Becky sighed, setting about the task of sweeping the porch. She could still hear Bruce, but it was much more muffled.
Somehow, she needed to find a way to make that happen. She should not be forced to slave for Bruce just because she had needed his help as a child. He was her brother. He should have felt morally obligated to care for his little sister, who was young and innocent. She had never realized he would expect her to stay on at their parents’ home and work for him.
If he was a loving brother, she would have done it willingly. However, he had not treated her as his special little “pumpkin”, which was his nickname for her when she was very small, since their parents died. She missed the sound of that phrase and the laughter that always followed. Her brother had changed into another man. She didn’t know if the change happened before the death of their parents or after. She hadn’t seen him much between the ages of 7 and 11. Then to be thrust into his care… it had frightened her. She’d grown up from that point on knowing she was unwanted and a burden to others. The confidence her parents had given her dissipated like the years that flew by.
She missed who she used to be. With every sweep of her broom on the porch deck, she imagined the minutes of her life floating away in the dust she was moving. She was deeply unhappy.
She could hear Bruce inside and wished she couldn’t. She looked down the road for a moment, wondering what it would be like to just leave, leave and never come back. Old man Lewinsky had passed on, leaving his house to his grandson and granddaughter-in-law. They were close to Becky’s age. She thought for a moment about going over and talking to them. She had never held a long conversation with them. It had been only waves and hello, how are yous since they'd moved in two years ago.
Becky was ashamed of her brother. They had to know what he was like. She was fairly sure everyone knew what Bruce was like.
On a whim, she left the broom sitting against the wall just outside the door, grabbed her skirt, and went down the steps. She was glad she had put her boots on this morning. She got halfway to the Lewinsky’s house before she slowed down and then came to a stop.
They might not be home. If they weren’t, she would look like a fool. If they were, what exactly did she plan to say? After hello and how are you today, she knew of nothing she could speak about that would interest either of them. She stood feeling like a fool in the middle of the street, her eyes set on the Lewinsky house. She tried to gather her courage, but her insides were beginning to feel like mush. She was instantly afraid she would be sick to her stomach right out here in the middle of the street.
She looked over her shoulder at her own house, grateful that if anything did happen, Bruce would not be there to witness it. He was still in his bath, merrily getting as drunk as he possibly could on his only day off from work. He hated his job at the lumber mill with a passion and regularly took his frustration with it out on Becky. He made her feel like the bottom dwellers of Wickenburg. They were set financially because Bruce never missed a day at work, under any circumstances. He knew that if he did, the money for his alcohol and tobacco would dry up. He wasn’t about to let that happen.
Becky had always wanted to be a teacher, specifically for the little babies just starting into their academia. Bruce, though, had told her in no uncertain terms that she would not be working outside the house. He told her that she was unskilled and unworthy of a job and that he made more than enough to keep them going. Over the years, Becky came to realize he held this fact over her head as leverage. She was unable to purchase anything nice and had to go through a lot of pleading and negotiating to get clothes to wear that fit her properly as she grew. She wasn’t allowed to wear anything pretty, do anything that might accentuate her features, or show her beauty. Bruce forbade it. She’d learned quickly – when she was still a child – not to talk back to Bruce. He was a dictator that had no qualms about being brutal to get his way.
For what seemed like an eternity, Becky stood in the middle of the street, facing the Lewinsky house, lost in thought. When she forced herself to come back to the present, she focused on the house in front of her, willing her feet to carry her forward.
She took a step, then another, and another until she was steadily closing the distance between herself and the Lewinsky’s.
She grabbed her skirt and began to hurry up the steps. Then, she slowed her pace, thinking that it would be nice if she presented herself like a lady instead of a scared rabbit. She put her shoulders back, straightening her spine, and lifted her chin. She looked across to the left and the right, taking in the porch furniture. Two iron chairs with cushions and a small round iron table. All white. A pretty design in the iron made them look appealing.
Becky smiled. On the other side hung a porch swing with cushions that matched the two iron chairs on the other side. It looked cozy and comforting. When the old man had lived here, there were two folding wooden chairs on the porch and that was all. The younger Lewinsky’s had even added two tall plants. They looked like miniature pine trees to Becky. It made the already pretty day seem even prettier to be on the Lewinsky porch.
She got a feeling of warmth as she walked to the door and confidently knocked. She was going to enjoy meeting them for the first time. She suddenly thought she should have baked a cake and brought it to them. That would have been neighborly of her.
She grinned. Perhaps about two years ago that would have been the appropriate thing to do.
Then again, who would turn away a free cake?
Becky’s grin widened as she continued thinking, self-analyzing to make sure she was acting proper.
After a few minutes, she knocked again but heard nothing on the other side of the door. Her smile faded slowly and she bit her bottom lip. To think she had come this far and the Lewinsky’s weren’t even home. She frowned.
Sounding like a bellowing bullhorn, she heard her name being called from her house.
