Gilbert lay in-waiting for him outside the door, looking suspiciously devious for an innocent goat. Brook watched this curious behavior with genuine interest. The goat acted like a mischievous dog!
When Lance emerged, Gilbert head-butted him and immediately bucked away sideways in a playful romp, challenging him to catch her. He gave in to her exuberance and tumbled in the snow after her, swimming through the drifts and chasing her with youth-like abandon.
Just a big grown-up boy and his goat, Brook thought from her vantage point at the window. She giggled at the spectacle, but Lance couldn’t hear her. He had, in fact, forgotten he had an audience, and unselfconsciously wrestled with Gilbert for a while before calling a halt to the play so he could attend to his ‘ladies’. His exertions had warmed him, and he loosened his coat before clearing the snow in front of the chicken house.
One of the hens, excited at the prospect of feed and freedom, flapped clumsily into a snowdrift, where she lodged like a fat bullet. Her distressed squawking carried even to the cabin, and Brook watched with amusement as Lance rescued the wayward fowl. Cradling the bird in the crook of his arm, he spoke to the outraged animal before placing her gently on the clean-swept ground where she joined the rest of the birds flocking at his heels. Brook wondered what he said to her. Did he dole out a stern lecture on poultry foolishness, or soothe wounded chicken pride with kind words? If she had to guess, she would say he chose words of comfort. The encounter brought a smile to Brook’s face. Lance soon disappeared around a corner, fowl following him like baby chicks after a mother hen. They wanted their morning grain and would tail him with singular perseverance until they received it.
Brook noted the outbuildings with a sense of admiration. Like small forts, they were constructed vertically of gray weathered wood, and surrounded by trees and shrubs. She realized they would pass undetected at first glance; they blended so well with the scenery. Summer, with its thicker foliage and greenery, would conspire to camouflage them even more. They seemed a part of the forest. Concealed. Safe.
Brook moved from the window and sat in the easy chair before the fire, her feet sending tendrils of pain up her legs. The pure pleasure of watching Lance with his animals shifted without warning into melancholy. She ran her fingertips over the branches of her little willow, and her eyes blurred with tears as she watched the slender chains swing delicately back into place. She picked up a book from the table, but didn’t open it. Instead, she gazed ahead, thoughts trapped within dark memories.
Outside, Lance filled his canvas shoulder bag with potatoes, turnips and carrots from his root cellar, and set it on the front porch. Next, he hauled several loads of firewood from the covered stack. Dividing the supply of wood, he put some in the outside storage near the cabin door and the rest beside the root crops. He gathered eggs, tossed some hay in for Gilbert to munch on, and some extra straw for warmth. Sweeping the snow from the tops of the sheds, he cleared the skylights so the animals could enjoy whatever meager warmth the sun would provide on this day. A quick glance up told him that might be minimal. The clouds were gathering strength again, threatening more snow.
Brook heard Lance stomping the snow off his shoes on the front porch, and dried her eyes before he entered. Sitting up straight in the chair, she flipped the book open so it would appear she had been reading. The fire was burning low and she was shocked at how much time had passed while she had sat in a fog. She determined to snap herself out of the gloom and make the best of her present situation.
As Lance came through the door, he caught sight of her and his face lit up. No sense making him miserable with her woes, she concluded, and lifted the corners of her mouth, returning his smile.
“Hey, you’re still awake.” he said. His cheeks were reddened from exposure and snow clung to his clothes and hair. A bulging cloth bag hung from his shoulder and he had a small pail of rich brown eggs in his other hand. He placed the eggs on the table, and carried his bag to the kitchen area where emptied it into a built-in bin. “Almost done.”
He brought in several armfuls of wood and restocked the box next to the fireplace.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, as he shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the peg.
“Fine,” she answered. He turned to look at her, something in her tone alerting him to her state of mind.
“I could use some hot cocoa,” he announced. “How about you?”
“Sounds good,” she answered, her eyes on the book as if engrossed.
“Good book?” Lance asked dryly.
“Um-hmm,” Brook said, continuing the ruse.
He went to the sink and washed his hands, drying them on a towel as he approached her. He slung the towel over his shoulder and took the book from her hands. Turning it right-side up, he handed it back to her without a word. She blushed. Looking into his eyes she saw only patient concern. Pulling the other chair closer, he sat facing her. She withered under his intense gaze and her eyes darted around the room. He reached out and turned her face towards his. She flinched under his touch, but made herself meet his eyes.
“Brooklyn,” he said, laying his hands in his lap. “Tell me. Just talk about it. I know it’s hard, but I honestly believe you’ll feel better once you get it off your chest.”
“Oh, really? Is that what you did when Ellen died? You talked to people? Got it off your chest?” She struck out at him verbally. Her cruelty was defensive, not really intended to hurt him. Yet she knew she had. She saw it in his surprised expression. She looked away.
“Yes and no,” he said carefully. “I grieved. I cried. I struggled with the pain, but I never completely finished the process. Instead I turned to my plan, the plan to move here, to become someone new. I think now I only extended my sorrow by refusing to face it. It’s still here inside me and it springs up when I least expect it.”
“I’m sorry.” She hung her head.
“Don’t be,” he responded, his voice kind and tolerant. He waited. She fidgeted with the book for a moment, and then took a deep breath.
“I fought them,” she finally said, her voice cracking. “I fought them so hard.”
“I know you did. I saw your wounds.”
“But they were so strong, and there were too many of them. Even if there had only been one, I still couldn’t have stopped it. Men are just physically stronger than women.” Her voice steadied, but tears ran unchecked down her face.
“That's true,” Lance agreed, keeping his voice calm in spite of the rage that stirred within his chest. He clenched his jaw. His fists opened and closed.
“They hurt me. They hurt me so badly!” The dam burst and Brook’s shoulders shook from the violence of her sobs. “Oh, god! How could they do those things to me? Those sick horrible bastards! They’ve all got mothers, and maybe sisters, too. One of them even had a girlfriend! She was there. With them. How could they treat a woman that way?
"Oh, my god. They wouldn’t let me cover myself. I had to walk naked in front of them while they stared at me, leering, drooling, and smirking. They kept me in a filthy room with just a mattress on the floor. Again and again, they came into that room. Every time I thought I would die from the pain! They were heartless, monstrous! They tore into me and ripped me apart, and then laughed about it. They passed me around like a bottle of cheap whiskey. I was nothing to them, nothing but a piece of meat.” Great sobs racked her body.