Amelia (19 page)

Running footsteps impinged on his anguish. His head turned as Dr. Vasquez and a policeman dressed in a suit and Stetson hat came into the room. The situation took no guesswork at all, because Amelia's father had the belt still clutched in his hand. But he wasn't moving, and his eyes were wide open and unseeing as he laid with his head back against the chair.

Dr. Vasquez went to him first, despite King's demand that he look at Amelia. He listened to Hartwell Howard's chest with his stethoscope, felt the pulse at his neck and, with a heavy sigh, got up to strip a blanket off the bed. He covered the man with it, face and all.

Then he went to Amelia, while the others were reacting to the shock of knowing that Amelia's father had died in the act of his brutality to her.

"A tumor of the brain," Dr. Vasquez murmured as he gently examined Amelia. "You knew, of course?" he asked the two men.

"I suspected," Alan said thinly.

"He grew steadily worse. Dangerously violent, especially to a man with blood pressure which is already very high. I tried to entreat her to go to her relatives or stay elsewhere, but she would not. A very brave young lady, impossibly loyal. And see what it has cost her. He could have killed her or brought on a fatal heart attack for himself at any time, and she knew it, because I made certain she did. Foolish, foolish girl."

"Will she live?" King asked through his teeth.

"She has lost a great deal of blood, and there is the shock of it as well. I want to move her to my surgery, but covertly, you understand." He glanced at the men. "There must be no gossip. She will have to bear the brunt of this if word gets out. Constable, can you think of a way to remove her father without undue attention?"

"I think so," he said. "We'll wait until dark. It is almost that, now. In the morning we'll give a notice to the paper that he passed away peacefully, in his sleep. We can say that the young lady was exhausted and in shock from the trauma of seeing her father die."

"Yes," Vasquez nodded. "An eminently practical solution. But she will have to be moved now. Bring me some towels and water in a basin, if you will, and we will see how much damage he has done. I expect there will be scars beneath this latest wounding as well."

King went for the things the doctor requested, so that he would have a little time to himself. He had never meant this to happen. The pleasure Amelia had given him made him crazy with jealousy over his brother, determined to prevent any marriage between them. He hadn't thought it through, he'd only reacted, and in an unnatural way. Amelia had paid for his stupidity. She might yet pay with her life. He didn't know how he was going to survive the next few days. And if she did live, she would hate him. That was the most damning thought of all.

He took the basin and cloths he'd found back into the bedroom. The doctor made the other men leave while he did what was necessary. He cleaned the deep lacerations and put salve and bandages on them, exchanging Amelia's soiled robe for another that he found hanging in her chifforobe. She would have to be watched all night, he thought. It would be better to have someone care for her here, at home, than to try to keep her in his surgery, where questions about her condition might be prompted. She was still unconscious, too. Apparently her father had struck her hard enough to send her flying headfirst into the bedpost. There was a bruise high up on her temple, and the fact that she was unconscious presented the possibility of concussion. That state was always dangerous. There was something much more damaging to her reputation than this, as well. When he finished ministering to her wounds, he gathered up her stained, discarded clothing, and parceled it up with the bloodstained robe. At least he could spare her that humiliation.

He called Alan and King back in when he finished. Amelia lay facedown on the bed. Her eyes were still closed, and her breathing looked labored. The smell of blood filled the room.

"There is washing that needs to be done, and any washerwoman is going to carry tales if she sees this," Dr. Vasquez said solemnly. "These things need to be put into a bag, taken out, and burned."

"I'll see to that," Alan said grimly. "And Amelia?"

"She is concussed," the doctor added. "I do not want to take the risk of moving her. She needs to be watched until she regains consciousness, and even then she will need to be under constant supervision for several days. Concussions can be fatal. You must already be aware of this."

"One of my men died of it," King said, feeling hollow and nauseated deep inside.

"As could this lady, I will be frank."

"I'll stay with her," King said quietly.

"And if she wakes up and finds you here, she'll scream the house down, I don't doubt," Alan said venomously.

