Amelia (14 page)

"You'll enjoy this orchestra," Alan told her. "I'm told they've played in the north quite extensively. And the score is a favorite of mine: Beethoven's 'Ninth Symphony.' "

"Oh, yes, the one that includes Schiller's 'Ode to Joy,' " she added eagerly.

Alan's eyebrows arched. "Why, Amelia, I had no idea you were conversant with the classics!"

"I know just a little about classical music," she confessed. "Quinn taught me. Father wouldn't allow me to go further than high school, and he even tried to stop me from finishing. He thinks it is silly to educate women."

"And you do not."

"I think a woman's brain is the equal of any man's," she replied, looking up at him. "And that it is a crime to impose limits on knowledge."

"I tend to agree." His eyes narrowed. "King mentioned that you spoke a few words of French?"

It was a question. She moved uncomfortably. "Actually, I read it quite well. I rarely understand much if it is not spoken slowly. Marie helped me to refine my accent."

"You are a creature of hidden talent, Amelia," he said. "What other accomplishments are you keeping concealed so carefully?"

"I am not so talented," she replied.

"What else did your brother teach you?" he persisted.

"A little Latin and Greek," she had to confess. "And I can understand Spanish."

He caught his breath. "And you think of that as a small accomplishment?"

"I have a facility for languages, that is all," she said firmly. "And please do not repeat this conversation. My father would be furious if he knew what Quinn had done."

He noticed her hands clasping and unclasping. Beauty and brains, he thought.
He could do much worse than court Amelia for himself. There was no real
competition, unless he counted Ted. Speak of the devil, he thought, when he saw
the tall blond man with a lovely brunette on his arm nearby. That wasn't all he
saw. Elegant in evening clothes, his brother King was standing at the opposite
side of the lobby with Darcy Valverde.

"Let's go in, shall we?" he asked quickly, before she saw the others. He clasped her hand in his, feeling its soft strength, and smiled at her as they walked into the auditorium.

He led her to a chair, still possessing himself of her hand as he sat beside her.

Amelia felt nothing at his touch. It grieved her, because she had to agree that Alan would make her a good and kind husband. But it wasn't the same as when King had touched her.

King! Why should she be thinking of him? she wondered irritably. She smiled at Alan and allowed him to retain her hand as other people began filing into the room.

"Well, look who's here!" Darcy's shrill voice caught everyone's attention as she saw Alan and Amelia, pausing with an unfriendly King at her side. "How nice to see you again, Miss Howard, and how very pretty you look! I have to confess, I did so admire that dress when I saw you wearing it at our party last week. Isn't it flattering to her complexion, King? Your mother was so kind to buy the material for her."

Amelia could have gone through the floor with humiliation. But she didn't flinch. She simply stared at Darcy without speaking, her face composed, her dignity quietly intimidating. Her dark, unblinking eyes made the girl laugh nervously and begin to fidget.

"Shall we sit down, King? Nice to see you both!"

Darcy pulled at King's lean hand. He was watching Amelia, his expression one of faint curiosity at her composure. She was red-cheeked from Darcy's venomous comments, but she was a trooper. That wasn't cowardice in those dark eyes, it was a dignity beyond her years. He fought down a skirl of admiration for the way she'd handled the insult.

"The dress does indeed suit you, Miss Howard," he said quietly, and without malice. Then he saw her hand resting in Alan's, and the contempt in his silver eyes heightened her color. "Do enjoy yourselves. Good evening."

He walked away briskly to join Darcy.

"I'm sorry about that," Alan said, tightening his grip on her hand. "Darcy is a spoiled brat, isn't she? How can King be so blind!"

"She isn't rude to him," Amelia mused with faint humor. "Don't worry, Alan. I've endured worse." She had indeed, at the hands of her father in public places, back in Atlanta just before they moved to El Paso. Her ability to field insults was almost legend by now. She turned her head toward the stage, where the orchestra was tuning up, and schooled her eyes not to turn one inch in King's direction.

The program was broken by a brief intermission, during which Alan escorted Amelia into the lobby and went to purchase sarsaparilla for them both.

