Mail Order Bride- Summer
Page 13
It was a peaceful, harmonious home that Ben came back to at dinnertime: so peaceful and harmonious, thanks to his wife’s doing, that sometimes he enjoyed leaving just so he could return. He could smell the steamy aroma of a big pot of soup simmering quietly on the range’s back burner and the yeasty scent of bread fresh from the oven. He could hear the sweet soft notes of some classical concerto being played at the neglected piano. He could see Camellia seated in her favorite chair, busily separating colorful skeins of floss in preparation for whatever needlework lay across her lap.
Despite the gloom and chill of outdoor weather, he couldn’t prevent a broad grin of appreciation for the cozy scene. His house. His domain. His castle. His wife.
Camellia looked up at a slight squeak of the back door’s hinge. “Hello, Ben, dear. I see you’ve brought back a few pounds of street mud with you. Hard going, was it?”
“Well, it sure enough makes a man tired, sloggin’ through all that muck. I won’t be sorry to see some sunny skies again.”
“Um. On that note—it does seem that the force of the rain is letting up, isn’t it? Might Molly and I dare to venture out this afternoon for an excursion?”
“Bless my soul, you never give up hope, do you?” Chuckling, he began to fight his way free of both grubby boots. “Two days at least b’fore things dry out, darlin’, and that’s if we get some heat and wind from now on. Just thank your lucky stars you don’t haveta go out. Notice you haven’t seen the doc or Paul comin’ to visit.”
Over the dinner table he and she discussed the understandable paucity of business at the store this morning, when they might expect delivery of a long-awaited order containing the new dress patterns, and Camellia’s request for a recently published library book entitled “Little Women.” Ben admitted he was looking for a Jules Verne novel, himself, “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,” whose synopsis sounded quite thrilling.
He did mention that he had put off his departure date once again for Manifest, and that his plans for a second Forrester’s were temporarily on hold.
Molly made no comment to this. She kept her head down, as if to avoid confrontation, since this delay was due mostly to her own hasty marriage, and its aftermath.
As she did so often, Camellia saw. Her well-aimed kick under the table at Ben’s shin halted any further discourse for the moment. Startled at first by the blow, then sheepish, Ben slumped both shoulders and tended to his bowl of soup.
By the time he was ready to return to work, the steady fall of rain had slackened to a drizzle. The mud still sucked and impeded progress, and puddles whose depth could not be determined except by sinking down into them stood everywhere. No. Definitely the girls would be homebound at least one more full afternoon.
They had cleaned up the kitchen and returned to their rainy day pursuits when a knock came at the front door.
The sound jolted Camellia enough that she accidentally stabbed her finger with the needle, with the result that a few crimson drops of blood dripped onto her skirt.
“Oh, goldarn it!” It was one of Ben’s favorite mild oaths, and even as the word slipped past her lips she blushed and cast an apologetic glance toward her sister.
Molly, still seated at the piano where her fingers had been roaming idly over the keyboard, chuckled. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you. Go on, stop the bleeding before your fancy work is ruined. I’ll see who’s braved the storm to come calling.”
Since the worst of the storm had passed, at least temporarily, getting out and about for the more adventurous males, in their knee-high boots, wasn’t quite so tricky. One such stood on the verandah now, when Molly flung wide the door.
“More flowers,” she announced over her shoulder, in disgust. “Can you believe the absolute brazen audacity of that oaf?”
This bouquet, even more sizable and elaborate than the first, complete blocked the messenger’s face and his identity. But only for an instant. Only long enough for him to gain entrance.
“Here, if you must be delivering what someone else has sent—” she began in a weary voice, reaching out.
“Oaf, is it?” growled Quinn Hennessey, casting aside the blooms in order to grab hold of the girl’s outstretched hand.
Molly screamed. It was her nightmare come true, what had kept her awake nights with restless dreams of the impossible happening—Hennessey, in a more foul mood than ever, had returned to reclaim his wife. Desperately she tried to pull free, but he was already inside the room and slamming the door shut behind him.