"I will not leave her," the older man said firmly, his silver eyes flashing. "We can make other plans when we have to."

"Can you be trusted not to do anything further to make her suffer?" Alan demanded icily.

King averted his eyes to the still figure on the bed. He winced. "Yes."

Alan saw the look on his brother's face then and relented. "I'll take care of everything else. It might be as well if I brought Mother here."

"I agree," King said dully. He was barely able to think. Amelia looked so fragile, like a broken doll.

"Let us remove Mr. Howard first," the constable suggested. "It might be more than she can bear, to have to see it all at once."

"I will take my time about getting home," Alan promised.

The doctor left, promising to come back as soon as he'd finished his rounds, because he might be needed. The constable called in the undertaker, who brought two men with a stretcher. They transported Hartwell Howard's still form, under the concealing blanket, out of the house under cover of darkness and over to the mortuary.

The house was quiet then. King had opened the windows to air the room and let the smell out. The floor rug had been rolled up and taken away, too stained and smelly to leave in place. Amelia's stained clothing had been removed by the doctor while he was tending the woman, discreetly added to the bundle of things Alan had removed. But King knew why the garments had been left on the floor, instead of being neatly put away for washing. Amelia had planned to throw them away, to remove them from sight. She hated him for what he had done and wanted no memory of it.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to touch the disheveled fall of blond hair that lay unruly on her pale cheek.

"Forgive me, Amelia," he said into the silence. His silver eyes mirrored his guilt and horror. "I did not know."

But she didn't answer. She remained still and silent, and while he sat with her the spectre of her gentle smile haunted him unendurably. She had been so tender, so giving. Her body, this same broken thing that was so unmoving under the covers, had been all his. Her mouth had pleaded for his, her arms had held him and cradled him. She had been everything he'd ever wanted a woman to be, and he had repaid that loving generosity with treason. Betrayal. His eyes closed. In his mind, he could see that double belt in Hartwell's hand being brought down mercilessly on Amelia's soft, bare back. How could he do that to her? How could he!

All King had wanted was for Hartwell to know that Amelia couldn't marry Alan, and why. He should never have done it. He should have behaved like a gentleman. But when he thought of Amelia married to Alan, he could not contain himself. He simply went crazy with fear. Amelia in his house, married to his brother. It would have been impossible.

He paced the room, trying to fight the images. Amelia in his arms. Amelia begging for his kisses. Amelia, tears on her cheeks as he shamed her. Amelia, cowering under the whip of her father's belt while the blood flowed from her… !

He cried out, his hands gripping the windowsill until the knuckles went white. He couldn't live with it, he couldn't!

Vaguely he was aware of the front door opening and footsteps coming up the stairs. He turned just as the bedroom door opened and his mother came in with Alan and Brant.

Alan was subdued, too, all the venom gone out of him. It was like a funeral parlor, King thought absently. Everyone was so quiet, afraid to move too much or speak too loudly.

"Has she come to herself at all?" Enid asked.

King shook his head. His face was heavily lined, his hair mussed where his fingers had run through it time and time again. He looked so unlike his usual vital self that Enid didn't say the words that had been sitting on her tongue all the way into town.

"Tricky things, concussions," Brant said quietly.

"She's got spunk," Alan replied, his eyes on her. "She'll come through it."

King wasn't inclined to agree. She had more courage than he'd dreamed, but he'd given her too much reason to want to die. He'd shamed and disgraced her, and such a woman would have a hard time living with the way she'd yielded to him. At least he hadn't told anyone the truth of how far it had gone. He had given only the impression that Amelia had been prepared to sport with him, not that she in fact had. But even that insinuation was enough to ruin her.

Amelia would know and remember every detail. She'd think of herself as a fallen woman, and she might not want to live.

His face clenched with the thought. Could someone will herself to die? Was it possible? What if she did?

A soft hand shook him. "That won't help," Enid said firmly. "Go and make some coffee."

He hesitated, his silver eyes anguished on Amelia's face.

