Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  He opened the door, his gaze drawn immediately to a rickety table situated directly in the middle of the square room. Atop the table was a stack of papers … held in place with a long, bone-handled knife stabbed right through their middle. Jack’s heart leaped, thumped wildly. The papers. No doubt, the missing ones from the ranch. The knife … Seth’s own skinning knife. Jack suspended further thought, didn’t dare form any conclusions. Not yet.

  Hating like hell to do so, but knowing he had to, Jack stepped inside, walking slowly, mechanically, up to the table. As his gaze roved over the display, his features hardened, his chest hurt. Seth knew he’d come here, knew he’d come looking for him. And had left this for him to find. Holstering his gun, Jack then planted a hand atop the papers, and with his other grabbed the wicked blade’s hilt, toggling it back and forth to loosen it and finally pull it free. With a vehemence born of fearful suspicion and towering temper, Jack flung it out sideways, his motion inadvertently embedding it in a wall.

  He stared at it a moment and then picked up the papers, wanting to verify for himself that these were indeed the ones missing from home. But the top one caught his attention, freezing him in place as he read it. She’s right. Angel’s right. Pa did mean for her to have the Circle D. Goddamn. What he held in his hand was a document changing ownership of the Daltry land. It was made out to Angel Devlin. And it named her Wallace Daltry’s heir. But why?

  Jack flipped to an attached piece of paper, found a letter to Angel … in his father’s handwriting. He skimmed the words, and finally had to clutch at the table, had to stop reading it. When he did, and as he held the papers up, another note, on a torn fragment of paper, fell out, floating to the crude wood floor. Jack bent over, picked it up, read it. It was in Seth’s handwriting. The first lines read … “Me and Angel Devlin. And then, me and you.”

  Angel! Jack’s stomach turned, shock and fear making him ill. He looked again at the note, read the remaining words. They too were for him. But not as important as Jack’s instant calculations. Could he get home before Seth got there? Could he stop him? Could he save Angel? He didn’t know. Because he had no idea how long ago Seth’d left here. Damn him! Such rage as he’d never known gripped Jack. He’d played right into his brother’s bloodstained hands.

  Seth’d drawn him out, had caused him to leave vulnerable everything he loved. Son of a bitch! Angel’d called this one, too. Clutching the wad of papers in his hand, Jack jerked around, already running. He had to get home to her as fast as Buffalo could carry him. He couldn’t spare himself or his horse. They’d have to ride on, even through the darkness.

  Because Jack knew he had to get to Angel … before Seth did.

  Sixteen

  “I hope you don’t mind. But we just cain’t sleep together no more, Miss Angel. Especially not in Mr. Daltry’s bed, him bein’ gone and all. It don’t feel right. ’Course, if’n he was here, he wouldn’t allow it none, neither.”

  She knew what Boots meant. But the way he said it made it sound like more. Fighting a grin, she quickly reassured him. “I understand.”

  “A body ought to be able to rest where he feels most comfortable,” the tall and wiry old man went on, as if she hadn’t already told him—three times since Jack had left earlier today—that his decision to remove Lou and himself from the main house was fine with her. “I purely cannot abide another night of Lou’s tossing and snoring. Why, I believe I’d have to shoot him to get him to stop.”

  Boots now leaned in toward her, speaking just above a whisper—as if Lou, having been banished to the other end of the bunkhouse, could hear his friend talking about him. “And that’d be a shame because you know the poor old soul cain’t help it.”

  “I truly do understand, Boots,” Angel again assured him, shooting a glance at the grinning Lou, and trying to keep from chuckling and thereby hurting the feelings of these two old-maid drovers. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine alone in the house. I have this gun. And I’m used to being on my own. But if I need you, I’ll just holler or fire off a round.”

  Angel looked around the neat, airy bunkhouse and asked, “You got everything you need out here?”

  “Yep,” Lou all but belched, surprising her and Boots, both of whom turned to stare at him down the long aisle of empty bunks. His face coloring brightly, the short, skinny little man resumed making his bed. It amused Angel that Boots had made him take the one farthest down the line from his own.

