The Legend of Tommy Jo Sanchez

By Billie Bierer

Tommy Jo Sanchez's mother is a whore in Juarez Mexico and she has no hope unless she can steal the Federale's horse and ride across the Rio Grande into that unknown wilderness. The Federale's are after her, the Apache corner her and a Buffalo Soldier helps save her. Ride with her as she chases her dream into a new land and changes her fate forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Billie Bierer
• Release date: Dec 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465899071

Book preview

THE LEGEND OF TOMMY JO SANCHEZ

A Novel

By Billie Bierer

Copyright © 2006 Billie Bierer

Published at Smashwords

The Legend of Tommy Jo Sanchez Copyright@ 2006 Billie Bierer. All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing from the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.

All characters, names, descriptions or traits are products of the author's imagination.  Similarities to actual people--living or dead-- are purely coincidental.

PROLOG

The Buffalo Soldier rode a lanky bay mare, just south of Fort Bliss, cutting a trail no one would ever use again. Separating from his unit that morning to find game, he had come up empty handed. His only hope was that the other soldiers in his company had better luck. The sun was high in the cloudless Texas sky and just warm enough that any varmint worthy of shooting and eating would be holed up. It was unlikely he’d see anything big enough to feed six hungry men on the trail to Fort Bowie. At this rate, their bellies would be rumbling, and it would be another long night. But then, they were used to it.

The steady rhythm of his horse’s hooves striking lava rock was the only sound of his passing. The plains were menacingly still, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by him. He was a cautious man by nature, especially where the Apache were concerned.

Pulling his hat low, to better shade his hazel eyes, the uneasy feeling he harbored grew and continued to trouble him. A crawling sensation, he sometimes felt between his shoulder blades, just before Satan reared his ugly head, was the source of his edginess. His uncanny ability to sniff out danger was a gift passed to him by his mother, a Cajun black woman from Louisiana, known by many to have the Sight. So far this gift had helped keep him alive, that and good shooting.

Finally, the silence was so absolute it caused him to rein in his horse. His eyes cut the landscape searching for anything out of place. Something wasn’t right. There hadn’t been so much as a skitter of a lizard, or the call of a red-tailed hawk since the sun had risen high in the sky. The self-reliant desert wren had all but disappeared. It was then he became aware of a slow rise of dust, so faint at first he’d thought it to be a mirage dancing above sharp rocky peaks. Only considerable movement somewhere on the ground beyond those peaks would stir the motionless air. Something was passing, moving at a remarkable pace. Admonishing himself for nearly missing it, he silently thanked his mother once more. Drawing back powerful shoulders, and straightening in the saddle, he spun the bay mare and faced the mountain range.

What do you think, Jolly girl? The soldier’s deep voice was whisper soft as he stroked the mare’s neck. He had assigned his horse the name Jolly, after that camel rider he’d met once out in the middle of nowhere. The fellow’s name had a musical tone to it, which appealed to him. Though it was a name he’d given great consideration over a lengthy period of time because the mare was his favorite. Jolly, seemed to suit her, in a perverted sort of way, comical name and this being a land and time without much to laugh about, he’d thought the name worthy enough for his good horse. Could be a few braves out to raise a little hell. The mare snorted and stomped her foot. His horse had a sense of humor. That’s my Jolly. Always up for a fight. He chuckled and inhaled sharply as he continued to stare toward the mountains. His eyes narrowing dangerously, he murmured, If it’s Injuns, I reckon they’ve just found themselves a little hell. He broke his rifle, laying it across his lap and checked the loads. Lastly, undoing the leather strap from his pistol, he spoke again. One less Apache wouldn’t hurt. At least I’d have something to show for this day.

CHAPTER ONE

Juarez, Mexico

Mary Mother of God, but you are a beautiful whore. The El Capitán’s words were slurred with drunkenness. Tommy Jo Sanchez fought to feign pleasure, fought to control her hot temper and to hide the revulsion inside her.

Running her fingers along the Capitán’s uniformed arm, she surprised even herself as she parted her lips sensuously for his kiss, trying desperately not to think of the stench from his rotting teeth, and holding desperately to the vision of the black stallion. His horse waited outside, and he was the horse she needed in order to escape her impoverished life, and an early death.

