She caught sight of him just past the barricade, standing next to his old pickup truck, the red tip of his cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Harley didn’t look upset. He looked murderous.
“Marnie, you little tramp,” he yelled. “You get over here now. If I have to come get you you’ll regret it.”
Embarrassment heated her cheeks at the way her father spoke. “You don’t understand,” she said to Beckett, pushing him back another step. “He’ll kill you. Just go before you make things worse.”
Beckett stopped and stared at her then—a long, slow, dissecting stare that made her feel too exposed.
“Just go, please,” she begged.
“How long has this been going on? Does Sloane know? Why hasn’t anyone done anything?”
“Because it’s nobody’s business. Besides, who’s going to do anything about it?” she asked, the resentment she’d felt her whole life sneaking out. “My own mother would back him up. Sometimes the only thing to do is survive until you can escape.”
“I’m not going to leave you alone. Is there somewhere you can go? To the O’Haras?”
“There’s no point. He’d just hurt them too.” There was no point being angry at Beckett. He was just trying to help. “I know how to deal with him.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he repeated. “We’ll deal with him together.”
Harley stood in front of his truck and the lights from the carnival cast eerie shadows across his body. He was a big man—you had to be to tackle steers or get bulls to cooperate—and his hair was sandy and thin on top. He flicked out his cigarette onto the ground and didn’t bother stamping it out.
Before she could protest further, Beckett took her hand and pulled her straight into the lion’s den.
“You’re the Hamilton boy,” Harley said as they approached.
She could smell the whiskey on him from where she stood. It wasn’t like him to be out in a crowded place like the fair. Once Duffey kicked him out of the bar he almost always went home to sleep it off. But something about this time was different.
“Yes, sir. I am,” Beckett answered warily. He’d smelled the whiskey too and caution eased into his voice. “I was just about to take Marnie home. My car is just over there.”
“Don’t lie to me, boy,” Harley spat. “You think because she spreads her legs for you that you have some kind of right to her? I’m sure all the boys feel the same way. She’s always been wicked. That girl’s got the devil inside of her. Nothing but trouble and a burden to her mama and me.”
Marnie stayed silent. It never did any good to argue, and it was the same speech she’d heard hundreds of times in her life.
“That seems doubtful, sir,” Beckett said. “Like I said, I was just going to take her home.”
Harley smiled and fear snaked down Marnie’s spine. “Run back to your daddy, boy. She’s not worth the fight, no matter how good she is. They never are.” He chuckled and Marnie felt Beckett go stiff with anger next to her. “Get in the car, girl. I won’t tell you a second time.”
She let go of Beckett’s hand and started to move forward, but he grabbed her wrist. “He’s been drinking,” Beckett said. “It’s not safe to go with him.”
“He’s always drinking. And it’s a lot safer to go with him now and just deal with it than to defy him,” she hissed. “Do what he says. He’ll hurt you, and I can’t have that on my conscience. He’ll sleep it off and won’t remember any of this by morning.”
“And what about you?” Beckett asked. “Will you be fine?”
“Sure,” she said. “I always am.”
“I’m going to get the sheriff. This is insane, Marnie. He can’t get away with this. And I won’t let him hurt you.”
“One year and three days,” she said, pulling out of his grasp.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Freedom.” She took a step forward to face her destiny and the world went black as the vision took over. It was powerful. And violent. Her knees buckled and she went down to the ground in a smooth motion. Everything around her stopped—sight and sound—all she could see was the scene she was incapable of stopping from unfolding before her.
Her father sitting in the back room at Duffey’s like he had so many times before. The three other men at the table giving each other wary glances as Harley became more intoxicated. He was losing. And he was angry about it. Then Mitch Jones laid down three aces and Harley’s temper exploded. He accused Mitch of cheating and then swiped his arm across the table, clearing cards and poker chips and money. There was no stopping him. Harley was a freight train of rage and injustice. And he picked up the heavy wooden chair and slammed it into Mitch’s face. Then he did it again. And again.
“You killed him,” she sobbed out with horror. “The sheriff is looking for you. He’s coming. You thought you could hide in the crowd, but he’s coming for you. They’ll all be looking for you. You’ll be surrounded.”
“Son of a—” Harley said, kicking the front tire of his pickup truck. “Leave it to Mitch to go and die after a little tap on the head. Get in the truck. You’re coming with me. I’ll need a little insurance to get out of here.”
