Faithfully Yours (The Forever Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter 4

It had been two hours after her descent from the ridge.  Faith pushed the hair back away from her face and stretched her back. Hanging tobacco from the rafters was as difficult as planting it.  Hank had insisted that their farm produce a cash crop.  She peered out of the hayloft and looked to the small garden behind the house.  It was too bad he didn't see the benefit of stocking a root cellar.  She would much rather have fields filled with vegetables that could see them through the winter than acres of tobacco that might possibly sell at a profit. 

Holding her hands to her side, loose, dirty cloths flapped in the breeze.  She raised her arms and inspected the ragged strips.  The soiled, narrow strips she had wrapped her hands with cut deep into the folds of her skin.  She uncurled her grip and pressed her fingers against the tender flesh.  Wincing, she knew her household chores, which were still in need of completing, would only add to her discomfort.

Sweat trickled down her neck and between her breasts.  She lifted her chin and welcomed the feeble breeze that flowed through the barn.  A water bucket sat in the corner of the loft.  She scooped a dipper full of water and drank deeply.  Hank might insist she dress completely covered, but she would be more productive if she could cool herself.  He would be in the fields until noon.  There was no reason she couldn't ease her discomfort, at least in a small amount. 

Unfastening the buttons of her blouse, she pulled the bodice open and tucked the hemmed edges beneath the rest of the fabric.  He could work in the blazing heat if he wanted, but she refused to be cooked alive.  She fanned the blouse and blew across her scorched skin.  Dark purple and red blotches smeared the flushed area.  At least Hank hadn't seen the marks on her breasts.  It would be hard to explain how they had gotten there when she wasn't even certain herself.  She was positive Hank was not responsible for the bites.  He never lingered during their time together, choosing to complete the act with a minimal amount of intimacy. 

Faith dragged a soiled cloth over her face and mopped the sweat from her brow.  The bruises had not surprised the old woman on the ridge.  Her face had actually brightened at the sight of the marks.  Faith was certain she had not mentioned Aidan's name, but the old woman had known it.  Climbing down the ladder from the loft to the main floor of the barn, she would give it more thought while she prepared their meal.  Hank would be angry enough that she had a quarter of a wagonload of tobacco yet to hang.  There was no need to keep him hungry, too.

 She stepped from the building, and turned the corner to the cabin.  Her heart sank to her feet.  Hank's cart stood near the well.  Piled high with tobacco leaves, it was easy to see that the amount of her afternoon chores had increased.  Her shoulders slumped, and she looked to see if he was nearby.  Nothing moved except for an occasional flutter on the cot.  If he had gone to the outhouse before going inside, she might have a chance to get the meal on the table.  Hurrying across the yard, Hank opened the cabin door, and Faith stopped short.  The last time she had been late setting the table, he had thrown all of the food on the floor and forced her to clean it up. 

"It took you long enough to pick up the first load of tobacco this morning," he said.  "How long does it take for you to prepare the mid-day meal?  The table looks the way it did when I left at dawn."

His hand neared her face, and Faith flinched.  Instead of hitting her like she expected him to do, he grabbed her by the collar and yanked her into the house.  Pushing her toward the fireplace, she stumbled forward.  The palms of her hands scraped against the stonework as she broke her fall. 

"How do you expect me to get that crop in if you don't do your part?" he growled at her.  He pulled a chair away from the table and sat down.

Faith kept her head drawn into her shoulders, fearful of when the next blow would strike.  Peering out from over her shoulder, she cut a sideways glance at him, wanting to know how close he sat to where she worked.  As long as he stayed to the far side of the room, she wouldn't have to worry about him reaching for her.  Satisfied that she had enough room to safely prepare their meal, she pulled a log from the firebox, poked the embers with one end, and then laid it on top of the small flames.  The leftovers from breakfast could be served cold, but Hank would insist on hot tea to drink. 

