Little by little our marriage closed around me. At first it seemed like heaven when I stopped working. I had all the time I needed to make the condo look perfect. I vacuumed the carpet so the polyester nap was arranged in symmetrical stripes. Every square inch of the kitchen was sparkling and clean. I spent hours poring over recipes, improving my cooking skills. I arranged Nick's socks in color-coordinated rows in the drawer.

Just before Nick came home from the office, I put on makeup and changed my outfit. I had started to do that after he'd told me one night he hoped I wasn't one of those women who let themselves go after they'd caught a husband.

If Nick had been a jerk all the time, I wouldn't have been so compliant. It was the in-between moments that kept me with him, the evenings when we cuddled in front of the TV and watched the news, the impromptu slow dance after dinner when our favorite song came on. He could he affectionate and funny. He could be loving. And he was the first person in my life who had ever needed me. I was his audience, his reflection, his solace, the person without whom he could never be complete. He had found my worst weakness: I was one of those people who was desperate to be needed, to matter to someone.

There was a lot about our relationship that worked. The part that I had a hard time dealing with was the constant sense of being off balance. The men in my life, my fathers and brothers, had always been predictable. Nick, however, reacted differently at different times to the same behavior. I was never certain when I did something if it would be received with praise or displeasure. It made me anxious, always hunting for clues about how I should behave.

Nick remembered everything I had ever told him about my family and childhood, but he colored it all differently. He told me I had never really been loved by anyone but him. He told me what I really thought, who I really was, and he was so authoritative on the subject of me that I began to doubt my own perceptions. Especially when he echoed the standard phrases from my childhood... "You need to get over it."

"You're overreacting."

"You take everything too personally." My own mother had said those things to me, and now Nick was saying them too.

His temper exploded without warning when I made the wrong sandwich for his lunch, when I'd forgotten to run a particular errand. Since I didn't have a car, I had to walk or bike a quarter mile to the grocery store, and I didn't always have time to accomplish all I needed to do. Nick never hit me after that first time. Instead he broke possessions I valued, jerking a delicate gold necklace from my throat, throwing a crystal vase. Sometimes he would push me against the wall and shout into my face. I dreaded that more than anything, the force of Nick's voice blowing all circuitry, shattering parts of me that couldn't be reassembled.

I began to lie compulsively, afraid to reveal some little thing I had said or done that Nick wouldn't like, anything that might set him off.

I became a sycophant, assuring Nick he was smarter than everyone else put together, smarter than his boss, than the people at the bank, than anyone in his family or mine. I told him he was right even when it was obvious he was wrong. And in spite of all that, he was never satisfied.

Our sex life went downhill, at least from my perspective, and I was fairly certain Nick didn't even notice. We had never been all that successful in the bedroom — I'd had no experience before Nick, and I had no way of knowing what to do.

In the beginning of our relationship, I'd found some pleasure in being with him. But gradually he had stopped doing the things he knew I liked, and sex became a slam-bam deal. Even if I had known enough to explain to Nick what I needed, it wouldn't have made a difference. He had no interest in the possibilities of sex beyond the simple matter of one body entering another.

I tried to be as accommodating as possible, doing what was necessary to get it over with quickly. Nick's favorite position was from behind, driving into me with straight, selfish thrusts that gave me no stimulation. He praised me for being one of those women who didn't make a big deal about foreplay. In truth, I was fine without foreplay — it would only have prolonged an act that was messy, often uncomfortable, and not at all romantic.

I realized that I was not a sexual person. I was not moved by the sight of Nick's well-exercised body, toned from spending most of his lunch hours at the gym. When we went out, I saw the way other women stared at my handsome husband and envied me.

I Got a call one night from Liberty, and from the sound of her voice,] knew instantly that something was wrong. "Haven, I've got some bad news. It's about Gretchen... " As she went on, I felt weighted with shock and despair, and I strained to understand her, as if she were speaking in a foreign language. Gretchen had had a headache for about two days, and had fallen unconscious in her room — Dad had heard the thud from down the hall. She was dead by the time the paramedics arrived. A cerebral aneurism, they said at the hospital.

"I'm so sorry," Liberty said, her voice tear-clotted. I heard the sounds of her blowing her nose. "She was such a wonderful person. I know how much you loved each other."

I sat on the sofa and leaned my head back, letting tears run in a hot trail down the sides of my face. "When is the funeral?" I managed to ask.

"In two days. Will you come? Will you stay with Gage and me?"

"Yes. Thanks. I... How is Dad?" No matter what the state of our relationship was, I ached with sympathy for my father. Losing Gretchen would be hard for him, one of the hardest things he would ever face.

"I guess as well as could be expected." Liberty blew her nose again. She added in a constricted whisper, "I've never seen him cry before."

"I haven't either." I heard the key in the front door lock. Nick was home. I was relieved, wanting the comfort of his arms. "How is Carrington?" I asked, knowing that Liberty's little sister had been close to Gretchen.

"You're so sweet to ask... she's really torn up about it, but she'll be okay. It's hard for her to understand how everything can change so suddenly."

"It's hard even for grown-ups to understand." I pressed my sleeve over my wet eyes. "I don't know whether I'll drive or fly down. I'll call you after I talk to Nick.and figure things out."

"Okay, Haven. Bye."

Nick came into the apartment, setting down his briefcase. "What's up?" he asked, frowning as he came to me.

"My aunt Gretchen died," I said, and started to cry again.

Nick came to sit beside me on the sofa, and put his arm around me. I nestled against his shoulder.

After a few minutes of consolation, Nick stood and went to the kitchen. He got a beer from the fridge. "I'm sorry, baby. I know this is tough for you. But it's probably a good thing that you can't go to the funeral."

I blinked in surprise. "I can go. If we don't have the money for a plane ticket, I can — "

"We only have one car." His voice changed. "I guess I'm supposed to sit in the apartment all weekend while you're in Houston?"

"Why don't you come with me?"

