Taming Rafe by Susan May Warren Page B

for not being able to say the words he could so easily type on the page.
    Lolly reached into a booth and came out with a book. “I can’t believe Libby. She was glued to this thing for three days, then leaves it here.” She tossed the book onto the counter, where it landed next to John. He saw the cover, well-worn, and hid a smile. At least someone was reading Unshackled .
    He picked it up, flipping it open, enjoying reading the words instead of anyalzing them.
WYOMING, 1935
    Mary stood at her daughter’s bedroom window, watching the sky darken, wishing it would finally rain. Storms like these scared her the most. Not because of the dust that would pile up against the house and coat her clothes, her skin, the inside of her ears and nose, but because they frightened Rosie. And then she would cry.
    Mary picked up her two-year-old and wrapped Rosie’s legs around her waist, holding her head against her body, wishingshe had more padding on her to soften the curves. Wishing that, when her daughter held tight, it didn’t make Mary bite her lip to hold back the cry of pain. Apparently her ribs hadn’t yet healed.
    Thunder pealed across the sky, and Rosie trembled.
    “Shh.” Mary rocked the child, smoothing her coarse hair. Please let Matthias be so soundly drunk that he won’t hear the floorboards creaking above him . She’d left him where he lay on the sofa, thankful he’d fallen there last night and not in their bed.
    Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to cry. She’d cried enough for three lifetimes. And tears wouldn’t water the land, feed their cattle, or bring Charlie back. She didn’t have time for grief, with the cooking and cleaning and farm chores. She stayed busy by choice. It kept her out of the house.
    Sometimes, more and more often, it brought her into conversation with Jonas. Yesterday he’d helped her mound the potatoes in her garden. He sang as he worked, usually hymns, sometimes songs of his own making, and as usual, his voice soothed the wounds inside her.
    For all the years I thought I was worth nothin’,
    For all the times that I gave up on me,
    For all the fears I hid that kept me from believing it could be,
    Could I be worth the love that sets me free?
    Sometimes just humming those words filled her with hope that she shouldn’t give up. That someday she, too, might be free.
    She had no doubts Jonas had heard the shouting last night, had seen the fresh bruises on her arms, her chin. She’d long ago stopped trying to hide them. He’d become her protector of sorts, helping her with chores, and twice, running out to the field, alerting her that Matthias was on his way home. More than once, he’d even knocked on the door, hat in hand, intercepting Matthias’s savage mood.
    Unfortunately, Jonas wasn’t always around. Legally, she was Matthias’s wife, and according to Wyoming law, Jonas couldn’t interfere. Besides, with people starving all over the country, who cared if a man took out his frustrations on his wife? Certainly not Sheriff Denny, in whom she’d confided. She’d spent two days in bed after he’d told Matthias her accusations.
    Jonas had fed her, and when he thought she wasn’t looking, she’d seen anger cross his face. When Matthias went to town, Jonas silently rewrapped her bruised ribs, his eyes red-rimmed.
    Jonas was in a prison of his own. Matthias carried the title on the land owned by Jonas’s family—his parents and his six brothers and sisters. She often saw him standing in the barn entrance, staring at the house, fists clenched.
    Perhaps that was why she found an easy, healing friendship in him. They both understood being trapped.
    Lightning flickered, and right behind it came another peal of thunder.
    Rosie shrieked, and Mary shushed her, singing softly. “Hush, little baby . . .”
    “Make her shut up,” Matthias bellowed from downstairs.
    Mary stiffened. Thus far, he’d never harmed Rosie, but that didn’t stop the toddler from shaking. “Shh,”