At the first cry of distress, at the first glimpse of skirmish, Camellia, needlework thrown aside, was instantly on her feet and rushing toward her sister. She was stopped mid-step by the very large and very imposing Colt Revolver that had suddenly appeared in Quinn’s hard-fisted grasp.
“Hello, dear sister-in-law,” he greeted her sardonically, with what seemed to be a grimace under the devilish beard. “As you see, I’ve finally come to reclaim my bride.”
“Noooooo!” Shrieking and struggling madly against the clenched grip that held her fast, Molly’s lunge for freedom managed only to further infuriate her captor and painfully sprain her wrist.
“Be quiet, you despicable little harpy,” hissed Quinn, roughly dragging her closer. She fell against the embroidered height and width of his vest, like a butterfly splatted tight to some immovable object, and hung there helplessly. “You’ve caused me so much trouble! Hauled to the jail like some common criminal, questioned and harassed by Winslow and his men. Such treatment was degrading, and entirely due to you!”
“Quinn.” Camellia, her heart hammering with an almost audible beat, spoke quietly in the hope of injecting reason into this horrifying scene. “Quinn, no one wanted to cause trouble for you. Please, release Molly, and let’s sit and talk like rational human beings. I’ll make some coffee, and we can—”
The man rasped out some savage oath. “And have you put poison in what I drink? No, thanks!”
Camellia’s fingers, hidden in the folds of her skirt, tightened imperceptibly. Had this raving lunatic now taken to reading minds? There was, of course, that bottle of laudanum tucked safely away in the cupboard. Too much of a dose, and who knew what might happen?
“No, I’m sure you mean well, Camellia—” a burst of derisive laughter at that, “—and your hospitality is already famous in this town. But I’ll pass for now, thank you. Molly and I have more important matters to pursue.”
With another furious agonized attempt to pull free, Molly hissed and spat at him like an antagonized kitten. “Never with you. Never again. Go away, Quinn, and leave me alone. Leave all of us alone!”
“Aw, now, Molly, sweetheart, you don’t really mean that. You’re my wife. I’m leaving town shortly, and I plan to take you with me.” Once again the revolver came into play, as a show of bravado, wavering slightly but taking aim at her sister standing straight and tall and silent—lest any movement of hers might further provoke the intruder—in the center of the room.
Every drop of blood in Molly’s veins ran cold. “You’ve been drinking. You’ve been drinking—a lot.”
“Why, yes, my dear, I have had a few drops or so. Just to help me through the day. And all paid for out of my own earnings, I must tell you: leftovers of the poker game from which I was so summarily evicted.”
“I’m sorry you feel that things have gone so wrong for you,” Camellia managed to unstick her tongue from the dry roof of her mouth to commiserate. “But there’s nothing so awful that a good talk between family members can’t—”
“Are you deaf, woman?” Quinn snapped out. “No more talk, I’m done talking. And I’m done with this precious family of yours. Other than the one member that belongs to me. Sit down, Molly.” And before she realized his intention, or could react, he had flung her bodily into the nearest chair with the handgun’s barrel shoved into her side. “You, too, Camellia. Sit down. Be comfortable.”
“Is it money you want? I don’t have much, but I can—”
“Quinn, please be reasonable.” Camellia, feeling already a prisoner in her upholstered armchair, begged for time and logic. ”You can’t possibly go anywhere in this kind of weather. There’s been so much rain, and now so much mud, that the roads are just about impassible.”
She had never, fortunately, been forced to witness his immediate and frightening flush of temper, springing up out of nowhere like a violent summer storm. Until now. Now she saw the full force of his rage, being vented upon two virtually helpless women, and realized what terror poor Molly must have endured at this man’s uncaring hands.
Revolver now aimed directly at Camellia, Quinn ordered her in low, deadly tones to shut up immediately or be shut up forever. Trembling, she shrank back and nodded.