"I should have known you'd forget. We've got something going on this weekend, Marie." He looked at me hard, and I gave him a blank stare. "The company's annual crawfish boil, at the owner's house. Since this is my first year, there's no way I can miss it."

My eyes widened. "I... I... you want me to go to a crawfish boil instead of my aunt's funeral?"

"There's no choice. Jesus, Marie, do you want to cost me any chance of a promotion? I'm going to that crawfish boil, and I'm damn well not going to go alone. I need to have a wife there, and I need yon to make a good impression."

"I can't," I said, more bewildered than angry. I couldn't believe my feelings about Gretchen would mean so little to him. "I need to be with my family. People will understand if you tell them — "

"I'm your family!" Nick threw the beer, the full can hitting the edge of the sink with an explosion of foam. "Just who is paying your bills, Marie? Who's keeping a roof over your head? Me. No one in your fucking family is helping us. I'm the breadwinner. You do what I say."

"I'm not your slave," I shot back. "I have the right to go to Gretchen's funeral, and I'm going to — "

"Try it." He sneered, reaching me in three angry strides. "Try it, Marie. You've got no money and no way to get there." He clenched my arms and shoved me hard, and I went stumbling back against the wall. "God knows how such an idiot managed to graduate from college," he said. "They don't give a shit about you, Marie. Try to get that through your thick head."

I sent Liberty an e-mail telling her I couldn't go to the funeral. I didn't explain why, and there was no reply from her. Since there were no calls from the rest of my family, I was pretty sure I knew what they thought of me for not going. Whatever they thought, however, it wasn't nearly as bad as the things I was thinking about myself.

I went to the crawfish boil with Nick. I smiled the whole time. Everyone called me Marie. And I wore elbow-length sleeves to cover the bruises on my arms. I didn't cry one tear on the day of Gretchen's funeral.

But I did cry on Monday, when I got a small package in the mail. Opening it, I found Gretchen's bracelet with all its jaunty, jingly little charms.

"Dear Haven," read Liberty's note, "I know you were meant to have this."

Halfway through our second year of marriage, Nick's determination to get me pregnant had become all-consuming. I half suspected he would kill me if he knew I was still secretly taking birth control pills, so I hid them in one of my purses shoved back in a corner of our closet.

Convinced that the problem was me — it couldn't possibly be him — Nick sent me to the doctor. I cried in the doctor's office for an hour, telling him I felt anxious and miserable and had no idea why, and I came home with a prescription for antidepressants.

"You can't take that crap," Nick said, crumpling the slip of paper and tossing it into the trash. "It might be bad for the baby."

Our nonexistent baby. I thought guiltily of the pill I took every morning, a secret act that had become my last desperate bid for autonomy. It was difficult on the weekends, when Nick watched me like a hawk. I had to dash into the closet when he was in the shower, fumble for the cardboard wheel, pop a pill out and take it dry. If he caught me... I didn't know what he'd do.

"What did the doctor say about getting pregnant?" Nick asked, watching me closely.

"He said it could take up to a year."

I hadn't mentioned a word to the doctor about trying to get pregnant, only asked for my birth control prescription to be renewed.

"Did he tell you when the best days were? The days you're most fertile?"

"Right before I ovulate."

"Let's look at the calendar and figure it out. How long into the cycle do you ovulate?"

"Ten days, I guess."

As we went to the calendar, which I always marked with an X on the days my period started, my reluctance didn't seem to matter to Nick. I was going to be invaded, impregnated, and forced to go through the birthing process simply because he had decided so.

"I don't want it," I heard myself say in a sullen tone.

"You'll be happy once it happens."

"I still don't want it. I'm not ready."

Nick slammed the calendar onto the counter with such force, it sounded like the crack of a gunshot. "You'll never be ready. It'll never happen unless I push you into it. For God's sake, Marie, will you grow up and be a woman?"

I started to shake. Blood rushed up to my face, adrenaline pumping through my overworked heart. "I am a woman. I don't have to have a baby to prove that."

"You're a spoiled bitch. A parasite. That's why your family doesn't give a damn about you."

My own temper exploded. "And you're a selfish jerk!"

He slapped me so hard it whipped my face to the side, and my eyes watered heavily. There was a high-pitched whine in my ears. I swallowed and held my cheek. "You said you'd never do that again," I said hoarsely.

Nick was breathing heavily, his eyes crazy-wide. "It's your fault for driving me nuts. Damn it all, I'm going to straighten your ass out." He grabbed me by one arm, his other hand fisting in my hair, and he hauled me into the living room. He was shouting filthy words, shoving me facedown over an ottoman.

"No," I cried, smothered in the upholstery. "No."

But he jerked down my jeans and panties and drove into my dry flesh, and it hurt, a fierce pinching pain that turned to raw fire, and I knew he had torn something inside me. He thrust harder, faster, easing only when I stopped saying no and fell silent, my tears sliding in a hot salty trail down to the cushion. I tried to think beyond the pain, told myself it would be over soon, just take it, take it, he'll be done in a minute.

One last bruising thrust, and Nick shuddered over me, and I shuddered too as I thought of the swimming liquid inside me. I wanted nothing to do with his babies. I wanted nothing to do with sex either.

I gasped with relief as he pulled out, heat trickling down my thighs. There were the sounds of Nick zipping and fastening his pants.

"Your period's started," he said gruffly.

We both knew it was too early for my period. That wasn't where the blood had come from. I said nothing, only lifted myself from the ottoman and pulled my clothes in place.

Nick spoke again, sounding more normal. "I'll finish cooking dinner while you clean yourself up. What do I need to do?"

"Boil the pasta."

"How long?"

"Twelve minutes."

I hurt from my waist to my knees. I'd never had rough sex with Nick before. It was rape, a small voice said inside, but I immediately told myself that if I had only relaxed a little more, been less dry, it wouldn't have hurt nearly as much. But I didn't want it, the voice persisted.

