It takes almost twenty minutes, but she makes it to where Bellamy’s posted up with a giant flashlight pointing down to the dry brush beneath his boots. Once she’s made her way over to him, he lifts the flashlight and points it toward the fence she mended this afternoon. Or, at least, she thought she mended it. But the gap, the one she closed through sweat and painful pricks of barbed wire into her thumbs, is still there. And it’s three times wider than it was before.
What’s worse—beyond it, probably half a mile outside, is Brick, the longhorn that set Bellamy back a hefty sum of money at auction last year, and indubitably his most prized possession across the entirety of the ranch.
Now completely off his property, roaming free.
“You wanna explain to me why in the ever-lovingfuckmy longhorn is outside the property line right now, Grace? Or why there’s still a gap as wide as my truck in this fence when you were supposed to fix it this afternoon?” His voice is still chillingly soft, the timbre deep and unsettling.
Grace’s eyes dart from Brick to Bellamy and back again, then to the fence, where the barbed wire she’d strung together so carefully now lies useless on the ground. “I did fix it. I swear, I did. I made sure—”
“If he’d gotten any farther than that,” Bellamy seethes, cutting her off and pointing in the direction of the animal, “I’d put my pistol in your mouth right now.”
Too stubborn and stupid to look away, Grace raises her chin. “You know I don’t make mistakes like this. It’s Trey. I pissed him off at breakfast, and he’s trying to sabotage—”
“I don’t wanna hear it. Bring him in,” he says, nodding toward Brick. “And fix this goddamn fence. Don’t come back until you do.”
Grace’s eyes scan the immediate area. Not a pair of pliers or gloves in sight. “I need tools. It’s barbed wire.”
Bellamy shrugs. “Shoulda thought about that when you were half-assin’ it the first time.” He drops the flashlight onto the ground and turns away from her, and without another word, pulls himself up into the truck and drives off.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
It takes three and ahalf hours, and by the time Grace is done, her palms are so tarnished from the barbed wire that her handprints will be forever altered. A trail of bloody droplets follows her all the way back to the main house, where Bellamy sits on his front porch in a rocking chair with a cup of coffee.
“It’s done,” she rasps, sliding down a wooden post, unsteady from the lightheadedness. Her eyes screw shut, and she begins to lift her hands above her head. “I need—I need stitches.”
“Go see Maryann,” he orders. “Now. You’re bleedin’ all over my porch.”
Slowly, with a substantial amount of effort and blinding pain, Grace stands. She trudges across the porch, wincing at the soreness in her muscles and the sharp throbbing in her hands.
“One more thing,” Bellamy calls out.
Grace turns her body halfway, her neck craning to look at him. There’s something else now in his hand besides the newspaper—something she doesn’t make out right away. But as she takes a couple of steps closer, her stomach drops.
Because hanging limply in his hand is Vesta’s bridle.
The breath in Grace’s lungs rushes out of her all at once, and she has to reach out to the siding of the house to keep herself upright. A dozen questions collide in her head, all half-formed and indecipherable. She can barely think in full sentences, but she manages a croaked “You— Did you— If you hurt her—” as tears begin welling in her eyes.
Bellamy scoffs, tossing the bridle in her direction before turning back to the newspaper. “Pritchet took her into town while you were gone. Got twenty-five hundred for her. Idiot overpaid, you ask me.”
The words hit Grace’s ears, cavalier and final, and her knees wobble, threatening to give out from under her. The world tilts on its axis in an excruciating, permanent way.
Herhorse. Her Vesta. Her beautiful girl with those sparkling, ageless eyes and that heart of pure gold. The best friend she’s ever had, sold to the first person willing to take her off Pritchet’s hands. Tears begin to fall down Grace’s cheeks as her thoughts snowball, wondering in a flurry of panic if Vesta willbe happy wherever she is, cared for and loved the way she deserves. It’sthat—the vision of Vesta being bred over and over again without proper care, being fed the cheapest and worst quality of hay, never being brushed or petted or kissed, that sends Grace over an edge she’s been toeing for the past nine years of her life.
She swallows down a sob and looks at Bellamy through puffy, bloodshot eyes. Her nostrils flare as the words leave her lips. “You fucking bastard.”
The motion of his rocking in the chair stills. His eyes drift upward, away from the newspaper, before he slowly turns his head to look at her. He blinks, then asks, “Come again?”
“You heard me,” Grace growls, stomping toward him, ignoring all the pain that vibrates through her body, fighting the unsteadiness. “You’re a fucking bastard. You’re cruel, and stupid, and disgusting, and evil. I’m ashamed to share any blood with you. Almost ten years of my goddamn life, I’ve been your obedient dog, and you’ve never shown me even a fragment of kindness.” She’s still crying, but the tears are no longer made of sadness. They’re angry. Vengeful. She closes in on Bellamy, who leans back in his chair, alarmed. Her voice is lower and quieter as she says, “Hell was invented for people like you. So, when you finally do the world a favor and fucking die, we can all rest easy knowing you’re rotting down there. Forever.”
Bellamy’s lip curls. “You ungrateful bitch—”
Grace grabs the arms of the rocking chair with her bloodied hands, ignoring the searing pain, and shoves. As hard as she can. The chair wobbles for a split second before crashing to the ground, sending Bellamy tumbling.
He’s grunting and cursing under his breath, struggling to stand and spewing threats at her as he does, but Grace isn’tlistening. She stands over him, watching as he tries and fails to lift himself up, and for the first time in a long, long time, she is not afraid of him, or afraid of what he might do.
“I’m leaving. I hope this place burns to the ground. I wish to God that I could be the one to light the match.”
Bellamy looks up at her, and his face devolves from panic, pain, and embarrassment into something far more chilling. A sinister, knowing smile spreads onto his lips, slowly, deliberately. He laughs then—a wheezing, terrible sound. Gooseflesh breaks out over Grace’s bloody skin, but she ignores that blaring alarm in her gut and turns on her heel to walk away. She won’t let him scare her into submission ever again.
