Down in the Valley

by Jane Shoup

  “Please,” she cried angrily.

  “Believe it or not, once we get you broke in, you’re going to like it.”

  She looked around in desperation, but there was nowhere to go.

  “A year from now, when we’re married, we’ll be doing it every day. I won’t have to chase you, neither.”

  The words were infuriating and she glared at him. “I will never marry you!”

  “Yeah? We’ll see about that,” he said, and then he dashed for her.

  Terrified and out of options, she ran three steps and leapt off the loft, grabbing onto a rope that hung from the ceiling as a fire escape and safety measure. In the wild swinging that followed, she saw Briar reaching for the rope. She scrambled down, burning her hands and thighs, barely hanging on. All she knew was that she had to beat him to the ground and get to the house before he caught her. Then the rope jerked hard because Briar had jumped on. Their combined weight proved to be too much and the rope snapped. She was close enough to the ground that the fall merely knocked the wind from her, but he fell farther and landed badly.

  “My leg, my leg,” he screamed, but she was already scampering backward. How he managed to get home, she never knew, because she ran into the house and up to her room and did not look back.

  It was years ago, she thought now as she got to her feet. Unfortunately, she could still feel the swaying motion of the rope and the terror she’d experienced as she’d jumped through the air. She closed her eyes and clutched at the slanted roof.

  “Em,” Tommy called. “Don’t move!”

  A moment later, she felt his hands clamp around her arms and felt weak with relief. He pulled her shaking body against his, saying, “I’ve got you.” He led her to a trunk and pulled her onto his lap. “What happened?”

  Cradled against him, she realized his heart was beating as hard as hers. “I’m sorry.”

  Tommy didn’t know what had spooked her, but something sure had. She’d swayed enough that he’d feared she would go over the side. That was one reason he was holding on to her so tightly. The other reason was that it was maybe the best thing he’d ever felt. It was so good, in fact, he was afraid to move or speak for fear she’d pull away. Their body heat mingled and her breast was pressed against his chest. He watched her chest heaving and it was a beautiful sight. Her fingers clutched his shirt, and that was beautiful, too. It wasn’t that he liked her being scared. Or did he? He liked when she needed him. He liked being the one to rescue her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I shouldn’t have come up here.”

  “You afraid of heights?”

  She didn’t reply at first. “Not exactly.”

  “What was it, then? What spooked you?”

  “I had a bad experience in a loft,” she admitted. She relaxed her grip on his shirt. “I must be hurting you.”

  “No, you’re not.” He didn’t relinquish his hold because he didn’t want the moment to end. He didn’t want to let her go. “What was the bad experience?”

  She sighed. “A man. A man was after me.”

  “He chased you up in the loft?”

  She nodded.

  His arms tightened around her. “Did he catch you?”

  “Not that time. I jumped off, onto a rope that hung from the ceiling. Then he followed and it broke.” She attempted to sit up again but he held firm. “I think I’m alright now.”

  Reluctantly, he relaxed his grip and she got to her feet as if testing the strength in her legs. She held her hands against her stomach and she looked pale. He stood and then moved aside. “Sit back down for a minute,” he urged.

  She sat on the trunk. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would still affect me so much.” She glanced at the boxes. “I was curious about what was up here.”

  “It’s not much,” Tommy said. He walked over to the top box and pulled out a moth-eaten shawl and tossed it to her. “Probably wasn’t worth risking your life for.”

  “It wasn’t my intention to risk either of our lives. And you’re right, an old moth-eaten shawl is probably not worth it.”

  “What about a doll?” he asked, holding it up. Em gasped. Her eyes were wide, her mouth ajar. He quickly handed the doll over, puzzled by her strong reaction.

  “I can’t believe it,” she cried. “After all this time. Oh, I knew she took it,” she added vehemently.

  “That was yours?”

  “Yes!”

  Tommy turned back and rummaged with more enthusiasm. A red cut glass dish brought a similar squeal of delight from Em, and then she joined him in the search for a pearl bracelet, which they didn’t find. When they’d gone through every item in the boxes, he led her back along the narrow loft, keeping his hand on her arm. He started down the ladder just ahead of her, and then had her follow. She made it down without a problem and then he went back up for her things.

  “You must think I’m crazy,” Em said as they sat on the blanket she’d spread out beneath a large maple tree glorious with autumn-tinted leaves.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Em was still holding on to the doll she called Barbara Jean. “It’s funny. I thought about her not long ago,” she said. She turned the doll to face him. “Do you think she looks like me a little?”

  The white-faced porcelain doll had a serene smile, pink cheeks, softly curled brown hair that had gotten smashed on one side and wide, almond-shaped eyes. Actually, the eyes resembled Em’s a bit. “Maybe the hair,” he teased.

  She laughed.

  “But you’re prettier.” He opened the knapsack containing the lunch she’d prepared and the scent of fried chicken made his mouth water. He pulled out bundles of wrapped food—chicken, bread and apples—and set them between them. He held up a dark green bottle, not sure what it contained.

