Page 68 of The Perfect Hosts

“You’re right,” Madeline says. “She’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“You’re too nice for your own good,” Wes says.

“What did you and the agent talk about on your ride?” Madeline asks. “Is there anything new in the case?”

Wes gets to his feet so quickly that Madeline is nearly bounced from the edge of the bed to the floor. “Wes!” Madeline exclaims. “Be careful!” She immediately regrets the outburst. She didn’t mean to speak so loudly.

“Shhh,” he says, grabbing her arm and placing his face so close to hers she can smell the bourbon on his breath. He looks at her with such hate that Madeline feels as if she might combust beneath his stare. “Lucy and that damn girl you brought into the house will hear.”

“I’m sorry,” Madeline says quickly, trying to ease from his grasp, but this only makes him squeeze more tightly.

“You want me to tell you what’s going on, Madeline?” Wes asks mockingly. “Well, sometimes it’s none of your fucking business,” he says, his voice rising until the final word is a shout.

“You’re right,” Madeline says as calmly as possible. She knows by now that nine out of ten times, the key to de-escalation is to agree with Wes. “I’m sorry.”

With his free hand he grabs her by the face, his fingers pressing into her cheeks, the pain like a white-hot poker.“That’s what you always say,” he says with disgust. “Can’t you ever just shut up? Can’t you ever just leave me alone?” Madeline fights the urge to claw at his hand—it will only make him angrier. “Do you have any idea what I’m going through?” he asks. “My brother nearly died, I’ve got Sully Preston talking crap about us, buyers are backing out of horse sales, and now I have to fucking deal with you too?”

Madeline is trying to follow his words, but panic is settling in. “The baby,” she manages to squeak out. “Wes, please, you’ll hurt the baby.”

He drops his hand, but his anger is still palpable.

“The baby,” he says mockingly. “I’m so fucking sick of you saying that. Yes, Madeline, we all know you’re pregnant. We all know you have to be the center of attention.”

“Wes,” Madeline says, “I don’t. I don’t meant to—”

“I can’t wait until you have her. Jesus, maybe you’ll start acting like yourself again.” He looks her up and down, revulsion on his face. “Or at least maybe you’ll go back to looking like yourself.”

Madeline goes very still. He’s waiting for a reaction. He loves it when she fights back, speaks her mind. It gives him an excuse to put her in her place. She won’t give it to him; she refuses. Not this time.

He glowers down at her, and she can still feel the spots on her cheeks where he grabbed her face. From experience, she knows that the bruises are already blossoming. She stares back at him, hoping he sees what he’s done.

“I’m sorry. Oh God, Madeline,” he says, his eyes beginning to clear. “I’m so sorry.” He lowers himself to his knees and drops his head into her lap.

They stay that way for a while, Wes apologizing, his tears dampening her shirt, Madeline trying to sit as still as possible, not wanting to give him another reason to lash out again.When he finally gets to his feet, he can’t even look at her. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’ll be better. I promise.”

“It’s okay,” she soothes, knowing that’s what he wants to hear. “I know how stressful it’s been.”

He nods. “I need to get some fresh air. Maybe go for a drive.” Then he’s out the door. Gone. Madeline knows not to expect him back tonight. He’ll go drive into the mountains or crash in one of the bunkhouses, but he will leave her alone, at least for now.

She waits until she hears the slam of the door before she dares to move. She rubs her elbow, bends and extends it a few times. It’s not broken, but angry, plum-colored bruises already dot her skin. She imagines her face is bruised too. That will be difficult to explain to others. He’s usually so much more conscientious about where he leaves his marks.

For the first six months of her pregnancy things were peaceful. Madeline believed Wes had changed, that the fact that they were going to have a baby had smoothed and soothed the angry, jagged edges of her husband.

And for a long while he held it together, kept his composure. Not that Wes ever truly lost control. No, that was the whole point of the carefully placed smacks, pinches, and slaps, wasn’t it? To keep Madeline in her place without the world discovering that their golden boy has a mean streak.Mean streakis an understatement, as Madeline knows she tends to do, but it’s so much easier, less embarrassing, and less exhausting to face than the man she married is a monster. The fact that they live on a horse ranch is the perfect cover for the bumps and bruises and broken bones that Madeline has endured over the course of their ten-year marriage. Though a world-class equestrian, she gladly blames clumsiness or a particularly spirited horse for her injuries.

But a month ago, when she insisted that she go home forher stepfather’s funeral, the old Wes reared his ugly head. In the end, Madeline held her ground. She went home to say goodbye to the man who raised her. She just brought along a black-and-blue torso, a wrenched shoulder, and a ring of bruises around her throat. She wore turtlenecks the entire week she was home.

Madeline wipes the remaining tears from her face and gets to her feet and stares out the window at the mountains. When did she become so weak? Look at her—a smart, champion equestrian, letting herself get knocked around by a man. Her mother would be so sad, and her stepfather would be furious. But deep down Madeline knows spousal abuse has little to do with the victim’s strength, smarts, or anything else for that matter. She knows that Wes is masterful at getting people to do what he wants them to, to think that his temper tantrums are their fault.

Many times Madeline thought about leaving. Just walking away. She has some money tucked away, left to her by her stepfather, but she knows it won’t be enough to keep her hidden from her husband, who has endless resources.

New tears gather in her eyes, and she angrily swipes them away. She has to hold it together. Her eyes land on the top shelf and the box where Wes keeps his revolver. He’ll come after her, she knows it, and how will Madeline protect the baby and herself? She drags the chair sitting in front of her vanity mirror to beneath the shelf and carefully climbs onto it. Her legs wobble beneath her, and she grabs the closet bar to steady herself, knocking a few of Wes’s shirts to the floor.

Slow down, Madeline tells herself. Take your time. She reaches above her head for the wooden box and pulls it down, her elbow protesting with the motion. She eases herself down from the chair and, even without opening it, knows the box feels too light. Wes has taken the gun. Why? For protection? He has several more in his gun safe that would serve that purpose just as well. This particular gun holds sentimental value. It belonged to his father and grandfather before him. Madeline knew this day would come but hadn’t thought this would be the day. She doesn’t bother returning the box to the shelf and instead shoves it beneath the bed.

Johanna was the first one to see what was happening between Madeline and Wes behind closed doors. They had been friends for nearly three years when they were out riding horses and Johanna had broached the topic that nearly ended their friendship.“I know what Wes has been doing to you, Madeline. You don’t deserve that. No one does.”Madeline had denied it, of course, but Johanna was persistent in her kind way. Madeline thought she had been so careful, hiding the bruises, but it wasn’t long before she was telling Johanna everything: the fights, the slaps, the kicks, the punches, the gaslighting.

Leave, Johanna had urged, but Madeline made all the usual excuses:It’s not so bad. He’s always sorry. I shouldn’t have... But there was one thing that Johanna insisted upon—the photographs. So one morning, after a particularly rough argument with Wes, Madeline had driven to Johanna’s and posed for the most heartbreaking photo shoot she could have imagined. Those were the pictures that Lucy had found in their secret hiding place, and Madeline could feel the disdain, the disgust, that must have rolled off her sister as she held them in her fist.Really, Madeline?she would have said.Really? This is what you’ve become?