by Renee Reeves
"I know,” Ben said, nodding. “I know. Too bad you moved to a town full of biddies and gossips.” He shuffled out of Nick's way, using his cane to point down the aisle towards the back of the store. “By the way, got that new load of rubber pads if you need ‘em."
"Yeah, thanks. I'll take a couple, just in case. It'll save me a trip back if he tears one up again.” And keep me from having to drive past the Ramsey place, he thought to himself.
Ben grinned, hobbling along beside Nick as they made their way to the back wall. “Maybe you should put pads on that horse's hooves instead of the walls. I know they have somethin’ like that out now, saw one in a magazine. How's Jake doin'? Ribs still botherin’ him?"
Nick nodded, “Yeah, it's called a ‘hoof boot’ and they're not meant for leaving on the hoof permanently. It's more for medicinal treatment.” He bent down and examined the rubber pads, pressing his fingers into the material to judge thickness and durability. “Jake's doing better, back to helping with the barn some. He's staying away from the pony for awhile though. He's convinced she's out to get him.” Satisfied that the pads would do the trick Nick easily hefted one of the six-foot long, seventy-five pound bulk packages onto his shoulder. “These pads might work out better anyway. He only acts up when I'm late feeding him."
They walked back to the front of the store where Ben rang up the purchases. “Okay, let's see. Fifty-five bags of horse feed, two bags of dog food, one carton of three-inch nails, one pack of rubber and a hose nozzle. Anythin’ else?"
"Yeah, I almost forgot, throw in a bag of cat food. The barn cat finally had her kittens."
Ben shook his head, flashing gleaming dentures. “Total is two-hundred eighty-nine dollars and ninety-two cents. Nobody lookin’ at you would ever believe you're such a softy."
Nick grimaced, giving the old man a pointed look. “Yeah, well do me a favor and keep it to yourself. I like my privacy. Keeps things smooth and quiet.” He handed Ben three hundred dollars, then put the change in the back pocket of his blue jeans.
"I know that. You forget that I know your history, but too much privacy ain't good, Nick."
Nick's whole body tensed, every fiber of his being hating that his ‘history’ as Ben put it, had been brought up, but then Ben had known him for almost ten years and while others barely had the courage to look him in the face, Ben had never once been intimidated. In fact he was about the only person Nick would go so far as to call a friend.
"Get that look off you're face, Nick,” Ben said, “you know I didn't mean anythin’ by that."
"Yeah, well, in my opinion too many people are what's not good. I learned that lesson the hard way, and that's why I'm here."
Ben shook his head but kept his mouth shut, then just as quickly latched onto the previous topic. “Hey, let me know if you meet whoever bought the Ramsey place.” Nick watched as Ben placed a gnarled hand over his heart in mock dismay. “That's about the most interestin’ news an old man like me has to look forward too right now."
Nick sighed and rolled his eyes, then pulled his truck keys out of his pocket. “I'll pull over to the loading dock. Tell Chris I'll need his help securing the tarp.” He hoisted the bulk rubber onto his shoulder again, then gathered the bag of cat food under his arm to protect it from the rain. “Thanks Ben."
"No problem. Say ‘hi’ to that brother of yours for me."
"Will do."
Before the old man could say another word he was out the door, striding quickly through the downpour.
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Chapter 3
Morgan came awake by degrees, dread lying like a cold stone in her stomach. She was always tense for those first few seconds before she realized where she was. A blurry-eyed glance at her surroundings instantly reassured her. The aged white walls in desperate need of paint were becoming increasingly familiar and the yellow oversized armchair with burgundy floral patter n sitting in the far cor ner was immediately comforting. It had been her mother's as was the antique French dresser across the room. Morgan sat up in bed, focusing on the two items and letting the well-loved pieces ground her to a past that only included her mother and that was warm and filled with loving memories.
She stretched, letting the feelings of freedom and independence loosen her muscles and relax her mind. Relief settled in. She was in Montana, not Chicago, and had awakened in the bedroom of her new home, not in her husband's. She had waved goodbye to the movers two weeks ago.
The bedside clock read six forty-six A.M; she had a doctor's appointment at ten-thirty for a checkup on her leg, and to renew her pain prescription. Crap! She hated meeting new doctors; hated having to pretend she didn't see the suspicious looks at her face, or the way they murmured and gestured to their associates when they were in the hallway and thought she couldn't see them. The worst was having to try to explain if they asked how she had been scarred ... it never stopped and always managed to make her feel low, like her disfigurement somehow made her less of a person. Why couldn't they just take a look at her, examine her leg and hip, and give her their usual advice, which she already knew backwards and forwards. Stretches, massages, daily aspirin, use a cane if she needed, more checkups and to take her pain meds only when the pain became intense. That was all they could do for her and after months of painful physical therapy both she and the doctors knew it. There was no changing the fact that she would always be partially crippled.
But at least she had survived. Morgan constantly told herself that was all that mattered. Not looks, not material things, and definitely not men. No way. Not ever again. Men were sly, brutal animals ... no, no, she shouldn't think that. Men were much worse than any animal could be.