“Oh, how obnoxious!” Becky growled. She grabbed her skirt and hurried down the steps and back toward her house. All of her hard work and nervous anxiety were for naught. What a waste of her time. There was no telling how long it would before she would gather up the courage to go over there again.
She was disgusted in herself. She was a fragile, scared creature and she hated it.
Kenny watched as the woman hurried back across the street. From his position inside the front window, peering from behind a closed drapery, he could not hear Bruce yelling. If he had been outside, he would have been able to. However, he knew why she had turned so quickly and was hurrying across the road. He must be calling her. The Brother. Kenny had a hard time even thinking his name. He was angry at Bruce. It was almost more than Kenny could handle. Becky was right that everyone in town knew about Bruce’s outrageous behavior, especially toward his sister. Kenny had heard and had done a bit of investigating after spotting Becky in the store, her brother looming over her, giving a nod or a shake of his head if she was allowed to purchase something. Just watching that had made his blood boil. The woman never looked happy. She looked like she was walking through life, waiting for the next shoe to drop. She looked shaky and afraid. No one seemed to want to do anything about it. To Kenny, the mistreatment of the young woman across the street shone like a beacon in the night. It was all he could think about. It consumed him. He was going to do something about it, sooner or later, or he would snap.
CHAPTER TWO
BRUCE DRINKS TOO MUCH
BRUCE DRINKS TOO MUCH
Becky crashed through the front door to see her brother standing in the hallway, a large towel draped over his lower half. He was keeping it closed with one fist. His other arm was up on the doorjamb, whiskey bottle in hand. He was keeping himself upright with the wall. He swayed a bit when she came bursting in, like she had scared him.
He recovered quickly and glared at her.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Becky froze in place, staring at her brother. He looked intimidating. His chest was all muscle, his shoulders were br
oad, and his skin was dark from his exposure to the sun. He had long dark hair that was dripping wet hanging around his face and deep dark pools of brown for eyes.
Unfortunately for him, his outer beauty could not cover up the beast he actually was inside.
Becky couldn’t find her words. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.
“Where have you been??” Bruce bellowed finally, sending daggers toward her with his eyes.
“I was just outside sweeping the porch.
“You woulda heard me yelling for ya if you had been! Where’d you go, girl?” He leaned toward her but there were several feet between them and Becky felt safe.
“I took a short walk down the street. I can take a short walk if I want to. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Bruce pushed himself up with his arm and pointed at her with the hand that was still holding the bottle. He swayed a bit, thought about it, and replaced his arm to prop himself up. “You know you gotta listen for me if I need more hot water. Now I’m out of the bath and it’s all ruined. I wasn’t done washin’ up.”
“You’ve been in there for over an hour, Bruce,” Becky found her tongue but used as gentle a tone as she could muster. “If you stay in much longer, you will shrivel up like a prune and…”
“Shut up!” Bruce barked at her. It made her jump and she once again retreated, clutching her skirt in her anxiety. “I don’t wanna hear any excuses. I’m not done with my bath. Get some hot water on for me!”
Becky hurried toward the kitchen, saying quietly, “I already had them going, Bruce. I was only outside for a moment.”
“You sayin’ you already got hot water ready for me?”
“Yes, I…” She was hurrying to remove the hot pots from on top of the stove.
“Well, maybe I’m done with my bath. I don’t know if I wanna get wet again, now that I’m out. I’m clean enough. What do you think?”
When Bruce asked her for her opinion, he wasn’t really asking for it. She had learned that over the years, as well. No matter what her answer was, he would find a way to ridicule it. She had begun giving generalized answers to revert the attention and decision making back on him. She was tired of being insulted all the time.
“I think you should do what you want to do on your day off,” Becky answered.
He stared at her and she stared back. He nodded. “Good answer. Good answer.”
It was the first time she had heard something like that from him in many, many years. She fixed her eyes on him in wonderment. Suddenly, she felt a little spark of hope.
“So I guess I’ll stay out. Sorry your water will get cold again.”
She shook her head. “I’ll take a bath later on. I’ll reheat it and use it then.”
“When are you going to make lunch?”
“Are you hungry?” She turned from the stove to look at him. He had followed her into the kitchen on wobbly feet, still clutching the ends of the towel around his waist. He set the whiskey bottle down on the table and held himself up with the chair. Becky thought it was amazing he hadn’t drowned himself by now.
“I might be,” he responded, scanning the cupboards as if the doors were open and he could see inside. “I got another bottle of whiskey I put up in here. You know where it is?”
Becky felt a stab of dismay in her chest. He was going to drink all day. There was no telling what mood he would be in come dinnertime. She shook her head. “I didn’t see a bottle of whiskey, Bruce, but I wasn’t looking for anything, either. It may be in there. I don’t know which though.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You didn’t drink my bottle of whiskey, did you, girlie?”
Becky shook her head, her face frozen in fear. She had never consumed alcohol. The very thought struck her with anxiety. “I don’t drink alcohol, Bruce, you know that.”