“You see,” he continued, almost pleasantly, as if he must explain his actions, “it’s no matter to me whether I leave you here bound and gagged but still alive, or dead and bleeding on the floor. One more murder, what’s that? I’ve done enough of those, and more. You and your high-and-mighty family missed a few details of my background, Mrs. Forrester. A shame for you, isn’t it?”
His grin, through that spade-shaped beard, shone so hideously that Camellia, momentarily overcome, closed her eyes in despair.
“Things were getting a bit—dicey—back in that little hole-in-the-water, Prairie Spring. Wanted posters, and so on. Pesky details getting out, like my description and lifestyle. I could feel the law breathing down my neck. So—I decamped. And how better a way to cover my tracks than as a married man, with a new bride and a new name?”
He shrugged one elegant shoulder, in a way that once might have been seen as charming and lackadaisical.
Camellia couldn’t help risking a question. “But why come back? From here on, why bother with Molly at all? Surely she will only be a useless weight in whatever you’re—”
“Shut up! I told you to just shut up! You want to see what my aim is like, from three feet away? You want to find out what pain is like, when you’ve been shot full of holes?”
“Quinn, no!” Molly cried in anguish. “Leave her alone, please. I’ll do whatever you want, go wherever you want. Just—please... don’t hurt my sister.”
She was the epitome of sorrow and suffering and sweetness, with her wild-eyed appearance and her fading bruises, and the love that bound Molly to every member of her family would ever be her undoing. Her Achilles’ heel. And Quinn was all too aware of that fact. His facial gesticulation held the twisted smirk of some medieval demon.
“Go get that apron out of the kitchen,” he ordered. “Then use the strings to tie her hands to the chair.”
Molly stared. “Bind her? You mean—actually truss her up, so she can’t move?”
“That’s what I said. Get along with you. Now!” The muzzle, its aim wavering slightly, was being shifted back and forth, from one hostage to the other.
Frustrated, flustered, she was given no choice but to obey. With Hennessey standing but a few feet away, watching intently and ready to pounce, Camellia did not dare fight against the restraints. She even managed a shaky but encouraging smile when Molly, visibly trembling in every muscle, finished and stepped back.
“Good. All right; collect whatever cash is in the house, and all the expensive baubles that might be tucked away.” As Molly, trying to telegraph some sort of silent message to her sister, hesitated, Quinn roared, “Obey me!”
She fled upstairs, and the man, wearing a satisfied leer, watched her go.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on your place for days,” he confessed, then, since his plan seemed to be working out to his advantage. “Making sure when your husband took off for the store, and when he came back—following a nice neat schedule—so I’d know just when you two pretty ladies would be alone. Yes, sir, you are both mighty pretty.”
Approaching, he touched the cold barrel of his handgun to Camellia’s cheek, and then slowly, sadistically, moved it down her throat and over her collarbone. Shuddering, she turned her face away so as not to meet the glittering insanity of his eyes.
Bending toward her, with the Colt now pushed insinuatingly against her breast, Hennessey breathed, “Your precious sister wasn’t too fond of this tactic that I’m using right now. Kept her in line, though. Sure did keep her in line. She let me do whatever I wanted, and begged for more.”
Camellia longed to spit in his face. Evil, evil man, with his sneers and his revolver and his intimidating threats! Oh, where was Ben, when she needed him so desperately? Why couldn’t he come home unexpectedly, disregarding the timetable Quinn had noted, and save them from this madman?
“I’ve collected what I could find,” Molly interrupted, returning to the parlor with lagging, silent tread. She had immediately recognized the sick, sadistic game he was playing; that horrific routine had become all too familiar to her, in their brief time together. “Get away from her, Quinn. Camellia hasn’t done anything to you. It’s me you want.”
“You wear out too fast,” murmured her husband, looking from one to the other with speculation. “Having another woman along—a spare—might not be a bad idea. Nice revenge—get back at that pompous shopkeeper and the law, all in one fell swoop.”
