into it, pressing harder, stirring up more pain to go with the memories plaguing her. At least she didn’t have to worry about her littlest sisters getting sold to Sallabrook or a man like him—one of her older sisters had taken them into her household years ago when she’d married.
That last day hadn’t started out as anything memorable. She’d been up at dawn to milk the cow and gather eggs from the chickens, prepare a hot breakfast for Sallabrook, then swing into the normal flow of chores and tasks. He hadn’t spoken to her as she moved around where he sat at the kitchen table, hadn’t looked at her as she served his food. He hadn’t given any indication of anything other than he’d been in the grip of his now-normal hangover state. Eyes bloodshot, jowls loose underneath his unshaven chin, Sallabrook had gripped his knife and fork in trembling hands to eat his meal.
He'd been nearly to the end when it happened. He’d reached out for the last biscuit at the same moment she’d gone to refill his mug with hot coffee. His hand had scarcely brushed the metal, but the explosion had been immediate, giving her no time to react. Pot ripped from her hand and hurled against the wall, he’d secured his hold on her with fingers twisted in her hair. With her physical reactions controlled in that way, he slammed her head against the wooden table, stunning her. From there, things began to blur, the memories choppy as they skipped and stuttered through her head. The blood-covered tabletop coming towards her face, again and again, strands of hair stuck in the rich red liquid. Sallabrook hadn’t screamed or shouted, hadn’t reminded her of her place, hadn’t sermonized at her—the only sounds were the blows against her skin and his grunts of effort. His hands had fumbled at his belt. Then came the blistering pain of the leather coming down on her bare bottom and back, her flour sack dress flipped up, panties ripped away.
At the end of things, he’d left her where she fell. Crumpled in a heap on the floor of the kitchen, she’d been only vaguely aware of the door opening and closing, his exit conducted as silently as his attack on her had been, booted footfalls angling across the porch, the echoing cough of his truck’s engine as it caught and ran, then the humming decrescendo as he drove away.
She’d stolen boots from his closet and a pair of dungarees he’d complained were too small and had ransacked his small library, filching the larger bills she’d previously shied away from between the pages where he’d hidden them. Riches expanded in unexpected quantity, she’d stuffed the toes of the boots with newspaper, added smoked meat and cheese to her stash, and shoved everything into an old oat bag. Then she’d cared for the barn animals, detoured through the garden to pluck some ripe produce to add to her bag, and taken a deep breath. Standing at the edge of the clearing opposite where the driveway entered, she’d looked around the place she’d spent so many years, isolated from family and the few friends she’d had, her life nothing like the fairy tales her mother once read to the children on long winter nights. Myrt had fixed each thing in her head, turned on her heel, and strode into the woods, headed downhill.
Myrt took a slow look around for what felt like the hundredth time since Vanna had brought her upstairs and showed her to the guest room. It was huge, about half as large as the entire cabin had been. A sturdy dresser stood against one wall, a mirror attached to the top. It angled so if Myrt wanted, she could look at herself, even though the piece of furniture was nearly as tall as she was. One glance into the glass had her changing the position with a gasp. In the days since she’d walked away from the cabin, she’d only captured tiny glimpses of her countenance in reflective surfaces. The full scope of the damage Sallabrook had done hadn’t been clear to her until that single look. Satan sure wouldn’t tempt him now. The reactions of the people she’d met along the way, wavering between shock and sorrow, made more sense now, and Myrt hated thinking they’d felt sorry for her. Not Vanna, though. Vanna hadn’t given off the vibe she’d taken Myrt in out of pity. Everything about the woman spoke