Amelia
Amelia sat on the edge of her new bed, wearing a tatty nightgown and brushing her hair absently, thick locks draped over her left shoulder. The sun had long since set, and Brent still hadn't returned from his tour of the ranch. When Melissa had come to bid her goodnight, she'd asked if she should worry.
"Oh no," her new friend had laughed, smiling brightly, her cheeks red from fresh scrubbing, hair braided for the night. "The ranch hands always have a card game going. I'm sure he's just having some fun. You know how he is."
Amelia had forced herself to roll her eyes and smile, as if she was some beleaguered but adoring wife and not pregnant, unmarried, and growing more terrified by the second. And now she was waiting, wondering if he'd already abandoned her... wondering why the thought scared her and angered her but didn't quite surprise her.
She never should have followed him. Life in St. Louis would have been miserable, but at least she knew the city. She had friends. Here, she was alone, with only Brent and his family-- whose help was surely conditional and based upon Brent's presence-- upon whom to rely.
Her hair began to frizz and stick to the brush from the ferocity of her strokes, and she tossed the thing aside with a huff. Plating the freshly-brushed strands into a thick braid, she stood and paced about the small bedroom. She had both lanterns lit, and their flickering light cast a homey, honeyed glow around the sparsely decorated room. The floors were bare wood covered with a smattering of mis-matched rugs. The walls, plaster-coated white, held no adornments but for a lacquered crucifix hanging over the bed.
"You're gonna watch over me then, are you?" she asked the cross, talking to God the way she always did-- mockingly. Only once, long ago, had she opened up her heart and spoken to the heavens in earnest. She'd begged and pleaded with burning tears in her eyes and full-body sobs choking the air from her lungs.
No answer.
God had been pressed upon her from such a young age, she never imagined that He might not be up there somewhere, pulling strings and watching her struggle. He wasn't a very good listener, though, and He damn sure didn't look out for the happiness and well-being of his creations. He answered prayers and mockery alike with cold indifference, and she went about her life with the knowledge that He was there and that he didn't much care for her wants and needs. If she wanted something, it was up to her to acquire it. If she felt pain, it was up to her to heal it.
Melissa had said this had been Brent and Josh's room, but Amelia saw very little evidence of childhood or male presence. It was as if the whole room had been stripped bare, and she vaguely recalled Melissa mentioning that Brent's brother had cleared the room out just three days prior. He must have taken all of his things with him. All the memories and toys and books... all the things that made this a bedroom and not just four walls and some mismatched furniture.
Crossing the floor to the window, Amelia knelt on the bench and cupped her hands around her face to block out the light, peering out at the sleeping ranch. The sky had faded from dusky blue to velvety black and stars were beginning to twinkle at her. Stars were such a novelty, she had half a mind to run outside and stare at them.
Instead, she left the window and walked to the bed, slipping beneath the covers with a shiver and a sigh. She was too tired to worry about Brent and go chasing after stars. Tonight, she would sleep. One of the nuns who had raised her had always said that a good night of sleep made everything better. Sometimes that was true. Sometimes it wasn't.
She just hoped it was true tonight.
Josh
"You're being a spoilsport," Brent complained, wrenching his arm out of Josh's hold and turning back to the card game set up on a rickety table by the stove.
"You have a wife waiting for you," Josh growled, gripping his brother by the arm and, again, tugging him to stand up. "And you've gone and lost every penny you walked in with. It's time to go to bed."
In truth, his motive for dragging his brother home was purely selfish. He was dead tired and he wanted to go to bed himself. As long as Brent was here, pouring fresh cash onto the table and stirring up the men with taunts to drink and meet his challenges, sleep in the bunkhouse wasn't going to happen. If he wanted to sleep, he needed Brent gone.
"I swear, brother," Brent slurred, ripping his arm free once more and glowering over his shoulder. "Sometimes I think you were born with that stick up your ass, always ruining a good time. Now be a good little ranch hand and go fetch us another bottle. We're just getting started, right boys?"
The bunkhouse fell silent, but for the ragged snores of a few early quitters. The men around the table, en masse, turned their eyes to him before looking back at his brother. Then Paul, one of the more senior employees, tossed his cards down and shook his head.