As TJ unbuttoned the El Capitán’s jacket, the soldier ground his pelvis into her, his erection hard against her belly, his rank body odor filling the room. She prayed the soldier would not detect the knife hidden in the secret pocket of her pantaloons, her only concession toward self-preservation.

Hurtful hands groped her breasts and she twisted from the El Capitán, as if playing a child’s game. Fighting the bile rising in her throat, she slowly unbuttoned the top of her dress and watched it fall to the floor. She held her breath, and heard him groan at the sight of her.

The El Capitán upended the bottle of mescal, and drank greedily, laughing as he forced the potent drink into her mouth and throat, spilling it over her chin. He bent to kiss her breast and bit down viciously when his lips touched her tender skin.

Ducking her head, to hide the pain and anger she knew was on her face, she jumped aside, and forced herself to shimmy from her skirt. This man was a dirty pig beneath the handsome uniform. A slovenly man not fit for any decent woman. She would have loved nothing more than to serve his cajones on a silver platter, and she would have, except for the plan to steal his horse and escape.

Puta! Stop jumping here and there, you crazy whore. I am in a hurry, he complained, his hand stroking his penis, still concealed by his trousers. He lunged for her, falling forward, stumbling over his feet, and screamed, On the bed now whore! I do not have all night. I am loosing my patience with you. You waste my time. Dropping his breeches, his nakedness shown eerily in the dimly lit room.

Soon enough, TJ spat, hating this man. Resenting her lot in life. Resenting the fact that she’d been born into this filth and despair, and that now her only hope was that this soldier would pass out, making her theft easier. Please pass out, she willed. But she wasn’t any good at willing much of anything, and he continued to grab for her.

Throwing his boots toward the door, his eyes grew wide when she suddenly smiled up at him. Mistaking the smile for invitation, he was startled when TJ slid past him like a phantom, and angrily, he slapped her bottom.

Now! he screamed, grabbing a handful of her red hair and sending her sprawling across the narrow bed.

TJ needed him naked, naked, drunk and vulnerable. Not angry, and not now. But he was on top of her, and the terrible grunts she heard were coming from her as she struggled to remain in control. Do not panic, she warned herself.

He was much stronger than his fat body revealed, and now, very frustrated. He slammed his fist into her jaw, sending her head back against the mattress. Stabbing pain pierced her brain. A foggy veil of defeat threatened to close her mind as she felt him ripping at her pantaloons. Her knife! She remembered her knife!

Stop. Please El Capitán…we have time, she groaned, pleading for her life, for mercy. Fighting against the Capitán’s strength, she knew she could not give up. She would rather die here in this hovel in Juarez, than to ever stop fighting. Squirming against him, she managed to wedge her knees between his, as she stretched for her knife.

Shut up, he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, he slapped her face time after time. She tasted blood on her tongue and her fury began to direct her.

Gripping the small knife tightly in her hand, she lashed out with the finely honed blade, striking at him over and over. Not caring where she cut him, she hacked at him, slicing his flesh. His shrieks filled the room and she wished him silenced, wished all like him dead. Her fury rose. This scene was not new to her, she had watched as her mother had fought, and fought until so weakened by life, she had died.

The El Capitán staggered back from her, falling against the dirt wall. Bleeding, he looked dumbly at his nakedness and to the breeches around his knees. His expression seemed comical, except for the blood. TJ hoped she had killed him, this El Capitán, this leader of her country.

Panicking, she knew she had to run, and now! The militia would most certainly stand her against the city wall and shoot her for this crime. No woman, no whore could act out such vengeance against a soldier of her country and live.

A single misjudgment in the battle of life can cost the war, and TJ now had only one thought: to flee on the horse.

She made for the Capitán’s boots, grabbing them as she ran for the door, also snatching up the canteen and saddlebag she had filled with supplies the night before.

Whore…what? The El Capitán sputtered, vomiting onto the floor. You puta, you have killed me!

On her way out the door, her veins surging with adrenalin and fear, she began laughing hysterically. Life was a game, and she was driven to escape and win, or die trying.

Crossing the porch she tossed the El Capitán’s softly polished boots into a slimy water trough. Swinging onto the beautiful stallion, TJ slapped the saddlebag in front of her, and hooked the canteen over the saddlehorn. She howled in fiendish delight at the sight of the El Capitán’s bloody nakedness slouched in the doorway, made brilliant by the moonlight.

