“I’m sorry,” she croaked. “I’ve brought you a lot of trouble.”
“No worries,” he said, his voice deep and gentle. “I’m just glad you’re home.”
“You’ve been taking care of our horses?” she asked, surprising herself with the attempt at conversation.
“Uh huh. And the hayfields, riding the fences, handling the brood mares who come to mate with Mirage. The usual.” He moved toward the chair the doctor had vacated. “Okay if I sit with you for a bit?”
She stiffened, then forced herself to relax. For crying out loud, Portia, it’s just Boone. “Okay.”
He settled beside her, his eyes on his hands. After a few seconds, he lifted his gaze to her. “You gonna be okay, Peaches?”
She almost winced at the near-intimate contact of his gaze, so personal, so warm, so…connected. She’d been connected to only one person for two, torturous years, and her instinct was to block him out, to pull back, to force herself into the cardboard cutout who felt nothing, responded to nothing, needed nothing.
But she sat up a little and forced herself to answer. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
Boone nodded, as if that were the answer he expected. “Understandable.”
The fact that he didn’t pressure her to spill the truth relaxed her. “What time are my folks coming?”
Boone twisted his wrist. “If the flight’s on time, they should be getting here around eight. About an hour from now.”
“Okay.” Time had ceased to mean much to her. She’d even been deprived of that. No clock. No television. Nothing but walls and ugly old furniture and locked doors. She’d learned to guess when dawn was approaching, when dusk would fall, but that had been about it.
“You wanna eat something? My mother brought over a chicken pot pie. It’s in the oven.”
Her stomach lurched. She’d grown accustomed to hunger. Long periods of nothing. Then gorging on the fast food he’d bring her. “Okay. Maybe just a little bit. Did you tell her about me?”
He shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I kinda did.”
“That’s okay. I always loved your mother.” She tried to continue with the civil conversation, forcing the words from her mouth. “Thank her for me?”
“Sure. I told her not to say a word, though the secretary at the doc’s office knows now, and you know how Penny talks.” He made a face. “It might not be long before everyone knows you’re back.” He straightened, stretching his arms toward the ceiling and covering a yawn. “Sorry. Been up since four.”
She nodded, her eyes still on him.
“When you’re up to it, there will be lots of folks who want to welcome you home.”
She winced, and he noticed. He held his hand up as if to calm her. “Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want it. You call the shots.”
Gratefully, she nodded toward him with a faint smile. “Thank you.”
Chapter 6
After eating a good portion of Mrs. Hawke’s chicken pot pie, Portia dragged herself to the bathroom and gratefully accepted Boone’s suggestion that she soak in a hot bath. He’d run the water for her, steaming and sudsy, and left a few towels on the chair by the tub before disappearing back out to the barn to see to the horses.
The flight from New York was delayed by half an hour, so she still had time to clean up a little and try to regain some semblance of control. Some semblance of normalcy.
Normal? What is normal now?
Normal had become the bizarre and horrific life she’d led for the past two years. Normal was being petrified all day long. Normal was being restrained, often tied to the bed. Normal was giving in to a monster, to stay alive.
Stop it.
She found a pink disposable razor in the cupboard below the sink, placed it on the side of the tub, then lowered herself into the hot water and luxuriated in the feeling of smooth porcelain and suds. Sweet-smelling soap bubbles tickled her nose. She sighed, dunked under the water.
Warmth encircled her arms, legs, torso, and head. It felt so good. She popped out of the water again and stretched, reaching for the shampoo.
She’d missed amenities like this. Shampoo and conditioner. Oil of Olay bath wash. Soft fluffy towels.
The showers he’d forced her under had been swift and cold; the soap harsh. One big yellow bar for hair and body. Her hair hadn’t felt right the whole time she’d been with him.
