in her right hand, hidden behind her back.
“You stay put, right where you are.” Iola waved the pistol.
“What are you going to do, Iola? Kill me? Kill your baby?” Olivia took slow
steps toward her. “Go ahead. Shoot me. I’d rather be dead than let your stinking,
disgusting clodhopper husband near me again.”
Olivia took another step forward and Iola took one back.
“I’m walking out of here,” Olivia said. “The only way you’re going to stop
me is to kill me. But you won’t do that, will you? What use am I to you dead?
For all you know, your husband’s foul seed is already growing inside me.”
“You don’t need your legs to have a baby,” Iola said. “You take one more step
and I’ll make a cripple of you.”
Olivia stopped. She heard a rider approaching and from the way Iola turned
her head Olivia knew she’d heard it too. How could Filmore be back already?
Jeremy. Maybe it was Jeremy.
Olivia lunged at Iola, knocking the pistol out of her hand. Both women fell to
the ground, Olivia on top. Olivia put her right knee on Iola’s chest, leaned into it
with all her weight, and managed to wrap the braided cloth around the older woman’s neck. She desperately pulled the ends in opposite directions as the
horse’s hooves grew closer. If it was Filmore, Olivia had to get to that pistol, fast. Olivia leaned forward, applying more weight. Then she punched Iola in the
face as hard as she could.
“How do you like it?” she shouted and pummeled her again and again.
Iola’s nose gushed blood. Olivia glanced at the pistol. Could she release her
hold on Iola long enough to go for it? Then she saw Filmore, framed in the doorway.
“What …” He didn’t seem to understand what was going on.
Iola came back to life and began shrieking, “Get her. Get her.”
Olivia hesitated. The pistol was too far away, she’d never make it. So she
tightened the cloth around Iola’s neck.
“You come near me, I’ll kill her,” Olivia said. “I’ll strangle her dead right here.” She pulled hard. “We’re going to get up and walk out of here.” It took all
of Olivia’s strength to drag herself to her feet, bent over and still clutching the ends of the cloth.
Filmore watched dumbly, as Olivia struggled to pull Iola to her feet.
“Get her now you damn fool!” Iola sputtered, as she raised her right knee and
brought her work boot down hard on Olivia’s bare foot. “Don’t just stand there
like a stupid ox! Get her!”
Olivia was doubled over, nearly blinded by the pain in her foot, and Filmore
had no difficulty overpowering her. One hard shove sent her sprawling to the floor. Iola spun around and raised a foot as if to kick her in the stomach, but stopped herself.
“Get her back on the bed,” she ordered her husband, her voice seething with
contempt. “You stupe. She near killed me with you standing there watching.”
Iola rubbed her throat, wiped her still bleeding nose with her apron, and then bent to pick up the pistol and put it in her apron pocket. “Look what she done to
me.” She put her hands to her disfigured face. “I come in here to help her and that’s the thanks I get.”
Filmore was standing over Olivia, not touching her.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get her back on the bed.”
