Shades of Gray (3 page)

Chapter 3

Long, blonde
hair covered Gray’s feet and an exhausted woman lay sprawled on his back porch
steps.  The sound of hoof beats approached, and he turned his head to the
left.  An arrogant rider sat cocksure on the back of Reece Mullins’ black
stallion, shortening the distance between the woods and the house.  Gray knew
of only one man who rode with such conceit. 

Anger pumped
through his body, and he stepped forward, anxious to end this fight.  The woman
in front of him reached out her hand and Gray paused.  Pounding Reece until he
no longer breathed would certainly satisfy his empty desire for revenge, but as
gratifying as that would be, his actions wouldn’t serve anyone, especially the
woman.  The horse and rider drew closer.  Reece’s face bobbed up and down
behind the stallion’s head.  Gray glanced toward the door, his decision
reached.  There was only one way to deter Reece.

He hurried to
the kitchen, grabbed his rifle, returning within seconds, and moved in front of
the girl.  Her desperate plea and the presence of approaching evil was enough
of an incentive for him to retrieve his gun.  Partially primed, he hoped the
load would be sufficient to discourage the madman from reaching the porch.  Her
torn words had hooked a raw part of Gray’s memory and ripped it open.  If left
unchecked, his rage would fuel unstoppable vengeance.  

Gray pressed
the gun-butt into his shoulder, leveled one eye, and sited the rider.  If only
he had time to finish the load.  His finger tensed without hesitation, and the
blast split the quiet of the night.  The horse skittered to a stop, flipping
dirt clods in the air.  Loud curses shouted over the beast’s head, and the
rider turned the horse, staying the girl’s inevitable capture. 

Gray waited
until both horse and rider disappeared into the tree line.  With imminent
danger out of view, he bent low and scooped up the woman.  She lay limp, but
cried out as he gathered her.  He glared in the direction of the fading hoof
beats.  Lifting her fully into his arms, he cursed himself as much as he did
Reece.  He should have warned her about her fiancé when he saw her in town.  He
hoisted her up, and she turned her face into his shirt.  It was impossible to
undo the damage.  All he could do now was dress her wounds. 

Stepping into
the kitchen, he dropped his gun onto the table and mounted the back stairs. 
Each step he took awakened the old nightmare, drawing him closer to the essence
of the beast.  One day there would be a reckoning and when it happened, he
hoped it would end more than his pain.

Reaching his
bedroom, he shouldered the door open, shielding the woman’s head as he entered
his quarters.  A Chippendale chair sat near the fireplace.  Its straight-back
and wide seat would serve his purpose.  He could sit her comfortably near the
hearth and have access to her injuries.  The way she had cried out when he
lifted her into his arms made him aware that she suffered from more aches than
what a bruise would justify. 

He settled her
on the cushion, and she whimpered.  Her fingers curled into the folds of his
shirt and gripped it tighter.  She shook her head against his collarbone,
refusing to release him.  Trying to reassure her of her safety, he covered her
hands with his and waited for her to draw comfort from his touch.  Trust and
comfort was all he had to offer her, and he hoped she would accept it.  She sat
motionless, neither taking nor rejecting his gifts.  A warm liquid splashed on
his skin, igniting memories of another woman’s pain-filled tears. 

Five years
ago, his trust and his devotion hadn’t been enough to save Daria.  He always
thought the bond between a husband and wife was beyond approach, but his wife
had retreated into a world known only to her and refused him entry.  Her
torment had devastated all of their lives.   

He glanced
around the dark room and tried to decide what to do first.  Shapes and shadows
were all that were within view.  If he planned to use anything specific, he
would need to light a lamp.  Her body shook under his palms, directing his
action.  A fire would warm her and generate enough light to inspect her cuts. 
Her hands finally loosened their hold and he lowered them to her lap, patting
them reassuringly. 

Side stepping
to the hearth, he lifted a few pine cones from the kindling basket and laid them
in the fireplace.  He grabbed the flint, knelt down, and struck the stones near
the tender.  The woman behind him gasped, and he reached a hand toward her,
attempting to remind her of his presence.  She jerked away, scraping the carved
legs of the chair against the wood floor.  Perhaps when she could see his face,
she would relax. 

Fire sparked
to life in front of him, and he added a small log to the growing flames.  They
licked the sides of the wood as though savoring the taste and texture of the
grain.  Satisfied that the light and warmth would aid them both, he readied
himself for what was ahead.

