Page 1 of Wrangled
Chapter One
Then
Idon’t remember my mother. Not the way she smiled, nor the way she smelled. I don’t remember if she was sweet and kind or vapid and vain. I don’t know if she loved me or loathed me for trapping her in this life.
All I know is she left the first chance she got, leaving me behind with a man who hated me with fiery passion.
I wonder if she hated me, too. I suppose she had to, at least a little, to leave me with him in the first place, knowing what kind of man he is. Perhaps she ran for her own survival. When it came down to it, she chose her life over mine. I guess I’ll never know.
I clean the blood from my face and stare at my hollowed-out reflection. It’s almost impossible to imagine what kind of woman I’ll turn out to be when the blood that flows through my veins came from cruelty and cowards.
“Calliope!” I freeze as my father roars my name. I thought he’d left to walk the fence line.
I swallow my fear. If I make him wait, it will only make things worse. I dry my hands, ignoring the blood now as I head out of the restroom and down the stairs where his shout came from. I find him in the kitchen, laughing with the sheriff, sipping coffee from the mug he threw at me barely fifteen minutes ago for making it too hot.
The sheriff looks up as I enter, his eyes scanning my face before they move down to my blood-splattered dress, a result of the beating I took as punishment for the coffee incident. “Calliope. I see you’ve been in the wars again. You really should leave ranching to the menfolk. Delicate women like you shouldn’t be putting themselves in dangerous situations.”
I picture smashing the glass coffee pot into his face. My blood stirs at the imagined sight of a shard of glass sticking out of his eye as his blood coats my hand, a happy smile on my face.
“Calliope. Snap out of it, girl,” my father growls. He must have already said my name.
I turn my head slowly to look at him. At six four, and two hundred and fifty pounds, my father is a big man with fists the size of dinner plates—ones he knows how to use. Because of men like the sheriff here, he gets away with his abuse. I’m not the only one he scares.
I take in his dark hair and handsome face that hoodwinks many a woman—the ones who miss his cold, evil eyes at least. I swallow the urge to grab his rifle from the study and shoot him in the face until there is nothing but a pulpy mess left.
“Yes, Father.”
“All beauty, no brains. Just like her god-forsaken mother. I swear women are only good for two things, baking and breeding,” he tells the sheriff, who laughs obnoxiously. “Thesheriff is here because some nosy busybody called him about a noise disturbance.”
Somehow, I doubt that. We have no neighbors for miles around.
“I told him you fell down the stairs again. I really need to get Dale to take a look at them.”
Ah yes, Dale, my father’s right-hand man and ranch handyman. I know the drill. I nod. “Yes, Sheriff, I fell. I’m just a female, after all. We are all dumb and clumsy.” I recite the words he’s waiting for so I can absolve his guilt about not arresting my father, the piece of shit he is. I try to keep the bite out of my words, but my father’s fists tighten at his side. I wasn’t as successful as I’d hoped.
“I just remembered, Jackie asked me for another batch of face cream. I have it ready for her if you’d like me to collect it. Or I could drop it off later.”
The sheriff’s eyes widen briefly. Jackie will mention my face to him if she sees it. She might not be able to get me out of here, but she’s more than happy to remind her husband of the many ways he’s failing me in his role as sheriff. “That won’t be necessary. I can wait if you want to fetch it.”
I nod politely, ignoring my father completely. I’ll likely pay for that later, but right now, I don’t care. I’m barely able to keep the anger buried beneath my fake smile. If I’m not careful, the door holding it all back will rip from its hinges and then…Well, I don’t know. I just know it won’t be pretty.
The lights flicker as I walk out. I trail my fingers along the wall, feeling the house’s sadness—no, it’s impotence—at not being able to help me. That sounds ridiculous, I know. After the first time I mentioned feeling my house's energy and emotions to a couple of my classmates, I soon realized it wasn’t normal. And it was just one of the many instances that made me standout rather than blend in. By the time I made it to the fifth grade, I’d already become a pariah and labeled a freak.
I pretended it didn’t bother me, but it did. I wondered if the loneliness would kill me before my father could. It was more than just the other kids, though. Adults treated me like I had something contagious, yanking their children away from me when I passed them on the street, cursing my name under their breath, and calling me a witch while crossing themselves. I didn’t know what I’d done to earn their fear and hatred, but the more I tried to put them at ease, the worse it became.
I stomp into the small barn just out the back of the ranch and slam the door. I take a deep breath, wincing when my ribs pull. Thankfully, they’re not broken this time, but the bruising still hurts like a son of a bitch.
This barn might be tiny and in need of some serious repairs, but it is all mine, which made it my favorite place. Even my father rarely came out here. Something about this space intimidated him. If it weren’t for the money I made from selling the products I concocted here, I’m sure he’d have burned it to the ground years ago.
It baffled me how popular my items were, given how hated I was. Maybe my father had a hand in it. I don’t know, but I was thankful for the small blessing. Not only did I get to do something I truly loved, but it gave me a chance to squirrel away a little money. It wasn’t much—my father would notice otherwise—but it was something.
I graze my fingers over the potions and poultices before finding the one I’m after. I take a little tag and write Jackie’s name on it before tying it to the jar with a strip of red ribbon. I hold it to my chest and close my eyes, picturing Jackie—her wide smile, silver-threaded blonde hair, and pale blue eyes beginning to show signs of age. I wished her well. All things considered, she was better than most, and I hoped my lotion helped. Somepeople grew old gracefully, and some people did it kicking and screaming. Jackie was the latter, but I wonder if it had less to do with how she looked in the mirror and more to do with her husband’s wandering eye. With a shake of my head, I imagine the vivacious woman she must have been when she met him, and then picture the sheriff growing old, his looks fading as worry makes him aware of his beautiful wife turning heads wherever they go. It would serve him right.
I carry the jar back into the house. I can hear the quiet murmur of their voices as I approach. I slow my steps so I can listen in, then freeze when I hear my name mentioned.
“Calliope is only sixteen,” the sheriff says.
“So? I only need to give my consent. She won’t fight me on it. She’ll do what’s right for this family.”