  “It’s peach wine,” Em said. “I hope it’s still good.”

  He pulled apart tin cups stacked together and handed one to her, then poured wine into her cup. “Guess we’ll see.”

  She tasted it and nodded. “Mmm. Still good.”

  He poured himself a cup. “So, who was the man in the loft?”

  She lowered her gaze to her cup. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she said slowly. “If you really want to know. I feel I owe you that.” She looked up at him. “But sometimes it’s better not to.”

  He studied her, recognizing that she wanted him to let it go. But he wanted to know. He wanted to know everything about her.

  “Will you make me a promise first?” she asked resignedly.

  “What?”

  “That you won’t let it ruin things between us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That you’ll still be my partner.”

  What was she talking about? As if there were anything she could say that would change that. There wasn’t.

  “I like our plans,” she said.

  “I like our plans, too. I promise.”

  She looked back down at her wine. “It was Briar Lindley.”

  He made an effort not to react, and then he tasted the wine to buy a moment. It was sweet, too sweet, while the knowledge was bitter. There was always a heightened sense of danger when the Lindleys came into town. With their coal black hair and eyes and the sense of rebelliousness they exuded, you couldn’t help but pay sharp attention when they were around. Their temper, trigger-fingers and impressive aim were all notorious. “Was that the story? About you and the Lindleys?”

  She looked disappointed. “Do you really want to know about all that?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

  She sighed. “I’ll need more wine first.”

  “You haven’t even finished that.”

  She downed the contents of her cup, made a face and handed the cup to him.

  “Is it that hard to talk about?”

  “I bet you have stories, too,” she hedged.

  He refilled her cup. “Not really. Not any good ones.”

  “Are any of them hard to talk about? Hard to think
about? Do any of them make you feel foolish and ashamed?”

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he said, giving in. He wanted to know, but if it was that hard for her, he’d let it go.

  “It’s just that I’m always doing the talking.”

  He started to say, you have more to talk about, but refrained because it sounded flippant, and that wasn’t how he felt. The truth was that he couldn’t remember the last time someone had wanted to hear him talk. “I told you three of my brothers are dead.”

  She looked at him, surprised, and nodded.

  “Two of them were hanged, one was shot by his wife . . . and they all deserved it.”

  “Really?” she asked softly.

  He nodded.

  She took a drink and wrinkled her nose. “It’s too sweet, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. A little bit.”

  “You said you had five brothers,” she said, reaching for plates and doling out food for them.

  “Yeah. The second to oldest, Seth, he was the one that got away.” Her cheeks were already flushed from the wine, which made her look a little more like the doll she held.

  “What do you mean got away?”

  “Left home. Made something of himself. Or I hope, anyway.” He took a bite of chicken, and it was good.

  “Were you close?”

  “I can’t say I was close to any of them. I always felt . . . different. Like I didn’t belong.”

  “Well, if you’re not from the best of people,” she said slowly, “then that’s a good thing.”

  He grinned because he’d never thought about it that way. Maybe he should have since Mr. Howerton had made more than a few comments. Like No way you came from the same parents. “Right before he left, Seth told me I should clear out, too. He said the family was poison and that if I stayed, I’d die young. Probably with a bullet in my head or at the end of a rope. That was what he said, and it was before my other brothers died.”

  She was watching him intently. “Did you ever see him again?”

  “No. Never saw him, never heard from him.” He noticed she hadn’t taken a single bite. “You should eat something.”

  “Do you want anything, Barbara Jean?” Em asked the doll. “What’s that you say? You’ve been eight years without eating? Oh, my!”

  “Eat,” he urged.

  “Suddenly, I’m not hungry. By the way, did I introduce you? Tommy Medlin, this is Barbara Jean Wright.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Barbara Jean,” he said, playing along.

  Em held the doll to her ear and pretended to listen. “What?” she whispered. “He’s what?” Em’s eyes twinkled. “She says you’re very handsome and very nice.”

  “Tell her I said thank you. And eat.”

  She set the doll aside, took a bite of the bread and frowned. “This is tasteless.”

  “It’s not tasteless. You’re about half drunk.”

  She made a face. “Not either.” She picked out a chicken thigh and took a bite, then set it down.

  “I like picnics,” he said.

  “Then we shall have more, and all of them with peach wine.” She refilled her glass, far more interested in drinking than eating, and scooted back to lean against the tree. “Alright. Life story. You sure you want to hear it?”

  He rolled onto his side, propping himself on an elbow. “I’m sure.”

  “My mother died when I was four and my father when I was eleven. That’s when I came here to live.” She paused. “I miss Ben so much. You remind me of him, in a way.”

  “Of your uncle?”

  She nodded. “Did you ever meet him?”

  “No.”

  “You would have liked him. And he would have liked you. But he wasn’t really my uncle; he was a cousin. It was his wife Amy who insisted that I call them Aunt and Uncle. Although I didn’t really call him that unless she was around.”

  “When did Briar come after you?”

  She drew up her knees and hugged them.

  “You really don’t want to tell me, do you?” he asked.