She sniffled,
and he turned to face her.  Sitting slumped-shouldered, her blonde hair blocked
her features, but her body shook, and tears still fell to her lap.  Her
nightdress hung loosely on her body.  The ripped and dirty flannel would serve
her better as a rag than as a sleeping garment.  It offered little coverage for
warmth or modesty. 

Both of her
knees poked through jagged slits below a line of embroidered lace.  He flicked
a glance upward and looked at her eyes.  Distant and cloudy, there were no
answers there.  He touched the fabric.  Was this part of her trousseau?  The
intrinsically stitched, detail work must have taken many hours to complete.  The
fabric now lay limp and ruined around her abused body.  He pulled a twig free
of the trim.  A barefoot pursuit in the dead of night was most likely not how
she imagined her honeymoon.  Hopefully, the wedding ceremony had been more as
she expected. 

His quick
assessment of her evening told him that a useful future for her clothes was a
dim prospect.  He hoped what lie beneath the fabric was less damaged. 
Regardless of what he faced, he would need water, ointment, and gauze.  It was
doubtful he had enough of those items in his room to do an adequate job.  She
would be fine while he gathered the supplies that he needed to treat her from
the rest of the house.  He pushed himself to his feet and turned toward the
door.

“No,” she
cried and grabbed for his hand.

Her grip,
although shaky, held firm.  He looked down at her.  Fear and panic filled her
large, green eyes, and her jaw began to quiver. 

“I’ll only be
gone for a moment,” he assured her.  He laid a second log on the fire and
turned her chair toward it.  “I need to get water and medicine to clean your
injuries.  You’ll be completely safe until I return.”

“No.”  Her
head shook, and her breathing stuttered.  “He’ll come.”

Gray’s stomach
turned.  Much to the Mullins’ family’s disgust, the Gregory and Mullins’ properties
bordered each other.  Boundary lines had led to the animosity that started with
their fathers.  Carrying the patriarch’s grudge, Reece had revealed many
unsavory habits to secure the wooded area that divided their lands.  He had not
been very gracious when three surveys confirmed the coveted territory belonged
to the Gregory’s. 

Regardless of
the cock-and-bull story Reece would most assuredly construe for his missing
bride’s absence, Gray was certain her tormentor would not return tonight.  Converting
the facts to appease potential questions took time and finesse.  Reece was a
master of both.  As strongly as Gray believed this knowledge, it would do
little to settle the blonde woman’s fear. 

She swallowed
hard and closed her eyes in a slow blink.  He glanced past her shoulder to the
bed.  Hopefully she would sleep soundly once he got her settled.  Gliding his
hand over her head, he said, “I’ll see what I have here.”  She breathed deep
and her brows unclenched, seemingly content with his answer. 

The washstand
filled a corner of the room, and a fresh stack of towels lay beside the basin. 
He hadn’t shaved today.  There should be a full pitcher of water in the urn. 
That would clean the dirt from her skin, but he needed something stronger for
her cuts.  He turned his head to the dresser.  An amber liquid filled a crystal
decanter.  He did hate to waste good whisky on an external use, but he’d
replace it later. 

Clutching the
alcohol and linens in his arms, he thought about the last article on his list. 
The small abrasions could be left exposed to the air, but he would need a salve
to help the deeper cuts to heal.  Taking a chance, he pulled open a nightstand
drawer.  A small pot rattled to the front of the box.  Gauze and scissors lay
next to it.  He sighed, surprised to find it where he had left it from an
earlier use.  With all of his supplies collected, he glanced back to the reason
he needed the items.

Her eyes
stared straight ahead, seeming to focus on nothing specific.  Gray knelt in
front of her, placing his materials next to his knee on the floor, keeping them
within an easy reach.  With careful attention on her face, he reached up and
unfastened the buttons on her nightdress.  She wobbled, but didn’t prevent the
fabric from lowering down her arms.  The bulk of the flannel lay on her lap. 

Gray sat back
on his haunches and studied the thin layer of cotton she still wore.  It had
been his experience that women wore nothing under their nightdress when
sleeping.  Not as bulky as a chemise, this light-weight material was only worn…
he looked at her face.  It seemed odd that she would have it on now.  Daria’s
bridal slip had not lasted for one minute after he came into their wedding
chambers.

