Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  To her surprise, Seth merely swung his head back to her, raising his eyebrows and smirking, as if he didn’t know she had it in her to curse him at this particular moment. “Is that so? We’ll see what you think when I’m done with you.”

  His very calmness warned her, set her heart to thumping—which surprised Angel. She hadn’t even realized her heart was still beating. How long had it been lurching about in her chest like this?

  Then Seth was all over her. He fisted his hand around the thin cotton of her drawers, wrapping the cloth within his grip and tearing it, the rending sound as loud and shocking to Angel’s ears as thunder-filled lightning. And then he was on top of her, shifting his weight, settling himself in the saddle of her hips, now holding her wrists in both of his. The crazy thought came to Angel that she’d never be able to use her hands again if they didn’t get any blood soon.

  Seth resumed his kissing and sucking and nipping over her body. His bites scored Angel, had her twisting and crying out, despite her all-out determination not to. Closing her eyes, she desperately arched and bucked against him, tried to roll, tried to unseat him, heard his sick laugh, heard his grunting, raspy words telling her that he loved her fighting him, felt his mouth on her breasts, felt him jerk her arms down to her belly, felt him hold them there, pinioned against her flesh as he—she opened her eyes, looked down her own length—dear God, opened the fly on his pants and jerked them down over his hips.

  “No!” Angel screamed into the night. Over and over. Her chest heaved with her crying, her hair absorbed her tears. “No! Jack! Mama! Help me!”

  But then, words failed her—only unintelligible sounds poured from her, only the hurting cries of a helpless, small wounded animal filled her throat, rent her soul, carried on the night air—as he forced his engorged self into her, as he thrust into her over and over, grunting, sweating, cursing, cursing her, cursing Jack, hating his brother, hating her … hurting her. Hurting her.

  When Angel thought she’d die, when the pain was too much, when the humiliation overwhelmed her, when it seemed his bucking against her would never end, Seth finally tensed over her, held himself rigid, spurted into her. Only a whimper was left to Angel. All she knew was it burned, burned, burned as it ran out of her when he withdrew himself from her, when he pulled away from her, when he rolled off the bed, and impersonally—untroubled—stood up beside it.

  Shaking, undone, dying inside, numb yet pain riddled, Angel immediately rolled to her side, clutching her hands together over her heart, and drawing her knees up to her chest. And then, she lay there, staring without wanting to see … because Seth stood in her line of vision, only inches away. All she could see were his legs as he hitched his pants up to his waist and rebuttoned his fly. She swallowed, felt her lungs take in air and push it out. But she drew no comfort from that, from this proof that she was alive. She just didn’t care …

  Not even when Seth leaned over, gripped her jaw in his hand and forced her face up until she looked into his eyes, so like Jack’s that it was scary. His whole face was like Jack’s … only without the kindness and the humor, without the goodness. “You listening, bitch?” Angel nodded, hoping he’d go away if she did, hoping he’d leave her alone. “Good. Tell my brother I was here.”

  With that, he leaned over and forced her lips to a pucker, again crushing them with a bruising, punishing kiss. Then he pulled away and said, “You’re good. Real good. Like your ma. Oh, yeah—I was real sorry to hear she’s dead. A right prime piece of ass, she was.”

  Then he released Angel’s face, straightening up as he wiped his hand on his shirt. A bloody smear appeared there. She was bleeding, she realized, but felt detached from any emotion. Then she blinked, sniffed, curled herself tighter into a little ball, and lay there. Staring and breathing. And shivering.

  After a while—she didn’t know how long, but the night seemed to be lightening up, seemed to be making its way toward daylight—Angel snapped to with a sudden realization. Two realizations. She was alone. And the gun was still under her pillow, the very one her head rested against. The gun. Ever so slowly, as if she were being watched, as if she feared someone would try to stop her, she uncoupled her fisted hands and edged her left hand up under the feather-filled pillow. At the same time her hand connected with the cold metal and closed around it, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, heard a voice calling her name.

  Terrified it was Seth, that he’d come back to hurt her again, Angel pulled the pistol out, stared at it a moment, suddenly not sure how it worked. Then she heard the footsteps and the voice … getting closer and closer. Her heartbeat and her breathing picked up speed. No. Not again. Terrified anew, with hurried, desperate motions, she finally nestled the gun in her hand, finally settled it in her grip … and put it to her temple.