I stood and flinched at the brutal throbbing soreness, and began to hobble to the bathroom.

"A little less drama, if you don't mind," I heard Nick say.

I was silent as I continued to the bathroom and closed the door. I started the shower, made it as hot as I could stand it, and I undressed and got in. I stood in the spray for what seemed like forever, until my body was stinging and clean and aching. I was in a fog of bewilderment, wondering how my life had come to this. Nick would not be pacified until I'd had a baby, and then he would want another, and the unwinnable game of trying to please him would never end.

This was not a matter of trying to sit down and talk honestly with someone about your feelings. That only worked when your feelings mattered. Nick, even when he seemed to be listening, was only gathering points to be used against me later. Someone else's pain, whether emotional or physical, didn't register with him. But I had thought he loved me. Had he changed so much since we'd gotten married, or had I made a fatal misjudgment?

Turning off the shower, I wrapped a towel around my sore body and went to the mirror. I used my hand to wipe a circle in the fogged mirror. My face was distorted, one eye swollen at the outside corner.

The bathroom door rattled. "You've been in there too long. Come out and eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Open the goddamn door and stop sulking."

I unlocked the door and opened it, and stood facing him, this angry man who looked ready to tear me apart. I was afraid of him, but even more than that, I was utterly defeated. I had tried so hard to play by his rules, but he kept changing them.

"I'm not going to apologize this time," he said. "You were asking for it. You know better than to talk to me like that."

"If we had children," I told him, "you would hit them too."

Fresh rage began to color his face. "Shut your mouth."

"You would," I insisted. "You would knock them around whenever they did something you didn't like. That's one of the reasons I don't want your baby."

Nick's lack of reaction scared me. It became so quiet that the drip-drip from the showerhead made me flinch. He stared at me without blinking, his hazel eyes flat and shiny like buttons. Drip. Drip. Drip. Gooseflesh rose over my naked body, the towel damp and cold around me.

"Where are they?" he asked abruptly, and pushed past me. He started rummaging through the bathroom drawers, tossing out compacts and hairpins and brushes, everything clattering to the wet tile floor.

"Where are what?" I asked, my heart kicking into overdrive, going so wild that it made my rib cage hurt. I was amazed at how calm I sounded when terror was corroding my insides like battery acid. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He threw an empty water glass to the floor, smashing it. And he continued to empty out drawers like a madman. "You know exactly what I'm asking."

If he found the birth control pills, he would kill me. A strange, sickening resignation settled beneath the fear, and my pulse quieted. I was light-headed and freezing. "I'm going to get dressed," I said, still calm, even as he broke, ripped, threw, destroyed, liquids and powders spilling, running together in oozing pastel puddles.

I went to my dresser, pulled out jeans and underwear and a T-shirt even though it was late and I should have reached for pajamas. I guess my subconscious had already figured out I wouldn't be sleeping that night. As I finished dressing, Nick stormed into the bedroom and shoved me aside. He pulled out drawers and upended them, emptying my clothes into piles.

"Nick, stop it."

"Tell me where they are!"

"If you're looking for an excuse to hit me again," I said, "just go ahead and do it." I didn't sound defiant. I wasn't even scared anymore. I was weary, the kind of weary you get to when your thoughts and emotions dry up to nothing.

But Nick was determined to find proof that I had betrayed him, and punish me until I would forever be afraid. Finishing with the drawers, he went into the closet and started throwing my shoes and ripping open my purses. I didn't try to run or hide. I just stood there, numb and expectant, waiting for the execution.

He came from the closet with the pills in hand, hell in his face. I dimly understood that he was no more in control of his actions than I was. There was a monster in him that had to be fed, and he wouldn't stop until it was satisfied.

I was grabbed and slammed against the wall, my head filled with white noise as the back of my skull struck the hard surface. Nick hit me harder than he ever had before, his hand closed this time, and I felt my jaw crack. I only understood a few words, something about the pills, and I was going to have all the goddamn pills I wanted, and he tore some from the package and shoved them into my mouth, and tried to hold my jaw shut as I spat and sputtered. He hit me in the stomach and I doubled over, and he dragged me through the first-floor apartment to the front door.

I went hurtling to the ground, landing hard on the edge of the from doorstep. A piercing agony shot through me as his foot connected with my ribs. "You stay there till morning," he snarled. "You think about what you've done."

The door slammed shut.

I lay outside on the pavement, the sun-heated asphalt smoking like a stove plate even though it was dark. October in Texas was as hot as high summer. Cicadas creaked and teemed, the vibration of their tymbals filling the air. After a long time I sat up and spat out a mouthful of salty liquid, and evaluated the damage. I hurt in my stomach and ribs and between the legs, and in the back of the head. My mouth was bleeding, and there was searing pain in my jaw.

My biggest fear was that Nick might open the door and drag me back in.

Trying to think above the violent pounding in my head, I considered my options. No purse. No money. No driver's license. No cell phone. No car keys. No shoes either. I looked down at my bare feet, and I had to laugh even though it hurt my swollen mouth. Shit, this was not good. It occurred to me that I might actually have to wait outside all night like a cat Nick had thrown out. Come morning, he would let me in, and I would crawl back, chastened and defeated.

I wanted to curl up and start crying. But I found myself lurching to my feet, fighting for balance.

To hell with you, I thought, glancing at the closed door. I could still walk.

If I could have gone to anyone at that moment, it would have been my best friend, Todd. I needed his understanding and comfort.

But in these circumstances, there was only one person who could really help me. Gage Everyone from McAllen to El Paso either owed him favors or wanted to do him favors. He could solve a problem quickly, efficiently, with no fanfare. And there was no one in the world I trusted more.

