Snow Angel (9 page)

The sickening smile returned to his red lips. With a carefully manicured hand, he smoothed his mustache and regarded her with glittering eyes. “Leaving?” Harsh laughter rang out. Then suddenly his demeanor changed as rage surfaced. Gripping her shoulder in a painful vise, he shoved her back onto the bed. Before she could move, he was on top of her. She flailed and kicked, managing to hurt him but only temporarily slowing him down. He was strong, stronger than she would have thought from his wiry frame. He made it look easy, holding her down with one hand.

White ceiling with a crack running across … muffled sounds that she couldn't identify coming from her own throat … heavy breathing in her face …
Can't breathe … can't
breathe … help me … can't breathe
. The rape took only minutes, every second so real she could only numb it by burying it so deep and never thinking of it again.

Breathing hard in her face, his voice a low staccato, Ross explained what he'd planned all along. “Listen carefully. I'm going to wire the Dunnings now and tell them how I've found their long-lost daughter. You will stay right here with me until they arrive to fetch you. Until then, you're mine to do with as I please.”

Grabbing her wrist with a pain-shooting grip, he dug in his pocket for a length of rough plaited rope, jerked her hands behind her back, and tied her wrists together with a tightness that crushed her fine bones. He pushed her down on the
mattress and began tying her feet together. A handkerchief served as a gag. Then, with casual movements, as if he suddenly had all the time in the world, he adjusted his clothing, turned toward the door, and picked up an elegant, gray flannel hat. He looked over his shoulder at her with a leering grin.

She could only stare back with all the horror she felt.

He laughed and walked out the door saying, “You'll learn to like it, I promise. You'll be begging for it by the end of the week.”

She heard the key turn the lock on the outside of the door and looked desperately around the darkening room. Struggling, she rolled on to her stomach and pushed up onto her knees. She had to get out, had to get out, had to get out—a desperate litany that was now her existence. She twisted and turned her hands, frantically fighting the rope. Pulling against it as hard as she could, she tried to stretch some space between her wrists. It was impossible. She felt like an animal caught in a trap and thought of how some chose to chew off an arm or leg to save themselves. She realized now it would be worth it.

With renewed effort, she pulled on one side and then the other. She couldn't bear the thought of what might await her if she didn't escape. She had to get out no matter how much it cost her. Gritting her teeth and with a low growl, she pulled on one arm as hard as she could, the threads of the rope like a dull knife on the outsides of her wrists. Sweat dripped from her hairline as the rope cut into her flesh. Taking quick breaths, she pulled relentlessly. A steady drip of red spotted the white sheet behind her, adding to the other smears of blood, a virgin's blood that should have been her husband's.

She pulled harder, starting to cry and whimper from the pain, but still the rope didn't give. Collapsing onto the bed, she wept in earnest. All was lost. He would come back and how would she endure it? She knew, from the depths of her being, that she couldn't let him do it again. She would rather die.

Rubbing her face into the blanket, she gritted her teeth, then curled toward her knees and rocked up to a sitting position. She wanted to live.

“God, help me. Help me.” It came out as a cry and a whisper. She never dared ask anything of God—she didn't deserve His help, but she was too terrified to care now. If He struck her dead for asking, it would be better than what was to come with Ross.

Desperately, she looked up and saw the flickering shadows dancing across the ceiling from the only light in the room. Her gaze swung to the burning candle on the bedside table. Long strands of loose hair hung in her face, but her eyes held an intense determination. For a breath in time everything seemed to slow to a stop inside of her as she wondered how brave she really was, then she thought of it no more.

Slowly, she scooted to the edge of the bed, swung her legs to the floor, stood, and gained her balance. With little hops, her feet inched toward the candle, her eyes never leaving it. Upon reaching the table, she turned her back toward it and stretched out her arms. Looking over her shoulder, she strained to position the rope over the flame. Her immediate reaction was to jerk her hands away from the blue blaze.

