His Brother's Wife Page 8

  “Oh, before you go. Whereabouts did you bury my baby?”

  “Wilbur said he wanted to do it. What could I say, it was his child. I told him about the nice spot I found under a large pine tree.”

  “Thank you.” She was beginning to feel stronger, but not for outside work. The washing had built up, so she decided to boil the copper. Even if she hung it out tomorrow, at least it would be clean.

  After tidying the kitchen, she shuffled to the wash house, part of the porch that had been closed in. It contained a tin bath, the copper and a large concrete trough. She should have asked Will to fill the copper with water before he left. How grand he looked, sitting so tall and straight in the saddle as he rode past.

  She glanced over at the barn where McIntyre sawed timber to shore up his mineshaft. She hated having to ask him for help. Chances were he wouldn’t give it, but some of the clothes needing washing were his.

  The sky was blue, the spring sun shone, but it gave out little warmth as she traipsed down to the barn. The black dog barked and came up to the end of his cage, but she had to pretend indifference. It used to sicken her having to listen to the poor animal’s terrified howls of pain when McIntyre beat him with a length of chain. She wanted to let him loose, or tell Will about the ill-treatment, but was too frightened. All she could do was treat the poor creature kindly when they were alone.

  “Husband, could you help me fill up the copper with water?”

  He glanced up from his sawing, his eyes narrowing with contempt. “No, you’re quite capable of doing it yourself, and keep away from that bitch, or I’ll give you a taste of what I give her.”

  “I’m still not well.”

  He muttered a curse. “You like playing the invalid,” he sneered. “My gullible brother might fall for your little ploy, but not me. I’m in a hurry, I want to get this timber over to the mine.”

  “What about the baby?”

  “What about it?”

  “Will said you buried him.”

  “Did he?” His cold eyes suddenly gleamed, and she trembled. “I might have.” How he enjoyed playing his cruel games. Like a cat toying with a cornered mouse.

  “Where?” she screamed.

  “That’s my business, and don’t you dare raise your voice to me.”

  She launched herself at him, punching and pummeling his chest.

  He grabbed hold of her hair and dragged her by the plait toward the barn, and rammed her face into one of the wooden poles holding up the roof.

  She saw stars.

  “I fed it to the dog.” He slammed her face into the pole for a second time, and she collapsed onto the ground.

  Maddened with grief and rage for what he had done, she struggled to her feet, ready to fight him.

  He grabbed her hair again and dragged her toward another pole, which had a long nail protruding from it. If he rammed her head into that, she would be dead.

  She grabbed a piece of wood and hit him as hard as she could. He sank to the ground.

  “I’ll break your neck.” Through a bloodied mist she watched him struggle to get up. He grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her over next to him. “I’ll kill you, you ugly slut,” he roared.

  Screaming, she tried to crawl away, but he held her fast.

  “I’ll saw your head off.” The teeth of the saw hovered a few inches from her throat. Desperate to live, she twisted and turned. Everything she saw was through a bloodied veil. It was fight him or die.

  Something glinted in the sunlight. The axe. She grabbed it, desperation giving her the strength to pick it up and swing it at him. The blow connected with the side of his head. He let out a bellow, blood spurted everywhere, but his grip tightened.

  She swung the axe a second time, and he loosened his hold and fell back onto the ground. A sudden ear piecing snarl rent the air, and the dog jumped on top of him. Screaming hysterically, she struggled to her feet and when she saw what the dog was doing, she collapsed onto the ground again and lay there, powerless to do anything but watch the animal savage the face of the man who had mistreated her. Blood spilled out everywhere, soaking the ground.

  The dog sent up several blood-curdling howls.

  Mattie crawled inside the barn, in case the dog decided to attack her. Leaning up against a post, she sobbed with pain and fright. Her head throbbed, her eyes stung, while her shoulder burned.

  She wanted to get up but couldn’t. A foggy curtain came down over her eyes. She was falling into a deep hole that would swallow her. The last thing she remembered was the frenzied growling and barking of dogs.

