Page 67 of Discovered Magic
22
Abbie’s feet ached almost as much as her back, and she thanked the Goddess she ditched the bustle in her early Perdition days. Sweat pooled in her pits and other unmentionable places despite the lack of proper underwear. If she ever got out of this, she was never wearing another dress as long as she lived. The restrictions put women at a disadvantage.
All along the way, Bart huffed and puffed in a surprisingly good impression of the Big Bad Wolf, but she put it down to his girth. The man was built like a Sherman tank, with meaty fists to match. About five minutes into their trek, he holstered his weapon, relying on his hands to push her when she slowed. She was faster than he was, so she put down the pinches and shoves to basic cruelty. It was too much to hope he’d keel over from a heart attack in this infernal desert.
Glancing up, she noticed the canyon walls narrowing, providing more shelter in the mid-morning sun.
“Stop here,” Bart ordered.
Because she needed the rest, she saw no reason to rebel. At least not yet.
He uncapped his canteen and guzzled water, then replaced the lid.
“I don’t get any?” she asked, already guessing his game.
A sly smile curled his mouth. “You gotta work for your rewards, gal. What are ya willing to offer?”
“Fuck off.”
Her head snapped back under the force of his open-hand slap. The burn was instant, creating a fiery throbbing in her cheek. Inside her mouth, the metallic taste of blood indicated she’d cut the flesh on her molars.
“You’ll show me respect, or I’ll beat it into ya!” he shouted into her face.
With deliberate slowness, she wiped his spittle away, grimaced at the fluid on her palm, and casually rubbed it on her dress’s skirt. “Well, that was disgusting.”
His rage flared, turning his already ruddy complexion an apoplectic red.
“Simmer down, Barty Boy, or you’re likely to have a stroke. Fantastic for me, but a horrible outcome for you,” she taunted.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair before she could dodge away. Abbie had to hand it to him; the man possessed rabbit-fast reflexes.
“You got a death wish, girl?” he demanded, shaking her hard enough to jar her bones from their sockets.
Clearly she did, but she remained silent.
“You’ll get no water for your insolence. Now, get movin’.”
The hard nudge sent her to her hands and knees. She hissed from the pain of the rocks on her tender skin.
“You look good down there. Maybe I’ll throw them skirts over your head and show you what a real man can do.”
As difficult as the movement was, she scrambled up to her feet, tripping over the hem and righting herself again.
“Real man? Oh, Barty Boy, don’t kid yourself,” she scoffed. “Odds are you got nothing but a broken candy stick where your cock should be.”
She anticipated the charge, dancing to the side and sticking her leg out. What she hadn’t counted on was her good fortune.
His large frame worked against him, propelling him toward the stony outcrop. His footing was precarious, and the momentum too great. The sickening sight of his head wound shouldn’t have gratified her as much as it did, but after all the abuses she’d suffered by men, she couldn’t drum up the concern.
He lay unmoving.
Abbie didn’t love the idea of checking for a pulse, but his sightless eyes told the tale. Bartholomew Mercer had met his demise at the hand—or rather booted foot—of a woman.
She slumped down onto her knees and offered up a prayer of thanks, then waited another minute to make sure he wasn’t playing possum. His chest showed no signs of breathing, so she threw a rock.
Nothing.
No flinching of any kind.