I walked to the grocery store a quarter mile away, barefoot. As the darkness thickened, a full orange moon rose in the sky. It wavered before my eyes as if it were a set decoration in a high school play, hanging on hooks. A hunter's moon. I felt foolish and scared as the lights of passing cars crossed over me. But soon my accumulated aches and pains grew to the point that I stopped feeling foolish. I had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I was afraid I might pass out. I kept my head low, not wanting anyone to stop by the side of the road. No questions, no strangers, no police. They might take me back to my husband. Nick had become so powerful in my mind that I thought he might explain everything away, take me back to that condo and possibly kill me.

The ache in my jaw was the worst. I tried to match my teeth together to see if it was broken or askew, but even the slightest movement of my mouth was agony. By the time I reached the grocery store, I was seriously considering offering my wedding band as a trade for some Tylenol. But there was no way I was going into that brightly lit store with all the people coming and going. I knew how I looked, the attention it would draw, and that was the last thing I wanted.

I found a pay phone outside, and I made a collect call, pushing each button with fierce concentration. I knew Gage's cell phone number by heart. Please answer, I thought, wondering what I would do if he didn't. Please answer. Please...

And then I heard his voice, and the operator asked if he would accept the call.

"Gage?" I held the receiver with both hands, gripping as if it were a lifeline.

"Yeah, it's me. What's going on?"

The task of answering, explaining, was so overwhelming that for a moment I couldn't speak. "I need you to come get me," I managed to whisper.

His voice became very calm, gentle, as if he were speaking to a child. "What happened, darlin'? Are you all right?"

"No."

A brief, electric silence, and then he asked urgently, "Where are you, Haven?"

I couldn't answer for a moment. The relief of hearing my own name, spoken in that familiar voice, melted through the numbness. My throat worked hard, and I felt hot tears gush down my face, stinging my abraded skin. "Grocery store," I finally managed to choke out.

"In Dallas?"

"Yes."

"Haven, are you by yourself?" I heard him ask. "Uh-huh."

"Can you take a cab to the airport?"

" No." I sniffled and gulped. "I don't have my purse."

"Where are you?" Gage repeated patiently. I told him the name of the grocery store and the street it was on. "Okay. I want you to wait near the front entrance... is there a place you can sit?"

"There's a bench."

"Good girl. Haven, go sit on that bench and do not move. I'll have someone there as soon as possible. Don't go anywhere, do you understand? Sit there and wait."

"Gage," I whispered, "don't call Nick, 'kay?"

I heard him draw an unsteady breath, but when he spoke, his voice was even. "Don't worry, sweetheart. He's not coming near you again."

As I sat on the bench and waited, I knew I was garnering curious glances. My face was bruised, one eye was almost swollen shut and my jaw was huge. A child asked his mother what was wrong with me, and she hushed him and told him not to stare. I was grateful that no one approached me, that people's natural instincts were to avoid the kind of trouble I was obviously in.

I wasn't aware of how much time passed. It could have been a few minutes or an hour. But eventually a man approached the bench, a young black guy wearing khakis and a button-down shirt. He lowered to his haunches in front of me, and I looked blearily into a pair of worried brown eyes. He smiled as if to reassure me. "Miss Travis?" His voice was as soft and rich as sorghum syrup. "I'm Oliver Mullins. A friend of your brother's. He called and said you needed a ride." Staring at me, he added slowly, "But now I'm wondering if maybe you don't need to go to the emergency room."

I shook my head, panicking. "No. No. Don't want that. Don't take me there — "

"Okay," he soothed. "Okay, no problem. I'll take you to the airport. Let me help you to my car."

I didn't move. "Promise we're not going to the emergency room."

"I promise. I absolutely promise."

I still didn't move. "Can't get on a plane," I mumbled. It was getting really hard to talk. "Don't have my driver's license."

"It's a private plane, Miss Travis." His gaze was kind and pitying.

"You won't need your license, or a ticket. Come on, let's — " He broke off as he saw my torn bleeding feet. "Christ," he whispered.

"No hospital," I muttered.

Without asking permission, Oliver sat beside me. I watched as he took off his shoes and socks, slipped his bare feet back into the loafers, and carefully put his own socks on me. "I'd give you the shoes," he said, "but there's no way you could keep 'em on. Will you let me carry you to the car?"

I shook my head. I was pretty sure I couldn't tolerate being held by anyone, for any reason, no matter how briefly.

"That's all right," Oliver murmured. "You just take your time, then." He stood and waited patiently while I struggled up from the bench, his hands half raised as if he had to stop himself from reaching for me. "Car's over there. The white Cadillac."

Together we walked slowly to the car, a gleaming pearl-colored sedan, and Oliver held the door open as I crawled in. "Would you be more comfortable with the seat back lowered?" he asked.

I closed my eyes, too exhausted to answer. Oliver leaned down, pressed a button, and eased the seat back until I was half reclining.

He went to the other side, got in and started the car. The Cadillac purred smoothly as we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road. I heard the sound of a cell phone being flipped open, and a number being dialed. "Gage," Oliver said after a moment. "Yeah, I got her. Headed to DFW right now. Have to tell you, though... he knocked her around pretty good. She's a little out of it." A long pause, and Oliver answered quietly. "I know, man." More talking on the other end. "Yeah, I think she's okay to travel, but when she gets there... Uh-huh, I think so, definitely. I'll let you know when she takes off. No problem

There was no softer ride than a Cadillac — the closest thing to a mattress on wheels — but every delicate bounce sent fresh aches through my body. I tried to grit my teeth against the pain, only to gasp at the burst of fire in my jaw.

I heard Oliver's voice between the loud throbs of the pulse in my ears. "Feel like you're going to get sick, Miss Travis?"

I made a small negative sound. No way was I going to do that — it would hurt too much.

A small plastic trash receptacle was settled carefully in my lap. "Just in case."

I was silent, my eyes closed, as Oliver maneuvered carefully through the traffic. Lights from passing cars sent a dull red glow through my lids. I was vaguely worried by the difficulty I had in thinking coherently... I couldn't seem to come up with any idea of what would happen next. Trying to grab hold of a coherent thought was like standing under a big cloud and trying to catch raindrops with a teaspoon. I felt like I would never be in control of anything again.

