𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛

eight

The sound of Tara's bag hitting the floor resembled that of a gunshot ringing out across the tense silence of the house.

She dared not move.

Her mother stared right down at her, cold brown eyes swirling in absolute anger.

"I..." She swallowed deeply, her breath shaky and unreliable. "It's not what it looks like, I swear!" Tara desperately fumbled with her words, her usually bustling mind was dead silent of ideas or an excuse.

Though her voice was low and quiet, deep and divine, it was heard as clear as a crystal by the trembling woman below the staircase.

"Well, it looked to me as though..." She began her slow, taunting descent. "...you were trying to run away."

Such controlled words, terribly cold, burning to the touch. They sliced hot into Tara's resolve. She was utterly desperate. Nothing could motivate her terrified mind to do something, say something. Anything at all.

Hot tears threatened a humiliating escape from her wide eyes , but Katherine wasn't finished.

The serpent of a woman laid her claw-like hands upon the shiny, dark wood of the bannister, her feet slithering slowly, but still all too fast from the delicate fabric of her long dress. Katherine's eyes never once waivered from her teary daughter.

"Tara Mary Beth Donnelly..." She drawled the name out slowly, like testing it on her tongue. A curt scoff followed. "I should have always known you'd be a disappointment." Tara would have actually preferred the woman to scream her lungs out at her. Anything but this quiet, deadly whisper.

Tara hung her blonde head low, allowing hot, thick tears to run across her nose and drop below her onto the marble floors.

"I'm sorry, mother..."

"Who the fuck are you?"

Tara's lids slowly opened, blinking a few times to rid themselves of completely disorienting sleep. What was going on?

There was a gun against her head.

Cold metal had met warm, fair skin. Her face was pointing towards the ground, all she could see was his shoes.

The intrusion was enough to scare away any thoughts of her sleepy state or unwanted memories.

Her words caught in her throat, all that raced through her thoughts was the prospect of immediate death right in front of her, wearing honest and sturdy, black shoes and long, stained, trousers. With the way she sat, it was impossible for her to catch sight of anymore of him.

His soles were polished and clean, but the pants looked old, stained. Like they were worn for heavy work. He had a decent few bob in his pocket, she deduced, but perhaps not enough to get a good pair of pants, or quit the dirty work that ruined them.

The gun pressed harder against her temple.

"I said, who the fuck are you." Low and hard with rich gravel. His accent was deep-seated. A local. Presumably the owner of the fine establishment Tara had just crashed in.

"My name's Mary... Doughty."

Tara cautiously raised her arms, keeping her head bent. Mostly because she knew if she got a look down the barrel, it would surely paralyse her with crippling fear and she needed to keep her head if she wanted to get out of this. Tara slowly shuffled herself out of the incredibly vulnerable horizontal position she'd been caught out in, slowly rising to her feet, the gun shadowing her every move.

"I'm very sorry sir, it wasn't my intention to trespass..."

The pistol cocked next to her ear, the slow whir of the mechanism was loud and piercing. Tara nervously ran her tongue across her lips and began steadily breathing through the panic. Perhaps before the war, she would have gotten away with little more than a slap on the wrist, but people were angry and cold in this new world and a stranger napping in your barn was not only an unwelcome sight, but a potentially deadly one.

"It was dark and I couldn't afford a place in town. I didn't know anyone owned the gaff, I swear."

The man grunted softly. "An Irish lass, eh. You're a long way from home..."

There were a few tense beats of absolute silence. Neither of them moved. The gun stayed steady against Tara's temple. She felt as though he could surely hear her pounding heart from where he stood.

Suddenly, the man sucked in a sharp breath and Tara's stomach dropped.

He was going to pull the trigger.

All this way to be lynched by a fucking stranger. Tara scrunched her eyes shut. If this really was it, she hoped God would forgive her for what she'd done.

If not, a family reunion ought to be scheduled soon down in hell, where her mother had already, no doubt acquired the throne.

The silence reigned a little longer. He wasn't pulling the trigger.

The cold barrel left her head at the drop of a hat. She dared a look at him. A cloudy, dark peaky over his head, barely shading the crinkles in his forehead from a lifetime of frowning. Careless grey stubble and permanently pursed lips. He was tall enough that she had to look up to catch his eyes.

Only when she did, he noticeably squinted at her. What was he thinking?

"Best get goin' Mary." He grunted with a tone of finality. The gun that comfortably sat in his calloused hands pocketed themselves into their holster in a precise and skilful manner. With a last look, as if to confirm his decision, he turned to leave the shed. She unwound her tight muscles the moment the scrutiny of his narrowed gaze was off her, the light from the single pane window on the wall illuminating half her face as she stepped into it and forcing her to squint against the shine.

Tara breathed a quiet sigh of relief, but what now? This man had enough mercy to spare Tara and send her back on her way, but there was no way to guarantee the same reaction from anyone else who found her on their property.

Even though she knew it was best to just let him walk out the door and to do the same herself, Tara couldn't help but be scared of the uncertainty that lay ahead of her.

And it was that fear of the unknown that led her to call out to the tall stranger frantically, before he disappeared from the shed and from her miserable life.

"Wait!"