  ***

  Will rode toward the house. He had tracked the dogs to their lair. He hid behind a huge bolder for a time, but they didn’t return. Morning and night were the best times to catch them.

  He didn’t like leaving Mattie on her own for too long. Regardless of what Wilbur said, she wasn’t fit to work, not outside anyway. He didn’t trust his brother not to bully her into doing what he wanted.

  He couldn’t really explain why Mattie had got under his skin. So little and defenseless against a hulking man like Wilbur, it had raised his protective instincts.

  He rode past the barn on his way to the house, and several dogs flashed past him, each carrying bloody chunks of meat in their mouths. Surely these weren’t the feral dogs he had been searching for?

  He dismounted and strode to the barn. Vomit spewed out of his mouth when he saw a bloodied piece of wood and an axe. One of the posts holding up the barn roof dripped blood.

  Poor little Mattie was covered in blood. He stepped over to her and she groaned. Thank goodness she was alive.

  A nasty gash on her forehead oozed blood. Her nose and cheeks were swollen and already starting to bruise. What the hell had happened? She had been savagely beaten that much was obvious. He knelt down beside her.

  “Mattie, Mattie.” Her eyes slowly opened. Terror gave way to puzzlement.

  “Will?” His name came out in a tortured whisper. “I…I killed him. Hit him with the axe, but he wouldn’t stop. The dogs came in and attacked him as well. They must have smelt the blood. Let me die. I’m a murderer.”

  He quickly checked for broken bones, none, except for maybe her nose. Her sleeves were rolled up and he saw red fingerprints on her wrist. She screamed when he picked her up. He couldn’t be sure whether it was from pain, fear or hysterics.

  She was a lightweight. It took no effort to carry her the couple of hundred yards to the cabin.

  Where was Wilbur? A shocking, sickening thought slammed into him, and as he recoiled in horror, he almost tripped over. Those feral dogs he had seen dashing past had pieces of Wilbur in their mouths. Vomit spewed out of his mouth and he let it. “Tend to the living and worry about the dead later,” he muttered, almost buckling at the knees.

  He carried Mattie into the parlor and gently placed her on the couch. She was too dirty and bloodied to put on the bed.

  “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

  “Only for a moment. I need to get warm water and a towel to clean you up and tend your wounds.”

  He hurried off. The water in the kettle was still warm. He found a dish and returned to the parlor. After placing it on the floor he dashed into the main bedroom and grabbed a towel off the dresser.

  When he knelt down beside her, she gazed at him with tortured, tear filled eyes. “I murdered my husband. I’m wicked and should be punished. I’m glad he’s dead, though. He can’t hurt me anymore.”

  Her hair was matted with blood. He gently cleaned it up, likewise her face and neck. Saw marks marred the skin of her throat. Her blouse was saturated with blood from her wounds. Ignoring her weak protest, he eased it off her shoulders revealing a plain camisole. Her breasts were clearly outlined under the worn, paper thin material. He sucked in a noisy breath.

  The water in the dish had turned red by the time he finished cleaning her wound. Her wrist was swollen with bruising already starting to appear. He didn’t think it was broken, but by the way she s
creamed when he moved it, it was certainly badly sprained.

  “Stay there,” he said, after patting her skin dry with the towel. “I’ll get rid of this and make you some tea.”

  “What about him. The body?”

  He didn’t know whether to lie or not, then decided to tell the truth, brutal though it was. “I think the dogs ate him. They flashed past me when I was riding in. They had hunks of flesh in their mouths.”

  “I killed my husband, then let the dogs eat him,” she screamed. “They’ll put me in prison. Hang me.”

  “No, they won’t. By the look of you, it was self-defense, and you couldn’t have fought off those dogs.”

  He was trying to ram my face into the post with the long nail poking out. I hit him with the wood. It didn’t stop him. He was going to cut my head off with the saw. I grabbed the axe and hit him once. He wouldn’t stop, so I hit him again, then the dog rushed up and I don’t remember anything else.”