"You know," I heard Oliver say, "my sister used to get beat up by her husband. Pretty often. For no reason. For any reason. I didn't know about it at the time, or I would have killed the son of a bitch. She finally left him and brought her kids to my mama's house, and stayed there till she got her life back together. Saw a shrink and everything. My sister told me the thing that helped her the most was to hear it wasn't her fault. She needed to hear that a lot. So I want to be the first one to tell you... it wasn't your fault."

I didn't move or speak. But I felt tears leak from beneath my closed eyelids.

"Not your fault," Oliver repeated firmly, and drove me the rest of the way in silence.

I dozed a little and woke a few minutes later when the car had topped and Oliver was opening the door. The roar of a departing jet tore through the cushioned quiet of the Cadillac, and the smells of fuel and equipment and humid Texas air drifted over me. Blinking and sitting up slowly, I realized we were on the tarmac.

"Let me help you out," Oliver said, reaching for me. I shrank from his outstretched hand and shook my head. Clasping an arm across the place on my ribs where Nick had kicked me, I struggled from the car by myself. When I got to my feet, my head swam and a gray mist covered my eyes. I swayed and Oliver caught my free arm to steady me.

"Miss Travis," he said, continuing to grip my arm even as I tried to shake him off. "Miss Travis, please listen to me. All I want to do is help you get on that plane. You've got to let me help you. If you fall trying to get up those steps by yourself, you'd have to go to the hospital for sure. And I'd have to go there with you, 'cause your brother would break both my legs."

I nodded and accepted his hold, even as my instincts screamed to throw him off. The last thing I wanted was to be touched by another man, no matter how apparently trustworthy or friendly. On the other hand, I wanted to be on that plane. I wanted to get the hell out of Dallas, away from Nick.

"Okay, now," Oliver murmured, helping me shuffle toward the plane. It was a Lear 31A, a light jet made to accommodate up to six passengers. With four-foot-high winglets and delta fins attached to the tail cone, it looked like a bird poised for flight. "Not far," Oliver said, "and then you'll get to sit again, and Gage will be there to pick you up at the other end." As we ascended the stairs with torturous slowness, Oliver kept up a running monologue as if he were trying to distract me from the agony of my jaw and ribs. "This is a nice plane. It belongs to a software company headquartered in Dallas. I know the pilot real well. He's good, he'll get you there safe and sound."

"Who owns the company?" I mumbled, wondering if it was someone I'd met before.

"Me." Oliver smiled and helped me to one of the front seats with great care, and buckled me in. He went to a minibar, wrapped a few pieces of ice in a cloth, and gave it to me. "For your face. Rest now. I'm gonna talk to the pilot for a minute and then you'll be on your way."

"Thanks," I whispered, holding the shifting icy weight of the bag against my jaw. I settled deeper into the seat, gingerly molding the ice bag to the swollen side of my face.

The flight was miserable but mercifully short, landing in southeast Houston at Hobby Airport. I was slow to react when the plane stopped on the tarmac, my fingers fumbling over and over with the seat belt fastener. After the Jetway stairs were brought to the plane, the copilot emerged from the cockpit and opened the entrance door. In a matter of seconds, my brother was on the plane.

Gage's eyes were an unusual pale gray, not like fog or ice, but lightning. His black lashes and brows stood out strongly on his worry-bleached face. He froze for a millisecond as he saw me, then swallowed hard and came forward.

"Haven," he said, sounding hoarse. He lowered to his knees and braced his hands on either chair arm, his gaze raking over me. I managed to free myself from the seat belt, and I leaned forward into his familiar smell. His arms closed around me tentatively, unlike his usual firm grip, and I realized he was trying to keep from hurting me. I felt the trembling beneath his stillness.

Overwhelmed with relief I laid my good cheek on his shoulder.

"Gage," I whispered. "Love you more than anybody."

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Love you too, baby girl."

"Don' take me to River Oaks."

He understood at once. "No, darlin'. You're coming home with me. I haven't told Dad you're here."

He helped me out to his car, a sleek silver Maybach. "Don't go to sleep," he said sharply as I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

"I'm tired."

"There's a lump on the back of your head. You probably have a concussion, which means you shouldn't sleep."

"I slept on the plane," I said. "I'm fine, see? Jus' let me — "

"You're not fine," Gage said with a savagery that made me flinch. "You're — " He broke off and modulated his tone at once as he saw the effect it had on me. "Hell, I'm sorry. Don't be afraid. I won't yell. It's just... not easy... to stay calm when I see what he's done to you." He took a long, uneven breath. "Stay awake until we get to the hospital. It'll only be a few minutes."

"No hospital," I said, pulling out of my torpor. "They'll want to know how it happened." The police would be told, and they might file assault charges against Nick, and I wasn't nearly ready to deal with all of that.

"I'll handle it," Gage said.

He would too. He had the power and money to circumvent all the usual processes. Palms would be greased, favors would be exchanged. People would look the other way at precisely the right moment. In Houston the Travis name was a key to open all doors — or close them, if that was preferable.

"I want to go somewhere and rest." I tried to sound resolute. But my voice came out blurred and plaintive, and my head throbbed too much for me to keep up an argument.

"Your jaw might be broken," Gage said quietly. "And hell knows what he did to the rest of you." He let out an explosive sigh. "Can you tell me what happened?"

I shook my head. Sometimes a simple question could have a complicated answer. I wasn't really sure how or why it had happened, what it was about Nick or me or both of us together that had resulted in such damage. I wondered if he realized I was gone yet, if he'd gone out to the front doorstep and found it empty. Or if he was sleeping comfortably in our bed.

Gage was silent during the rest of the drive to the Houston Medical Center, the biggest medical district in the world. It consisted of many different hospitals, academic and research institutions. I had no doubt my family had donated new wings or equipment to at least a couple of them.