"Please," his mother emphasized.

"Very well."

He left, reluctantly, and started a fire in the stove. It was like a wake, he thought. A damned wake!

Brant came in while he was filling the coffeepot and sat down at the small kitchen table. "Enid was looking for some clothing in her chifforobe," he remarked quietly. "She found a bundle of books, hidden there probably to keep her father from knowing she had them."

"Dime novels?" King asked without malice.

"Plato, in the original Greek," his father replied, shocking him. "French poetry. Latin hymns. Apparently Quinn has been teaching her. They were imprinted with his name. But there were notations in the columns, not in Quinn's handwriting. She seems to be quite well read."

King pulled two mugs from the china cabinet and put them on the table. His very posture was defeated. "She told me nothing," he said.

"She was probably afraid to," Brant replied. "She wouldn't have trusted you not to tell her father. I can understand now why she found Alan such good company. He was the exact antithesis of her father."

"Yes." That had occurred to King, too. A lot of things had occurred to him.

"Since Quinn lives in barracks, she will have no place to go. Your mother and I want to take her back to Latigo."

"Have you sent for Quinn?" King asked suddenly.

"We sent word to the Ranger post at Alpine, yes." His eyes narrowed worriedly. "You are good friends, but he will not be able to justify the shame that you have caused Amelia, to say nothing of inciting her father to violence against her."

"Do you think I can justify it to myself?" King asked quietly. He moved the boiling coffee to another part of the stove.

"Why?" Brant asked fiercely."

"I was saving my brother from her," he replied. He lifted the coffeepot with a cloth and poured the black liquid into two mugs on the table. "I wanted someone more learned and spirited for Alan."

"Alan has no need of a spirited woman," Brant said, his voice very low. "He is a gentle man. A gentle woman would suit him very well." His dark eyes narrowed. "You wanted her for yourself."

King's hand was momentarily unsteady. He finished filling the mugs and replaced the coffeepot on the stove with slow deliberation. "That does not change the fact that she is ill suited to life on a ranch." He turned, his face pale but composed. "I have chosen a wife with my mind, not my heart. I will marry Darcy, when I marry."

He was totally discounting the fact that he might have made Amelia pregnant during that feverish interlude in his bed. He didn't dare speak of it, even to his father. Better to ignore the fact and hope, pray, that when Amelia recovered, there were no unwanted consequences of his folly. He would be honor-bound to marry her in such a case, and it was the last thing he wanted. He was already vulnerable to her physically. He wanted no more weaknesses to battle. She would recover, and he would find a way to help her go back East to live.

"You must live your life as you see fit," Brant said wearily. "But I would not have Darcy were she the last marriageable woman in Texas."

"As you said, it is my affair."

"Yes."

Brant took a cup of coffee to Enid and Alan and then came back for his own. King didn't go back into the bedroom. He went outside to smoke a cigar.

Alan joined him shortly afterward.

"She's regained consciousness," Alan said quietly.

"Did she speak?" King asked, turning his head toward his brother to listen intently.

"Only to groan. Her wounds are painful."

"Dr. Vasquez promised to return soon. Once he does, Mother can mix some of the sedative that Dr. Vasquez left for her, and perhaps she will go back to sleep," King replied.

Alan nodded. He leaned back against one of the posts, his face solemn. "Despite all these precautions, it is inevitable that there will be gossip. It is as well that we are taking her to Latigo to recover."

King didn't reply. He was thinking about how he was going to bear having the evidence of his cruelty exposed to him day after day.

"I intend to marry her," Alan said suddenly.

King whirled and started to speak, but his brother held up a hand and dared him to.

"I shall marry her," the younger man said again, with some of King's own spirit. "You have disgraced her and the rest of us. I will not allow you to drive her to suicide."

"Suicide… !"

"King," Alan said heavily, "did you not notice the lack of evidence that she even tried to defend herself? There are no marks at all on her forearms or her hands, as there would be if she had attempted to shield herself from the blows."