“You hurt my family,” Seamus said, as though that simple reason explained why Bell had to pay three to four times the normal rate for whiskey sold to other saloons.
Taking a step toward Seamus, Bell hissed. “Won’t you ever forget that?”
Slapping a hand on Eamon’s shoulder, as his son flushed red and approached the big man, Seamus shook his head. “Never. You hurt us, and we’ll never forget.” He tilted his head in Eamon’s direction. “You harmed his wife, Bell. One of my daughters,” he said, for he considered every woman married to one of his sons a daughter. Seamus waited for Bell to back up a step, satisfied when the larger man relented and stepped back a pace.
“Chaffee,” Declan said in a lethally cold voice.
Bell turned his focus to Declan. “Another wronged husband.” He sighed. “What did I do to earn the misfortune to partner myself with such a man as Chaffee?” Rubbing at his head, he shrugged. “I don’t know where he went. He disappeared the same day your wife was stolen.”
“Lies,” Declan hissed, stepping forward, only stilling when Ardan and Kevin gripped his shoulders.
Shaking his head, Bell ran a hand over his jaw, his gaze flashing in anger at being called a liar. “No, I’m tellin’ the truth. The man disappeared. Took all the money from the safe too.” He smiled evilly. “I’ll be only too happy to see him again, when he returns to town.”
Declan stared long and hard at the owner of the Daybreak, before giving a terse nod. “Consider this a good day, Bell. Next time won’t be.” He spun on his heels, his family behind him. Marching away from the saloon, he returned to the warehouse, where he knew they would have privacy. A few moments after entering, he howled like a wounded animal and threw a piece of wood across the room. Declan glanced up; his father watched him with patient understanding.
“’Tis all right, Dec. Get it out before you return to sit beside your Lorena.”
Declan took a deep breath and then another, as he attempted to control his rage. “I want to pummel someone, but he’s not here. There’s no one to punish.” He let out a stuttering breath, as each brother approached and embraced him. “What am I to do?” he asked, as he collapsed onto a crate.
A.J. approached and squeezed his shoulder. “What you are doin’, sonny. Continue to sit beside your wife. Read to her. Reassure her that she ain’t alone. If I was knocked plumb out of my head, an’ a sound reached me here an’ there, I can’t imagine anything sweeter than my dear Bessie’s voice.”
Declan nodded, rubbing at his temples. “Thanks, A.J.” He sat here for a few more moments, before he rose to return to his vigil by his wife’s bedside, praying she would wake and would return to him.
Chapter 8
Tumbling to her knees, after Jacques had freed her from the horse, Maggie swayed in place. Although the sight of the river gave her some hope, she was so sore from the beatings, she didn’t have the energy to breathe, much less rise and wash in the river. What did it matter? She looked a sight after days traveling with Jacques.
Although she knew he was purported to be one of the best backwoodsmen to ever roam the Territory and much of the Canadian West, it had seemed to her that they were wandering in circles the past few days. Finally today, they were making camp next to a river, and the cool air soothed her, after the long hours under the hot sun.
When he dropped the saddles onto the ground, she jumped. Maggie knew she had a few more minutes before her abuse would begin again, and she didn’t know how she would survive another night of his fists and his kicks. With any luck, she would faint after the first or second blow.
Finally she gathered all of her strength and moved a short distance away for a few moments of privacy. She was so weak from the beatings and her hunger that she had stopped even considering her escape. Without a horse, she wouldn’t last a day on the prairie.
After taking a few sips of water, she scrubbed at her neck and face. Her wrists were raw from where they had been bound for days, and she dreamed of her ointments and poultices at her home. She refused to think about her family and all she was missing. She feared she would lose whatever courage remained and would curl up in a ball, eager for death’s embrace, as she dreamed of her family. Of Dunmore.
Instead she focused on this moment. On cataloging everything that hurt. She had so many bruises, aches, and pains that she could usually pass an hour or two considering every agony.
As a hand reached out and grabbed her by her long hair, she screamed. Scrambling to her feet, Maggie stood on her toes. “No, please,” she gasped, as she saw the lascivious gleam in Jacques’s gaze.
“Do you think me such an idiot that I don’t understand what you do, mon petite chou?” He shook her, earning a wail, as she had little strength to fight back or to stand on her toes.
“Please, Jacques,” Maggie gasped.
“Ah, I like it when you beg, non?” His mouth curved up into an evil smile, as he stared at her. His free hand roved over her body, cupping one breast. “Are you still mine, ma chérie? Or have you defiled yourself with that vulgar beast of a man who loves horses more than you?”
Maggie quaked in his hold, her gaze imploring him to release her. “Please, Jacques. You don’t want to do this.”
He chuckled and licked his lips. “Ah, you do not know how long I’ve waited. Ever since your family tricked me to leave town with a strumpet rather than you, I’ve burned for you.” His fetid breath wafted over her. “I know you’ve felt the same.”
“Let me