You…Puta! he screamed. Come back, you have killed me. Whore, you have killed me.

Adiós, you bastard, she said, saluting, holding tight as the stallion reared. This wonderful horse was hers. TJ Sanchez is no whore! she screamed to the world. If luck were with her, she would live to give her virginity to one good man. With escape…there was hope.

The Rio Grande was vague and ominous in the half-light. TJ could see the flicker of lanterns from haciendas dotting the mountainsides of El Paso. She bathed her swollen face in the water and bravely swam the stallion into Texas. Avoiding settlements was a priority. No one must know of her passing.

The black horse was a magnificent prize and though possessing such an animal gave her uncontrollable delight, she would have to be vigilant until many miles were behind her. Galloping up the northern shore, she thrilled to the feel of the power beneath her, and began to recount the beginning of her adventure, and how purely simple it had all started. Back to the poker game, the cowboy Ross, and the arrival of the El Capitán.

Full House, she had said to the cowboy named Ross Trulane. They’d been playing poker inside a rowdy, smoke-filled cantina that TJ often frequented. It was a late afternoon, a lazy time of day when all but drunks, gamblers, and whores took siestas. She even recalled the projection of her own voice, and how smooth and sexy it had sounded, even to her. How she had kept her eyes watchful, because she’d also won earlier, and she never knew about cowboys.

No one had noticed the gringo in the midst of a losing streak. No one cared. In Juarez, a gringo losing money was of no consequence. Not much mattered here, not life, not death. As the realization of his losses sunk in, TJ noticed the cowboy’s jaw clench when she’d reached for the prize of silver coins. With blazing speed, the wrangler rose from his chair, his hands flying forward, knocking hers aside, as he’d lunged for the winnings.

Son of a bitch, you cheated! he’d accused. His hand had slapped the coins from her. Magically, her pearl handled knife had stuck between his splayed fingers on the tabletop, disbelief shown in the cowboy’s eyes. Eyes that as she reflected, seemed as wide and round as the bottom of a tequila bottle. She was very good with a knife. A knife was the basis for many childhood games in Mexico.

You bitch, you coulda’ cut me, he’d shouted.

Could have, she agreed. You playing poker, or taking your skinny, gringo ass down the trail? she’d asked him. Ross refolded his lanky body into the chair. He’d been frowning, watching her. The lack of sound inside the cantina had drawn his attention, and she’d watched his gaze shift from her to the Mexicans inside the shadowy room. The Mexicans watching hadn’t looked all that friendly, even to her. TJ had known what he was considering. She’d also known that while the patrons had no particular love for her, they hated gringos. He was in a place they ruled, and she had used that to her advantage.

I don’t cheat, TJ had told him, reshuffling the deck, and, I don’t abide cheaters. The cards had slipped together in perfect uniformity. And just to save you from mistake number two, if you’re ever in a rush to misjudge me again, don’t ever call me a whore. Ross had tilted his head. He’d looked puzzled, as if weighing the situation. His eyes flitted up, then down again.

Sorry, my mistake, he’d said begrudgingly.

The noise level rose, and the Mexicans at the bar returned to their drinks. They laughed among themselves and color had risen in Ross’s face.

This gringo seemed a fool, though she’d never trusted anyone losing money. She had been slow in stretching out her arm, and pulling the knife from the table. Her eyes remaining on the gringo as she’d tucked it snuggly back into her boot.

Are you still in the game, Ross? she’d asked.

The cowboy had nodded and grinned, trying to smooth things between them.There’s a place I know in El Paso could use a pretty redheaded dealer.

TJ never held grudges for trivial mistakes, and she’d thought to keep his comment about Texas in mind when the sound of galloping horses had filled the street outside the cantina, drawing everyone’s attention. Several patrons hurried to the doorway, taking their tequila with them. TJ and the cowboy joined them.

The Mexican militia had arrived, led by an El Capitán riding a magnificent black stallion. The horse had mesmerized TJ. She remembered staring at the animal’s body, with the brightness of day reflecting from his black coat. The shine had seemed to diminish the signs of poverty that surrounded them. Once, she’d seen a gleam as bright as this one, in a reflection of a spring. Back then she thought the spring to be a mirror of life. This horse was more.

