A Texan's Promise (2 page)

How could she tell him? "It's nothing."
It was everything.

His eyes narrowed. "I don't think so." With one finger, he tilted her chin up, tilted her head so it moved into the lone ray of glimmering moonlight shimmering down from the loft's window.

She knew the moment he saw the bruise on her cheek."I'll be fine."

Tender fingers, so gentle, brushed her hair back from her face. But his gaze had hardened. "You're bleeding."

"My cheek is, too?"

"Too?" Shifting again, he propped himself on one knee. Looking her over a little more closely. "Vanessa, what happened?"

"I . . . I didn't realize . . . " Shame—and the lethal glare in his eyes—cut off her words. What would she do if he thought she was unworthy? Ever since her pa had died, she'd felt alone except for Clay. If he turned away from her, she'd have no one left.

"Realize what?" His voice was hoarse. Urgent. Still he touched her, petting her hair, tracing the swelling on her cheek.

Against her will, the tears flowed again. Frustrated, she mopped them with her sleeve, then winced as the action brushed fabric across her back. "I . . . I can't do this, Clay. I can't say it."

Clayton changed to a near crouch. Gone were all the traces of brotherly affection. In its place was everything that had made him a brilliant soldier. Determination. Fortitude. Strength. "Let me see you. Let me see your back."

Clay's voice was firm. It was the voice he used when ordering cowhands around. The tone he used when Lovey, Vanessa's shepherd, forgot she was supposed to be working and there were still twenty head of cattle to bring in.

It was the tone Clay used with her brother Miles when Clay's patience was at its wit's end. He'd never spoken that way to her before. Ever.

"Now, Vanessa."

Obediently, she turned her shoulders, closing her eyes at his sharp intake of breath. As he very gently touched her torn gown, she stiffened, then exhaled in relief when his touch didn't hurt, it was so butterfly- quick.

"Who did this to you? Price? Was it Price?"

She turned back to face him, stunned to find him shaking. Stunned to see mist in his brown eyes. Almost roughly, he cradled her jaw with one of his hands. "Answer me, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.
He'd done that for years. Called her a whole host of endearments whenever they were alone. She supposed it was because a couple of months after they'd buried her daddy, she'd confided to Clayton how she missed the words. Her pa had been openly affectionate, her mother far less so.

Clayton now called her "baby," "darlin'," "sweetheart," and "honey." Anything to make her smile. Anything to make her feel wanted.

Never had the words seemed anything but teasing.

Never had they sounded as heartfelt as they did this minute.

"Vanessa, did your stepfather do this?"

She couldn't lie. The truth hurt, almost as much as the belt had. Yet, lying to Clay would hurt worse. She nodded.

Clayton looked at her for a good long moment, then, as if he made a decision, he stood up and carefully helped her to her feet. "Come here, honey." Taking her hand, he led her to his room.

She'd seen it before. When Pa had gotten so sick, he'd asked Clay to build himself a nice suite of rooms in the back of the barn so their foreman could be within shouting distance of the house. Made up of two rooms, it had a bedroom and a small sitting area, complete with a stove. Her pa had insisted on that, since everyone knew Clayton Proffitt liked both his coffee and his privacy.

Her brother Miles said Clayton was uncannily self-suffi- cient. He often chose to eat by himself instead of eating with the ranch hands or joining the family in the dining room.

She'd knocked on his door a time or two. Or fifty. He'd always come out to help her with her horse or to listen when she had a problem. More than once he'd made her tea as he listened to her prattle on about anything and everything.

But now, as they entered his bedroom, Vanessa hardly had time to do more than inhale the scent of tobacco and mint before he motioned for her to sit. She perched atop his quilt, a crazy quilt she'd made for him four Christmases ago.

After checking to see that his curtains were drawn, Clay lit a kerosene lamp. Then he crouched in front of her again. When he spied her cheek in the better light a look of such concern crossed his face that Vanessa felt a fresh surge of tears struggle to come forth. She bit her lip and hoped for strength.

