Depending on the Doctor (Nevada Bounty Book 2) (32 page)

“Is Randall home?”

“He’s in his study.” She
tutted
in a concerned voice. “That man works so hard.”

“I look forward to supper, Mrs. Jackson.”

I made my way through the dining room and parlor, back into the foyer. I wanted to sneak past Randall’s office and up the stairs without him noticing, but the floorboards creaked under my feet.

“Lydia?”

I sighed. I didn’t want to face his self-righteous smile, or hear him say he’d told me so.

“I’m going upstairs to tidy up for supper,” I called to him from the bottom stair.

“Come in for a moment.” A command, not a request.

I smoothed my hair and straightened my glasses before entering his office. “What?”

He sat at his desk, a huge Bible open nearby while he took notes. He must have been writing a sermon. If he was anything like Father, he’d be a mesmerizing preacher.

I took a seat in an armchair near the fireplace. I welcomed the warmth of the crackling fire after sitting overnight in the drafty church.

Before he could launch into whatever he meant to say, I asked, “How did Mother die?”

He ignored my question, because of course what he had to say was more important. He was a man, after all, and I was just a woman.

“There’s no need for you to be moping around here. I have plenty of work for you to do now that Mother’s gone. As I recall, you always had a head for numbers. I’ll start familiarizing you with the books first thing tomorrow morning. This evening, you can help Mrs. Jackson.”

I almost told him okay, because what else could I do? He needed me, and if I could help, I should. It was my responsibility. But I was weary—from crying, from heartbreak, from being taken advantage of by the men in my life—and because Randall planned to use me as certainly as Emmett had.

“I asked you a question, Randall, and I would appreciate an answer.”

He’d already gone back to writing, expecting, without a second thought, that his orders would be carried out. When he looked up at me, I almost laughed at the confusion on his face. I doubted anyone had ever disobeyed him before.

“What did you say?”

“I want to talk about Mother. How did she die? How long has she been gone?”

His lips thinned and his nostrils flared, and an image of Father flashed suddenly in my mind. I hadn’t thought about it for years, but that was the exact expression on Father’s face when he got mad at Mother, just before he slapped her across the face. I never saw what happened after that because I always ran and hid, but I heard enough to know it didn’t end with one slap.

“Oh, God,” I said, the connection clicking in my mind. “Did you hit her?”

He stood and rounded the desk until he towered over me. Using my hands on the arms of the chair, I pushed myself up. He was so close, he crowded the space between us.

“Don’t get fresh with me, Lydia. You won’t like the consequences.”

I smoothed the front of my dress, then looked him in the face.

“Did Mother get fresh with you?”

“Don’t pretend you cared about her. She certainly didn’t care about you.”

“Did you ever ask her? Did you even care what she thought, or what she felt about me, or you, or anything? Or was she just another resource to you?”

“You didn’t used to be so impertinent.”

“I’m not the same woman I was when you and Father shipped me off to marry a stranger.”

“I’m sure I can break you of that.”

I realized, then, that no matter how things turned out with Emmett, I couldn’t stay with Randall. He was as unstable as Father had been, and I couldn’t live that kind of life. I wasn’t my Mother, at least not anymore. As it turned out, sending me away—even if I’d been rejected and struggled to survive—had saved me from being just like her. It had given me the strength to leave now and not suffer her fate.

“You won’t have the chance.”

I tried to step around him, but he clamped his hand around my upper arm, squeezing until I winced.

“Oh, why’s that?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Going running back to that worthless killer?”

I snorted. “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

His eyes glittered with rage. “How dare you insinuate…”

“What? That you murdered your own mother?” I didn’t know if that’s what really happened, but I hadn’t lived with Randall for a long time. He’d had a temper before, and if he’d taken after Father, believing he had the right to hit the women in his life, it wasn’t such a leap to think he’d done it to Mother. If he was capable of that, he could easily lie about Emmett. What had really happened between them?

“How old was Mother, Randall? Sixty? You killed an old woman. Why? What did she do to deserve it? She didn’t step to fast enough? Didn’t bow deep enough? Didn’t kiss your boots?”

His hand came out of nowhere. I heard the crack of it on my cheek before I even felt the sting. The force of it sent me flying backward into the chair.

Tears sprung to my eyes from the burn, but I stood again, shoe to shoe with him. “Are you going to kill me, too?”

“If I have to.” The words were cold and lifeless and scared the hell out of me. I needed to leave, find Emmett.

Then it occurred to me, “You lied about Emmett, didn’t you?”

I should have just let it go. If I left and found Emmett, I could just ask him. The way Randall heaved deep breaths, he looked like a bull ready to charge a red cape. But something inside me snapped. I was done being weak and mousy, and letting people walk all over me, especially the men in my family.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he said.

I poked him in the chest, and he grunted. “You most certainly do. My life belongs to me, not you. I’m not about to be your servant, and I’ll never marry some man just because he pays you and you say so.” I put both my hands on his chest and shoved him. He stumbled back a step. Not very impressive, but I made him move. “Get out of my way. I’m leaving.”

I took a couple of steps past him, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. Only a few more steps and I’d be in the foyer and I could yank the front door open and run.

At the office door I looked up and saw Mrs. Jackson in the parlor, heading our way, most likely coming to tell us supper was ready. I reached out for her and opened my mouth to warn her, but before I could, Randall lunged for me and snatched a handful of my hair. Randall didn’t see her, but Mrs. Jackson saw what he did, and the last I saw of her was her eyebrows shooting up and her mouth forming a round
O
right before she flung her hand over it. Just as she spun on her heel, I lost sight of her because, Randall, in a surprisingly fluid motion, swung me around behind him, throwing me to the floor. The arm of the chair gouged my ribs, and I rolled on the floor until my head struck the stone hearth.