"Was this the first time?" Gage asked as we pulled up to the emergency room parking lot.

"No."

He muttered a few choice words. "If I'd ever thought the bastard would raise a hand to you, I'd never have let you go with him."

"You couldn' have stopped me," I said thickly. "I was determined. Stupid."

"Don't say that." Gage looked at me, his eyes filled with anguished fury. "You weren't stupid. You took a chance on someone, and he turned out to be... Shit, there's no word for it. A monster."

His tone was grim. "A walking dead man. Because when I get to him — "

"Please." I'd had enough of angry voices and violence for one night. "I don't know if Nick realized how much he hurt me."

"One small bruise is enough to warrant me killing him." He got me out of the car, picking me up and carrying me as if I were a child.

"I can walk," I protested.

"You're not walking through the parking lot in your socks. Damn it, Haven, give it a rest." He carried me to the emergency room waiting area, which was occupied by at least a dozen people, and set me gently beside the reception desk.

"Gage Travis," my brother said, handing a card to the woman behind the glass partition. "I need someone to see my sister right away."

I saw her eyes widen briefly, and she nodded to the door on the left of the reception desk. "I'll meet you at the door, Mr. Travis. Come right in."

"No," I whispered to my brother. "I don' want to cut in from of everyone. I want to wait with the other people."

"You don't have a choice." The door opened, and I found myself being pushed and pulled into the pale beige hallway. A wave of anger rushed over me at the manhandling from my brother. I didn't give a shit how well intentioned it was.

"It's not fair," I said fiercely, while a nurse approached. "I won't do it. I'm no more important than anyone else here — "

"You are to me."

I was outraged on behalf of the people in the waiting room, all taking their turn while I was whisked right on through. And I was mortified at playing the role of privileged heiress. "There were a couple of children out there," I said, pushing at Gage's restraining arm. "They need to see a doctor as much as I do."

"Haven," Gage said in a low, inexorable tone, "everyone in that waiting room is in better shape than you. Shut up, settle down, and follow the nurse."

With a strength fed on adrenaline, I jerked away from him and bumped against the wall. Pain, too much of it, too fast, came at me from various sources. My mouth watered, my eyes began to stream, and I felt a rising pressure of bile. "I'm going to throw up," I whispered.

With miraculous speed, a kidney-shaped plastic bowl was produced as if by sleight of hand, and I bent over it, moaning. Since I hadn't eaten dinner, there wasn't much to disgorge. I vomited painfully, finishing with a few dry heaves.

"I think she's got a concussion," I heard Gage tell the nurse. "She has a lump on the head, and slurred speech. And now nausea."

"We'll take good care of her, Mr. Travis." The nurse led me to a wheelchair. From that point on, there was nothing to do but surrender to the process. I was X-rayed, run through an MRI, checked for fractures and hematomas, then disinfected and bandaged and medicated. There were long periods of waiting between each procedure. It took most of the night.

As it turned out I had a middle rib fracture, but my jaw was only bruised, not broken. I had a slight concussion, but not enough to warrant a stay in the hospital. And I was dosed with enough Vicodin to make an elephant high.

I was too annoyed with Gage, and too exhausted, to say much of anything after I'd been checked out. I slept during the fifteen-minute ride to Gage's condo at 1800 Main, a Travis-owned building made of glass and steel. It was a mixed-use structure with multimillion-dollar condos at the top and offices and retail space at the base. The distinctive glass segmented-pyramid surmounting the building had earned 1800 Main a semi-iconic status in the city.

I had been inside 1800 Main a couple of times to eat at one of the downstairs restaurants, but I had never actually seen Gage's place.

He had always been intensely private.

We rode a swift elevator to the eighteenth floor. The condo door was open before we even made it to the end of the hallway. Liberty was standing there in a fuzzy peach-colored robe, her hair in a ponytail.

I wished she weren't there, my gorgeous, perfect sister-in-law who'd made all the right choices, the woman everybody in my family adored. She was one of the last people I would want to see me like this. I felt humiliated and troll-like as I lurched down the hallway toward her.

Liberty drew us both into the condo, which was ultramodern and starkly furnished, and closed the door. I saw her stand on her toes to kiss Gage. She turned to me.

"Hope you don' mind — " I began, and fell silent as she put her arms around me. She was so soft, smelling like scented powder and toothpaste, and her neck was warm and tender. I tried to pull back, but she didn't let go. It had been a long time since I'd been held this long by an adult woman, not since my mother. It was what I needed.

"I'm so glad you're here," she murmured. I felt myself relaxing, understanding there was going to be no judgment from Liberty, nothing but kindness.

She took me to the guest bedroom and helped me change into a nightshirt, and tucked me in as if I were no older than Carrington.

The room was pristine, decorated in shades of pale aqua and gray. "Sleep as long as you want," Liberty whispered, and closed the door.

I lay there dizzy and dazed. My cramped muscles released their tension, unraveling like braided cord. Somewhere in the condo a baby began to cry and was swiftly quieted. I heard Carrington's voice, asking where her purple sneakers were. She must have been getting ready for school. A few clanks of dishes and pans... breakfast being prepared. They were comforting sounds. Family sounds.

And I drifted gratefully to sleep, part of me wishing I would never wake up.

After you’ve been systematically abused, your judgment erodes to the point where it's nearly impossible to make decisions. Small decisions are as tough as big ones. Even choosing a breakfast cereal seems filled with peril. You are so scared about doing the wrong thing, being blamed and punished for it, you'd rather have someone else take the responsibility.

For me there was no relief in having left Nick. Whether or not I was still with him, I was buried in feelings of worthlessness. He had blamed me for causing the abuse, and his conviction had spread through me like a virus. Maybe I had caused it. Maybe I had deserved it.

Another side effect of having lived with Nick was that reality had acquired all the substance and stability of a jellyfish. I questioned myself and my reactions to everything. I didn't know what was true anymore. I couldn't tell if any of my feelings about anything were appropriate.