  “Well, then … if you’re sure,” she said, realizing she was hedging, that she didn’t really want to leave, didn’t really want to be alone in the house with only her thoughts of Jack to occupy her time. “You’ll still take your meals inside with me, won’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, we’ll most certainly do that. We’d be honored to,” Boots replied, so polite as to be practically bowing and scraping, which embarrassed Angel. “Why, my belly’s still plumb tickled pink with them vittles you fixed for supper. Ain’t that right, Lou?”

  From his little corner of the world, Lou called out, “Yep.”

  “Well … good,” Angel said, not comfortable with his compliments. And then, she stared at them … as they stared back at her.

  The moments stretched out, became awkward. Boots sniffed, shifted his stance, was uncustomarily quiet. Lou simply stood in the background, bright-eyed, his hands to his sides, reminding Angel of a curious prairie dog. Much to her own consternation, she couldn’t make herself leave. And it further annoyed her to realize she wanted their company, their comforting presence in the big house. But how could she tell them that? Why, they’d think she was just plain crazy. Or a sissy.

  That thought spurred her to action. “Well, then,” she blurted, startling Boots. “I guess I’ll be going, then. Good night.”

  Boots reached up to tug on a hat that still wasn’t there. “’Night, ma’am. We’re goin’ to go lights-out right now. But we’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, if’n that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s fine,” Angel answered, forcing a buoyancy, a determination, into her voice and her steps that she didn’t really feel as she, followed by Boots, headed for the door that would put her outside in the starlit twilight air. “Besides, I’ll need some help eating all those eggs I robbed from the hens this afternoon. We’ll have them for our breakfast.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That sounds mighty fine. Mighty fine.” Boots reached around her to open the heavy door and held it that way as she stepped over the threshhold. “Good night now, Miss Angel.”

  Walking away, her back to him, her senses washed in the cool, sweet spring air, but upset by sudden tears of loneliness that pricked at her eyes, Angel didn’t look back, didn’t say anything, just gave a parting wave with her hand. She kept walking until she heard the door close behind her. Only then did she exhale … and stop … and look up at the night sky. Hands to her waist, a knee bent, she concentrated on breathing in and out, in and out, and wondered what the heck was wrong with her.

  How, she demanded of herself, could keeping her own company suddenly not be enough for her? Why was she so afraid of being alone? Especially when she’d gotten this far in life by keeping to herself, taking care of herself. Except for those times when she’d been forced to go see her mother. And she’d done that only when Virginia had sent a note to her at the hotel saying “Please, please come see me, my baby.”

  Her mother’s remembered words had Angel looking down at her boots. She didn’t want to think about Virginia. Not after this afternoon when her heart had cracked, when she’d called out to her, had called her Mama. Raising her head now, Angel looked around at the moonlight-bathed Circle D. And had to stiffen her knees. All this emotion, this crying and wanting to be with folks. It was this place, wasn’t it? Could it be that the ranch, those old men, and even Jack were really coming to mean something to her, like family … something she’d never had?

  Shying away from thinking about what Jack meant to her, and thoughtfully toeing the earth with her booted foot, Angel conce
ntrated on Lou and Boots. She couldn’t believe that those two—well, Boots, anyway; Lou didn’t have the mental faculties, she suspected, to think anything through long enough to come to any kind of an intelligible conclusion—had never asked her what she was doing here, or why she was here. They just accepted her presence, just drew on her kindnesses—she hated to admit she had such impulses—and extended theirs to her.

  It was true, they hadn’t known who she was, or why they shouldn’t like her. But she suspected that if they had, it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference to them. Nor would it now. Because they seemed to think that everyone was just folks. Live and let live. Angel believed the same, perhaps always had. She’d certainly never bothered anybody, had never set out to hurt anybody. Her mother’s sweet face, so much like her own, popped into Angel’s head.

  She blinked, not raising her head toward the moon’s bright, accusing light, and finally admitted … she didn’t hate her mother. In fact, maybe now, given the unpredictable turns her own life had taken, given some of the poor decisions she’d made, she understood her a little better. Maybe even … loved her. For all the good it did Virginia now.

