<< Go Back

Broken Bondage (Seven Tine Ranch Romance Book 2)

By Carmen Peone

Order Now!

Broken Bondage
Iron Stream Fiction
An imprint of Iron Stream Media
100 Missionary Ridge
Birmingham, AL 35242
IronStreamMedia.com
Copyright © 2023 by Carmen Peone
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior
written permission of the publisher.
Iron Stream Media serves its authors as they express their views, which
may not express the views of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products
of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any
mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property
of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the
publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022950027
Scripture quotations are from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English
Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry
of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved. The
ESV text may not be quoted in any publication made available to the
public by a Creative Commons license. The ESV may not be translated in
whole or in part into any other language.
Cover design by For the Muse Designs
ISBN: 978-1-64526-362-3 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64526-363-0 (eBook)
1 2

To all the women who desire to be free from the bondage of abuse.
May they draw courage from this passage:
Let us burst their bonds apart and cast away their cords from us.
—Psalm 2:3

Early October
Umatilla Indian Reservation, Eastern Oregon

“You dirty bugger, git over here!” Henry, the red-and white
calf Rita Runninghorse had secretly named,
darted sideways as she winced at the pain in her sides,
gathered her lariat, and tried for another loop.
Her head pounded from when her fiancé, Bowie Dark
Cloud, had slammed her against the door of his pickup
earlier that morning and crushed her against a stall door two
days ago.

Concentration eluded her, and her timing dragged
like the sludge of cold cowboy coffee at day’s end. Dusk’s
chilly breath hovering over the rolling hills of the Columbia
Plateau country on her father’s ranch failed to help matters.

“Come on, Opal, let’s get ’im this time.” She swung her
lasso overhead and spurred her smokey grulla mare into a
gallop, close on the calf’s tail. With her horse staying on him,
she landed the loop over its head and reined her mare to the
right. The jerk of the rope when her horse skidded to a halt
caught her breath.

The calf balked on the other end of the rope as Rita jumped
off, and her backside landed on the wet ground. Could this
day get any worse? She pushed to her feet, wobbled toward
the wide-eyed little one, and flopped him to the ground with a deep groan. Good grief. Her father could’ve built a smaller
holding pen.

“Sorry, little man,” she said, thankful for the fall calf’s
small size. “You shouldn’t have run from me.”
Rita pulled a short piggin’ string from her back pocket
and tied the critter’s legs together. Seconds later, he finally
quit fighting her. The cut on his leg was nastier than she’d
suspected. She went to one of her saddlebags and retrieved a
syringe and a bottle of penicillin. His round eyes watched her
while she cleaned the crusty wound, a low bellow escaping
his mouth.

Inhaling his earthy scent, she gave him a shot of antibiotic,
massaged the injection site, and untied his legs. “All better
now.”

He shot to his feet, bawling for his mama, and loped
away. Come spring, she’d make sure some 4-H kid would get
a nice steer to show at the Umatilla County Fair.
Her sides throbbed and her vision blurred as she staggered
back to her mare and found a pain reliever in a saddlebag.
She struggled to pop the lid off the container. “Stupid . . .
childproof . . .” Once the top broke loose, she took two pills
and chased them down with a swig of water.

Rita slipped her tan, buckaroo-styled cowboy hat from
her sweaty head, rested the side of her face against her
mare’s steaming rump, and inhaled the glorious horse scent.
Scratching Opal’s damp hide, she whispered, “You’re a good
girl.”

“You almost done?” Bowie’s impatient voice boomed
behind her.

She stiffened like the steel blade he often sharpened
while pegging her with his ash-colored eyes. Not today, Lord.
“Almost. I need to put the supplies away.”

“Hurry up. Th ere ain’t much light left.” Towering over her
at six-foot-four and wearing a black Stetson, Bowie watched the ranch hands work near the barn with appraising eyes.

With a sudden movement, he pinned his arms against her
in a coarse embrace, the hair on his black goatee scratching
the side of her neck. She scrunched her nose at the stench of
cigarette smoke on his breath. “I’ll escort you back.”
Bowie traded horses for a living. Although she wasn’t a
veterinarian, he often asked her to check them out before
hauling them to various auctions. She regretted the day she’d
quit working at the vet clinic—all because he’d shown up
uninvited there and threatened and humiliated her in front
of her coworkers. She couldn’t handle the embarrassment.
Rita forced a smile, detesting his jealousy. Love and
respect were key to marital success. Or so her youth pastor
had drilled into her teen group. Too bad all she knew of
marital bliss included her father shoving her mother against
a wall, his red face in her pale one. His tone had been low
and sharp and scary as he claimed how worthless she was—
especially to little girls watching from the shadows.

How had she allowed herself to get saddled with the
same kind of strong-fi sted man? How could she walk down
the aisle with someone so violent? Someone who didn’t trust
her? She swallowed the lump in her throat. She needed to
get away from him. Cancel the wedding. And survive doing
so when research showed most women died trying to flee.
“Where’s your ring?”

He squeezed her hand a little too tightly, and she winced.
“At the cabin. I don’t want to ruin the diamond.”
“You need to wear it. There’s too much riffraff around
here.”

Quivering, she gathered the used supplies and stuffed
them into her saddlebag. Her hand brushed against the stiff
leather carrying case of her Leatherman multi-purpose tool.

Why hadn’t she attached it to her belt for self-protection?“I don’t like the way your dad’s hired hands gawk at you.

There’s only one thing they want, and you know what it is.”
Bowie patted her bottom. “That sweet little body of yours.”

“They’re harmless.” The words burst out before she could
stop them, and she flinched.

He grabbed her arm and raised his chin as though he
were going to strike her, then seemed to think better of it,
and dropped it with a cold sneer. “You trying to tell me what
to think now?”

Why did she give him an excuse to rough her up? She
ran her hand partway down her gritty, waist-length side
braid and held on to it as though it were a security blanket.
“Of course not, I—”

“Then you better get going.” He shoved her forward.
Rita caught her balance and jerked her thumb at the
calves. “I have to doctor them too.”

“Too bad.” He strode toward the barn with her arm in
his viselike grip.

She stumbled for a few steps and grabbed her mare’s
reins for balance. The snap of pressure from the reins to the
bit jerked the horse’s mouth. Opal pulled back, shaking her
head, and finally succumbed to the weight of the headstall’s
leather bands behind her ears.

“I’ll talk to your dad,” he said.

She faltered and lost her grasp on the reins as he pushed
her along.

“Quit messin’ around.” He yanked her to her feet.

“I’m not . . . I mean . . . I’m sorry. My boot caught on a
rock.” She gathered the reins, her hands trembling, and with
a soft tone, coaxed her mare to follow. She had to get away
from her fiancé. And soon.

How’d he go from Saturday night dancing under the
moon, Monday morning flowers, and midweek picnics—all
the things she’d dreamed about before her teenage rape—to accusing her of cheating and leaving bruises where no one
could see them?

Was she simply Bowie’s stepping-stone to her father and
his successful cattle ranch? The wedding was scheduled for
the following weekend. What then? More beatings? Less
freedom?

No thank you. Right then and there, she vowed to get
away from him. No matter what it took. No matter what it
cost. She had to believe her life was worth more than a good
beating.

Order Now!

<< Go Back