"Van, honey . . . what happened? You've got to tell me the truth. At the moment, I'm thinking the worst."

If she said the words out loud, it would mean it had really happened.

And that was too hard to come to grips with. "I . . . I can't."

"It would be best if you did."

Those eyes of his, so gentle and soft brown, ended her struggle. Tears fell again. "Please, Clay. Not yet." When she saw her hands were trembling, she pushed them under a fold in her skirt.

After a moment, he sat next to her, edging closer when he saw what she needed. "Come here, honey."

With a sigh, Vanessa rested her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, taking in his scent, his warmth. Finding comfort in his powerful strength. Maybe he wouldn't leave her when he found out the truth. Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

Clay didn't know where to put his hands. Vanessa's back was marred by two thick bloody welts, each one a good six inches long. The tender skin was bruised and mottled. Fabric from her dress looked to be embedded in each one.

And that was what he could see.

He was afraid she had other injuries, areas that hadn't drawn blood, hurts he couldn't see. Finally settling on her upper arms, he gently rubbed her, said all those nonsense words his mama had said to him a hundred times, back when he was small.

Said those words Vanessa had always craved, loving words that showed she wasn't alone, that someone cared.

"Hush now, sweetheart. It'll be okay, Van."

Her crying continued, making his shoulder wet and his heart break. Figuring she needed to shed the tears and he needed time to control his anger, he held himself stiff and fought for patience.

After another few minutes, she pulled back. "Oh, my! Clayton, I'm so sorry—I've made a mess of you. I'll just go and—"

"You're not going anywhere." Tilting her chin up, he prayed she'd trust him. "Vanessa, please. Tell me. Now."

She seemed to weigh her choices, then just as quickly, gave them up. "Price . . . hit me."

Clayton swallowed hard.

Oh, Price had done more than that. In the dim light he saw the swelling under the bruise on her cheek, the cut on her lip, the awareness in her eyes that a man's strength could hurt her badly.

Clayton was also well aware of the damage a leather strap could do. "Why did he hit you?"

"Because he . . . because I wouldn't . . . " She halted, swallowed hard. Met his gaze, looked back down.

Oh, Lord, no. "Because you wouldn't . . . what?" Examining her closer, he spied a rip in her gingham near the collar. Caught sight of a fingertip bruise.

"Because I wouldn't . . . because he wanted . . . me. Me?" She looked at Clayton, wonder in her eyes. "He said horrible things. I couldn't. I couldn't, Clayton." Her eyes turned wild.

He sought to calm the memories. Rubbing her arms, still afraid to touch her anywhere else, he looked at her directly. "I know, honey."

"Price grabbed me. Grabbed the collar of my dress. I screamed."

"Then what happened?"

"He blocked the door, and I . . . I ran to the window."

She was shaking now, reliving the memory. Clayton linked his fingers through hers. When she gazed at their joined hands and drew a fortifying breath, he pushed her some more, just like he used to do with the young boys in his unit during the war. Sometimes, even the worst truths needed to be admitted."And then?"

"He went mad. He hit me. I tried to hit him back. And then . . . then he pulled off his belt." She shuddered. "I was so afraid."

"I know." Clay had seen Price display acts of violence more and more throughout the past year.

Her pretty green eyes, so luminous and desperate, stared at him in wonder. "I . . . I didn't understand, Clay. Why? Why now?"

Because she was beautiful. Because she was untouched. "I don't know," he lied.

"He struck me. I screamed and cried and tried to get away— but there was nowhere to go."

"And then?"

She paused. "And then Momma rushed in and pulled him away." With a ragged breath, she looked down at his quilt."Thank goodness she came."

She'd come far too late, by his estimate. Carefully, Clay turned to look at her back again. "He struck you more than once."

Back down went her chin. "I know."