Now she lathered and re-lathered, scrubbing fingertips against scalp as if she could rub away the memories of him. She turned on the water again. Using a cup from the side of the tub, she rinsed her hair clean for the first time in years, and then carefully shaved two years of fuzz from her legs and underarms. It took a long time, and she had to get up soaking wet and find another razor to finish the job properly, but it felt so good to feel smoothness beneath her fingertips.
Feeling better, she eased out of the tub, trying not to look down at her skeletal body. She wrapped her hair in a towel and dried off quickly, avoiding the mirrors. Feeling strangely privileged, she slipped into the pajamas Boone had found in her old dresser.
Mom kept all my stuff. She knew I’d come home some day.
She almost sobbed at the thought, but reminded herself one more time. I am home. Home.
After finding her old toothbrush in the cabinet, she squeezed out a dollop of Colgate and furiously cleaned her teeth until her gums hurt. She’d have to get to the dentist soon, because there were a few spots she feared had started to turn into cavities. He hadn’t exactly provided her with the world’s healthiest diet.
A commotion downstairs made her turn toward the window.
Below stood her Dad’s Dodge Ram truck, headlights still shining onto the porch. Portia watched him help her mom out of the cab, and in seconds, tears scalded her cheeks.
She wobbled out of the bathroom, reached the head of the stairs, but stopped when Boone appeared, holding up a warning hand from the first floor.
“Whoa. Hold on. I’ll bring them up to you.” He bounded up the stairs, guided her back to bed, and hurried downstairs to greet Dirk and Daisy.
***
Daisy felt her strength build as the anticipation of seeing her daughter grew like a tsunami inside her. She let Dirk help her out of the truck, pushing ahead toward the warm kitchen light spilling onto the porch.
Boone ushered them inside, looking both flustered and relieved. The poor boy certainly hadn’t signed up for this.
“Come on. She’s upstairs,” he said breathlessly.
She and Dirk exchanged an excited glance, then hurried into the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs. She barely noticed how winded the climb made her.
Boone pointed to the bedroom. “She’s kind of weak. I put her back in bed.”
“Portia?” Daisy’s voice sounded hysterical, even to herself. She tried to calm it down. “Honey? It’s Mom and Dad.”
They heard her before they saw her.
“Mom? Dad?” If Daisy’s voice sounded frantic, Portia’s heart-wrenching cries were worse.
Daisy raced forward in spite of the weakness simmering in her body. Dirk followed close at her side.
She stopped short in the doorway, barely recognizing the girl under the pink comforter. “Oh my God. Portia. You’re really home.”
Portia threw back the covers, lunging toward them. In a tumble of hugs, tears, and kisses, Daisy, Dirk and Portia fell into each other’s arms, sobbing and chattering. Daisy embraced her daughter, feeling the bony body beneath. Dirk put his arms around both of them. Boone stood to the side, smiling, wiping a few stray tears from his own eyes.
“Oh, honey.” Daisy’s heart beat fast beneath her ribs. She couldn’t stop patting her daughter’s hair, cheeks, and arms. “Oh, baby. You’re home. You’re so skinny! What happened to you?”
Portia finally spoke through choking tears. “I’ll be okay. But you’re thin, too, Mom.”
Dirk corralled them both with his strong arms. “Your mom’s gonna be just fine, honey. Loo
ks like we’ve gotta put some meat back on both your bones, huh?”
Daisy stepped back for the first time. “We are quite a pair, aren’t we?” She laughed, crying again, then climbed into bed and pulled her daughter in beside her, unable to let go of her hand.
Portia put her head on her mother’s shoulder, still sobbing. “Mom.”
Daisy held her tight, stroking her hair. “Our girl’s home, Dirk.” She smiled through tears at her husband, the amazing big lug who’d always been so strong for her, but who’d really surprised her with his strength and dedication since Portia went missing, and even more so when she fell ill with cancer.