Silent tears fell in the silent room as she took a deep breath, felt an odd calm overtake her, and then replaced her hands. Her breathing quickened, became a pant, as the flame danced across
the delicate skin of her wrist. She bit her bottom lip until she tasted her own blood. Beads of sweat broke out on her temples, but she was able to keep the rope steady over the flame. She could see the thin band of smoke curling up from the candle, like a snake dancing for its charmer. She could smell the rope and her own flesh burning. She pulled to either side with all of her strength, waiting … waiting … for the rope to break and free her from this hellish nightmare.

With a loud sob, her head to the side, her eyes tightly clenched, she felt the cord finally give. Her arms hung limply at her sides, her wrists strangely numb. Her whole body shook, her arms quivering as she raised her hands out in front of her. Ugly, bloody welts from the rope were on the outsides, but worse by far was the raw flesh of her inner wrist where the flame had worked. A queasy dizziness overwhelmed her and she was forced to sit on the bed and put her head between her knees. She had always had a strange propensity to faint, but she knew she couldn't allow that to happen now. She had to get out of the hotel before Ross returned.

After slowly untying her feet, she groped about until she found a linen handkerchief and tore it into two halves with her teeth. New tears stung her eyes as she wrapped her wrists, the cloth sticking to the bloody places, and then she bolted toward the door. Tears of panic and frustration rose, blinding her, as she turned the knob over and over. “No, no … please no.”

It was locked; she should have remembered that. She wanted to beat on the door and scream, but thought better of it.

Instead, she took a deep, fortifying breath and glared at the room. There weren't any windows, nothing, save the locked
door. Pacing for a moment, she thought hard, trying not to think about Ross's promise, trying to ignore the screaming pain from her wrists. Scrambling over to the dresser, she started going through the drawers, pulling clothes out willy-nilly, looking for what, she wasn't sure, but there had to be something. Her head jerked up as she dropped a handful of socks and heard the sound of a heavy thud as one hit the floor. Dropping to her knees, she frantically felt around until her hands wrapped around the full toe of a sock. Her hands trembled as she shook out the contents. Her breath whooshed out of her. Money, a fat roll of it, lay beside a shiny black pistol.

She smiled, mirroring his earlier victorious leer. He'd been a fool to underestimate her. Her thoughts were crystal clear now. She knew exactly what to do.

With teeth set, she shoved the wad of bills in the pocket of her dress and tucked the pistol in her other pocket. Taking the discarded bag, she looped it on her forearm, picked up the porcelain water pitcher, and blew out the candle, letting darkness flood the room. Whoever opened that door, whoever proved her innocent savior, they would not get a good look at her.

Walking steadily over to the door, she pounded firmly on it, pain radiating up her arm and into her shoulder. “Hello, hello!” she called out in as bright a voice as she could manage. It was a hotel and she was sure someone would hear her. Her only worry was that it wouldn't happen soon enough. She had no idea how long Ross would be, which was why she was armed with the pitcher. She would like to shoot him, but that wouldn't be wise. The shot would be heard, and much as she would like to hold it to his head and watch him squirm, she didn't need to add a murder to her list of troubles.

There was a moment of terror when she heard a key scrape in the lock. She had just raised the pitcher over her head, breath held, when she heard a woman's voice. “Mr. Brandon?”

Elizabeth lowered the pitcher and waited as still and watchful as a cat with its prey in sight while the woman turned the knob. When the door opened, Elizabeth shoved the pitcher into the woman's chest and rushed out into the lighted hall. She fled down the stairs, stumbling once, then ran out the door and across the dirt street to the uneven boardwalk, hearing the lady calling after her, “Miss! Wait, miss!”