"Did he . . . Vanessa, tell me the truth. Did he . . . do more than that?"

Alarmed, she shook her head.

He was frightening her. Praying to the Lord for the right words, Clayton carefully spoke again. "Honey, you can tell me. You can tell me anything, remember?" he coaxed. "Did he . . . undress?" He gazed at her legs, curled tightly underneath her. "Did he force you to—" He couldn't say it. "Tell me the truth, sweetheart. I won't think—"

She stopped him by putting two fingers across his lips."When Momma came, he left. All Price did was hit me. I promise."

Clayton glanced at her back again. The blood was drying, right in sync with how the skin had swelled. Most likely, she'd have scars across her upper back for the rest of her life.

The thought of anyone hurting her so brought forth another wave of anger. "Where was your brother? Where was Miles?"

"I don't know. Maybe in the hall? After Momma and Price left, I locked my door and turned off my lantern. But I got so scared, Clay. The room smelled like him. When things were quiet, I came out here." She looked at him, begged him with her eyes to understand. "I couldn't stay in the house any longer."

"I understand."

Wearily, she brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead."I . . . I don't know what I'm going to do in the morning."

He did. "I'm taking you away from here. You can't stay another night."

"But—"

"There's been rumors that Price has a disease," he said slowly, wondering how much to tell her about what the women in Camp Hope were saying about Price, "that it's affecting his mind. You're not safe." No way was he going to let Price get within ten feet of Vanessa again.

"I can't leave. Then I'll have no one."

"You'll have me." Once again, Clayton wished her family had done more than gone to church when time allowed it. Vanessa never seemed to realize that the Lord could be on her side—if she'd open her heart to Him.

"But—"

"If we don't leave, a locked door will never be enough to keep your stepfather away." He gripped her shoulders. "Do you understand, honey?"

"I do." She winced as she shifted.

Her pain brought him back to his responsibilities. He needed to take care of her. Taking care of her had always been his most important duty.

"But before we do anything, we're going to have to fix you up, sugar." Grateful for the small stove he'd insisted on having, he stirred up the dying fire then poured a small amount of water into the kettle he kept nearby. As it heated up, he poured more water in a basin, then sorted through his trunk and found his softest broadcloth. The fabric was old and worn, too soft to wear on the range—but perfect for Vanessa's tender skin.

Finally, he searched and found an old handkerchief, faded but clean. After pouring a liberal amount of hot water in the basin, he crouched in front of Vanessa again. Placing his hands on either side of her knees, he said, "We need to doctor your back. Will you trust me?"

After a long moment, she nodded./

Oh, he hated this! Swallowing hard, he said, "Your shirt— it needs to come off." Obediently, she fumbled with her top button. Clay watched her attempt loosen it but her hands shook so; tears of frustration pooled in her eyes again. "Let me," he whispered, moving her hands to one side.

Still kneeling in front of her, he unbuttoned the next two, taking care not to brush her skin with his fingers. Finally, the top of her blouse was open, a white camisole peeking out underneath. A pair of dark bruises mottled the fair skin near her collarbone.

He wanted to beat Price Venture.

After moving to sit by her side, Clayton gently guided her arms out of the sleeves, then did his best to lift the fabric from her back.

Vanessa winced as it stuck. "Oh, Clay."

"Lie . . . lie down on your stomach, sugar," he said, giving her his pillow to cradle. After smoothing her long brown hair to one side, he dipped his bandanna in the warm water."I'm going to dampen the fabric, see if I can remove the cloth easier. I'll try not to hurt you."

"I'll be fine, Clay."

Gingerly, he dabbed the top cut, heard her sharp intake of breath, but continued when Vanessa said nothing.

After moistening it again, he loosened the fabric, gently pulled it away from her skin. Clay's hand shook as he made progress. Finally one welt was revealed, then a second. Under the second was evidence that Price had stuck her a third time, her skin was bruised and swollen.