “But I feel so
damn guilty…”
“For what? For killing that guy who hurt you mama?”
“No.” I shake my head. “For not killing McCreed when I
had the chance. He was at this farm more than once. I should
have…”
“No,” she says, putting her hand on mine.
“Yes.” I’m adamant. “The things he would have done to
you, the pain he would have made you feel….”
“He didn’t.”
“Well, it wasn’t because I stopped him.”
She takes my chin and turns my face so that I’m looking at
her. It’s a gesture I’ve done with her so many times before.
“Sawyer Blaine, is this about you being upset because you
didn’t save me up there?”
“It was your quick thinking saved both of us, Grace. Scaring
Reuben off like you did was brilliant. Chances are he’s still
running. But I should have been there for you…”
“You were, Sawyer. And you saved me whether you see it
that way or not.” Grace pulls up a chair and sits down in front of
me. “I grew up feeling worthless. My mama was the only
person who ever cared for me and by the time I was ten I
couldn’t even remember what she looked like. I couldn’t
remember the sound of her voice. When Dylan came, I thought,
“Here’s someone who thinks I’m worth something,” but I
realized after we got to the city that my worth to him was the
money he could make selling my body to strangers. Sawyer,
you’re the first person since my mama to make me realize I
deserve better. You’re the first person since my mama to thank
me for doing something, to hug me, to guide me. My soul was
starved for that, and my body? Dylan made me think those urges
led to nothing good for a woman. You changed that. You
changed me. You made me stronger in myself and you’ve given
me the vision of a future with someone who appreciates me for
who I am, who speaks my body’s language. I wouldn’t have
been able to fight McCreed the way I did if it hadn’t been for
the woman I’ve become with you.”
“I want to kiss you so bad right now,” I say. “And I would if
my lip weren’t busted.” Emotion swells in my chest as she leans
over to plant a feathery soft kiss on the corner of my mouth.
“You’ll be back to kissing me in no time.”
***
As it turns out, it took about two weeks before I could kiss
Grace the way I wanted to and two weeks after that to kiss her
where I wanted to, on the banks of the river as a preacher joins
us together. The whole of Drake’s Pass turned out to see the
woman they once called a harlot become a wife.
Grace is something of a hero. After she got me cleaned up,
we headed to town and told the sheriff what happened up on the
mountain. It was a risk given that McCreed had told everyone
that the sheriff was in his pocket. Most folks were to some
extent, but not because they wanted to be. McCreed had instilled
fear in everyone, the law included. The day we found what was
left of his body covered in leaves, the sheriff said as far as he
was concerned, the case was closed. It helped that Reuben
couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He’d told his brother and several
other people about how McCreed had him go up to the Alton
farm to help him kill some sheep when everything went wrong.
He said he’d fled from an evil on the mountain. He’d accused
Grace of summoning that evil, but that was dismissed on
account of Reuben being a bit slow and evidence that McCreed
had indeed been killed and eaten by a lion.
Grace joked that maybe she was a witch given how things
worked out. Mr. Baysden returned with more evidence of
McCreed’s wrongdoings in Ohio. He was accompanied by
Albert Swan and a big city detective who interviewed me about
what I’d been told. Last I heard, the man is planning to go after
McCreed’s estate.
The townsfolk have collectively decided that Drake’s Pass
will never again let one rich man have so much power. The
mine was shuttered and while the population dropped
considerably, the quality of life was much improved. The roads
were repaired, and the saloon was closed, and Horace Baysden
restocked his store and bought out the owner of the mill. A few
weeks later, he comes to me and asks if I’d like to be his partner.
He says there’s a shortage of good men and if I’m willing to
settle in Drake’s Pass, he could use an honest fellow to run the
mill. After consulting with Grace, I accept.
I offer to take Grace on a trip, but the only place she wants
to go is home. There will be time to travel after the lambs are
sold and the crop is harvested, she says. For now, she wants to
just live like a normal man and wife on a normal farm.
How can I tell Grace she’ll never be even close to normal?
She’s way too special. The trust in her eyes as I clumsily undo
the pearl buttons on her ivory wedding dress makes my heart
swell, and the sight of her body once that dress is off has me
swelling below the waist.
Grace grabs me boldly when I’m naked. Such a naughty
little girl, I think, then moan as she kneels and slides her mouth
down over the head of my cock. I wasn’t expecting such, and
the pleasure is nearly too much to take. I let her hot mouth
stroke me several times before I lift her up. I won’t be
unmanned on our wedding night. When I release my seed, it’ll
be into her ready womb. She’s confided in me that she wants to
have my baby, and I’m eager to make her the sweetest little
mama in West Virginia.
She’s hot, tight, and eager. Her limbs wind around me like
vines, and I dig my fingers into the soft flesh of her ass as I
drive into her. She likes it hard. She says it makes her feel alive
when I’m rough. The bed shakes beneath us, reminding me of
the train I know now was destined to bring me here, to this
moment, to this woman, to love everlasting.
The End
 About The Author
Ava Sinclair

Ava Sinclair is a USA Today Bestselling Author of smart, spicy

romance with dozens of titles to her credit, and while her books
span a variety of subgenres, she’s best known for making magic
between Daddy Doms and the women they love.
Ava is also the host of The Erotic Reading Room Podcast and a
regular contributer to Sssh.com, where she writes columns on
sexuality.
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