by Sierra Rose
The young man waiting on their verandah was one she had never met. What she could see of his face looked moist with rain and slightly flushed. What she couldn’t see was hidden by a huge bouquet of flowers. So many that she could almost see a whole hive of bees swarming around overhead.
“Yes?”
“Miz Forrester? I’m lookin’ for Miz Hennessey. She around?”
“She’s indisposed right now, and is unavailable,” responded Camellia crisply. “May I help you with something?”
“Yes, ma’am. S’posed to give these to her—” a nod toward the colorful blooms, “—along with this note.”
“Indeed.” Camellia’s brows arched. “Very well, I’ll certainly do so. Thank you.”
“Who was that?” Molly inquired, without animation.
“I don’t know. But he left a gift for you.”
Molly looked over the offering without much interest. “Picked from someone’s garden, I suppose.”
Fragrant roses, in pink and carmine and white; tall stems of scarlet hollyhocks; little golden marigolds and the round buttons of bright bold zinnias. Quite a mixture, chosen with more zest for variety than for floral design. Camellia took a few steps into the kitchen to locate some sort of pitcher as receptacle.
“My thoughts, exactly. And then there’s this.” Handing over the heavy vellum envelope, nicely addressed in a black-inked dashing script, she took her chair opposite the settee where her sister was semi-reclined. Just a brief cessation in the chores on her mental list.
She had barely had time to smooth her skirts out of the way when she heard a gasp and a clatter of metal.
“Molly? Molly, what is it?”
Every vestige of color had washed out of the girl’s face, until the bruises stood against the skin in stark relief, like a geographical map, and the spoon she had been holding now lay on the wooden floor where it had fallen. “It’s from him.” The note dangled between thumb and forefinger like the pelt of some wild, dangerous creature that she didn’t want to touch.
“From whom? Not—”
“Quinn. Yes. He—he wrote to me.”
With her sister’s permission, Camellia quickly scanned the note. Once, then again.
Quinn was hoping that his dearest beloved wife would accept these flowers with his most humble apologies. He knew he had behaved so badly toward her; he could only use as an excuse that his passions had run away with him. He would assure her that such mistreatment would never happen again. Words could not express how abjectly sorry he was for his abysmal behavior. He loved her dearly, desperately, and he wanted her back so they could make a fresh start. If Molly would but allow it, he would spend the rest of his life trying to make amends.
“The man can’t possibly be serious!”
“I think—I think he is,” Molly said faintly, and, closing her eyes, lay her head against the settee’s high cushioned back.
“It’s all about him; every other word refers to his behavior, his excuse, his passions. Does he really expect you to fall for that again?”
“I—I expect so...”
“The nerve! As if you would simply smile and shrug and let him back into your life!” Camellia snapped. Overwhelming fury had replaced every sense of composure; she wanted to stomp back and forth across the room, she wanted to tear something apart with her bare hands. No. She wanted to pound something, really really hard!
A traitorous tear slipped from Molly’s lashes down one pallid cheek. “Cam, I’ll never be free of him, will I? I’ll never get away. He’ll always be around, part of me, trying to hurt me, trying to destroy me, trying to ruin whatever I have.”
“I—I don’t know, Molly. I just don’t know—what—recourse—we have. I don’t know what to do.”
“I could leave. In the dead of night, I could leave. I could pack a few things, slip out, go somewhere far distant, where he’ll never find me.” From desolation to sudden pitiful eagerness.
Camellia was horrified. “You’d let him—that—that unspeakable cur—drive you away from your family and friends? No, Molly, there must be something else we can do. Has Paul discussed the subject with you at all?”
“Paul?”
“Yes, the sheriff. Remember, he talked with you for a while Monday afternoon?”
In any other circumstances, Camellia herself would have played chaperone. Nothing good could ever come of an unmarried man visiting a married woman, alone, in her boudoir, of all places! But when the woman was in frantic, frail indisposition, and the male visitors were her physician and an officer of the law, surely propriety must take a back seat to practicality.