At least the
blonde woman had stopped crying.  He dipped a clean cloth in the water and
wrung it out.  Holding to her chin, he wiped her face, dabbing delicately
around her hairline.  Bad judgment shouldn’t be held against her.

He eased his
way behind her.  Red welts crisscrossed her back, but her left shoulder blade
would need additional attention.  A four inch wound lay open with dry and
crusted blood banking the swollen rim.  He eyed his salve, warming by the
fire.  There should be enough for tonight.  He thought there was a larger
container in the kitchen.  

Wadding a
cloth in one hand, he held the linen under the cut.  With his other hand, he
wiggled the stopper free from the whiskey bottle and breathed deep.  It was
impossible to prepare her for what was to come.  He tipped the bottle, dousing
her shoulder with the alcohol.  She cried out, and he moved the dripping towel
to her forehead.  He might as well clean her brow while the burning sensation
lingered. 

“I know it
stings,” he said.  “Go ahead.  Cry out if you must.  It has to be done, but
there’s no reason you must suffer in silence.”

The corner of
his mouth twitched and he pressed his lips together.  Her wounds would take
weeks to heal, and scarring was a possibility.  He closed his eyes and pushed
from his mind images of Daria.  She had not recovered in a few short weeks. 

Lifting the
pot of ointment, he swabbed a generous amount of salve on both cuts and then
covered them with gauze.  He sat the jar on the dresser top and then took her
hands in his.  Perhaps a good night’s sleep would ease the aches she felt.  She
had been stripped of enough; he wouldn’t remove her slip as well. 

Coaxing her to
stand, she rose from the chair, and her nightdress fell to the floor.  He
kicked the ragged gown across the beveled planks and cleared a path to the
bed.  With her eyes locked on him, she took a tentative step, and her face
twisted against an overlooked pain.  She fell forward, collapsing in his arms. 

So concerned
for her shoulder and back, he forgot to check the area below her hips.  He
glanced down.  Her feet looked as though they belonged to two different
people.  Dried grass and dirt spotted her heel and arch on one foot, but the
other appendage was swollen with engorged nubs for toes.  She wouldn’t be able
to take the eight steps needed to reach the bed.  Without hesitating, Gray
lifted her up and carried her to the mattress. 

He sat
opposite of her and pulled her foot into his lap.  Pressing the heel of his
hand against the ball of her foot, he flexed the joint.  He glanced above his
hands and checked her reaction.  Sweaty and pale, she sucked in a quick breath
and whimpered.  She would need more than a few weeks to be completely whole. 
He lowered her ankle to the bed.  No bones appeared broken, but she wouldn’t
walk on her own very soon.  Unraveling the gauze, he wrapped her foot, leaving
her toes exposed.   

He swiped the
back of his hand over his brow.  Across from him, the woman’s shoulders
trembled and her lips were tinged blue.  She needed to rest before anything
else occurred.  He pulled the comforter from the bedrail and shook it out,
floating it over her.  Her tremors continued.  Two more blankets lay in the
wardrobe.  Opening the doors, he layered wool and cotton over her.

She peered up
at him.  “Thank you,” she said, her teeth chattering.

He nodded. 
“You’ll be fine now, ma’am.”

Her brows drew
in.  “Miss.”

His brow
inadvertently flicked upward.  The light behind him would hopefully cast the
curious tick in shadow.  She didn’t need to think he cast judgment.  There
would be plenty of gossip hounds in town to do that.  Although uncaring for the
events that led her to this moment, he would need to determine what to do with
her now.  He patted her hand and pulled the blanket over her arm.  “Sleep now,
miss.  I’ll take a room down the hall.”

Her hand shot
out from under the pallet and her fingers locked around his wrist.  “No,” she
shouted, her eyes wide and frantic.  “Don’t leave me.  Please.”

He hesitated
and she struggled to sit up.  She would never get any rest at this rate.  He
glanced over his shoulder to the door next to the dresser.  He had not entered
that room since the day Daria. . .  Her fingers slipped from his wrist and he
stared down at her.  The last female fingers he caressed were much smaller than
hers.  At that time, he thought he would never know a woman’s touch again.  He
sat down next to her on the bed and held to her hand.  “Sleep now,” he said. 
“I’ll not leave you.  I’ll stay near.”