While she waited for him, King, having left Darcy with two women friends, joined her by the doorway.

"It promises to rain before the evening is over," he said.

"I expect so." Clouds were low overhead, and there was an ominous rumbling. She ran her gloved hands up and down her arms, already feeling the chill. At home, her father would be waiting, probably drunk… "Oh!"

King had touched her shoulder, and she jumped helplessly, her dark eyes wide and fearful.

He withdrew his hand at once, his face glowering angrily. "You have no nerve. Are you afraid even of storms?"

She lowered her eyes and moved away from him.

"Miss Howard!"

Her head turned. Her dark eyes accused, detested. "Your future wife is staring at you, Mr. Culhane," she said in a chill tone. "I have no desire to become her victim a second time in one evening. I would appreciate being deprived of your company."

He put his hands in his pockets, and his eyes searched hers in a static silence, making it impossible for her to tear her eyes away. The electricity outside was nothing compared to the current that was running between them. Amelia was alarmed by the growing strength of it.

"Fate plays cruel tricks on the senses, does she not?" he asked curtly.

"As you say."

"If Alan asks for the pleasure of your company again, deny him," he said bluntly. "I do not want my brother involved with you. Is that clear?"

He turned on his heel and went back to Darcy. Amelia had a terrible impulse to pick up one of the
spittoons and fling it at the back of his head. Her thoughts unnerved her. She turned and began looking for Alan just as he came back with two bottles of sarsaparilla.

"The last two bottles left." He chuckled. "Here."

It was tepid but rather tasty, and she drained the bottle of its fruity contents just in time to hear the orchestra tuning up for the finale.

After the concert was over, she followed Alan outside, careful to keep a distance between herself and King. It wasn't until they were in the buggy and driving away that she relaxed. Wherever Alan's big brother had gone, she hadn't seen him again after they seated themselves in the concert hall for the end of the concert. It had been a relief not to find those silver eyes damning her again.

"There is a lovely spot on our property where a hill overlooks the cattle in the valley below," he mentioned as they raced the rain back to the boardinghouse where Amelia and her father lived. "I would like to take you there for a picnic next weekend."

"Your brother has warned me not to accept further invitations from you," she said, smiling gently at his shocked look. "You know that he doesn't approve of me, Alan. It is folly to risk his displeasure. There's no future in it," she added miserably. "You're my friend, and I'm very fond of you. But there can never be anything more. I… do not want a relationship of any sort with a man."

"My brother doesn't tell me how to live my life," he said curtly. "I enjoy your company, and I hope that you enjoy mine. Amelia, I have no desire for marriage now," he added with a smile. "But we're both young, and it can do no harm for us to spend time together. King can mind his own business."

"And you know that he will not," she replied. "He is like my father…"

"He is nothing like your father," he corrected gently. "Amelia, you don't know King. You see only the face he presents to the world, not the man beneath it. He is not what he seems. Least of all is he a bully."

"He has been to me," she said stiffly.

"Yes. It has puzzled us all, his odd attitude toward you. Mother thinks it is an attraction which he does not want to own," he added with a smile. "That may well be the case. You are a lovely woman."

"I am a milksop," she said curtly. "That is what he believes. That I am dull and uninteresting and a jellyfish. Oh, and I am stupid as well."

"Has he said this to you?"

"He said it, and I overheard," she replied. "I know what your brother thinks of me, and I do not care! His opinion is of no consequence whatsoever to me!"

It was the first time Alan could ever remember hearing Amelia's voice so brittle and full of anger. He wondered if King was the only one who was fighting an unwanted attraction.

"Come on the picnic with me," he said. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Or are you too afraid of King to risk displeasing him?"

That was a challenge. Amelia took a deep breath. "Very well, then. If you are willing to risk it, so am I. If my father approves, of course."

"Your father will approve." He hesitated, turning the reins in his hand. "Amelia, he has odd turns of mood, did you know?"

"I knew," she said flatly.

