He saw Violet’s figure, pale against the weathered boards. He saw Thomas’s hand gripping her like a prize won. He saw her head bowed, her shoulders slumped. Yet he knew her spirit was still unbroken.
The fire in him raged, but he banked it, held it tight. He would not rush, not strike blind. Not yet.
He would wait. He would choose his moment.
Because Violet was not his possession. She was not Thomas’s either. She was herself. And her spirit had already braided with his.
He swore it.
Chapter Nineteen: The First Night
The house smelled of old smoke, grease, and dust. Thomas pushed the door wide with his shoulder, the hinges groaning, and Violet stepped inside. Her skirts brushed against warped boards that yielded underfoot with a faint creak. A single room opened before her, dim even in daylight, with walls stained by years of soot from the fireplace.
She had pictured a hearth with a welcoming glow, a parlor perhaps, a kitchen set neatly in order. Instead, she saw a makeshift table scarred with knife marks, a chair with one leg propped on a stone, a bed shoved against the wall, its color was gray and flat.
Her breath faltered. This was not a home. It was a prison cell.
Thomas’s hand closed roughly around her arm. “It’ll do,” he said, sensing her feelings of disbelief and regret. “You’ll see to it. Scrub it down, cook proper meals, keep it tidy. You’ll make it fit. You’ll make it our palace.” He chuckled.
Violet nodded quickly, though her stomach turned.
Ezra ducked in behind them, his eyes sweeping the room. He gave a low grunt but held his tongue.
Thomas dropped her arm and went to the bed, testing the rope frame with a push of his hand. “This is where you’ll sleep. Wherewe’llsleep.” His gaze cut to her, blunt and unblinking. “A wife belongs at her husband’s side.”
Her cheeks burned, her hands twisting in her skirts. She said nothing, though her pulse thudded in her ears.
?
Thomas busied himself, setting his rifle against the wall, loosening his belt with a sigh. He lit a stub of tallow candle and set it on the table. Its weak glow filled the space with long shadows.
“Get supper started,” he ordered. “There’s salt pork in the sack. Don’t ruin it.”
Violet hurried to obey, fumbling with the bag near the fireplace. The meat was coarse and hard, and the knife she found on the table was dull. Her hands shook as she cut. She struck flint awkwardly, coaxing flame to catch on brittle kindling. At last smoke rose, filling her eyes with sting.
She felt Thomas’s gaze on her back. Heat climbed her neck, not from the fire but from the weight of his watching.
When she turned with the pan, his expression was sour. “Slow as a crippled mule,” he muttered. “Better learn fast.”
Ezra shifted in his chair, his mouth tightening.
They ate in silence. Thomas chewed loudly, wiping grease with the back of his hand. Violet swallowed small bites, though each lodged heavy in her throat. The candle guttered low, shadows stretching, pressing close.
When the meal was done, Thomas pushed his plate aside. “Tomorrow you start cleaning. Floor, walls, windows. You’ll make it look proper.” His eyes narrowed. “You’ll earn your keep.”
Her voice was a whisper. “Yes.”
He leaned forward. “Say it louder.”
Her chest tightened. “Yes.”
Satisfied, he leaned back, rubbing his belly. “That’s better.”
?
Night deepened. Crickets rasped outside, and the wind rattled loose boards. Ezra stretched himself near the door, his blanket rolled tight, his face turned to the wall as though to grant privacy.
Thomas stood, stripped off his boots, and let them fall with a thud. His shirt followed, patched and stained. His belly sagged over his belt, pale and soft in the candlelight. Violet’s eyes darted away, shame and fear prickling hot in her chest.