  * * *

  The sun was no more than above the horizon as Jack sharply reined in Buffalo at the hitching rail in front of his home. Cursing the sudden downpour in the middle of the night that had stopped him, that had made it all but impossible to proceed for endless hours, Jack bolted to the rain-soaked ground, his oilskin slicker billowing out around him. His heart still pounding with what he feared he’d find, he gazed hither and yon over the homestead as he took the steps to the verandah. Everything about the place looked normal. But too quiet somehow. As if the spread were holding its breath.

  He barreled up to the front door, grabbing the knob, twisting it at the same moment he hit the wooden barrier with his shoulder. Neither the knob nor the door gave. Jack bounced off it, grunting his surprise and his pain. He held his shoulder and stared at the front door. It’s locked. That couldn’t be good. He stepped back up to it and pounded on it, calling out, “Angel? Where are you? Angel? Boots? Lou? Where is everyone? Goddammit, open this door!”

  And then he waited. Silent moments ticked by. Nothing happened.

  Desperate with fear, Jack jiggled the knob, pounding the door again with a fisted hand, calling out. Still no one answered. The door remained closed, locked, impassive. Ready to break out a window if someone didn’t answer soon, Jack stepped back, stared at the door, his frown deep enough to contort his features. They ought to be up by now. And why they might not be, given the note he’d found at Seth’s hideout, had Jack jerking around, had him turning away, had him staring out over the sandy-brown, rain-puddled yard, as if he expected answers out there.

  He lifted his Stetson to run his hands through his hair, stared back at Angel’s attentive roan in the corral attached to the barn, and resettled his hat. Then he sighed, admitted to himself that he was almost afraid to go inside, almost afraid to know. Tired as hell, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep, and soaked through where his slicker hadn’t covered him, Jack willed himself to think, willed himself to calm down. Calm down? he argued right back. How can I—

  “That you, Jack?”

  Jack’s heart leaped with a mingling of startlement and relief. He spun around, rushing the door, again jiggling the knob. “Yeah, Boots, it’s me. Let me in. What’s going on?”

  “Hold on,” Boots said, sounding tired. “Let me get this lock turned.”

  Jack stepped back, his gaze riveted on the closed door, his jaw muscles clenching with impatience as he listened to the sounds of Boots fumbling with the lock. But then, the door opened. Jack burst forward, pushing on the door, opening it and driving Boots back with it. He grabbed the older man’s skinny arm to steady him. “Where is she? Where’s Angel?”

  Boots’s mouth worked. Jack’s heart sank. He now noticed details about the old drover. Unshaven. Clothes rumpled. Hair everywhere except in place. His eyes were bloodshot, watery. A shock of fear lanced through Jack.

  “What’s happened?” he demanded, hearing the suddenly hoarse quality of his own voice. Hot with fear, still eyeing Boots, he shed his hat and coat, tossing them onto the coat rack to his left. “Well?”

  Still the older man didn’t answer. He looked away, slowly shaking his head, putting a long-fingered, knobby-knuckled hand t
o his face, rubbing his forehead. Only then did he volunteer, “Something most powerful awful happened, Jack. Most powerful awful. That poor little girl.”

  A confused second passed before Jack made the mental leap. The poor little girl was Angel. And something most powerful awful had happened to her. Dread rocked him, weighed him down, made him feel as if he were being pushed through the floor. He wet his suddenly dry lips and rasped out, barely above a whisper, “Is she alive, Boots?”

  It seemed to Jack a heart-stopping eternity passed before Boots turned to him and nodded. “Yeah, but just barely.”

  Jack clung to that yeah. And just barely was good enough. Just barely was a heartbeat, was life … was hope. Like a raging river, relief coursed through him. As long as Angel was alive, he could deal with anything. Anything. “Where is she?”

  Boots’s thin, weather-lined, aged face remained impassive a moment. Bile rose to the back of Jack’s throat with his certainty that there was something more the old drover wasn’t telling him. He swallowed convulsively, ready to shake the truth out of Boots when the drover finally nodded his head toward the stairs and said, “She’s upstairs. Lou’s sitting with her. But it ain’t purty, Jack. She’s been through hell and back.”