“I remember.”
She was finished consuming her belated breakfast. With an efficiency of movement that categorized almost everything she did, Camellia moved the tray aside, out of the way, to take her sister’s cold hands in both of hers.
“You felt comfortable with him, didn’t you, my dear? Safe?”
Molly nodded. “With him. And Ben. And Dr. Havers. No one—no one else...no other man. With things as they are—with the way I feel—I don’t want to even speak to anyone. Cam, do you think Paul could come see me again? I need to tell him about—this...” The sideways slant of her head indicated the note, and the gathering of blooms. “And I want to ask him about my—my options.”
Camellia’s throat closed up. A quick breath, and then another, was necessary before she could speak. “Yes, certainly. When Ben comes home for dinner, we’ll ask him to get hold of Paul for us.”
Chapter Fourteen
HE DID BETTER THAN that. He brought the man into the house with him.
While Camellia, busy at the stove (was there any other place to be at this time of day?), pasted on a bright and sunny smile, she couldn’t quite repress a sigh. The place seemed over-full, these days, of tall, bronzed men intent upon their own business. And, if Paul were present, could the doctor be far behind?
Dinner preparations were, fortunately, fairly simple. Salt pork, sliced thick and fried; fresh green beans from someone’s garden, cooked deliciously in bacon grease; potatoes baked in their own skins, dusted over with melted butter and seasonings; another pan of those out-of-this-world sugar buns. Blackberry bushes were still producing their tart and luscious fruit; yesterday Hannah, fast becoming an avid gardener, had gone out scavenging. The result was today’s melt-in-your-mouth cobbler, topped with cream.
Camellia had gladly promised her sister a pan of leftover dessert.
Paul’s nostrils visibly palpated at such enticing aromas as he entered the kitchen, and then he offered his usual crooked, somewhat shy smile. “Good day to you, Camellia.”
“He was passin’ by me in the street,” Ben, already washing with a great deal of vigor and stray suds at the sink, informed his wife. “So I invited him on over. Here you go, son,” tossing a towel, which his friend expertly caught with one hand, over his shoulder.
“Will Molly be joinin’ us?”
“Yes, Paul, she’ll be downstairs directly. And I believe there’s a matter she’d like to discuss with you, after dinner, if you have time.”
“Always,” said the sheriff genially. He had put aside his rain-splattered Stetson and a light woolen coat, at Ben’s urging, to take a comfortable seat in his shirt sleeves
It was a pleasant meal, despite the underlying cause. Molly, moving carefully and stiffly, had indeed come to the table, Since she no longer saw Paul as “company,” but a loyal friend and ally, she could relax and enter into the general conversation over the potatoes that were just a trifle too salty and the buns with a slight burned layer to the crust. (Although becoming increasingly proficient, even gifted Camellia, the Martha of her kitchen, must occasionally suffer some minor setback.)
At the moment, Paul was joshing his host about the pitfalls of leadership at the most recent town hall meeting, some ten days ago.
“I wasn’t able to attend,” said Camellia, looking up with interest from her plate, “and Ben said nothing about any problem that aro
se. What happened?”
“Attendees got into a free-for-all,” said the sheriff innocently. “But I’ll let Ben tell his side of it.”
Ben shot his friend a look of disgust. “Nothin’ all that important. We had a couplea business owners wantin’ to close down the Prairie Lot—bad reputation, y’ know, attractin’ the kinda clientele most folks would rather not have around.”
“And Clunker fightin’ ’em tooth and nail,” added Paul. He sent a knowing grin around the table.
“And Clunker, of course, He plans to keep the place open, ’cause it’s his livelihood.” With a shrug, the mayor returned to his meal. “Just the usual stuff that goes on every time. They’re all a bunch of hotheads.”
“Our civic leader is just bein’ modest,” Paul’s grin, and the appeal of it, broadened. “He threatened to clunk a few heads, himself, if they didn’t all shut up and sit down so’s he could have an orderly assembly.”
