He would still love her, wouldn’t he? She glanced at the bandit nearest her and crept past him. It hadn’t been her fault. She’d fought until they knocked her unconscious that first day, fought them again the day after and the day after. It wasn’t her fault they had no decency or honor. But knowing she’d done nothing wrong didn’t keep her from feeling dirty and spoiled—ruined.
Was that how God saw her now? Ruined? She had prayed so hard for relief, for rescue, for a chance to escape. God hadn’t seemed to hear her, not until tonight. Her mother’s words drifted on a memory. God is always there, even when it’s too dark to see Him. Would Mama still believe that if she had lived through the past week?
Empty liquor bottles covered the rough-hewn table. They’d given her bread from time to time. She grabbed all that was left on the shelf and put it into a burlap bag with a few potatoes. She didn’t see any other food, so it would have to be enough. Her stomach rumbled, and she stiffened in terror.
The snores continued uninterrupted. She was being paranoid, fearing they would hear a gurgle like that.
Several hats and coats hung near the door. She stole a cap to replace the one she’d lost and took all four coats of thick Samoyed fur. They’d have a hard time following her without their coats. She knew which fur belonged to which bandit by smell. The stench was no worse than normal for a frequently worn, infrequently washed coat, but the memories associated with those men and that scent stirred the bile in her stomach. Despite the smell, she would have to wear one of the coats, maybe two of them.
She grabbed an ax. She didn’t think she could use it on the men—even if she were strong enough to land a crippling blow, she wasn’t sure she could kill or maim someone, no matter how vile he was—but an ax might mean the difference between freezing to death or having a fire. She stole their flint too.
The door handle was cold in her hand as she pulled the felt-padded door inward. The blast of a Siberian winter barreled inside. If she weren’t so desperate to leave, she’d be tempted to wait for better weather. She couldn’t let the men wake, so she rushed out and pulled the door shut as quickly and silently as she could.
Frigid air stung her lungs, but the cold was welcome. That clean, freezing air meant freedom. Now that she didn’t have to worry so much about silence, she ran. For a few moments, anyway, until that pain in her pelvis came back.
She breathed through the sharp, churning ache. It didn’t go away, but the worst of it passed. At least she didn’t feel the warmth of blood. She still wasn’t sure if the blood she’d found on her skirt that second day was a result of injury or a triggered miscarriage. She gritted her teeth. She couldn’t worry about that now—it was too depressing. Later, she would deal with it later.
Four sturdy ponies huddled together not far from the hut. If she stole the horses, they were more likely to pursue her. If she left alone, they might not chase her because there were plenty of other women they could carry off. She wouldn’t feel guilty for robbing the bandits—they’d taken far more from her—but which choice was more likely to see her safely back to Filip? Leaving the horses or taking them?
She prayed again. Nothing miraculous happened, but her thoughts cleared. Her injury would slow her, but the ponies would give her speed. She would take them all, leaving her captors with nothing but their feet if they decided to pursue her.
The animals wore lead ropes so she tied them into a line, then pulled on a thick pair of mittens. She secured the extra coats to the back of one pony and mounted another. The horses were short, so she could climb on easily enough. But once she’d straddled the animal, the pain flared so much that she leaned over and vomited. Her limbs trembled, sourness filled her mouth, and the icy Siberian wind cut into the bare skin of her face and neck. She wound a scarf around her nose, leaving only her eyes exposed to the weather. Then she gave the pony a little kick, and he plowed forward. The ones tied behind him followed.
When she got back to Filip, he’d take care of her while she recovered. There would be food and a fire and a warm bath and clean clothes and kind words and gentle kisses. She had to be strong for a little longer, and then he’d protect and heal her.
Maybe he was searching for her now. He would have gone looking when she hadn’t returned home, had probably recruited the entire village and all the nearby garrisons to help.
By the time the sun rose, she’d almost convinced herself that Filip would find her any moment. She looked across the wide, white steppe, searching for a speck that might be her husband. She clung to that hope, but she also kept looking over her shoulder, because she couldn’t survive if the men captured her again. She was too fragile, too broken by what she’d been through.
Her body ached, so she dismounted and walked for a while. She ate bread and a raw potato, then moved forward again. Mounting the pony the second time was worse, but she was light-headed after a week of horror and hunger, so she would have to ride, despite the pain. She didn’t have far to go now. She could put up with the pain because soon, she’d find the railway, or Filip would find her.
She rode on and off as the sun climbed into the southern sky and then began sinking again far too quickly. Each time she walked, she moved a little slower. And as the sun disappeared, it was harder to keep up her hope. Falling snow would have covered her bucket and the firewood. Even if it hadn’t been snowing, she’d dropped the firewood when she’d run. It wouldn’t have fallen into a neat stack. Filip wouldn’t know where she’d gone, wouldn’t have any idea where to search.
But he would still love her, wouldn’t he?
Doubt crept in as thoroughly as the winter chill. She dismounted when she reached a few trees, and she stamped her feet to force feeling into them. Maybe tomorrow she’d find the train tracks. Until then, she would ignore the crimes that had been committed against her and assume her husband would take her back, despite the ravages of bandits.
She took the ax and chopped down one of the short, spindly trees. It was harder to do than she’d expected. Filip usually set up the boxcar’s naida. In the growing darkness, she chopped down a second tree and cut off all the branches. She couldn’t feel her toes, but everything else from her waist down hurt. The logs of the naida were supposed to have squared sides, but she gave up after a few swings. The snow made the night not quite so black, but it was still difficult to see and even more difficult to get the angles right with frozen fingers.
She tied the logs together with one of the lead ropes and worked on starting a fire between them where the two pieces weren’t flush. Despite the pile of kindling, the flames blew out twice before she finally got something burning.
A fire at night might act as a beacon to any bandits in the area, but the alternative was freezing to death, and she couldn’t push forward indefinitely without rest. She piled up branches and snow to hide some of the light. Then she sat on the pile of hacked-off branches and roasted one of the potatoes.
When she finished eating, she brought the ponies close and laid down beside them, cocooned in fur coats. Guilt swept over her when she realized she had no food for the ponies. She shouldn’t have brought them when she couldn’t feed them. But as she watched, they nuzzled into the snow until they found the dead, buried grasses and grazed on those. The ponies were bred for these lands. They would be just fine.
The next day was difficult. She walked and rode but had to rest often. How far to the train tracks? Her captors had traveled by day, spending the first three nights in different locations. But they might not have traveled in a straight line. And what if they were following her? That fear—that terror—wouldn’t release her from its grip.