next several days. He makes excuses and goes hunting a lot, but how many rabbits can two people eat? I dig a smoke-hole to try and make sure none of the meat goes bad—something else to trade later.
The baby’s content and quiet, all her needs met before she even realizes she has them. She’s snuggled in someone’s arms nearly every moment, warm and at peace.
When I go outside, I tie her to my stomach with a blanket and do my chores. I milk and feed the goat—luckily it eats pretty much anything. I clear the path to the shack now, after a snowfall, uncovering the line of black stones to the withered garden. If spring ever comes again I’ll ask Luke to trade for seeds and bulbs. I’ll plant herbs and potatoes and maybe even flowers. Tulips. Lilies.
I spot a dark shape in the distance, coming from down below. I figure Luke must’ve gone north to hunt, so I wave as he get’s closer, deciding to be cheerful—as cheerful as I can be. I’ll find some more winter onions to put with the rabbit. I’ll talk to him about the garden, my flowers, what colors I’m wanting; he’ll like that.
I miss his smile and know that I’m the reason it’s hiding. I’ve got to try what I can to make it better.
But then I sense something wrong. It’s not Luke coming up the rise. My hand sinks back down to my side and a surge of nausea rolls over me.
I recognize that walk, the shoulders, and the tip of the head.
Pa.
I stumble back, almost falling into the snow. I catch myself on a piece of old fence and freeze. A million emotions and thoughts spring up at once. I start to think of hiding in the trees, then the barn, but as Pa gets closer, all I can see as real safety is the shack.
I turn and run, up the path, through the door. I latch it tight and search frantically for a place to hide the baby—a basket, full of mending in the corner—she squeaks when I put her down, but stays asleep. I cover her in Luke’s old shirt and a few rags.
I’m trying to decide if it’s too much—what if I smother her?—when the door rattles.
“I saw you, Rose. Let me in!” comes Pa’s scratchy voice through the wood, and my stomach turns liquid.
I glance at the basket holding my treasure, then the door.
It rattles again, harder, the wall shaking.
I scramble to the kitchen and grab up a knife, the biggest one I see, then I stand in the middle of the room, between the door and the basket. “Go away! I don’t want you here!”
“Lilly!” he barks. Mamma’s name. “Get that girl under control.”
I slide a chair in front of the door, but I know it won’t do any good. “She’s sleeping, leave her be!”
“I’m gonna cut this door down, woman! Let me in. I’m hungry and tired.”
“Go away,” I say, a sob catching my voice. Why did he have to come back?
There’s a growl and then a sudden crack. The wall near the latch splinters. The door swings open, and slams against the chair, sliding it across the floor.
I lurch back. A scream escapes. I grip the knife tighter.
But he surges into the room, tossing aside his sack, and coming at me with his fist before I can move. The back of his hand meets my cheek with a meaty thud , sending me to the floor, dazed.
I lift the knife, but it’s gone, my hand empty.
Tears cloud my eyes from the blow. I fumble for my weapon, getting it caught in my skirt. I can’t see, I can’t see.
He grips me by the hair and pulls me up from the floor. His blurry face hovers in front of me.
I taste copper. I smell soot. And then he’s not Pa, he’s Hunt. There’s blood—so much blood — smeared across his features, in his hair. He opens his mouth, but his jaw hangs limp, the muscles severed from my ax. I cry out and try to get away, to kick and beat him back, but he holds tight to the roots of my hair and hits me again.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Girl?” he says. But wait, that’s Pa’s voice. “You don’t lock a man outta his home.” He pauses and looks around.
The baby’s content and quiet, all her needs met before she even realizes she has them. She’s snuggled in someone’s arms nearly every moment, warm and at peace.
When I go outside, I tie her to my stomach with a blanket and do my chores. I milk and feed the goat—luckily it eats pretty much anything. I clear the path to the shack now, after a snowfall, uncovering the line of black stones to the withered garden. If spring ever comes again I’ll ask Luke to trade for seeds and bulbs. I’ll plant herbs and potatoes and maybe even flowers. Tulips. Lilies.
I spot a dark shape in the distance, coming from down below. I figure Luke must’ve gone north to hunt, so I wave as he get’s closer, deciding to be cheerful—as cheerful as I can be. I’ll find some more winter onions to put with the rabbit. I’ll talk to him about the garden, my flowers, what colors I’m wanting; he’ll like that.
I miss his smile and know that I’m the reason it’s hiding. I’ve got to try what I can to make it better.
But then I sense something wrong. It’s not Luke coming up the rise. My hand sinks back down to my side and a surge of nausea rolls over me.
I recognize that walk, the shoulders, and the tip of the head.
Pa.
I stumble back, almost falling into the snow. I catch myself on a piece of old fence and freeze. A million emotions and thoughts spring up at once. I start to think of hiding in the trees, then the barn, but as Pa gets closer, all I can see as real safety is the shack.
I turn and run, up the path, through the door. I latch it tight and search frantically for a place to hide the baby—a basket, full of mending in the corner—she squeaks when I put her down, but stays asleep. I cover her in Luke’s old shirt and a few rags.
I’m trying to decide if it’s too much—what if I smother her?—when the door rattles.
“I saw you, Rose. Let me in!” comes Pa’s scratchy voice through the wood, and my stomach turns liquid.
I glance at the basket holding my treasure, then the door.
It rattles again, harder, the wall shaking.
I scramble to the kitchen and grab up a knife, the biggest one I see, then I stand in the middle of the room, between the door and the basket. “Go away! I don’t want you here!”
“Lilly!” he barks. Mamma’s name. “Get that girl under control.”
I slide a chair in front of the door, but I know it won’t do any good. “She’s sleeping, leave her be!”
“I’m gonna cut this door down, woman! Let me in. I’m hungry and tired.”
“Go away,” I say, a sob catching my voice. Why did he have to come back?
There’s a growl and then a sudden crack. The wall near the latch splinters. The door swings open, and slams against the chair, sliding it across the floor.
I lurch back. A scream escapes. I grip the knife tighter.
But he surges into the room, tossing aside his sack, and coming at me with his fist before I can move. The back of his hand meets my cheek with a meaty thud , sending me to the floor, dazed.
I lift the knife, but it’s gone, my hand empty.
Tears cloud my eyes from the blow. I fumble for my weapon, getting it caught in my skirt. I can’t see, I can’t see.
He grips me by the hair and pulls me up from the floor. His blurry face hovers in front of me.
I taste copper. I smell soot. And then he’s not Pa, he’s Hunt. There’s blood—so much blood — smeared across his features, in his hair. He opens his mouth, but his jaw hangs limp, the muscles severed from my ax. I cry out and try to get away, to kick and beat him back, but he holds tight to the roots of my hair and hits me again.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Girl?” he says. But wait, that’s Pa’s voice. “You don’t lock a man outta his home.” He pauses and looks around.
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