Dirk had always been a man of simple tastes and interests, none of that fancy kiwi or sprouts for him. A meat and potatoes man. Family. Farm. Horses. That was all he talked about in the old days. And she’d been okay with that. More than okay with it. The guy had a heart of gold. When someone was hurting, he showed up at their place and helped out. If a farm was about to go under, he’d donate equipment or labor to help them get out of the hole. He didn’t often go to church, but Dirk had a strong faith and was the most genuine Christian Daisy had ever met.
He never faltered, this bear of a man, and she thanked God every day for his solid presence and corny sense of humor.
Dirk sat on the edge of the bed, holding his daughter’s hand. “Welcome home, both of you.”
Daisy pulled him over to kiss his lips. “Thank you, honey.”
Boone shifted in the background, “Guess I’ll be heading back to my place, then.”
Dirk rose to shake his hand, but impulsively pulled Boone into a bear hug. “Come back in the morning, son. We can catch up on the farm stuff, okay?”
“Sure thing.” Boone smiled, nodded to Portia and Daisy, and stepped out of the room. “See you all tomorrow.”
Chapter 7
When Boone emerged into the starlit yard, he stopped for a moment to lean against his truck, glancing up at Portia’s bedroom window, which spilled warm yellow light for the first time in years.
A broad array of emotions flooded his heart.
Joy. Relief. Apprehension.
What had happened to the girl?
It must have been awful. Something dreadful. So bad the fear still raged within her and broke through with certain triggers. Like when he’d stood over her bed, too close to her. Or when he tried to touch her. Of course, his approach had been completely innocent, just him wanting to help. But the act of him looming over her, reaching for her, had caused her to lose it.
When she’d screamed, it had been so primal, so full of horror, dread, and panic, he’d felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up, like a dog’s hackles.
What the hell had that brute done to her? Or had there been more than one?
Anger coursed through him. It would be a lot simpler if he had a name or a face. A face he could smash with his fists.
Hitting that bastard would feel so good right about now.
He was convinced she’d been kidnapped, definitely abused.
But by whom? How had he grabbed her? And why?
He knew there were sickos out there. Guys who were pure evil, somehow seriously damaged. Or people with no conscience.
What did they call them? Sociopaths? Something like that. Like they were born deficient, without any sense of right or wrong. Without any concern for others.
He shook his head and glanced over to the paddock, catching Mirage staring at him.
The horse snorted, shook his head, and turned in a tight circle.
He seemed to know something was up.
Boone wandered in his direction. Immediately, the black stallion approached him. Boone fished a few chunks of carrot from his jacket pocket and offered them, palm up. “She’s home again, buddy. Your girl. You remember her, don’t you?”
Mirage pushed his soft muzzle into Boone’s hand and delicately plucked the first piece from his palm, chewing it with a rhythmic crunching sound that Boone found comforting.
He reached up to stroke the horse’s thick forelock. “That’s a good boy.”
Mirage thrust his head against Boone’s chest.
“Okay, okay. Here’s the last piece.”
He patted the horse’s sleek neck and muscled shoulder, listening to the sounds of the night. Crickets chirped in the fields. Tree frogs chorused their nightly songs. An owl screeched from the deep woods.
He straightened and took Mirage’s halter in both hands, looking at him straight on. “We’ll both help her get well, won’t we, big guy?”
Whistling a tune, Boone ambled back to his truck, turned the key in the ignition, and headed down the bumpy dirt road toward home.
***
Portia snuggled and wept against her mother, lying beside her in her childhood bed with both dogs pressed against her. They didn’t speak for an hour. She felt her mother’s soft fingertips stroking her hair, just like when she was a little girl. Inside, deep caverns shifted and yawned, threatening to let the terror escape. But somehow, safe in her mother’s arms like a little child, all that emerged were wracking sobs.
She cried until she was wrung dry. She cried for the missed years. She cried for the pain she’d endured, the humiliations she’d suffered, the fear she’d held in, the disabling horror that had been her life for the last two years.
Throughout, her mother murmured soft nothings, little cooing sounds she’d used when Portia had fallen off her bike or took a tumble off her first pony. She patted her arms, her back, rubbing her hands in circles.
