Power in the Blood by Greg Matthews Read Free Book Online

perfect working order, fully loaded at all times for the kind of native uprising that hadn’t occurred in Indiana for a generation.
    Zoe made herself look elsewhere; Mrs. Hassenplug was in the kitchen with her, and must not be alerted to the train of thought that suddenly had made clear to Zoe why she had returned to the farm. In town, she wouldn’t have known where to find a loaded gun, and would probably have had trouble locating Hassenplug among all those streets. At home, the rifle was in its appointed place, as if hung there by fate for Zoe’s purpose, and her target always approached the house from the barn after putting up the horses. Zoe’s window upstairs overlooked the yard, a perfect sniper’s roost.
    “I’m … I’m going to lie down now.”
    “You do that. You lie down and think on what you did, you silly girl, leading him on with all that nonsense talk of dresses. You be thankful he didn’t hurt you bad like he could’ve. You stay up there till you’re told you can come down again!”
    Mrs. Hassenplug went outside to sit under the willow tree beside the pond, where she spent the afternoon hours fretting over what attitude to strike when her husband returned. Should she pose as the champion of maidenly virtue now plundered and gone, or as betrayed wife, the loyal spouse wronged by male carnality? Or should she let Zoe shoulder all responsibility for the incident? This last option would be easiest, given that Hassenplug usually returned from town drunk. Maybe he wouldn’t want to talk about it at all, which presented the best possible chance for a peaceful evening. In the morning it wouldn’t bear thinking about, let alone discussion. That would definitely be best. She wouldn’t say a word when he arrived, would simply heat up his supper, if he proved capable of eating it, and wait on him in silence until he climbed the stairs to fall asleep with clothing and boots still on, as was his way.
    Her decision made, Mrs. Hassenplug went back to the house and began to prepare the makings of her husband’s favorite treat, pig knuckles in gravy. As she worked, it seemed to her that something was amiss in the kitchen, some familiar thing misplaced, but she could not identify it. The sensation eventually was lost in her greater concern for the kind of life that would be lived under Hassenplug’s roof in future. Now that he’d had the girl, would he do so again? Everything in life became easier the second or third time; that was a fundamental law of nature. Should she be surprised if it happened in her home? Would Hassenplug be so cruel? She knew he would.
    It spelled the end of everything she had known. Her married life had been a bed of bent and rusting nails, but it was the only bed she had known as a woman, and the thought of being usurped by the bruised slip of a thing upstairs was torture. What if she bore him a son! He’d send Mrs. Hassenplug away and marry Zoe … marry their foster daughter! It was too harsh, too biblical.
    “No!” she told the walls, and that was when she realized the Henry rifle was gone from its usual place. Had her husband taken it with him to town? He’d never done so before. Hadn’t it been up there on its pegs while the girl dabbed at her face? And after Zoe had gone up to her room, Mrs. Hassenplug went outside for a long time.…
    She mounted the staircase at a run, lifting her skirts high, panting with alarm. Zoe’s door was closed. Mrs. Hassenplug opened it slowly, quietly. A chair by the window presented its back to her. Zoe was sitting in it, and did not turn around when her name was hesitantly called. A closer look revealed Zoe asleep, breath whistling faintly in her nose, hands entwined in her lap. Zoe’s swollen face seemed peaceful enough if the mottled patches of blue on her cheek were ignored. The rifle lay across the chair’s armrests at chest level, like some imprisoning device. Had the girl been preparing for suicide? How could she sleep, following the