Not that any would want her even if she was interested. By now she was used to ‘the looks'—as she had come to think of them—and tried not to let them hurt her. But it was definitely hard to deal with. People were naturally mean, critical and judgmental, especially when someone was different. The killer had been when people had started quickly looking the other way when she happened to look at them ... and then she noticed that no one would look her in the eyes anymore. Several times she had toyed with the idea of putting a gun to her head just so she would no longer be in the world and those people—the ones that treated her like a side-show freak—could get on with their lives. Luckily Lisa had stepped in with the idea of her moving away from everything, hence the fresh start out here where there were fewer people and more open space. She had no direct neighbors except for the large farm across the woods, access to the internet and TV allowed her to shop from home if she preferred, and she only had to go out when she felt like it or when she had an appointment, such as today.
She sighed in resignation, knowing that she had to get her butt moving. The trip into the neighboring city would take at least an hour and a half, and then she had to allow herself time to find the doctor's office.
Throwing the sheet back she carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed and tentatively put weight on her bad leg. These first few minutes always told her how the day would go. When all she felt was a slight pull she let out a relieved sigh. Grabbing up her yellow robe from the back of the armchair she shrugged into it and moved to pull up the wooden blinds covering her huge picture window. Her reflection, all pale skin and shadowed eyes, stared back her while rain splattered heavily against the glass and ran in rivulets along the pane.
Crying ... Her fingers came up, trembling as they traced the tears on the glass. So much time spent crying ... Thunder rumbled, shaking the small cottage and then lightning flashed, streaks of yellow and white striking deadly and to the point in her field; she jumped, startled back into the present.
Morgan dropped the blind back down, knowing that the storm was not going to let up anytime soon and dreading having to go out in it. Crawling back into bed, safe and snug under the covers sounded so much better, and she would have if she hadn't needed to renew her darn pain prescription.
Turning away from the window she
moved slowly across her bedroom to the small adjoining bathroom. She was proud of her place, even though the walls were ugly and discolored and the who-knew-how-old wallpaper was peeling off in various rooms, it was still all hers. A pang of sorrow jolted her and she blinked back tears. Her mother would have loved it here, and Morgan would have loved having her here to help fix it up. More tears tightened her throat, the ache so bad she could barely swallow.
Not now, Morgan. Biting her lip she hurried into her bathroom and started running water for a bath, adding a good amount of Epson salt and fragrance to the warm water. The bathroom was next on her mile-long list of projects, and she couldn't wait to find time to go to the huge expo she had seen signs for. Her husband would have had a fit if she had tried to bring items from a flea market, or any secondhand store, into their home. It had been only the newest and most expensive modern furniture for him, hand-picked by an even more expensive designer.
Cold, hard furnishings that suited her husband's cold, hard demeanor.
Morgan had hated every single piece in the house.
Shuddering she looped her hair up on the top of her head and secured the heavy mass with several clips, then sank down into the almost full tub, sighing deeply as the warm water seeped into her muscles. Morgan loved taking long hot baths, but this morning was not the time to dally and so she scrubbed quickly and thoroughly before climbing out and toweling off. Spending as brief amount of time as possible looking at her reflection, she applied heavy concealer to her cheek and color to her eyes and lips. The camouflage wouldn't fool a close look by a doctor, but it did help her avoid being scrutinized by the unfailingly rude public.
Leaving the bathroom, she chose a white t-shirt and loose jeans from the closet, then pulled on her low-heeled supportive boots. The reinforced arches helped buffer the strain on her leg and she preferred them when she wasn't sure how much walking she would have to do. Making her way down the hall she tucked in her shirt and grabbed an umbrella and light rain jacket out of the front hall closet, along with her purse. Taking her keys off the hook by the front door she stepped out onto her porch and locked the door behind her.
* * * *
Dr. Bessick had been nice enough, and not easily fooled. Morgan had sat through the usual questioning; what types of exercises was she doing? How often did she need to take her pain medication? Had there been any worsening of pain? How long ago had the accident happened ... and Morgan had answered them as she always did; with lies. Or, as she preferred to think of it, an altering of the truth. She was under no illusion that Dr. Bessick had believed her, but at least the female doctor had been less intrusive than most. She had simply examined her and seen no new injuries to be concerned about; only the older ones that had healed over as best they could and Morgan had honestly assured her that she now had nothing to worry about. She had left with a renewed prescription, an appointment for three months from today, and a special cream that the doctor said might help diminish her scarring a little.
There was always room for cautious hope.
Rain pelted her umbrella and soaked her boots as Morgan hurriedly unlocked her car and tossed her purse onto the passenger seat, then scrambled in, shaking and closing her umbrella after her. The storm had yet to diminish and she wanted nothing more than to get home and curl up in front of her TV or with a good book to wait out the remnants.
Pulling out of the parking lot she passed a McDonald's on her left and, as if on cue, her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it was half past one o'clock and she had yet to eat anything. Since her husbands ‘lessons', food had never been high on her priority list and she had a tendency to keep herself in a mild state of hunger. It was unconsciously habitual and something she was definitely trying to change, but her husband had been an effective teacher and she a very quick learner. He had made it clear in more ways than one that he wanted her thin and that she had damn well better get thin and stay that way. Or else.