He thumped his hand on the table and shifted his seat.  This was his signal to indicate he needed something.  She didn't look over at him, but moved to the worktable and squeezed her eyes shut.  The faster she could get him fed, the sooner he would go back to the fields.  At least during harvest season, she had time away from him.  She piled three biscuits on top of the leftover bacon and carried it to where he sat.

"Your tea will be ready soon," she said, and reached in front of him for a clean cup.

He glanced up, but his gaze never rose above her open blouse.  His piercing stare, accusing and judgmental, penetrated to her core.  Faith backed away, shivering in self-defense.  Her fingers tingled, and she clutched for the missing fabric at her chest.  Her shaking fingers fumbled with her bodice, yanking at the folded cloth, trying to force her blouse front back together.  His glare intensified, undoing her near success. 

A button must have hooked an inside seam.  Faith's heartbeat quickened.  She twisted to the side, and searched for something to draw his attention away from her blouse.  He shifted with her.  She searched for the fold again.  She had planned to fasten her blouse while walking to the cabin.  Hank's early arrival had centered her mind on the reprimand she would receive for her neglect of household duties.  The doubled fabric unfolded into the open and she frantically felt for a button and matching hole.  At this point, it didn't matter if the button and hole were aligned or not.  She would readjust herself later.

Hank's grimy hand reached up and grabbed her wrist, halting her efforts.  The smell of weeds and soil filled her nose.  She didn't dare breath and keep his attention focused on her chest.  His dirty nails bit deeper into her skin, and his eyes widened.  Every vein in the white, egg-like circles expanded to near eruption.  Faith could feel the heat radiate off of his body.  The legs of the wooden chair he used screeched against the floor, and he bolted upright on his feet. 

"The tea can wait," he snapped.  He twisted her arm upward, pulling her close. 

Standing on tiptoe, she moved forward, trying to lessen the pain.  From the pressure he used, he would pull her elbow free of the joint with a slight jerk of his arm. 

His eyes flicked up to her face and then back down to her chest.  Without saying a word, he ripped open her blouse.  Faith turned away, not wanting to look at him.

"Hank, please," she whispered.  Screaming would only incite his anger further.  Tears trickled from the corner of her eye.  "You're hurting me." 

He rubbed the pad of his thumb over a mark on her breast.  "I'm hurting you?" he roared.  His hand left her chest and moved to her neck, fitting tightly around her throat.  She closed her eyes, convinced she would die without knowing the reason for her death.  "It would appear as though you have been injured," he sneered.  He gripped her chin, and pushed her face to the side, "But not by me.  Is this why you were so late getting to the fields?"

He shoved her away from him.  Her lower back struck the corner of the worktable, arching her backward.

"Who is he?" Hank roared, and slid the chair to the far side of the room.  The seat slammed into the wall and collapsed to the floor in a pile of useless rubble.  Spindles and slates scattered around the fireplace.

Shaking and grasping for breath, Faith pushed herself upright.  She shook her head, denying his accusations.  "There is no one."

He stormed to a spot in front of her and leaned forward.  She bowed backward, trying to maintain as much distance as she could.  Her arms bent to steady herself.  She searched the surface of the counter, hoping the knife she had sliced bacon with this morning was still within reach. 

"There's only one way to get marks like that," he shouted. 

Staring up at him, she was grateful he was unarmed.  Broad shouldered and barrel-chested, his body was menacing enough to confront.  She lifted her shoulders and tried to convince him of the truth.  "We were out of butter.  Mabel gave half as much milk as usual.  I went to the ridge to work a trade."

"I see what you bartered with, but I see no butter."

He stepped closer, and his stomach pressed against hers, pinning her in place.  The smell of tobacco and dirt filled her nose.  Faith's body shook uncontrollably, and her feet no longer touched the floor.  Fearful that she may be experiencing her last few breaths, she strained to distance herself from him. 