  Through hell and back. Then why was he standing here talking? Overwhelmed with the need to see her, Jack lurched in the direction of Boots’s nod. But the older man clutched at his sleeve, holding him in place, forcing Jack to look into his eyes. “Before you go up, son.… Just, well, take it easy. You … you look so much like him.… Just be quiet and slow. Give her a chance to see it’s you.”

  His words and what lay behind them made Jack want to give up, just curl up in a ball and die. Seth. He’d kill that little son of a bitch. With that promise to himself a sudden, hateful, lifesaving anger ripped through him, held him upright as he asked, “It was Seth, wasn’t it?”

  Boots stared … and then collapsed with silent tears. His thin old shoulders shook. Torn, wanting only to see Angel, to assure himself that she lived, but needing first to comfort this hurting old man, Jack moved his hand up Boots’s arm to squeeze his shoulder. “You and Lou okay, Boots? He didn’t do anything to either of you, did he?”

  “No,” came the man’s vehement reply. “But I swear to God I wish he had. Instead of hurting that pretty child like he done.”

  Jack swallowed thick saliva. “It’s okay, Boots. Just tell me.”

  After sniffling for a moment, Boots wiped his sleeve under his beak of a nose and spoke. “Like you said, it was Seth. And we wasn’t inside to help her none. We went out to the bunkhouse for the night. And I hate me for that. But that poor baby, Jack. He hurt her most awful, he did.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed, he wanted to kick something, to throw something. Shoot something. He hurt her most awful, he did. Goddammit! “All right, Boots. It’s going to be okay. Come on,” he urged. “You go first. Let her know it’s me.”

  Boots nodded, wiped at his thin lined cheeks. “I’ll try. But she don’t move or talk none. Doesn’t do anything. Just lays there. But there’s more. She tried to.… Well, she put a gun to her head, Jack.”

  “Good God,” Jack spat out. “Did she—?” He couldn’t finish the thought.

  “No. Me and Lou got her to give us the gun. But that’s all. Like I said, she ain’t talking none. And she don’t want to be touched. She’s just a-layin’ there, Jack, all balled up on her side. And bruised and scratched. Like a hurt little kitty. It’s most awful, is what it is. Seth ought to be shot for what he done to her.”

  Jack’s heart squeezed in much the same way he now squeezed the old man’s shoulder. “He will be. Don’t worry. Now, let’s go. I want to see her.”

  “All right. I don’t expect it can hurt none.” With that, Boots turned, leading the way across the room and up the stairs. When they got to Angel’s room, the same one Old Mother had used when she’d lived here, Boots paused in the doorway, blocking Jack’s way. Old Mother! came Jack’s sudden thought. Where had the white wolf been? Why hadn’t she warned Angel? Why hadn’t she appeared? But then he remembered … Angel said she had. And that the wolf had allowed Angel to touch her. It had to mean something, such different behavior for the spirit wolf. But what?

  Boots turned to Jack, snapping him back to the moment with his whispering. “Speak a word or two to Lou, if you would, Jack. You know how ornery Seth was, how he used to taunt him and hit him. Well, just seeing Angel like this made Lou … well, you can see for yourself.”

  Dammit. Poor Lou. Angry beyond measure for yet another reason to damn his brother’s soul to hell, Jack rubbed a hand over his day-old growth of beard. “All right,” he gritted out, trying to tamp down the pent-up rage that threatened to eat him up, that made him want to hit the wall with his fist.

  But apparently satisfied with Jack’s assurances, Boots then stepped out of the way, stepping over the threshold, to one side of the open door, and stood against the wall. Taking a calming breath, Jack turned into the doorway, peered inside … and wished Boots hadn’t moved. His heart sank and his stomach rolled. His gaze first found Lou. That poor old simple soul, not looking a bit better than Boots this morning, sat in a rocking chair beside the bed and held himself and rocked back and forth. He kept saying, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Jack wanted to die. He wanted to turn away, but refused to take the coward’s way out. He needed to face this. His gaze slipped to the bed. Just as Boots had described, Angel—with a sheet thrown over her—lay on her side, curled up in a ball. A long lock of her hair had fallen across her cheek. But what he could see of her face was swollen, scratched, and bloodied. Dry eyed, she stared straight ahead … unblinking.