  “Rest. I’ll be back soon.” He left the parlor. The more she spoke the more horrible the situation became. Would the law be merciful to her? Continual abuse by Wilbur, defending herself when he finally tried to kill her. What rights did women have here? A woman was her husband’s property, to do with as he wished. Wilbur had taken great delight in telling him this. He could beat her as often and as severely as he wished and the law would do nothing. Only if he killed her would they step in. Had the dogs finished him off, or was he already dead when they started their grisly work? The truth would never be known.

  He emptied the bloody water outside, took the towel and dumped it in the laundry trough. Returning inside, he threw a couple of logs on the stove, filled the kettle and put it on to boil.

  He looked in on Mattie. She lay on the couch, her eyes closed; so little and defenseless, pity surged through him. What was to become of her?

  He strode into his bedroom and took a blanket off the bed. Bad and all as Wilbur was, he couldn’t not try to find his remains. Couldn’t leave him lying out in the open somewhere to putrefy in the sun.

  He dragged one foot after the other, his legs feeling as if they were weighted down with lead. This was one of the worst things he had ever had to do.

  Arriving at the barn, he glanced around. Pieces of bloodied flesh, bones and clothing met his horrified gaze. He collected the bloodied piece of wood, saw and the axe, and took them into the barn, found a sack and gathered up what was left of his brother.

  Mattie’s blood and strands of her hair were caught on the wooden wall. A six inch nail protruded from one of the posts. With his strength, had Wilbur driven her head into it, she would have been dead.

  What could they do? If he rode into town to report the incident, his own identity would be revealed. Worse still, Mattie might be taken to prison. He pondered this as he rode across the paddocks searching for Wilbur’s remains. There were none. By the time he returned to the cabin, his head ached so badly he could barely see straight.

  What if he waited until Mattie recovered, then be on his way. She could tell the authorities that her husband had ridden off and not returned. It was the best idea he could come up with. Tend to the living. Worry about the dead later.

  His stomach curdled with distaste, and….was it fear? Fear for himself and Mattie. Back in the kitchen, he washed his hands, scrubbing off the blood, then he made the tea. What he wouldn’t give for a whisky, or at least a cup of hot, strong coffee.

  He took the two mugs of tea into the parlor. Mattie’s eyes were closed. He didn’t know whether she was asleep or not.

  “Mattie,” he called softly. Her eyes flickered open, well one of them did, the other was swollen shut. Her face was so bruised and puffy she was barely recognizable.

  “I’ve brought you a mug of tea. Here, I’ll help you sit up.”

  Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, her blouse still hung open, her breasts straining slightly against the cloth of her camisole. He shifted his gaze to a point half way up the wall.

  “Thank you.” She cried out with pain when he inadvertently knocked her injured wrist. He would have to bind it, but it was more important to get the tea into her. Purposely he had put several teaspoons of sugar in it.

  Whimpering with the effort, she slowly sat up. He grabbed a couple of threadbare cushions off the armchairs and packed them behind her back.

  She nodded her thanks. Her hands shook so much she had trouble holding the mug.

  “Drink it. I put plenty of milk in it, so it won’t be hot.” He steadied the mug.

  “Thank you. Did you…”

  “Don’t worry about it now. I think you should go to bed for a while. Apart from your injuries, you’re sure to be suffering shock, not to mention, you haven’t fully recovered from the miscarriage.”

  “He didn’t bury the baby. I think he fed him to the dog.”

  “What!” Will spluttered into his mug. “Surely even Wilbur wouldn’t do such a fiendish thing.”

  “He as good as said he did. What kind of beast was he?” She started sobbing. “I’m glad he’s dead, glad do you hear. I hope he rots in hell.”

  “Shh, don’t upset yourself you need to rest.” He placed their mugs on the floor and wrapped his arms around her, letting her weep into his chest.

  “Oh, Mattie, Mattie, you’ve been to hell and back again.” He rocked her gently. “After you’ve rested, we’ll work out what to do. All right?”

  With his help she rose from the couch and hobbled into the bedroom. He pulled the covers back. “Um.” He cleared his throat. “Do you need help to get into your nightgown?”