"Reckon I'm done for the night," he growled, his eyes narrowed at Josh's brother.
"I'm done, too," said Brian, a red-headed old-timer, turning a pointed eye to the young man beside him. The kid, Johnny, was as green as spring grass, and knew better than to ignore a cue from his elders.
"Yeah, I'm beat," he said, yawning dramatically and throwing his cards down.
One by one, the men closed down the card game and wandered away. When Josh once again took his brother by the arm, Brent came with him.
"Your piss poor attitude is infectious," he grumbled, the words as clumsy as his feet as herded him toward the door.
"We just got back from a drive," Josh reasoned as they headed up the road to the main house. The sun had set hours ago, but the moon was full and bright and the dirt road gleamed silver in the eerie light. "They're tired. I'm sure you'll be able to coax them into another game and get your money back some other time."
Brent huffed. "First fun I've had in weeks and you ruined it," he accused, but the words didn't have much bite.
"I'd have thought you'd be eager to get into bed with that wife of yours, anyhow," Josh said, trying to appease him. The last thing he wanted to do was drop Brent off on that poor girl's doorstep all sloppy and pissed off.
"You know she ain't my wife," Brent mumbled, staggering suddenly to the side. Josh tightened his grip and dragged them both back on course. There was a moment of silence, and then Brent stopped dead in his tracks, pushing away. He was beaming, his grin crooked, eyes twinkling and half-focused in the moonlight. "She is a fine piece though, isn't she?"
"She seems like a good woman," Josh agreed, forcing a shrug.
"Good woman?" Brent laughed, throwing his head back. "Josh, she's a perfect woman. Did you not see her tits?" He gripped his own chest and shook his head as if in awe. "Her ass, too," he said on a heavy, wistful sigh. "I don't know what part of her is more perfect." He held his hands out, palm up, wobbling them in the air as if they were scales. Then he dropped them at his sides and turned to continue his clumsy stagger up the road.
Josh followed after him with a sigh. He loved his brother, but it became increasingly difficult with each passing day to like the man. Perhaps he had always been this way, though, and it was just the long period of absence that made his immaturity so pronounced.
Twice on the long walk back, Brent doubled over to heave, splattering the grass beside the road with whiskey. By the time they reached the house, Josh had his brother's arm over his shoulders and a hand snagged in his belt to hold him up as they staggered up the porch steps and into the dark stillness of the house.
"You need to be quiet," Josh hissed as he reached back to shut the door behind them. "The old man's sleeping."
Brent made a dismissive noise with his lips that misted the side of Josh's face with spittle. "You need to man up, brother," he said in a noisy half-whisper. "You're so scared of that geezer... do you not realize you outgrew his beatings a decade ago?"
"Forgive me for respecting my elders," Josh growled back, dragging his brother up the stairs to the bedrooms. It was an empty jibe, though. In truth, Brent had spoken his own thoughts. His fear of and loyalty to the old man made no damn sense. A smarter, stronger man would've left town years ago. All he had to justify his stay were excuses. He was staying to look after Melissa. He was staying for sake of the ranch. He was going to leave. He'd had hundreds of dollars in the bank and a plan to strike out on his own before Brent had bedded a married woman and made off with his savings.
Those were just half-truths, though, and easily brushed aside. Melissa didn't need her looking after him. She was a grown woman with the loving respect of their father, intellect that far surpassed her brothers', and prospects ranging from schooling to marriage. The ranch didn't need him, either. He helped it thrive, but he was no more necessary to its survival than any of the men who worked for him. And his savings had long ago inflated back to numbers that would keep him fed for plenty enough time to find good work.
The truth was, he stayed because Brent was right. He was a coward-- his loyalty like that of a beaten dog, cowering at its master's feet. It disgusted him and comforted him in equal parts to know his place. He was doing penance for a crime he knew in his mind he hadn't committed and knew in his soul he would pay for unto eternity. Brent was right. He was weak. Afraid. Terrified of what would happen if he left the predictable shadow of his father's hatred.
He had his hand on the doorknob to the bedroom when he remembered it wouldn't be empty. Shifting Brent's weight, he rapped gently on the door. Silence responded. He knocked again, a little louder, and heard the rustle of sheets and blankets, followed by soft footsteps. The door cracked open, and wide eyes stared up at him from a sleep-creased face.