  Jack’s heart cried. He put a hand to his mouth, gripping the doorjamb with his other, holding the wood so tightly that his fingers hurt. Every instinct in him said to go to her. Hold her. Cradle her. Whisper softly to her. Croon out words of love. But he didn’t dare. He feared that touching her right now just might push her to a place in her mind so far away that he’d never get her back.

  And so, he stood there … staring … hurting. And hating himself as he heard her last words to him, words as much as begging him to stay, telling him what bad things might happen here if he didn’t stay. Why hadn’t he listened? And now, how in God’s name could he ever make this up to her? How? What could he do to make this better? Would she ever be better, whole again? Jack started to crumple—

  “Jack?”

  He stiffened, blinking, sniffing … as he turned to Boots. “Yeah?”

  Boots gestured, urging him to step inside, pointing to Lou. “It’ll be okay, son. Go on to Lou. Mayhap the rest will come to you.”

  Even though he wasn’t sure anything would ever be all right again, Jack nodded and stepped inside. As softly as he could, given his boots and the polished wood floors, he walked over to Lou and sank to his haunches next to the rocking chair. Studiously he avoided looking over at the bed, avoided startling Angel. But she made not a sound, moved not an inch.

  Hurting inside, as if he’d been punched, and acutely aware of her, of her open eyes, and knowing she had to see him, Jack put his hand on the older man—who started and immediately shrank away, his eyes widening with terror. Jack withdrew, gripping the chair arm instead as he softly crooned, “Easy, there. It’s me, Lou. It’s Jack. I won’t hurt you. You okay, Lou? Are you? You okay? Can you talk to me?”

  His mouth opened in a silent scream, Lou stared … then he frowned, closed his mouth, seemed finally to recognize Jack. He settled more in his chair. “She’s hurt,” he said. “Seth did it. Seth hurts.”

  Jack regarded the old drover with compassion. “I know. Did he hurt you, Lou?” Lou shook his head no. “Good,” Jack said, putting as much warmth as he could into the word, and again reaching out to touch the simple old man. “I’m glad you’re okay. You mean a lot to me.”

  Behind Jack, softly, unexpectedly … maybe blessedly, Angel began to cry.

  Seventeen
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br />   Still on his haunches, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, all Jack had to do was pivot to see her. His heart melted at the sight she made, as her shoulders gently shook, as her face contorted with emotion … as tears cascaded from her eyes, running across her nose and down her cheek … onto her pillow. Jack’s jaw clenched. He renewed his silent promise to himself—and to his brother. Goddamn you, Seth. Your days are numbered, you little bastard.

  Jack forced Seth from his mind, wanting only to think of Angel. More than anything, he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tightly to him. But he didn’t dare. He comforted himself with knowing that her crying was good. It said her mind was working, that she … knew. And for now, that had to be enough for him, because the knowledge was certainly enough for her to deal with. And the last thing he wanted to do was force her to respond. He figured she’d been forced enough last night—and, in other ways, all her life—and so it’d be best to let her make the moves, let her show him what she wanted.

  Praying to God that he was right not to do anything right now, he steadied himself by resting his fingertips against the sheet-covered mattress, mere inches from her face. And watched and waited. And hoped she’d reach out to him.

  But still, staring down at her swollen face, seeing her hurt, feeling helpless, as if there were nothing he could do to take it away, Jack had to stop himself from reaching out to brush her hair back behind her ear. A soft half-smile of sympathy crossed his features. He made himself another promise. One day, he was going to take a pair of scissors to all that hair. Because not one inch of such a beautiful angel-face as hers should be hidden.

  Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Boots start in their direction. And divined the older man’s intentions. He was going to get Lou and go. Jack looked up at him, nodding at Boots’s gestures, which verified what Jack had just thought. When Boots drew even with him, Jack gripped the older man’s arm and squeezed, trying to convey that he was glad Boots was here. Boots must’ve understood because he gave Jack a trembling smile and awkwardly patted his hand.