Sometime during the night, her father came into the room. He wrapped himself up in a comforter and slept in the chair by the window, softly snoring.
At midnight, with both parents close by, she finally drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 8
Portia woke with a start. Her mother and father had left the bedroom, but she heard their voices downstairs. She smelled the comforting aroma of coffee and listened to the sound of clinking dishes in the kitchen.
Sun streamed in the windows and both dogs pressed against her, Boomer behind her knees and Cupcake on the pillow by her head. She reached up to stroke Cupcake’s soft curly fur, thinking randomly she should get her groomed.
What a strange, yet decidedly normal thought to have.
An everyday, regular-person thought.
No worries of survival, escape. No thoughts of murder or revenge.
Murder.
She shuddered, trying to push the horrible memories away…far away. It didn’t work. Unbidden images of him lying on the cabin porch flashed across her mind’s eye.
Had she done it? Did she actually kill him? Or was he only knocked unconscious long enough for her to grab the keys, get the dog, and steal his lousy truck?
Would he come after her?
He knows where I live.
She started shaking, but Boomer woke, stepped over her, and began to lap her hands and cheeks industriously, as if the sweet ministrations of his soft tongue could make her whole again.
Maybe it could.
She buried her face in his furry neck, quietly sobbing. “Thanks, Boomer.”
As if to help with the nurturing, Cupcake started to nuzzle Portia’s hands, pushing her cold, wet nose into them. She snuggled closer, her body nestled into the curve under the girl’s arm.
With dogs like this, she thought, maybe there is hope.
Maybe I can survive. Recover. Heal.
Maybe.
The scent of bacon sizzled up the stairway.
Her stomach wrenched in hunger.
Bacon. Real bacon.
She sat up tentatively, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. Slowly, she slid her feet into the slippers her father had lined up next to her bed last night.
One, two, three. Up.
She steadied herself on the headboard, feeling stronger than the day before. Both dogs jumped off the bed and shook themselves, trotting around her in excited circles.
“You guys want to go out, huh?”
She leaned down to pat them both again, and their tails wagged in unison.
Still feeling relatively steady, she reached for the robe she’d torn off during the night when she got too hot under the covers. She’d flung it to the floor, but someone—probably her mother—had folded it over the edge of the chair. She slid into it and tied the terry cloth sash into a snug bow.
Somehow, this innocent, everyday action felt supremely good.
To have a bathrobe to wrap up in….
To be able to choose her own clothing, rather than be forced into wearing something bizarre that he made her wear.
She might just stay in pajamas for the rest of her natural life.
She let out a half-smile, and headed for the hallway.
***
Boone finished tossing hay to the mares in the east pasture, then dragged the hose out to the big water tub extending through the fence for both the stallion and the mares. He watched the water fill, letting it overflow for a few minutes so all the dust and dirt and stray pieces of hay were flushed out of the container.
Leaning back against the fence, he surveyed the property, loving the feel of the early morning sun on his face. Dozens of horses grazed in the distance and several lowered their heads to the flakes of hay he’d strewn on the ground near the barn. A bay filly, almost a year old, approached the water tank, ears perked straight up. After drinking her fill of cool water, she ambled closer to Boone, nudging him with her wet muzzle.
“You want a treat, Laurel?”
She pushed him again, this time gently nipping at his jeans.
“Okay, okay. I’ll get you a piece.” He fished out a few chunks of carrots and let her take them from his palm. “There you go.”
Patting her neck, he admired her conformation. Broad chest, strong neck, flat topline. A perfect Morgan, maybe even top show quality. She arched her pretty neck, tossing her head and flipping her wavy black mane.
“What? You want more?”
Laurel nickered softly this time.
“I take that as a yes.” Boone dug out one more piece and offered it to the filly. “Here you go, sweetie. But I’ve gotta save some for the others, you know.”
Devil's Lake (Bittersweet Hollow Book 1) Page 3