“Dunno that they woulda listened to me, without Clunker’s bat in my hand, if not for you at the back of the room. ’Cause you mentioned that your jail cell is big enough to hold all the troublemakers as long as necessary, and how would their wives appreciate that news bein’ broadcast in the paper?”
Molly giggled.
The sound was so unexpected, and so encouraging, that Camellia’s heart clenched up in a sudden spasm of love and tenderness. Her dear, brave sister, traumatized as a child, traumatized as an adult. Strong enough to not only survive but triumph over both.
“And what was the verdict?”
“The verdict?”
“Yes, about closing the Lot. Was everyone in agreement?”
“Naw.” Ben was offhand about the whole thing. Most events, especially those that didn’t directly touch him, could be filed in a whole separate compartment to his life and ruled upon with dispassion. “They tabled the idea till next month. Then we get to go through all this again.”
“Not to worry. My deputies and I will be there; we’ll watch your back. Though you’d oughta see about gettin’ us hazard pay.”
“Hmmmph.” Ben’s standard answer when he had nothing else to say. Except something else might often crop up, when he had a chance to think about it. Looking up from under thick brows, he demanded to know how’s come the sheriff could take off so much time from the job to park his boots under the Forrester table.
“Whatddya expect?” The sheriff could be offhand, as well. “I’m the boss. And I ain’t never gonna give up the chance to cadge a free meal, ’specially the kind you get served here.” A wink at Camellia, and she dimpled and tucked into her own dinner with lightened spirits.
They had finished a serving of cobbler and were working on a third or fourth cup of coffee when Molly glanced up to ask about whether she might retire to Ben’s study.
“With Paul, if you don’t mind, Cam.”
“Of course not. Do go on. But not too long, Molly. You need to rest more this afternoon. And, if I don’t miss my guess, Dr. Havers will be along anytime now for a consultation. The dinner hour isn’t completely over,” added Camellia, in tones of resignation and just a hint of irony.
The study, or library, as it was sometimes considered, was kept in rather good order, with a minimum of clutter. As the owner of a successful mercantile, Ben had access to a number of fine furniture stores, carpet warehouses, and the like. Thus, he had splurged on a heavy-duty red wool rug for the floor, curtains patterned in matching red and beige print—warm and cozy, tailored to masculine taste—and two comfortable wing back chairs just waiting to be used.
It was into one of these that the sheriff settled Molly, before he took the wooden rolling chair situated in place behind its desk. Whatever her feeling now for males in general, Paul, exhibiting a sensitivity toward the gruesome subject of her ordeal that few understood, was careful not to touch her unless she herself initiated contact.
He wondered, as he watched her adjust the navy skirt and try out a small tentative smile for his benefit, whether she remembered any of the details of that harrowing trip back to town and safety, just three days ago. Whether she remembered the feel of his arms around her bruised and battered body, providing support, providing snugness and safety. Whether she remembered the thud of his heart pumping steadily almost in rhythm with hers, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath her tucked-in form, the curl of his fingers through her hair when a loosened wisp blew across his cheek.
He did. He remembered.
“I don’t recall,” she began, in a low, resonant voice, “if I have thanked you, Paul. What with my—with what happened—and Dr. Havers’ medicines—” again the tremulous smile, “—I seem to have lost sense of myself. My head hasn’t felt really—clear—until today.”
“You needn’t—”
“Oh, but I do. You saved my life, Paul,” she assured gravely. Her eyes, rain-washed turquoise set off by long sooty lashes, studied him carefully. “I have no doubt that Quinn would have—” a pause, a shudder, a slight moue, “—he would have come back and—and killed me... So, you see, I owe you—I owe you a great debt of gratitude.”
“I was just doin’—”
“Please don’t tell me you were just doing your job. That makes me feel like a burden on the whole taxpaying body!”
He allowed himself a smile. “All right, then. We’ll just say that your kin was mighty worried about you, and mighty relieved to have you home again.”