  At long last, a terrible sadness for her loss filled Angel’s heart, swelling it. And somehow she knew it was still okay to say the words. Somehow she knew that Virginia would hear, would know. Angel put a shaking hand to her mouth, finally peering out into the dark to where the bluebonneted meadow lay under its blanket of night. And gave herself over to the halting, difficult words. Mama, I’m so sorry. Thank you for never hating me … for never giving up on me. I … I love you. And I always have. Always.

  Then she stood there for a moment, feeling a warmth wash over her, a release, a letting-go. She sighed and looked around, savoring the peace inside her and the surrounding quiet of the night. And for a moment, Angel knew complete calm, complete peace.

  And then, she set her feet in motion, walking slowly, contentedly toward the ranch house that anchored the Circle D. Her home.

  * * *

  Sometime during the course of the night, as Angel lay asleep on her back, her hands above her head, resting against her pillow … a big, rough hand clamped down over her mouth, wrenching her awake, eliciting an air-starved gasp from her. Her eyes popped open wide, saw a shadowy someone. His heavy body immediately straddled her middle, holding her pinned down. Gasping and thrashing, she instinctively fought back, clutching at the hand, scratching it, clawing. To no avail.

  Her air was slowly being cut off. Her very life was in danger. Gasping, grunting, writhing, she gave no quarter, couldn’t afford to.

  But then, another hand circled her throat, clamping, squeezing. The man atop her leaned over her, hunched over her and snarled right into her face, “Stop fighting me. Or I’ll kill you right now. I swear I will. I’ll snap your neck like it’s a fucking twig.”

  Angel froze, then went limp. She knew the truth of his words, the futility of struggling. She also knew the voice. Seth’s.

  He chuckled, a sound having nothing to do with humor. “That’s better. I always said you were a smart one. But I got you, you bitch. I told you I would.”

  Angel’s vision suddenly adjusted to the dim light of night seeping in through the open window. She blinked, focusing. Saw him above her, noted his blood-bloated, desire-suffused expression … and recognized his intent. A paralyzing fear further sapped her of strength, of will. Her soul cried out for Jack. But she couldn’t move, could barely breathe.

  Above her, Seth grinned, his face so much like Jack’s that for a split second, Angel thought she must be dreaming. But then he spoke again. And she knew this was no dream. And there was no hope.

  “Remember what I said I’d do, Angel Devlin? Remember?” he crooned into her ear, licking at its shell, finally clamping down on the delicate cartilage with his teeth. “Do you?” he mumbled, his voice garbled for having her flesh in his mouth. “Answer me, bitch, or I’ll bite your ear off.”

  Chills spread over Angel. Her heart pounded, her blood raced. She grimaced in pain and finally was able to nod. A still functioning part of her brain took over, began talking to her. Just stay alive, Angel. No matter what happens … just stay alive. No matter what he touches, or what he does … he can’t reach you. Not your heart. Not your soul. Just stay alive.

  She wanted to believe it, tried to … but as Seth pressed down more fully on top of her, his superior strength pinning her to the bed, as he quickly moved his hands to grasp hers and pull them above her head and hold them there with one hand, as his other hand clamped her jaw open and his mouth assaulted hers, as his lips ground down on top of hers, as his teeth cut her lip, as his tongue forced its way into her mouth, she wasn’t sure she could believe. Or that she wanted to live.

  So forceful, so lightning fast was his onslaught, so terrified was she that she couldn’t even think to bite him. Or even to close her eyes, to deny this was happening … or not to watch it. She whimpered. She cried. She felt the tears streaming from her eyes. She felt them running across her temples, into her hair. She felt the hot, sweaty fear reeking from her body. And Seth’s knee pushing between her legs. She wanted to die.

  Jack! His name was torn from her innermost depths, from the recesses of her heart. Jack!

  And then Seth tore his mouth away from hers, and rose up, gloating and laughing, still clutching her hands above her head. The tender flesh of her mouth felt ravaged, torn and swollen. A metallic taste coated her tongue. “I used to kiss your mama like that, Angel, when I was with her. She liked it, too. Begged me for more. Just like you will.”