TJ recalled Ross’s words as the stallion leaped a jagged cut in the hard ground, and pushing him northwest, her thoughts returned to a time not long ago when she would have given anything, for an animal such as the one she rode.

Good lookin’ stud horse the boss-mans ridin’. Ross had nodded toward the El Capitán’s horse as they’d stood watching from the cantina door.

Magnifico, TJ had breathed, unable to take her eyes off the horse as he danced in place. She’d known instantly that this horse was a subtle message to the El Capitán’s followers, a typical maneuver for a man of status in her country. Also, the El Capitán’s layover had probably been predetermined. Juarez was a way station for the Mexican armies, used as a place to rest after raids across the border into Texas. News of skirmishes won and lost, traveled quickly to the border towns. Hard liquor and whoring always followed.

She recalled the El Capitán turning in his saddle, and looking around the dusty street. She remembered her eyes tightening as his stare had settled on her, lowering to her breasts. Even now, as she rode her horse westward, she felt heat rising in her cheeks, and hatred boiling up from somewhere deep inside her. The El Capitán had been searching for the best whore, and he’d thought he’d found her.

She’d ducked her head, to escape his stare, stepping back through the doorway into the shadows and the safety of the cantina. She’d vowed to watch this El Capitán from afar, because a whisper of a plan was forming in her mind.

TJ and the cowboy had returned to the poker table. All things in life must be played out, win or lose.

Listen…I’m just passin’ through to Hidalgo to buy cattle, Ross had told her, stumbling through his words, his eyes had merely flicked across the cards in his hand. My foreman trusts me, he said smiling as if being trusted were nothing. I got enough cash for a few extras. You get my meanin’? Ross had looked up at her expectantly, his face bright with desire.

I play poker, she’d told him. If you’re intent on a whore, there isn’t a shortage. Directness was her way and this Ross fella was pushing his luck. His features had hardened at her words. He’d sat up straighter in the wooden chair. That’s when she’d known the cowboy was going to be trouble.

Cutting the stallion carefully through a grove of ironwood trees, TJ recalled sitting at the table wondering if the cowboy’s foreman would have trusted him had he known he was losing the cattle money at a Juarez poker table. After another hand, and more of Ross’s silver in her pocket, she’d run out of luck, and the fat bartender had yelled in her face.

If you are not going to whore senorita, then go. You are not helping my business, you puta! His voice had risen until it was a blood-curdling scream. You win, win. All the time win! You do not offer me money for the use of my table. Many gringos do not come here now. Go into the streets, he’d ordered, lifting her up out of her chair, and pushing her toward the door. Do not come back unless you are willing to spread your legs, he’d said, laughing at her, his greasy fat face swimming before her even now as she recalled stumbling through the door onto the street.

TJ had heard laughter and jeering behind her, and ever defiant, she had shouted back at them through the door. Pigs! She hated Juarez, hated the surroundings in which she had to survive. Later, she’d calmed herself and had begun to ponder the El Capitán who’d settled at a table in the rear of the cantina. The soldier had quickly become drunk and boisterous. Whores had been all around him. Though the El Capitán had been drunk, and would likely stay that way, TJ had known instinctively not to underestimate him, especially if she were to be successful in separating him from his horse.

The El Capitán may not be a careful man. But, he has power. TJ had reminded herself as she had walked toward her hovel. Then, she’d heard the cowboy’s angry voice behind her.

Wait just a goddamned minute here. I lost all that money to you. Footfalls on the road had grown closer. Suddenly his hand had fallen on her shoulder and spun her around to face him.

You’ve made many errors in judgment, gringo. Don’t make more. Adios. TJ had allowed herself a smile, though she’d never stopped moving and the sound of the silver jingled in her riding skirt. Hearing it, she’d glanced down, as did the cowboy. It had been a hot reminder of his losses.

Ross had grabbed TJ’s shoulder once more, as she’d pulled free, twirling away, he’d caught the cloth of her shirt, and the flimsy material had torn. It had made her angry.

Go away cowboy, she’d warned him again. You do not listen well. And you have mucho bad luck. She’d stomped her foot in defiance. You should not gamble. Perhaps you should return to Texas while you still own a horse. She’d lifted her head in defiance, a small mistake on her part, because he’d slapped her soundly.