The cool night air had never felt so good, a freedom breeze encouraging her, blowing her in the right direction. It was as if some source of inner strength had risen up and taken charge. She wasn't frightened; she was in control. Back at her room, she put salve and proper bandages on her wrists, packed one small bag with precious essentials, then moved into a distant hotel under a new name, Elizabeth Smith, a name she'd used before when first escaping the Dunnings, a name she thought to use from now on. The next day she found it easy to procure passage aboard the first ship sailing to Alaska—now that she had money. But it hadn't gone as far as she had expected, only enough to buy her passage ticket with a little to spare. But she had to get out of Seattle as soon as possible. She knew Ross would be looking for her. She didn't know if he would be desperate enough to try to track her all the way to Alaska, but if he did … God help her …

It had worked beautifully. It had been the middle of October, but she was finally on her way. With a rush of adventure pumping through her veins, she'd kept a confident iron control over her emotions the entire trip. She hadn't let herself
think of the incident at all. Coming to Juneau had been an unexpected side trip, but she didn't regret it. It was further off the beaten path and therefore safer. She had been an emotionally strong fortress, until the blizzard … and Noah. Until this safety net of love had encompassed her. Now the memories flooded back. They were relentless, and tonight she had remembered it all.

She jerked as a hand touched her shoulder. Turning her head, she gazed blankly into Noah's questioning stare.

* * *

NOAH'S HAND DROPPED away with shock. Her skin felt like ice, but it was flushed with the heat of the fire. Her porcelain looks appeared chiseled of stone, her eyes, like those of the dead. She was as unfeeling and cold as granite.
God,
he prayed silently as panic gripped him,
help her. I don't know what to do.
He wanted to hold her, but he was afraid. She looked like she would crumble into a thousand pieces if he touched her. Floundering about, he finally remembered the steaming mug of coffee in his other hand. Holding it out to her, he said in even, quiet tones, “Drink this. It will warm you.”

He breathed a sigh of relief when she stiffly took the cup and turned back to the fire. Glancing around, he spotted the discarded quilt that he'd been using and picked it up. He spread it over her shoulders, draping it around her stiff, regal back, the quilt in all its patchwork humility a poor excuse for a queen's cape. Noah struggled to speak, say the right words. “Sit down for a while, Elizabeth. I'll make up a bed for you by the fire and when you're warm enough you can sleep.”

She nodded but said nothing, didn't move, her eyes staring into the dancing flames.

Noah cast about for more bedding and busied himself setting out the blankets, feeling desperate to banish the ghosts in her eyes.
God, how can I help her?
he pleaded silently as he worked. It startled him suddenly that he expected an answer. He realized that he hadn't talked to God in weeks. He used to talk to God all the time. Like breathing almost, it was, an ongoing conversation with a friend who was always there, waiting to be asked and be heard, to know and be known. And yet “friend” wasn't quite right either. More like a father who knew everything about him and loved him so unconditionally that He let Noah discover things on his own. Like an all-knowing presence that, on the best days, guided his every move. Since Elizabeth had come to him, things had shifted a bit. He'd begun to spend more time with her, have more thoughts about her, and, he realized with a sudden stab of sadness, have more love for her. She had waltzed into his life on snowflakes and wind and turned his heart and his home upside down. Was that why Adam had sinned and eaten of the fruit? Noah had never understood that, but now …

While smoothing away unseen wrinkles from the sheet, Noah confronted man's ancient weakness. He faced his own weakness where Elizabeth was concerned—that it was easier, could seem more fulfilling, thrilling even, to love the seen and the touchable than an invisible God. That if he didn't keep his bearings he could become consumed by her.

But what was he to do now?

Sing her a song.

Immediately his heart lifted within him. His God was still there.
Thank you
, his heart beat out the words.
Thank you,
thank you.
Later, he would pray and talk to his God-Father. He would make things right.

Sing her a song. OK, sing to her. He knew better than to argue or question the command. Slowly, as quiet as his deep voice could manage, he began to hum, a little self-consciously, a song as old as time to him and as natural as breathing. He didn't look at Elizabeth. Part of him was afraid to, her intensity so frightened him. Finally, as he laid the pillow at one end of the bed, he glanced up. He felt his heart jerk as he saw the glistening tracks of tears on Elizabeth's still face and abruptly quit.

She turned toward him, her face once again that of a real woman. “Don't stop,” she whispered.

Noah went over to her and pulled her into his arms, her face nuzzled below his neck, her body pressed close to his. He held on, but her thin shoulders refused to relax, as though more than flesh and bone held her erect.