He stared at her for a moment and then shook his head. “I can’t trust you. I just can’t trust you.”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” Becky’s voice became insistent. “I don’t drink your liquor. Look in the cabinets and see what you find! I’m sure it will be there, if that’s where you put it.”
Bruce tilted his head to the side, sneering. “Look at you, getting feisty on me. Know your place, girlie.”
“What is my place, Bruce?” Becky couldn’t believe she was allowing the words to come out of her mouth. If she continued to push him, there was a good chance she would get a slap to the face. Likely one that would be hard enough to leave a bruise or split her lip. It had happened before. She didn’t go into the main part of Wickenburg to get supplies for a week after so that no one would know what he’d done.
He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Her heart was pounding a mile a minute.
“Your place is behind me. At least two steps back.”
She shook her head. “We have the same parents. You are my brother. I am your sister.”
“You say that like it makes any difference.”
“It should,” Becky moved slowly away from the stove, heading for the ice box. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I have some stew in here I put in jars to save. Let me set some on the stove in a pan for you.”
She was only steps away from the ice box and reaching out to grab it when his large hand closed around her wrist and he spun her toward him. He had released the towel. It was pooled up around his ankles. She looked up into his glaring eyes, refusing to look down at his naked body. Her heart pounded in her chest and she wanted to get away from him as fast as she could.
“Not before you search the cabinets for my whiskey bottle, girlie.”
He placed both large hands on her small shoulders and spun her in a circle so she was facing away from him. He shoved her hard, making her stumble forward. She caught herself on the counter top before her head could slam against it. She righted herself and began to look through the cupboards, opening the doors for a moment and glancing in for the missing whiskey bottle. With great relief, the bottle presented itself in the fourth cabinet she opened. She lifted her hand to take it out but her brother’s large forearm passed by her face and he snatched the bottle out.
“Here it is! You didn’t drink it after all!”
She shook her head. She wasn’t going to repeat the phrase she always said. “I don’t drink alcohol”. She had said it so many times; it had lost its meaning. It was like the words just didn’t register with Bruce. From the moment he woke up until the time he passed out at the end of the day, Bruce could be counted on to have a drink in his hand if he could. He said he was entitled to it because he worked his fingers to the bone six days a week.
Becky never asked for an explanation or a reason for his drinking habits. She never placed judgment on him. However, he made sure to make his personal defenses known.
She turned around again as he stepped back. There was a safe distance between them, and Becky’s heart slowed down a bit. “I’m so glad you found it.” She said.
“I bet you are!” Bruce said in a menacing voice. “You know what would have happened if it hadn’t been there, right?”
Becky shook her head. “Don’t be like that, Bruce. I don’t take your things. I never have. There’s no reason for you to act like I would.”
“I’m surprised you want to start talking back to me. It’s been a bad habit for you lately.”
“You are not my father, Bruce,” Becky said, keeping herself from putting angry fists on her hips. She held her arms at her sides firmly and stiffened. “Being older than me doesn’t mean you are my father. You are my brother. You should be nicer to me.”
“I don’t see any fun in that,” Bruce grinned wickedly, dropping himself into a chair on the other side of the table. Becky wished she felt like smiling. She wished she could think of something to smile about once in a while. Not the average grin or that smile you get when you see a baby animal cross your path. The kind of happiness that beams through a smile, when you feel positively giddy about something. That was what she longed for.
“You stand there staring, looking completely foolish, Bex,” he jeered. “You can’t even express yourself to anyone. You just stand there like a statue! You have no personality whatsoever. It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”
“I do have friends,” she defended herself, noticing the level of panic in her voice was detectable. “Just only a couple close ones, that’s all. You won’t let me go anywhere to make any friends.”
“It wouldn’t matter if I did,” Bruce said confidently, pulling the stopper out of the whiskey bottle with his teeth and spitting it to the side. He looked her up and down as if sizing her up. “Ain’t nobody out there lookin’ to get with someone like you.”
“What do you mean someone like me? What are you saying?”
Bruce shrugged, taking a swig from the bottle. “You ain’t pretty or smart or have any qualities that a man would want. You’re just like one of your stuffed animals. Full of stuffing.”
Becky scowled and balled up her fists. “That’s a wicked thing to say, Bruce!”
Bruce lifted his eyebrows. “I’m just answering your question. If you don’t wanna hear my opinion, don’t ask fer it.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion!” Becky was on the verge of tears. “I would know what it was anyway. You never have anything nice to say to me. Or about me. You are so unpleasant to be around, Bruce, I am miserable. I don’t want to be unhappy all the time. I need…”
Bruce slammed a fist down on the table, making her jump and clamp her jaw shut. “The only thing you need,” he growled. “Is to make sure this house is clean and I’ve got food on the table. You’ve got nowhere else to go, do ya understand me, girlie? You’ve got nowhere else to go. And since I was forced to move back into this house and give up my own just to raise you, I ain’t leavin’ so you can be here alone.”
“I’m old enough to live on my own,” Becky said, thinking there was a chance she could talk him into the idea.
Snatching The Bride (Family of Love Series) (A Western Romance Story) Page 2