You’re a shitty, goddamn whore, he’d sworn at her as she had fallen into the filthy mired street. TJ had picked up an empty whiskey bottle lying nearby and as he’d jerked her up from the ground, she’d swung it, hitting him in the face, crushing his nose. Blood had splattered onto his clean white shirt. Jesus! he’d screamed. You’ve busted my nose!

Gringos. TJ had turned quickly toward the alley that would take her home. She’d glanced over her shoulder once and seen the cowboy bent over the water trough, splashing his face. No one else had followed her that night, and the quest for the black stallion became the most important thought in her mind. At that moment TJ had been absolutely certain she would try to steal the El Capitán’s horse. She’d longed for freedom from poverty since a child. She needed a way to escape this place.

As it turned out, her plan for the El Capitán had not been without flaws.

Galloping through the harsh arid land, TJ knew Texas would not be a place she could stay. Mexican’s were not looked upon favorably in Texas. Besides, El Paso was only across the Rio Grande. On any day of her life she could have swam the Rio Grande and walked to Texas. Texas was too much like Mexico. What she had heard of Arizona had always been more to her liking. Real freedom was worth everything.

TJ believed Arizona had possibilities. With gold and silver being mined, there would always be a need for a good gambler. She clung to the hope that the people in the newly formed territory would let her be what she wanted to be: an honorable woman, a woman to be reckoned with.

Watching the rising sun, TJ was struck with the wonder of the vastness around her. She and her stallion melted into the desert, riding westward, over the shifting dirt and sand that covered their trail.

The Federales did not follow her into the dry, scarred badlands, or the rough rolling hills of New Mexico, and she felt jubilant over her success. She rode hard and low, never looking back. By mid-morning she’d named the stallion Raven. TJ slowed their pace with the intention of finding shade, resting and watering Raven. She also needed to put her clothes on. The sun would soon blister her shoulders and thighs.

Pounding hooves caused her to look back. What she saw was ten times worse than any El Capitán. It was Apache! Fear outweighed the remorse of having to push the stallion to his limits. She put her heels into Raven, asking more of the proud stallion than he could possibly give.

Haw! Haw! she yelled. The stallion’s response was instant. Two braves descended a rocky slope, dropping in close behind her. They were waving lances and laughing. Glancing back, she could see their hideously painted faces. If only she had a real gun instead of the tiny derringer she’d so carefully slipped into the pocket of her skirt. A skirt now tucked securely inside the saddlebag. Foolishness can kill.

TJ rode hard through the flat lands, dodging mesquite, bramble, and rock. The stallion had heart, though she had no idea how long he could keep up this demanding pace. If the savages caught her, they would kill her, or worse. The enemy was close with white painted faces and chests streaked in red, matching the warpaint on their ponies. They were having a good time of this, shouting, and stabbing the wicked lances in the air. Death was on her heels.

Her head cleared, her thoughts focused. Her world filled with the sound of pounding hooves, and screaming Apache, her heart beating in her ears.

Blazing through a narrow ravine, into a small valley, she found a trap instead of safety. Rock-lined walls jutted straight up on all sides. Her escape might as well have turned into a coffin. Once inside, TJ spun the stallion, not wanting to give up, her eyes searching desperately for an out. Finding none, she backed Raven into the western most shadows and began digging in her saddlebag for her skirt and gun. Her knife she’d left stuck in the infamous El Capitán.

The stallion blew and pawed the ground. Even he understood the treat of death. Though the horse did not quiver, nor back from the advancing sounds. Bravely, he stood to face their enemy, and together, they waited.

The Indians screamed though the cut on lathered ponies, circling round her, drawing their heads back like rattlers bracing for a strike. They pointed their lances at her, emitting guttural sounds she didn’t understand. Their faces swam hideously before her. Frightening, in their war paint, their faces weren’t faces at all, but horrid aberrations. Raven reared in the air, hooves striking out. TJ pulled the flimsy camisole tight across her breasts, trying to cover herself as her legs gripped her horse. Why hadn’t she had enough sense to stop sooner and put her clothes on?