“Your life belongs to me, and you will not forget it. The Lord puts the lives of the weaker sex in the hands of the stronger sex to teach them and to punish them in equal measure.”

My ears rang. “Do you treat Mrs. Jackson like this?”

“It’s not my responsibility to interfere in another man’s business. Her son is her keeper.”

I climbed to my feet, using the desk to pull myself up. “I’m Emmett’s wife, so you have no right to interfere in his business.”

This time he doubled up his fist and threw it right into my face. My head snapped back and my glasses flew off. I stumbled, falling backwards onto his desk, sliding all the way across, and tumbling onto the floor on the other side amid a shower of loose papers. The Bible landed on my belly with a thump.

I groaned. How had mother put up with this from Father, then Randall? Had they hurt her like this? I didn’t recall seeing bruises on her face. Maybe he managed to keep them to places she could hide with clothing. Suddenly, I wished I’d known her better, before she’d gone dead inside. I wished there’d been some way I could have stood up to Father and saved her.

I rolled to my side as Randall came around the desk. It was tight with the desk behind me and a wall-sized bookcase in front of me, and very little space to maneuver. I tried to shimmy toward the fireplace, around the other end of the desk, but he caught me.

“You’re a real big man,” I said, “beating up on a woman half your size.”

He didn’t answer, just hauled off and kicked. I managed to get the Bible in front me in time for him to kick it and not my mid-section.

“Give me that,” he said, reaching down to yank it out of my grasp. “That’s a family heirloom.”

I laughed. How ironic that he honored the heirloom more than he honored family.

By mid-afternoon, after packing and repacking the few things I had with me, I finally talked myself into heading over to the train station to book a ticket. I had no idea where I’d go, but I needed to get as far away from Randall Templeton as possible.

It was another cold day, but the snow in the streets had been churned into the mud underneath, leaving a sloppy mess. I walked the board sidewalk toward the train station, feeling like a traitor with every step. How could I, in good conscience, leave Lydia trapped here with Randall? How could I abandon the woman I loved? I was a poor excuse for a husband if at the first threat to myself, I left. Randall had threatened my father, but as I walked I thought, and as a senator, and a man of means and reputation, Father had little to fear from Randall. Given his clout, he could figure out a way to deal with the problem. If nothing else, he could turn the tables and have Randall investigated. I doubted Randall could afford that kind of attention.

After the incident with the Fords, Father and I had parted ways and I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since. He didn’t need reminding of my failure. While I loathed the idea of crawling to my father in need of help again, allowing Randall to get away with his scheming—and more importantly allowing him to subjugate Lydia—was out of the question. Father could likely stand the scrutiny, and I had no care for myself anymore. My only concern was protecting Lydia.

The thought of leaving her with him made me sick, especially considering all the lies—and truth—he’d feed her to turn her against me and make her hate me. I imagined the more it hurt her, the happier he’d be. It meant she’d be broken and turn to him. He’d own her by the time he was done.

I passed the telegraph office, and it occurred to me that rather than wiring Beth, I’d wire Father. It was past time that I stand up and face the consequences for my actions. I hated the idea of owing him even more, but I’d rather owe him than Randall, and I’d gladly owe Senator Wilder for the rest of my life if it meant paying Randall back the pain he was bound to cause Lydia. It was a debt I’d gladly pay.

I backtracked to the telegraph office and went inside.

“Afternoon, sir,” the clerk said. “Can I help you?”

“I need to send a telegram.”

I had him transmit a message telling Father to be on the lookout for an important letter from me, and that I’d be heading his direction as soon as I wrapped up some business in Omaha.

I left the office relieved that I could stay and work on a way to get Lydia away from Randall. In the meantime, I walked back in the direction to the hotel to start writing the letter to Father.

On my way, I considered my options where Lydia was concerned. I couldn’t just go back to the house and demand her. That wouldn’t get me anywhere. I could keep a covert watch on Randall and when he left the house, I could go after Lydia, assuming he didn’t take her with him. Maybe I could get a note to Mrs. Jackson to pass to Lydia. To do what? If she could sneak out, I was sure she’d do it. On the other hand, what was he going to do, lock her up at night?

I had to face the fact that Randall would most certainly do everything he could to turn her against me, so maybe she wouldn’t feel any need to sneak away on her own. If she didn’t want anything to do with me, maybe she’d just stay with Randall. In that case, having Mrs. Jackson pass her a letter would be a good idea. It would allow me to explain everything, and maybe convince her to try to get away so we could at least talk.

I was so deep in thought that I didn’t at first notice Mrs. Jackson on the boardwalk in front of me.

“Mr. Wilder!” she called.

I looked up to see her ambling toward me, huffing and puffing as she did. My heart dropped to my gut.

“Lydia?” I asked, running to meet her.

She wheezed as she tried to catch her breath, but she nodded and gasped out a few words. “Mr. Randall…Miss Lydia…fighting…afraid…”

“They’re fighting?”

She nodded.

“With words or fists?”

“Fists…”

“Shit.”

I took off at a dead run. The few blocks seemed like miles. If he hurt her, I’d kill him. He was a lot bigger than her, so if there were fists involved, he’d have hurt her, for sure. Something inside me rubbed its greedy little hands together because now it had permission to deal with Randall the way he deserved to be dealt with.

I skidded in the mud in front of Randall’s house and rushed up the steps, turning the knob and throwing my shoulder into the door. It slammed open and I charged in the inside.

“Lydia,” I called, heading for the office.

I stood in the doorway for just a moment to take in the scene; overturned chairs, books strewn all over the floor, and Lydia cowering in front of the fireplace as Randall kicked her in the ribs.