After sleeping about twenty-four hours, with Liberty checking on me occasionally, I finally got out of bed. I went to the bathroom and inspected my face in the mirror. I had a black eye, but the swelling had gone down. My jaw was still puffy and weird on one side, and I looked like I'd been in a car wreck. But I was hungry, which I thought was probably a good thing, and I was definitely feeling more human and less like roadkill.

As I shuffled into the main living area, groggy and hurting, I saw Gage sitting at a glass table.

Usually he was impeccably dressed, but at that moment he was wearing an old T-shirt and sweatpants, and his eyes were underpinned by dark circles.

"Wow," I said, going to sit by him, "you look terrible."

He didn't smile at my attempt at humor, just watched me with concern.

Liberty came in carrying a baby. "Here he is," she said cheerfully. My nephew, Matthew, was a chubby, adorable one-year-old with a gummy grin, big gray eyes, and a thatch of thick black hair.

"You gave the baby a Mohawk?" I asked as Liberty sat beside me with Matthew in her lap.

She grinned and nuzzled his head. "No, it just sort of fell off the sides and stayed on the top. I've been told it'll grow back in eventually."

"I like it. The family's Comanche streak is coming through." I wanted to reach for the baby, but I didn't think my cracked rib could take it, even with the support of the elastic rib belt around my midsection. So I settled for playing with his feet, while he giggled and crowed.

Liberty looked at me appraisingly. "It's time for your medicine again. Do you think you could eat some toast and eggs first?"

"Yes, please." I watched as she settled Matthew in a high chair and scattered some Cheerios on the surface. The baby began to rake the cereal bits with his fist, transferring them to his mouth.

"Coffee?" Liberty asked. "Hot tea?"

I usually preferred coffee, but I thought it might be tough on my stomach. "Tea would be great."

Gage drank his own coffee, set the cup down, and reached over to cover my hand with his. "How are you?" he asked.

As soon as he touched me, a nasty threatened feeling came over me. I couldn't stop myself from jerking my hand away. My brother, who had never done violence to a woman, looked at me with open-mouthed amazement.

"Sorry," I said, abashed as I saw his reaction.

He tore his gaze away, seeming occupied with a fierce inner struggle, and I saw that his color was high. "You're not the one who should be sorry," he muttered.

After Liberty had brought me tea and my prescription pills, Gage cleared his throat and asked gruffly, "Haven, how did you get away from Nick last night? How did you end up with no purse and no shoes?"

"Well, he... he sort of... threw me out. I think he expected me to wait on the doorstep until he let me back in."

I saw Liberty pause temporarily as she came to pour more coffee for him. I was surprised by how shocked she looked.

Gage reached for a glass of water, nearly knocking it over. He took a few deliberate gulps. "He beat you up and threw you out," he repeated. It wasn't a question, more a statement he was trying to make himself believe. I nodded yes and reached over to nudge one of Matthew's Cheerios more closely within reach.

"I'm not sure what Nick's going to do when he sees I'm gone," I heard myself say. "I'm afraid he might file a missing persons report. I guess I should call him. Although I'd rather not tell him where I am."

"I'm going to call one of our lawyers in a few minutes," Gage said. "I'll find out what we need to do next." He continued talking in a measured tone, about how we might need to take photos of my injuries, how to get the divorce over with as quickly as possible, how to minimize my involvement so I wouldn't have to face Nick or talk to him —

"Divorce?" I asked stupidly, while Liberty set a plate in front of me. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."

"You don't think you're ready? Have you looked in the mirror, Haven? How much more of a pounding do you need to be ready?"

I looked at him, so big and decisive and strong-willed, and everything in me rebelled.

"Gage, I just got here. Can I have a break? Just for a little while? Please?"

"The only way for you to get a break is to divorce the son of a"— Gage paused and glanced at his attentive baby — "gun."

I knew my brother was trying to protect me, that he wanted what was best for me. But his protectiveness felt like bullying. And it reminded me of Dad. "I know that," I said. "I just want to think about things before I talk to a lawyer."

"God help me, Haven, if you're actually considering going back to him — "

"I'm not. I'm just tired of being told what to do and when to do it. All the time! I feel like I'm on a runaway train. I don't want you making decisions about what I should do next."

"Fine. Then you make them. Fast. Or I will."

Liberty intervened before I could reply. "Gage," she murmured. Her slim fingers went to the taut surface of his clenched bicep and stroked lightly. His attention was instantly diverted. He looked at her, the lines on his face smoothing out, and he took a deep breath. I had never seen anyone wield that kind of power over my authoritative brother, and I was impressed. "This is a process," she said gently. "I know we want Haven to skip over the middle part and get right to the end... but I think the only way for her to get out of it is to go through it. Step by step."

He frowned but didn't argue. They exchanged a private glance. Clearly there would be more discussion later, out of my hearing. He turned back to me. "Haven," he said quietly, "what would you say if one of your friends told you her husband had thrown her out on the doorstep one night? What would your advice be?"

"I... I'd tell her to leave him right away," I admitted. "But it's different when it's me."

"Why?" he asked in genuine bewilderment.

"I don't know," I answered helplessly.

Gage rubbed his face with both hands. He stood from the table. "I'm going to get dressed and go to the office for a while. I won't make any calls." He paused deliberately before adding, "Yet." Going to the high chair, he lifted Matthew and held him aloft to make him squeal with delight. Lowering the wriggling body, Gage kissed his neck and cuddled him. "Hey, pardner. You be a good boy for Mommy while I'm gone. I'll come back later and we'll do some guy stuff."

Settling the baby back in the chair, Gage leaned down to kiss his wife, sliding his hand behind the back of her neck. It was more than a casual kiss, turning harder, longer, until she reached up and stroked his face. Breaking it off, he continued to look into her eyes, and it seemed an entire conversation passed between them.