One brave slid from his pinto, and swaggered toward her, his black eyes empty sockets in a skull. He moved his loincloth aside, exposing himself. There was no doubt what he had in mind. Dread filled her. Not the dread of dying, but only that she would end like this, unable to defend herself in a land she did not know. The other brave taunted his friend, continuing to circle them while astride his horse.

TJ watched as the Indian approached. She counted his steps. He lunged for her, grabbing her leg, and pulling her easily from Raven’s back. Her hands went to his neck. Using all her strength, she popped his head to her mouth, and clamped her teeth onto his ear. She held on like a rabid wolf. Warm, salty blood filled her mouth as the brave tried to rid himself of her, whirling her off the ground like a rag doll. Round and round they went. Her teeth ground into cartilage, as she sawed away at the meat of his ear. The brave punched her in the stomach and she collapsed.

Lying on the ground, she saw the Indian above her, blood flowing like a river down his neck. Spitting out his ear, she smiled; satisfied that at least he’d remember her. Retching and coughing, she tried to rid herself of his vile taste. The Apache was screaming in fury, and grabbing at her legs, when the report of a rifle filled the canyon. TJ’s breath caught. Instantly, the Indian lifted from her and flew into the air, landing against his war pony, frightening the horse. She watched, disbelieving as the other Indian spun his mount, heading for the narrow cut. Another shot rang out and that brave also fell from his horse onto the dusty ground. Both war ponies broke away.

Raising her head, her eyes filled with sand, grit, and tears as pain gripped her, she searched the boulders above for the shooter. The pain in her ribs was excruciating and everything around her faded. A moment later, she lifted her head and spied a lone man beside a bay horse, high on the plateau above the scrub trees. His arm moved, and she thought he’d reloaded his rifle. The fallen Indians were still. TJ’s head fell back onto the dirt, she realized she had to get to her feet, and leave this place, or die. She had no idea who the shooter was, whether friend or foe. She was at a horrible disadvantage unless she could ride.

Finally standing, she could see that the man was still on the ridge. Her ribs burned as if she’d been laid open with a knife. Stepping sideways, she tried to catch her breath, wondering if her ribs were broken. Slowly waving her hand, she watched the man raise his rifle in salute. Again, she wondered who he was.

Turning her head, TJ whistled for the stallion, an action done mostly because she hurt too much to walk to him. Surprisingly, the horse trotted to her. Patting his neck, she pulled her clothes from her pack and put them on. The stallion pushed his head against her arm, making her wince.

I know. We’ll go, she whispered to Raven. TJ glanced again to the mesa. The man and the bay were nowhere to be seen. I’m hurtin’, boy, but we need to get. Slowly, she pulled herself up into the saddle. Leaving the valley took longer than it had when they’d raced ahead of the Apache. It would be slow going.

TJ and the stallion made their way through the cut, and as they walked out onto the flat land, he spoke.

Looked like you were outnumbered, you all right? I saw that Apache hit you? His voice startled her.

TJ spun the stallion to face him. The Black man wore a soldier’s uniform and he’d damned sure been quiet for such a big man. The powerfully built soldier sat the largest bay mare TJ had ever seen. His horse, now squatted on its haunches, spilled down the barren mountainside, releasing dirt and rock, making it run in tiny rivulets alongside them.

TJ had heard of the Buffalo Soldier and had even seen a few in Juarez. This soldier’s skin was as brown as the dry desert he’d appeared from. He wasn’t wearing a soldier’s hat, but instead wore a Western style hat with a large eagle feather in the band. Though he was broad at the shoulders, his jacket fell loose over his belly and hips. She’d never seen him around Juarez. Remembering him wouldn’t have been a problem. Handsome, though he was, instinct reminded her she was alone. After the Apache, she wondered if she dared trust anyone. He’d saved her. She’d give him that, though she’d no idea what he’d saved her for.

Thanks mister, she said. Her hand rested on the derringer, now inside her skirt. I thought my day of glory had come. TJ sat forward over the saddle horn, favoring her left side. She dropped the reins as her hand moved to her ribs.

Same thought occurred to me. Your face is mighty bloody; are those ribs okay? The soldier pulled his kerchief from his neck, wet it with water from his canteen then handed it to her. She wrung the wonderful wetness over her skin in a series of squeezes and strokes.

I believe my ribs are only bruised, she lied.

He nodded at her reply. "You’ve got bruises on your face, but they don’t look recent.