“Yes. I’m sure that’s an incredible tactful way to put it.” The bruises on her white face were fading from angry red and purple to something more bluish-yellowish-green. Not an attractive shade, by any means. The black lashes drifted down, lifted wide once more. “It’s difficult—it’s very difficult to admit when one has behaved like a doddering fool.”
Paul shrugged one shoulder. “It’s called bein’ human, ma’am. People make mistakes. Some can rise up and overcome what they’ve done wrong, and then make changes; some have to live with ’em for the rest of their lives.”
“Which brings me to what I wanted to discuss with you, Paul. I received this, earlier today, along with a big impressive bunch of flowers.” Leaning forward, she handed the morning’s missive across the desk to him.
Silence for a minute or two, while he perused the few lines written by such an elegant hand. Her gaze went to the windows, propped open just an inch or so to let in the fresh outdoor scent, the glass streaming with the rain, now falling more heavily, that obscured any view. It was the type of day one could relish being inside, to enjoy feeling sheltered and secure. Unless one were being kept a prisoner.
“Camellia was quite—outraged,” Molly, seeing that he had finished, commented thoughtfully.
“Ahuh. I can understand that. What’s your opinion?”
A slight tremor ran through her slender frame. “It makes me more afraid. It’s as if Quinn is proud to display his power over me, to show that he’s the final authority when it comes to my future, and I have no choice but to obey! Oh, he’s trying sweet talk and pretty gestures first, but...”
“Ahuh,” said the sheriff again. His long brown fingers folded the note together to return to its envelope. “Well, I think you’ve called it, for a fact.”
“Paul.” She made an appealing picture, with both hands clasped together and her beautiful blue-black hair tied up loosely into a knot, and he couldn’t help being touched. “Am I stuck?”
“I could run him outa town on a rail, Molly. But that wouldn’t change the circumstances. You took your vows b’fore a licensed preacher, you’re legally wed.”
“Camellia and I talked. We talked prior to the marriage. We talked a good deal after. She explained that I—I am nothing more than a piece of property to my husband. That he can treat me as—as badly as he wants: beat me, break me...and it’s all—legal...”
Regretfully, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s true. A woman hasn’t got much say in what goes on with a marriage. That’s how the laws have been written, and how they’re
enforced.”
“By men,” she said bitterly.
“Again, all true.”
Given the shaky state of her emotions, and the fragile state of her poor manhandled flesh and bones, it was not surprising that the tears threatening for some little while finally overflowed. “I—I
wish—” Molly managed on a little sob, “—I wish I had been smart enough to realize all that ahead of time, when I was falling in love with the whole idea of falling in love.”
Aghast, he simply could not let her go on crying unattended. Moving swiftly, if ill-advisedly, from behind the desk, he reached down to gather her into his arms. Hardly conscious, at that point, of her movements, she came upright willingly. For a few blessed moments of pure bliss, she wept softly against the breast of his shirt, while he gently patted her shoulders and cradled her like a woeful child.
All too soon, she discerned her position—a precarious one, at best. With a few final sniffles and a little nervous trill of laughter, she removed herself from what might very well be harm’s way.
“Look—look at what—I’ve done,” she hiccoughed. “I’ve gotten you—all wet.”
Paul couldn’t hold back a broad grin. “My pleasure, ma’am. Any time.”
“Oh, you—you would say that. My sincere apologies, you poor man.” Discomfited, shamed, she reseated herself in Ben’s cushy chair. “I have no excuse for all these emotional—histrionics. I’m as weak and wobbly as a bowl of calves’ foot jelly. Lately, I’ve just—well, it’s been a strain, you understand. And you—I’m afraid you happened to be handy...” Another tiny flutter of anxious laughter.
He took a step backward, to rest his haunches on the desk top, and then crossed both arms over his chest to help resist temptation.
“Really, Paul, I am so sorry. I’ve been coddled all my life, given all that I’ve wanted...and I feel I’ve never even grown up until—until—now...Oh, I know that isn’t any excuse for my silly behavior, but...Oh, Paul—I’m such a mess—!”