  “I don’t want you to think—”

  “What?”

  “Badly of me.”

  “I won’t. Whatever you’ve done, I’ve done worse.”

  She looked at him searchingly. “How can that be true when rules are so different for a man than they are for a woman?”

  Was she saying she’d seduced Briar Lindley? That she’d wanted him? His stomach knotted at the thought of it. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  She looked off, sighed softly and then looked at him again, having made up her mind. “I was fourteen when he started showing up. It was always when I was out alone. We talked. Sometimes we went riding. It was perfectly innocent, but I kept it a secret because of . . . well, what everyone thought of the Lindleys. But everyone thought terrible things about me, too. Things that weren’t true.”

  He was glad she was telling him because not knowing would have eaten a hole in his gut. “It’s hard when everybody thinks something bad about you. Or calls you names.”

  “Pretty boy?”

  He shrugged. “That’s one of them.”

  “You have to admit, they have a point.”

  He grinned. “I’m not near as pretty as you.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “What else do people think about you that’s bad?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “That I’m slow.”

  Em frowned, genuinely aggrieved. “Everyone does not think that, Tommy.”

  He looked at the wine in his cup.

  “Everyone does not think that,” she repeated adamantly. “In fact, anyone who thinks that doesn’t know you at all.”

  He was grateful she’d said so, and sounded like she meant it.

  “We’re two peas in a pod, aren’t we?” she asked.

  While he liked the thought, he couldn’t bring himself to agree because they were a world apart. She was elegant enough for any society anywhere. Of course, they’d both been ridiculed plenty. “You were telling me about Briar.”

  She nodded slowly, resigning herself to the task. “One day, it was a few years after our friendship started, he showed up. Everyone else had gone into town and I was in the barn reading. It’ll sound silly, but there was a stall I liked. Ben called it my stall. When we mucked out the others, he’d ask if we should change my straw yet.” She smiled thinking of it, but then it vanished. “It had just begun to rain, I remember, and Briar showed up. I hadn’t heard him. But he was there and he . . . jumped on top of me.” Her voice broke and tears began streaming down her face.

  Tommy sat back up, torn between wanting to hear and stopping her because it was causing her such pain.

  “I couldn’t get him off!”

  “He forced himself on you?” he asked breathlessly. Her tears streamed harder, but she didn’t move or speak. She was shaking and breathing in ragged little gulps.

  She nodded jerkily. “But it was my fault,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “It’s true. I . . . stayed behind. I could have gone into town with the family. But I stayed behind.”

  “You didn’t know—”

  “I did, though. I had a feeling he’d show.” She swiped at her runny nose with the palm of her hand.

  “You couldn’t have known what he’d do.”

  “No! Oh, God, no. I thought he was a good person that everyone else misunderstood. I thought he loved me.” She wiped her face with her sleeve and took a few deep breaths, trying to regain control.

  He handed her one of the cloth napkins and she dried her face.

  “Do you know,” she broke off and swallowed. “He said what he did was his right because he was going to marry me. His right,” she hissed angrily. “I told him I would never marry him. That I hated him!” She quivered. “I would have killed him if I could,” she said just above a whisper. She drank the last of her cup, and then held her hand out. “B
ottle, please.”

  He handed it over and she refilled her cup with a badly shaking hand. He watched, fascinated by her changing reactions. The experience still had a lot of power over her. “What did that have to do with the loft?”

  She let out a slow, shaky breath. “That was months later. He showed up again—”

  “And you were alone again?”

  She nodded. “And in the barn again. I grabbed a pitchfork, but he got it away from me. I couldn’t get to the door, so I went up the ladder. Like a fool. Of course, he chased me into the loft. There was nowhere else to go, so I jumped onto the rope and tried to get down. But he jumped on, too, and it broke. We both fell, but he was really hurt. I think he b-broke his leg.” She took a few deep breaths. “I never saw him again after that.” She exhaled and rested her forehead to her knee, hiding her face. “My head hurts, now.”

  “Em?”

  “What?” she said without moving. The sound was muffled, her nose clogged.

  “He hurt you. He forced you. I don’t think badly of you for that.”

  She shook her head.

  “Em—”

  “I don’t talk about it,” she said in a muffled voice. “I just . . . I don’t talk about it.”

  “Are you sorry you told me?”

  Reluctantly, she looked up and considered him for a moment, then shook her head. “No. I don’t think I am.”

  “I’m sorry it happened,” he said.

  “I’m sorry it happened, too.” She started to take another drink, then changed her mind and flung the remainder of her wine out. She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes, puzzled. “Can you die from a broken leg?”

  “If infection sets in. Yeah.”

  “I wonder if he died,” she said quietly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fiona brought the wagon to a stop in front of the farmhouse and climbed down carefully. Grunting, she bent to one side and then the other, stretching her back before walking up to the front door and knocking. It was opened at once by Em, wearing a coat and hat. She’d obviously been headed out, but she looked delighted to see her. “Fiona!”

  “Surprise.”

  Em stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in! It’s so good to see you. And you’re showing.”