Page 59 of Head Room

Gregson’s claim on her had been less clear.

Dick Gregson, swallowing from another of those flat bottles, said Maggie had to marry him and tend his house and his girls because she’d been eating his food all those years.

She’d spoken up then, said she’d earned that food by working for it.He’d said he’d show her what she earned, and cracked her across the mouth.He’d fed her before she was worth anything working, he’d said as he leaned over to hit her again, and now she owed him.

She remembered the taste of blood.And the smell on his breath from the flat bottle.

She owed this tall man, too.He’d given horses for her.He could do with her what he wanted.So why was he asking?Was this a trick?

“Ransom...”The tense voice was the young Peter.He sounded as if he wanted to cry.“Ransom, don’t do this.”

The tall one ignored him.

“I won’t ever hurt you, Maggie.”

There was that soft voice, again, trying to lure her out, make her risk the believing of promises.

“Will you marry me?”

Asking again.What was she supposed to do?It was like those first days with the tribe.Not knowing what step would be wrong, but knowing that doing nothing would be sure to earn a blow.Better to try, then store each morsel of knowledge, never to make the same mistake twice.

The tall one wanted her to answer a question she had no say in, so she would give an answer, and hope it was the right one.

She didn’t look up, she didn’t speak.But she raised her head slightly, then dropped it.

“The lady said yes,” the tall one said, his voice sounding strange, sadder now.

No blow fell, and she knew she should be grateful.But there was room for only one thought: Ransom.That’s what Peter had called him.The tall one’s name was Ransom.

And now I belong to him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

On the wayto the Haber House Hotel for lunch, I placed a call to an author I know.

I met Kit the year before I moved to Wyoming.

She and her great-niece lived in Manhattan, as did I at the time.But we met at a London hotel and had an adventure there together.

I’d been sent to London on an assignment and added time to enjoy the city.

In retrospect, adding those days probably also reflected an unconscious decision to be away from my then-husband.My encounter with Kit and her great-niece, as well as the time away contributed to my recognition that divorce was the only future Wes and I had.

Kit called her great-niece Sheila.Perhaps to shield her, because that great-niece’s name is one you’d probably recognize, especially if you’re a reader.She is the author ofAbandon All, which I know you’ll have heard of from either the book or the movie.Though its fame has become an ever-decreasing presence.

For various reasons, I hit it off better with Kit than Sheila, though we were much closer in age and by the end far more in sync than at the beginning.

Still, Kit was the one I’d stayed in sporadic touch with for the next several months, even as she decided to retire to North Carolina’s Outer Banks and Sheila went off on her own...somewhere.

Kit hadn’t been forthcoming and I hadn’t pushed.Or, perhaps I hadn’t paid close enough attention.

Over a period of several months, my marriage, career, and professional family disintegrated.

Saying I failed to keep up the communication with Kit would be letting myself way, way off the hook.I cut it off by not responding.

To give her the choice now to say no thanks, I planned to go through the public channel of her publisher’s marketing department.But when I looked at her web site, I saw she was publishing her own books.That made total sense.I’ve never met anyone more suited to independence of all kinds.

I still had her North Carolina contact information.