"And periods of utter violence," he added. "He took a buggy whip to one of the pack mules. My father had to wrestle it away from him and pin him to the ground until he came back to himself." He looked at her white face. "You know about these incidences, do you not?"

"It is worse when he drinks and takes those powders that are meant to help the headaches," she said with sick fear. "I think that one day he may kill me, Alan…"

"Amelia!"

She put her gloved hand to her mouth. "I did not mean to say such a thing. Of course, he will not harm me, it is only that he is so frightening when he gives vent to his temper," she said quickly. "Please, do not think of it again."

He didn't want to give it up, but she looked terrified. "Of course, if that is your wish."

"You must not speak of it, either, least of all to your family! If it should get back to him…"

"It will not," he promised. "Here, Amelia, I will walk you to your door."

She let him help her down. It had been a disastrous evening. She only prayed that her father wouldn't be drinking.

And, glory of glories, he wasn't. He was, in fact, congenial. He offered Alan a brandy and spoke to him with real affection. Alan left convinced of the man's sanity.

Once he was gone, however, Hartwell turned to Amelia with cold eyes. "See to it that you give him no cause to break off this growing relationship," he warned her. "It is my wish, that you will marry him."

She started to tell him that it was impossible, that she didn't, couldn't, love Alan in that way. But his eyes were gaining that familiar gaze.

"I find him very pleasant," she said. "He is taking me on a picnic next weekend. With your permission, of course, Papa."

"He has it. Go to bed."

Grateful for the respite, she went quickly to her room and closed the door. Her hands, she noticed, were like ice.

 

Alan and the cowboys came Tuesday to help the Howards move, which was accomplished in short order. Amelia cooked a big supper for all of them, and her father was in a rare good mood, laughing and joking with everyone. For a little while, he was the kindly father of her youth, and she relaxed as she hadn't been able to since their move to El Paso. It would be different here, she thought. It would!

The rest of the week went without incident. Her father was civil and courteous, and the headaches had actually seemed to stop. But they were replaced by a period of violent illness that came on suddenly and lasted several days.

Amelia nursed him, feeding him broth and sitting with him until the spell passed and he was back to himself again. By Friday evening, he was able to sit up. But he seemed not quite as alert as before, and when Amelia insisted on calling for a doctor, he couldn't argue about it. The doctor who attended him, Dr. Vasquez, took Amelia out into the hall after his examination.

"It is not like any condition I have treated," he told Amelia bluntly. "His pupils indicate a light stroke, but he has none of the paralysis one would expect from this.
Señorita
, he must be closely watched. I fear there is much more to this condition than simple vapors."

"I will take care of him."

"He has violent episodes?" he queried suddenly.

"Why… sometimes," she faltered.

He put his bag down on the hall table. "Describe them to me."

She did, leaving out the most damning evidence, because she was ashamed to tell this intelligent, cultured man that her father had taken a leather strap to her and very nearly killed her with it. She did describe her father's violent behavior toward animals.

The doctor said nothing, but he looked even more worried. "If you should need me, even in the dead of night, send someone to fetch me, and I will come. In the meanwhile, I wish you to give these to your father at bedtime each night. It is only a sedative,
señorita
," he added hastily when he placed the medicine bottle in her hand. "It will not harm him. In fact, it may bring a small improvement, if only temporarily."

"You think that it is more than bad temper that drives him," she guessed. "Might it have something to do with his headaches?"

"Yes," he replied. "Springing from the accident he endured some years ago. Are you strong,
señorita
?" he asked suddenly. "Can you withstand unsettling news without hysterics?"

"I can," she said without blinking.

He glanced toward the closed door of her father's bedroom. "I suspect a tumor of the brain," he said quietly.

She leaned back against the wall. "What?"

"A tumor. It is in keeping with his symptoms, which perhaps the accident worsened. If it is a slow tumor, which must be the case, the pressure on the brain would grow steadily worse. It would account for these moods and violent tempers, and the headaches. If this is the case," he added slowly, "I regret to tell you that nothing can be done to save his life. Inevitably, he will die of it. And judging by the severity of the symptoms, it will not take much longer. I shudder to think of the pain he must be suffering."