A thin line of sweat broke out over her forehead. It had not taken her long to become extremely familiar with the ‘or else’ part.
Stop it. He can't hurt you now. He's dead, Morgan.
Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel and she drew in a deep breath, releasing it very slowly. Yes, he was. She had claimed the body herself and made all of the funeral arrangements. But memories were powerful and at times it seemed that his hold was just as strong from the grave as it had been when he had lived. God knew she woke up in a cold sweat often enough.
Turning the wipers on high she slowly drove through town, slow enough that even with the rain she noticed things she hadn't before, like the buildings that were made of huge timber logs, just as they would have been back in the old west, situated amongst larger stone and brick structures. Trees lined the walkways and on sunny days would provide shade to people browsing the boardwalk storefronts. There were signs directing tourists to the local ‘watering holes’ and hotels, and signs for the upcoming rodeos, festivals and annual celebrations of just about everything the population could think of.
Even on a thoroughly soaking day like today the town was quaint and beautiful. Stopping for a red light, Morgan sat nibbling on her bottom lip. On green, she pulled her car into a parking area and grabbed her digital camera from the glove box, then locked her purse in the space vacated by the camera. Then she opened the car door and shook open her umbrella. Camera ready, she made her way through the rain and across the road, dodging puddles here and there until she reached the covered boardwalk. She leaned her umbrella against a wall and started snapping pictures.
An hour later the camera was full and she was feeling surprisingly revitalized. Her mind drifted back over some of the images she had captured, like the one she caught of a young cowboy dressed head to toe in a slicker riding his soaked horse down the middle of Main Street. It would make a great subject for one of her paintings. She'd blushed when he caught her photographing him and tipped his hat and had been half afraid that he would ride over to her—and coward that she was—she'd smiled shyly and turned away to start snapping shots of the cloud shrouded hills in the background. Her cousin would be thrilled with a series of paintings based on Montana. Lisa had been hounding her to start some new paintings for several upcoming gallery shows and now Morgan had the perfect subject.
After putting away her camera, Morgan browsed several shops while waiting for the rain to lessen and ended up buying several unnecessary souvenirs, plus munching on two hamburger s. Finally, after two hours of waiting and wandering, Morgan was exhausted and her leg was starting to spasm. She could feel the dull prickling of pain starting in her hip; on top of that, she knew she still had the hour and a half drive home before she could relax in a warm tub. Limping slowly along the wooden walkway she sighed in relief when she spotted her car and was finally able to climb inside and relax against the supple leather seats. After starting the car she turned the air on, letting it cool the humid interior while she massaged her aching muscles. Dealing with the small pinpricks was easy enough; it was the bigger, cramping spasms she knew were coming that were killers and she prayed to God she could make it home before those came.
Gritting her teeth, Morgan shifted the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot into traffic. Once hitting the highway she rolled the driver's side window down, letting in the sharp, crisp mountain air.
Even though pain was now dulling her pleasure, she had not felt this alive—this free—in over six years.
The wind brought in sharp droplets of rain and blew her hair in all directions, wildly whipping the long dark strands, almost making them seem alive, like Medusa with her tangled head of snakes. Morgan laughed at the image, feeling a kinship to the poor woman and on impulse rolled down all of the car's windows so that gusts of damp air came from all directions.
This ... this was living.
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Chapter 4
She was only a few miles from home when her hip muscle seized and an agonizing spasm tore throug
h her. Morgan gasped and her hands clenched on the steering wheel. A scream lodged in her throat as pain fired through her, running from her hip all the way down to her calf.
She gritted her teeth, whimpering as her muscles squeezed tighter and tighter on themselves, making it difficult to move her leg. Oh God, not now! She should have known better, she did know better; her leg always worsened during damp weather, and combined with the exertion today ... suddenly her muscles contracted, slamming her foot down on the gas pedal. Morgan screamed, unable to move her leg or lift her foot. Keeping both hands on the steering wheel she struggled to keep the car on the wet road, swerving across the yellow line while the wipers swished gently across the windshield. Tires shrieked and slid on the wet pavement, frantically she slammed the brake to the floor with her other foot, vaguely hearing the loud blast of a horn and tires squealing ... violently her leg seized again, cramping and squeezing tighter. She shrieked, instinctively grabbing at her thigh with both hands.
Pain seized her lower body, making her head throb. Black dots appeared before her eyes and she clamped her eyelids shut. Her leg was on fire, the muscles clenching tighter and tighter ... her nails clawed at her pants, desperately massaging with both hands ... Morgan's eyes flew open ... oh God ... she had let go of the steering wheel.
Tires squealing, the car swerved towards the edge of the road, headed for the line of trees beyond. Fear overrode her pain and Morgan wrenched the wheel with both hands. The tires straightened for a moment, but then lost traction and went into a spin, forcing her head to slam back against the headrest. Her head lolled and her vision fluttered. Dimly Morgan heard the blasting of a horn ... oh no, please no ... it can't end like this ... her body jolted with the impact.
