WINTER ' FOURTEEN
the baby never lived to see landfall. Vera was herself transitional as her gurney sped feet-first into the
operating room. It was days before she was able to speak, and it was months before she cared.
She had been a small girl and she remained a small woman, quiet to her soul. At the sentencing
--- when Darrell yelled, “I’ll kill you, you sorry bitch!” --- people assured her that, “It’s what they all say,
honey. He don’t mean nothin’ by it. Bet he’s some sorry. Bet he still loves you.” Vera knew better and
transplanted whatever remained of her life onto the mainland three counties away, putting two rivers,
several lakes, and many miles between them.
No, Darrell would never find her here. Not in this part of the state. Last she had heard he was
working part-time at the hardware store on Main Street in Thomaston, close by his prison home of the
past two years. He should have drawn more time for what he’d done, but the state was embarrassed by
domestic violence, and the murder of her unborn was no more than a shrug of hard luck to the jury.
Manslaughter at best. Unintentional, anyone could see that. Vera placed the restored golden horse on
the mantel of this new home. He pranced alone, owning his surroundings, proud of his scars.
Now, tonight, Vera dreams of the horse, resurrected. Unscathed, she rides him through the clouds,
but tonight instead of gold, the horse is red, a pulsing crimson rich as sunrise.
She is alerted to the sound of the door glass breaking. This modest fifties ranch has no stairs, and
her bedroom is a house-length away from the door, yet she can hear the man breathing, a monstrous
sound that sullies the clean air with the filth of whatever it is that composes the core of Darrell. He
seizes control as always and walks confidently though this house, her new home, not as an intruder,
not as a murderer and a batterer, but with the arroganc R