We entered the warm chalet, and I set her—with reluctance—on her feet.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her cheeks rosy from the cold.
“Get out of those clothes and warm up,” I ordered and was proud that I managed to keep my mind from picturing her stripped.
“Yes, sir,” she quipped as she bent to unlace her boots and failed.
The icy wet knots wouldn’t cooperate.
“Let me.” I knelt in front of her and worked the laces.
“Helping me again,” she sighed.
“Only because you’re making more bread.”
“You’re a rare type of man, Bruce.”
“Much better than me out there.”
“Not that I’ve met,” was her soft reply.
I caught the hint. “The guy who hit you is the rarity,” I growled.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. My husband and his friends all held the firm belief that a woman should know her place.”
“Let me guess, that place is barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, walking a few paces behind, keeping quiet unless spoken to.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you hook up with a fucker like that?”
“Because I didn’t know any better at the time.”
A glance upward showed her looking away from me. “Shitty childhood?” A common reason some people accepted abuse.
“Not really. I mean, I grew up without a father. He left before I was born but my mother was great. We were poor but happy until she died. I was a teen when I went to live with my Nonna.”
“The one who taught you how to cook.”
“Yes. She cared for me but was very strict. I left soon as I graduated school and got accepted into a university.”
“Then dropped out when you got pregnant.”
“What? No. Zaza came much later. I ceased my studies because of Joseph.”
So that was the fucker’s name. “Joseph being the guy you’re hiding from.”
She bit her lip and nodded.
I glanced back at her boot. The lace was undone enough I could slide her foot free. “Has he always hit you?”
“No. Not at first, at least. When we initially met, he was utterly charming. He swept me off my feet. Showered me with attention. And I was so desperate for love, I soaked it all up. We had a whirlwind courtship and were married within six weeks.”
I whistled. “Damn, he moved fast.”
“At the time, only nineteen and with little experience of life, I thought it romantic. In the beginning, he was a good husband. Moody, yes, with certain firm ideas on what role his wife should play, but I didn’t mind.”
“What happened to change that?” I asked as I slid the second boot off.