  “No, thank you. I can manage that.”

  She sounded so sad and defeated, beaten and afraid, it nearly broke his heart. He walked out of the room, wishing he had never set foot on Wilbur’s Godforsaken farm. Every instinct for self-preservation urged him to ride away from her and not look back. Common decency decreed he at least stay until she had recovered. What was he to do? He cursed the hand fate had dealt him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mattie managed to struggle out of her clothes and slip on the shift she always wore to bed. After checking her face in the mirror, and that the heavy bleeding from the miscarriage had not returned, she staggered over to the bed and collapsed on it.

  Every bone in her body ached. Her heart was shattered. She didn’t even have anywhere to go to pay homage to her baby. He might not have taken even one breath, was born weeks too early, but she mourned him. Her womb would remain empty now. She would never let another man violate and degrade her body like McIntyre had.

  What kind of husband would Will have been? Nothing like his cruel brother that was certain. He would have treated his wife with kindness and respect, but the male urges turned men into animals, even nice ones like him. No, she would never let a man invade her body again.

  When Mattie woke, the house brooded silently. For a moment she wondered why she was in bed when it was still daylight. Then the horrific scene flashed before her eyes. McIntyre trying to kill her. His body on the ground with the dog savaging his face. She stifled screams by shoving some of the sheet into her mouth.

  Calm yourself. You have to think what to do. Not only your life but Will’s would be affected, too.

  What could they do? If Will rode into town to report the death, the authorities would discover who he was. Maybe if she rode into town and reported what happened, he would have time to get away.

  Would the authorities be merciful, once she told them what McIntyre had done? The preacher encouraged him to beat her. If the authorities thought the same way, they wouldn’t care that she was fighting for survival. Not that she was sorry he was dead, because she wasn’t. She didn’t want to think about what the dogs might have done to his body or she would vomit.

  What if they hid McIntyre’s death? Will could bury any body parts and no-one would know what happened to him. Will couldn’t stay here, of course, unless…

  Blood surged through her veins, her head almost exploded with the pressure.
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  Will could pretend to be McIntyre. Who would know? The brothers were like two peas in a pod. Will did have a slight American twang for some words, but McIntyre had been a man of few words. If she said Will was her lawfully wedded husband. Who could dispute it?

  No-one had seen him come to the farm. Few, if any people in town would remember that McIntyre had a brother, even fewer would know they were identical twins.

  Would he be prepared to assume his brother’s identity? To the American’s, William McIntyre would have vanished from the face of the earth.

  She tried to get up, but felt too weak and sore. Silence reigned over the house. It was peaceful. No sense of fear. No McIntyre with his madness permeating every corner of the place.

  She let her mind drift to Grandpa. How horrified he would be if he had known what his decision had sentenced her to. A life of servitude and cruelty with a madman.

  “Rest in peace, Grandpa,” she whispered. “I can see a light at the end of the tunnel now. The chance of a happy life even if Will won’t agree to my desperate plan.”

  “Are you awake?” Will’s voice interrupted her musing; she opened her right eye, the left one was so bruised and swollen it remained shut.

  “Yes.” Slowly, carefully, she levered herself up on the pillows.

  “How do you feel?” He stood in the doorway, looking pale and haggard.

  “Terrible. I don’t think there’s a bone in my body that isn’t hurting. What’s wrong? You look awful.”

  I feel it. Wilbur was evil, Mattie, but he was still my brother.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “I couldn’t find his body. Those feral dogs must have dragged away his remains.”

  He let out a long anguished groan. “I followed their trail for a while, and found a few bones and bits of clothing. And.” He opened his hand and Mattie saw McIntyre’s bloodied belt buckle.

  “Oh, Will. What are we going to do?” She shuddered with revulsion and pain seared her body. “Bad and all as McIntyre was, he didn’t deserve that kind of fate.”

  “No, he didn’t. I’ll stay here with you until you’re fully recovered, then you can ride into town and report him missing. The authorities might instigate a search, but I doubt they will find anything.”