Liberty waited until Gage had gone to take a shower before telling me gently, "He was so upset after he brought you home. He loves you. It drives him crazy, thinking of someone hurting you. It's all he can do to stop himself from going to Dallas and... doing something that's not in your best interests."

I blanched. "If he goes to Nick — "

"No, no, he won't. Gage is very self-controlled when it comes to getting the results he wants. Believe me, he'll do whatever is necessary to help you, no matter how hard it is."

"I'm sorry for involving you in this," I said. "I know it's the last thing you or Gage need."

"We're your family." She leaned over and gathered me into another of those long, comfortable hugs. "We'll figure it out. And don't worry about Gage — I'm not going to let him bully you. He just wants you to be safe... but he's got to let you be in charge of how it's handled."

I felt a wave of affection and gratitude for her. If there was any lingering trace of resentment or jealousy in my heart, it vanished in that moment.

Once I started talking, I couldn't stop. I told Liberty everything, the way Nick had controlled the household, the shirts I'd had to iron, the way he called me "Marie." Her eyes widened at that last, and she said in a low voice, "Oh, Haven. It's like he was trying to erase you."

We had laid out a big quilt with a barnyard design, and Matthew had crawled among the hand-stitched animals until he drifted to sleep on top of a flock of sheep. Liberty opened a bottle of chilled white wine. "Your prescription instructions say that alcohol may magnify the effects of the medication," she warned.

"Good," I said, holding out my glass. "Don't be stingy."

Lounging on the quilt with the sleeping baby, I tried to find a comfortable position on the pile of pillows Liberty had set out for me. "What's confusing," I told her, still pondering my relationship with Nick, "are the times when he's okay, because then you think everything is getting better. You know what buttons not to push. But then there are new buttons. And no matter how sorry you are, no matter how hard you try, everything you say and do builds up the tension until there's an explosion."

"And the explosions get worse each time," she said with a quiet certainty that got my attention.

"Yeah, exactly. Did you ever date a guy like that?"

"My mother did." Her green eyes were distant. "His name was Louis. A Jekyll and Hyde type. He started out charming and nice, and he led Mama step by step into the relationship, and by the time things got bad enough for her to leave, her self-esteem was shredded. At the time I was too young to understand why she let him treat her so badly."

Her gaze wandered over Matthew's slumbering body, limp and heavy as a sack of flour. "I think the thing you've got to figure out is if Nick's behavior is something that could be helped with counseling. If your leaving him would he enough to make him want to change."

I sipped my wine and considered that for a while. Was Nick's abusiveness something that could be peeled away like an orange rind? Or was it marbled all the way through?

"I think with Nick, it's always going to be about control," I finally said. "I can't see him ever admitting something is his fault, or that he needs to change in any way. The fault is always mine." Set-ting aside my empty wine glass, I rubbed my forehead. "I keep wondering... did he ever love me at all? Was I anything more than just someone to push around and manipulate? Because if he never cared about me, it makes me even more of an idiot for having loved him."

"Maybe he cared about you as much as he was capable," Liberty said.

I smiled without humor. "Lucky me." I realized we were talking about my relationship with Nick as if it were already in the past tense. "If I had known him longer," I continued, "dated him longer, maybe I would have seen through the facade. It was my fault for rushing into marriage so quickly."

"No it wasn't," Liberty insisted. "Sometimes an imitation of love can be pretty damn convincing."

The words reminded me of something I'd heard her say a long time ago on her wedding night. A lifetime ago. "Like the imitation you had with Hardy Cates?"

She nodded, her expression turning thoughtful. "Yes, although I wouldn't care to put Hardy in the same company as Nick. He would never hurt a woman. In fact, Hardy had the opposite problem... always wanting to rescue someone... I forget the name for it..."

"A white knight complex."

"Yes. But after the rescue was done, that was Hardy's cue to leave."

"He wasn't such a white knight when he ruined Gage's business deal," I couldn't resist pointing out.

Liberty's smile turned rueful. "You're right But I think Hardy considered that a shot against Gage, not me." She shook her head dismissively. "About you and Nick... it's not your fault that he went after you. I've read that abusers choose women they can easily manipulate — they have a kind of radar for it. Like, if you filled the Astrodome with people and put one abusive man and one vulnerable woman in there, they'd find each other."

"Oh, great." I was indignant. "I'm a walking target."

"You're not a target, you're just... trusting. Loving. Any normal guy would appreciate that. But I think someone like Nick probably thinks of love as a weakness he can take advantage of."

Regardless of what I wanted to hear, that got to me. It was a truth I couldn't get over, under, or around... it stood right in my way, blocking any possible path back to Nick.

No matter how much I loved him, or what I did for him, Nick wouldn't change. The more I tried to please him, the more contempt he would have for me.

"I can't go back to him," I said slowly, "can I?"

Liberty just shook her head.

"I can imagine what Dad will say if I got a divorce," I muttered. "Starting with a big, fat 'I told you so.'"

"No," Liberty said earnestly. "Really. I've talked with Churchill more than once about the way he behaved. He's sorry about having been such a hard-ass."

I wasn't buying that. "Dad lives to be a hard-ass."

Liberty shrugged. "Whatever Churchill says or thinks is not important right now. The point is what you want."

I was about to tell her it might take a long time to figure that out. But as I lowered myself next to the baby's warm body and snuggled close, a few things had become very clear. I wanted to never be hit or yelled at again. I wanted to be called by my own name. I wanted my body to belong to me. I wanted all the things that anyone deserved by virtue of being human. Including love.

And I knew deep down it wasn't love when one person had all the power and the other person was completely dependent. Real love was not possible in a hierarchy.

I nuzzled Matthew's scalp. Nothing in the world smelled as good as a clean baby. How innocent and trusting he was in sleep. How would Nick treat a helpless creature like this?

"I want to talk to the lawyer," I said sleepily. "Because I don't want to be the woman in the Astrodome."

Liberty draped a throw blanket gently over the two of us. "Okay," she whispered. "You're in charge, Haven."