"Mr. Tucker? What--" she croaked, confusion turning to sad weariness when her eyes lit on his burden. Without further question, she stepped back and pulled the door open all the way, letting him through.
Josh dumped Brent's body on the bed and stood up straight. He ought to leave the rest to the man's 'wife' but when he turned he saw her standing in the corner by the door, hair in disarray, arms hugged around herself as she shivered in a threadbare nightgown. Melissa needed to take the poor girl to town and get her some better clothes. The air was thinner and colder here than in St. Louis. She couldn't be running around like that, especially pregnant. She needed thicker dresses, warmer socks... she needed a coat and boots, and probably a scarf. Gloves. Hat...
"Mr. Tucker?" she whispered, and he realized he'd been staring at her.
"Sorry," he said, shaking his head and turning back to Brent. "I'll help you with him and then get out of your hair."
Grateful that the darkness hid the burn of shame that seared the back of his neck, he tugged off Brent's boots and yanked his floppy form upright to peel off his coat. Brent grumbled and batted at him as he tugged the covers loose and dropped them over him. His brother could sleep in his pants, or Amelia could take them off. Such tasks were beyond his charity for the evening.
"Sorry to wake you, ma'am," he said, keeping his eyes on the floor as he strode past her. "Sleep well."
She didn't respond, or perhaps he just didn't give her time to do so. The door clicked shut when he reached the top of the stairs, and a breath of relief left his lungs in a rush. That woman twisted him up inside in a way he didn't much enjoy. Something about the sparkling mixture of fear and defiance in her eyes made his heart beat as if he'd sprinted up a hill. Something about her work-worn, rumpled beauty grabbed his eyes and held them against his will.
Distracted by self-indictment and confusion, he hastened through the cold night and into the bunkhouse, replacing brisk fresh air with the smell of men and a cacophony of snores. He felt his way to his bunk, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, and sat down on the edge. He'd stowed most of his belongings in the attic of the main house, bringing only the essentials with him when his father asked him-- ordered him-- out of the house. Now, having seen the room, he wished he'd left some things behind. It was so barren. She must feel like she was sleeping in a prison cell, with those plain white walls and barren shelves.
He undressed quietly and quickly, eager to find the warmth of the blankets and the distraction of sleep, but neither came. Cold air seeped through the wall and Amelia's wide eyes haunted him every time he closed his own.
Maybe he'd get lucky. Maybe her presence would be the thing that finally drove him out, forcibly freeing him from a trap of his own making. Maybe, without him around to clean up mistakes, Brent would grow up and take responsibility. Be the kind of husband a wife could depend upon.
He snorted at his own foolish optimism. He'd stay. He had to. Brent would be gone before the woman even started to show her condition. After the drunken display tonight, he knew that as sure as he knew the sun would rise in the morning. And when Brent left, his 'wife' would be alone with nothing but Melissa to serve as a buffer between her and his father.
No, he had to stay. Not for himself, for Brent, for Melissa, for the ranch, or even for Amelia. He had to stay for the person growing inside her. No creature deserved the hate his father would rain down upon that child's head when it emerged from its mother without a father to claim it.
He'd stay. For the child, he'd stay. He'd wait out this farce Brent was performing, and do his best to shield Amelia from his father's wrath when the farce ran its course. Then he'd find them some stability-- whether on the ranch or elsewhere. And once the two of them were secure and safe and hopefully far away from his father, he'd find a way to escape, himself.
Throwing an arm over his face, he tried to dream of a ranch that was all his, somewhere in the mountains. Blue skies, the smell of livestock, and the power of a well-bred horse beneath him. In this fantasy, somewhere beyond his capacity to imagine clearly, a woman waited for him, warm and full of love and life. Holding a child who bore his name. Standing on the porch of a house he'd built.
It was his go-to fantasy. His lullaby on sleepless nights. And for some reason, that night it didn't hold. It splintered and melted. Blue skies turned to blue eyes. The smell of livestock turned to the smell of vanilla. The driving power of the horse turned to lithe strength and soft curves. The faceless woman stepped to front and center, her face clear as day. He tossed and turned, cursing himself, because he knew that face-- that future-- and it wasn't his to have.