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Riverbend Reunion: Book 3 in the Riverbend Sagas Series

By Henry McLaughlin

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Chapter 1
Friday, September 1, 1865
Smack.
Ellie Archer’s hands tightened on the trowel as she cringed at the sound of her father’s open hand striking her mother’s face. She knelt in the small flower garden under the open kitchen window.
“This cornbread is stale.” Her father’s slurred words spilled out the window.
Smack.
Ellie dropped the trowel, squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands formed tight fists over her ears, but the sounds still came.
“I told you I want fresh cornbread with my breakfast.”
Breakfast? It’s almost noon.
A plate shattered against the wall, a shard spun out the window, landing in front of Ellie’s knees.
“You useless—”
“Levi. No.” Her mother’s wail stabbed Ellie’s heart.
A different sound now. A hard thud. A fist this time. Something fell to the floor. Her mother’s body, a sound she’d heard all too often.
“Get up.” Another deep thud, more muffled. The sound of her father’s boot hitting her mother’s soft flesh brought tears to Ellie’s eyes.
“Never mind. I’ll get Ellie. She takes better care of me than you ever could.”
Ellie ran.
The barn. Hide in the barn until he passes out. Again.
She searched for Michael, her younger brother. He should be coming in from the cornfield for the noon meal. No sign of him. At fourteen, he stood as tall as Pa with the same wiry frame, and he showed signs of standing up to him, but Pa still put him on the ground with one punch. And then the belt came out.
In the barn, Ellie’s eyes darted. Where to hide?
Blossom. She dashed into the plow horse’s stall, cowering in the corner, pulling straw over herself.
The barn door slammed open.
“Ellie? I know you’re in here, darlin’. I saw yer pretty skirt and them cute ankles dash in the door. Come on out and help yer Pa.” Pa’s smarmy words slurred over her, gooseflesh tingling up her arms.
Ellie pressed herself deeper into the corner, closing her eyes, wishing she could disappear.
Pa cussed. “I ain’t got time for this, girl. Get yerself out here where I can see you. Right now.”
Ellie held her breath and froze. Blossom shifted in the stall, taking a step closer. Ellie gasped and pulled her feet close, rustling the straw.
“Ah. There you are.” Pa stood at the entrance of the stall. He pushed against the horse. “Outta the way, ya old nag.” Blossom moved to the far wall.
Pa’s hand grabbed Ellie’s wrists and yanked her to her feet. “Ya know it ain’t nice to be teasing yer Pa when he needs ya.”
His whiskey-soaked breath roiled her stomach; his beard scratched as he forced his mouth on hers.
He pulled her out of the corner. “C’mon out here where there’s more room.”
“No, Pa. Not today.” She pulled back, trying to break his grip. Her feet slid in the wet straw. “I’m sick.”
The bones in her wrists grated against each other as he tightened his grip. He leered at her. “Not too sick to take care of yer Pa. You’ll feel better when we’re done. I know you always do.”
“No, Pa.” She wanted to scream, but her voice sounded like a kitten’s weak whimper. When will he ever stop?
Smack. His hand stung her cheek, and stars whirled.
“Stop yer whining. Ya don’t eat if ya don’t earn it.”
He tossed her on a pile of hay not much fresher than that in Blossom’s stall. He straddled her, drunken fingers fumbling at the buttons on her dress. She twisted and turned, tried to heave him off. She flayed at him with her fists, weak blows. He laughed—teeth, stained by tobacco and whiskey, bared like a rabid dog’s.
“I like it when you make it worth my while.”
Something roared from the door, a guttural sound like an animal defending its young. Then, with a whoosh, something slammed into Pa, pushing him off her. A hand took her arm as she scrambled to her feet. Michael stood between her and Pa.
“Run, Ellie. Take the horse and go to the Brownings.”
She pointed as her father reached for an ax in the corner. “But he—”
“Run!”
She raced to Blossom’s stall, grabbed the mare’s mane and, dress above her knees, scrabbled onto the horse’s back.
“I’ve had it with yer interferin’, boy.” The rest of Pa’s words faded as she kicked Blossom with her heels. The horse bolted from the stall and through the barn door. An image of Pa holding the ax and Michael brandishing a pitchfork blurred as she rode past.
She leaned her head against Blossom’s neck, the mane brushing the tears from her cheeks. At the county road, the horse turned east toward the Browning farm. The warm, late-summer sun, the clear blue sky, the bird song, all gave false hope as the horror behind her seared her memory.
Any ability Blossom had to gallop was long worked out of her by years of pulling a plow. Her initial fast pace soon fell into a trot that gave way to a steady walk, the animal’s sides heaving.
Ellie sat up, fumbled with the top buttons on her dress to discover one was missing. She ran her fingers through her hair before wiping the tears from her cheeks. Sobs threatened again as the sounds of her father hitting her mother and images of him attacking her rumbled through her mind. So many years it seemed, so many beatings, so many unwanted touches. Michael tried to protect her and Ma, only to be tossed aside like a pebble by Pa’s alcohol-induced strength and rage.
Her throat clenched in fear at the last image. Pa with an ax, Michael with a pitchfork. A detail emerged—Michael’s face a contorted mask of anger and hate. Eyes narrowed, piercing. Knuckles white on the pitchfork handle, body poised, ready to thrust.

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