  This animal had been with Mama, had hurt her? At the same moment a piece of her heart died, rage exploded through Angel, giving her renewed strength. Clenching her stomach muscles, she jackknifed in Seth’s hold, startling him, and spat full into his face. “You bastard,” came her raspy words, from somewhere at the back of her throat.

  Seth wrenched her down, slapping her face openhanded as his own contorted with a maniacal rage. Her face stinging yet numb, her sensibilities and her ears ringing, Angel watched—as if from afar—as he swiped his shirtsleeve over his face. “You whore, you nasty bitch,” he snarled. “You’ll pay for that—and live to regret it. You’re just like your mother. All you women are. Whores.”

  He’s going to let me live. Unexpected hope surged through Angel. She’d thought she wanted to die. He’s going to let me live. She took in a breath cut short by his weight atop her, and believed she could stand anything, could take anything … until he sat up and ripped at her camisole, until his fingernails raked over her flesh, scratching her, no doubt drawing blood. The ripping, tearing of the thin and worn fabric sounded all too soon.

  “No!” Angel cried out. “No!”

  “Shut up!” Seth snarled, clamping his hand around the bared flesh of her breast, kneading it, hurting it, pinching her tender nipple, leaning over her to claim it with his mouth, to lick at her, to suckle her.

  “No!” Angel screamed, the sound welling up, seeming to fill the room. A gasping, desperate cry tore from her lungs. She writhed under him, or tried to, tossing her head, trying to buck and arch against his attack.

  But all her resistance did was excite him further, inflame him, have him groping her more, sliding down on her, prodding, nipping her other breast, slobbering, biting at the flesh over her ribs, and urging her on. “That’s it, baby. Fight me. Scream. Come on—do it! Tell me how you want it. Your mother did. You want money? I got money. Paid your mother, too, like the whore she was.”

  Mama! Sudden nausea—a cold, dark, sweating nausea—gripped Angel, taking the fight from her, leaving her weak and limp. It filled her throat, all but closing off her air. Her limbs as mushy as oatmeal, Angel lay there … suddenly unable to fight, to think—to care. Mama. Angel stared at the ceiling, didn’t really see it.

  Then Seth shifted, loomed over her, his face a grimacing, sweating, grotesque and lusting mask. “What’s the matter, Angel? You’re just laying there. Don’t you want it anymore?
Don’t you like this? Now, come on, honey, hasn’t my big brother already done this to you?” Angel didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She just stared up at him. “Cat got your tongue? Fine. I’ll just find out for myself.”

  With that, he slid off her, still clutching her benumbed hands in his grasp and ripping at her bloomers, tugging them down over her hips. Wrenched out of her state of shock, Angel locked her muscles, pressing her legs together and pushing down as hard as she could onto the bed. With a snarled curse, Seth dug his booted foot between her knees, kicking at her, forcing them apart. “Don’t do that, bitch. Don’t make me hurt you,” he warned.

  Angel’s legs gave, parted. She sucked in a gasping breath … as if this were her first-ever taste of air. When she did, Seth jerked up, staring into her face, and laughing. “That’s right,” he crooned, smoothing his hand over her bared concave belly, running his fingers under her undergarments’ waist, clawing at her feminine mound. “I’m gonna have me an angel.”

  “No,” she whimpered, surprised she could even form the word. If only her hands weren’t numb from his powerful grip, if only his leg weren’t thrown over both of hers. Her gun was under her pillow. If only she could get to it. Keep him talking. “Don’t do this, Seth. Don’t. Jack will kill you.”

  “Ah, so he has had you. I thought he had.” Then Seth stilled, sobered. “Don’t throw my big brother in my face. I’m not afraid of Jack. Never have been. He’s the good one, you know. Pa always said so. Pa always said I was the bad seed. Said I killed my own mother getting myself born. Never let me forget it, either.” Momentary hatred lit Seth’s blue eyes, then his eyelids drooped, his hand continued its downward quest, down to the vee between her legs. “You think I’m bad, Angel? Huh? Do you?”

  What did she have to lose? She may as well say it. “I think you’re rotten, murdering, cowardly scum, you little bastard. That’s what I think.”