She pushed against him with one hand.  "No.  That isn't what happened.  I went to the old woman on the ridge.  She is the one I sought to trade with."

He glanced to his side, and then back at her.  "I still see no milk or butter."

Faith cringed, fearful of how he would respond to her answer.  "The woman on the hill, her cow was gone."

"Liar," he bellowed, and pushed her flat onto the worktable.  He caught both of her upper arms in his hands and pinned her in place.  "I saw her move the Guernsey to a different field this morning."  His grip tightened as though he tried to remove a stubborn sapling.  He shook her shoulders, his breath stale and sharp.  "You met with him.  Didn't you?  Tell me.  Who is he?"  Her head rocked back and forth. 

"No.  I didn't.  Believe me."  It was difficult to sound convincing when all she wanted to do was return to Aidan, even if only in a dream. 

"I met with the old woman.  Ask her." 

The back of her head slammed against the walnut top.  A sharp pain ripped its way from the base of her head to the bridge of her nose.  Her vision blurred.  The image of two Hanks hovered over her.  Which one would be the one to finally kill her?

"Please.  Stop.  Stop," she begged.  "I fell when I came back from the ridge.  I'm bruised from my fall."

Unsure if he believed her or not, he shoved her away from him, and then backed away.  He stared over at her as though he considered her response.  Not giving his verdict, he grabbed a biscuit from the table, and stormed to the front door.  "There had better be no one else, Faith.  You are my wife, do you hear?  Until death, you will have no one else."  He stormed from the house, slamming the door behind him.

Physically shaking, Faith slumped to the floor.  She clutched the fabric of her blouse.  Her hands shook as she tied the ribbons together.  The loose bow would not hold together for long.  Not sure that her lie had been believable; at least it had kept Hank from ending her life.  She looked to the plate of biscuits on the table.  He knew that the old woman had moved the cow?  What reason would he have for knowing this?  The tobacco fields were a mile away from the hill, and the woman's house wasn't visible from the valley. 

Faith inhaled a shaky breath, and pushed herself to her feet.  She stumbled to the window and peered out.  Outside, Hank stomped back and forth from the cart to the barn, carrying armload after armload of tobacco from view.  Faith narrowed her eyes in his direction, and stiffened her back.  Her hands curled into tight fists.  She promised herself that if he ever laid his hands on her like that again, he had better end her life.  She picked up a paring knife and tucked it into her pocket.  The rest of the tobacco could wait until later.  She had a more urgent matter to attend to.

Chapter 5

Faith glanced toward the barn as she headed away from her afternoon chores.  She would finish cleaning when she returned from her errand.  With any luck, Hank wouldn't inspect her work before turning in for the night.  He had nearly killed her a few minutes ago.  She needn't give him a reason to finish what he started.

Leaves crunched under her feet, and an earthy smell of dirt and wood smoke mingled in the cool air.  She didn't have to worry about her eyes turning red or watering profusely during this time of year, the way she did in the spring.  After a dreary and confining winter, the burst of color was beautiful to see from her window, but the fragrant aromas rendered her useless to enjoy the vibrant display of the new season. 

She sniffed the air, curious to see if she could detect spice and sweetness peppering the autumn aromas.  Grace, her youngest sister, had a penchant for pastries and would use whatever fruit was available to fill the home she shared with her sisters with tasty treats.  Pumpkins wouldn't be ripe for another month.  For now, she most likely baked a variety of carrot breads.  Maybe she would have an extra loaf that she wouldn't mind sharing.

Faith neared the lower pasture on her left.  The old woman's cow grazed near the bottom of the hillside where the clover was thick and abundant.  Hope stood on the outside of the rail fence, holding her arm toward the animal, a bunch of straw clutched in her grasp.

Hank had been correct in his knowledge of where the bovine was located, but why had it been important to him to come to this side of the property?  The house her sisters resided in was a rebuilt version of their childhood home, and located a mile away from the tobacco fields.