Prologue
St. Louis
Missouri
February 1849
“You have been a very bad girl,” he said softly, almost lovingly, caressing her back with his soft, pudgy hand. He seemed to be nearly mesmerized by the tears in her dress that he had just put there himself with a belt, for his hand lingered over the exposed, welted flesh that showed through them and a slight smile quivered on his thin lips. He paid no attention to the cry of pain she stifled in the rumpled bedcovers as he touched her.
His mouth twisted up and she shut her eyes, quickly. She knew that the vile, gloating expression she so dreaded to see was in his eyes as he stared at her, face down on the bed. She could not afford to let him see her loathing or there would be no hope of reprieve. She steeled herself to let her face show no pain or fear, for he fed on those emotions and became stronger, and then the beating would last much longer.
She was as he always liked her in these moments; down on her knees before the bed, half-reclining across it, her face pressed hard into the coverlet, her hands gripping at the material with each stroke of the belt as she tried not to cry out. She knew that he felt immense power and pleasure as he studied her prostrate pose; she had seen it many, many times in his gloating eyes and his horrid face. She jumped involuntarily when his hand pressed hard against her abused back, and he laughed deep in his throat.
“Oh, Maggie, I love to look at you this way. I will always carry this picture in my mind, the way you look with my marks on your body.” His tone turned suddenly vicious, and he jerked her head up by her long brown hair and stared into her frightened green eyes. “You are mine, do you understand? Mine!” He shook her by the long tresses.
“Yes, David,” she cried in a tearful voice. “I am yours, I promise! I am only yours!”
He slapped her hard, and despite herself, tears spilled out of her glittering eyes to roll down her face. “You would be on the street if not for me. When your parents died, you had nowhere to go. I was their solicitor; no one knew that better than I. Your father was a fool, and now you are paying the price.” Maggie bit her lip to keep back the words that so wanted to come out. If she said one word in defense of her father, she knew that he would beat her viciously. This had all happened so many times before that Maggie knew the outcome of any action she might take. David could be inconsistent, but not in this; he could not stand to be contradicted and showed his displeasure in predictable ways.
“Who else would have taken you? There was no money left. You should be grateful that I took you in, that I was willing to marry such a wicked, wicked girl.” He reached down and grasped her shoulder in a cruel hand, shaking her hard. “Instead, you flaunt yourself at every man who comes near, twitch at every man who comes in contact with you, even the stableboy! I saw you flirt with him, I saw you smile and try to entice him!”
“No, David,” she cried. “He just carried the packages into the kitchen, and I said thank you! He is just a boy!” Her tone became cajoling. “I do not even know his name. He is not a man like you, David. He does not know anything, and I do not want him, David, only you.”
Underneath the sweet tone of her voice lay a note of desperation, and she knew that he had heard it when he laughed under his breath. He tipped her chin up and she tried hard to smile winsomely at him, but she could feel it wobble around the edges.
“A boy, eh?” He sounded amused. “He is a year older than you, my sweet young bride. But I see what you are doing, m’dear. You want to make up for your continual disobedience, do you not? Have I not taught you the consequences of your actions yet? Will you remember this punishment the next time that you are tempted by your base woman’s nature to flirt and beguile some poor, innocent boy?”
She nodded slowly and tried to hold the bright smile in place, glad at least that he would not now go and attack the poor stable boy. This time, he had made it all her fault and she did not have to watch while he hurt some poor unsuspecting innocent because of her carelessness.
“I have been quite gentle this time, haven't I, my love? You are not even bleeding. Well, why not? Everyone knows that I dote upon you. Married a girl half his age, they all say, and I do whatever you want.” He squeezed her shoulder harder and she tried not to wince with the pain of it. “But we know the truth, do we not, my dear? I am the master in this house, not you, and you will do whatever I want. Your tricks do not work on me, no matter how bewitching I might find them at times.”
He slapped the doubled leather belt rhythmically in his hand, and her eyes followed it without volition. His expression became suddenly expansive, and she knew then that the worst of the beating was over. The relief that she felt was so intense, she felt dizzy with it. God, help me, I cannot take very much more, she thought. He will kill me some day. One day when I raise my head and accidentally catch some man’s eye, he will kill me.
“Smile at me and only me,” he ordered roughly, and she nodded immediately. "You belong only to me. You must remember that. I am your master and I command your complete and total obedience."
"Yes, of course, David," she cried, the lie souring in her mouth as she spoke it, her hatred of him nearly choking her. "It is only you that I care about."
“I am the only man who will reap the benefit of your weak nature. After all, I own you, do I not, my sweet Maggie?” His tone became gloating again, and she could not stand it anymore. She began to close herself off, to think of the life that she had lived with her parents such a short time ago, for she could not bear this travesty of existence she lived with David for much longer.
One day I will escape, she vowed to herself while he ran his hands over her back, her skin shrinking from his alternately caressing, pinching fingers. She could hear him breathing behind her; feel the hot, fetid fumes on the back of her neck as he leaned over her. She waited, tensed, for the blows to begin again, for he was ever changeable and might decide to hit her again on a whim. When they did not fall, she nearly wept with relief.
One day, I will run and never come back. I will go far, far away and no one can ever make me come back.
Or I will kill him.
Southern Missouri
June 1852
ONE
“Hell and damnation!” roared Nick Revelle, hurling his bowl across the room in a fit of temper. “This is the worst food I have ever been served from my own kitchens, and given the quality of the fare around here for the last few months, that is saying something! Even the pigs would not eat this swill!” He rose to his feet to storm out into his kitchen and confront the person responsible for this affront to his taste buds.
“Jackson!” he shouted. “Where are you hiding, you mangy old bastard?”
Jackson came staggering out of the storeroom, obviously the worse for drink. Nick scowled at him in disgust. Surely the man had not looked this unkempt when he had hired him. He had been clean then, at least. Now, he reeked of harsh spirits and looked as if he had not bathed in weeks. He swayed and stared blearily at Nick through bloodshot eyes, wiping his dirty hands on his already soiled apron. A lock of his dirty, coarse gray hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it back with one wrinkled hand, nearly unbalancing himself in the process.
“Wot does ya want?” he slurred belligerently. “I got a lotta work to do, I ain’t got time to stand around jawin’.”
“I would like to know,” Nick said through gritted teeth, “What kind of damn soup that is supposed to be.” He pointed an awesomely muscled arm to the pot that sat atop the stove. His stomach roiled as he looked at it. A chunk of fat floated on the surface of a cloudy liquid that resembled used bathwater.
“Soup’s soup,” said the man, leaning against the wall. “I run outta stuff, so I threw the rest all together to make soup.”
“Ran out? Ran out?” Nick kept his temper reined in with an almost superhuman effort. “’Tis funny to me that the surplus ran out so suddenly. When I left three days ago, there was a whole garden of vegetables right out the back door, a smokehouse full of meats, and household monies to supplement our larder should there be a need.” He narrowed his eyes and observed the drunken man through slitted lids. “Though I guess I know where some of that coin went.”
“I ain’t no field hand,” declared Jackson belligerently. “I ain’t gonna grub around in no dirt like that slattern Kathleen you got working here. You got other people to do that. Buy some slaves. I am the cook.”
Nick smiled grimly at the hapless Jackson. “Kathleen is not a slattern, she is a lady too fine for the likes of you to speak her name. And you are right, Jackson. You do not need to grub around in the dirt. As of this moment, you are no longer under my employ. Now collect your things and come to the study for the wages owed you, and be thankful that I am not taking the monies that you spent on drink out of that. Or going to the sheriff about the food that you obviously pilfered from my stores.”