“It won’t be easy kidnapping me in this weather,” snapped Molly, in a show of defiance. “Let alone dragging someone else along. I’m too much woman for you to handle as it is. Make sense, Quinn.”
His horrible smile broadened. “Well, well, you’ve gotten some of your spunk back. I’m going to thoroughly enjoy beating it out of you, my dear wife. What sort of loot did you put together for us?”
Wordless, because to speak would be to hurl invective and invite still more cruelty, she extended the leather bag. He hefted its weight and nodded approvingly.
“That should take us far enough away from this worthless state and its dregs of humanity. To Arkansas. Or Louisiana. Or Oklahoma. The world is my oyster, and the only limit to travel is my imagination.”
“Quinn, please stop and think about this,” Camellia, determined to intervene despite her defenseless position, to attempt reason one last time, entreated. “Take the money and flee. You don’t need Molly. You’ll go farther and faster by yourself.”
Furious that this woman should still attempt to thwart his plans, even powerless as she was, he whirled. One hand still wielded the weapon with such deadly intent; the other waved about, free to do damage. First a hard smack to Camellia’s cheek, just to remind her of who owned absolute control in this situation. Then, as she let out a cry of pain and sagged sideways, he grabbed a fistful of material to stuff into her mouth, effectively stifling speech and rendering her truly helpless.
“You’re wrong,” he snarled. “I need Molly for a while. Eventually she’ll be no more use to me. When I’ve tired of my oh so delightful companion, when I’m completely finished sucking her dry of everything she has, I’ll sell her to the nearest brothel and be on my way. Shake a leg, my dear. My horse is tied outside and waiting.”
Chapter Seventeen
AS IT TURNED OUT, QUINN had not so much leeway timewise in his escape as he had hoped.
It was but three hours later that Dr. Gabriel Havers, taking advantage of another letup in the unending deluge of rain, came calling. His first subdued knock at the door went unanswered. Not that he wanted to wake the dead, of course, given the fact that one woman was existing in a semi-invalid state and the other was caring for her. Perhaps both were napping.
And who could blame them, in such psychotic weather that didn’t know if it wanted to rage for several more weeks or stop its weeping to usher in the sun?
And he, himself, stood somewhat sheltered from the intermittent rain drops hurled by an unstable wind, on the Forresters’ front porch. Thoughtful of Ben to provide protection from the elements for any visitors.
Still, since he had clomped throug
h a river of mud to get here, Gabriel wasn’t about to be turned away by a mere closed door. No, sir. He knocked again, more briskly and more forcefully. He even added a hearty kick, for good measure. That noise should be loud enough to rouse anyone from the deepest slumber.
Nothing. Disgruntled, he decided to do what he should have done to begin with.
He strode to the parlor window, nearest the kitchen, and peered inside. The sight that met his squinted gaze was shocking beyond belief.
“Holy Hannah!”
His yell caught the attention of Camellia, helpless and vulnerable, tied and gagged in her chair.
Immediately Gabe flung himself at the front door. Fortunately for his shoulder, and a whole mass of internal organs, he turned the knob as he did so, since the lock had not been engaged. He burst across the threshold in almost a state of shock.
“Cam! What in tarnation—”
Wasting no further energy on outraged expletives, he yanked the muffling fabric away and then raced to the kitchen for a sharp knife and a glass of water. By the time a few seconds had elapsed for his return, Camellia was drawing in great gulps of air and attempting to speak.
“Hold on, honey. Drink, first. Easy, not too much at once. There, that’s better.”
“Bless you—Gabe...! I will never—ever—call you an interfering—old—busybody—again...!”
“Ahuh. Well, I won’t be holdin’ my breath any time soon on that point,” he said dryly, sawing away at her bonds. “Hmmmph. Move over here, and let me massage your wrists for a bit, get some feelin’ back.”
“Can’t...nothing—to spare. He’s gone, Gabe.”
“Gone? Who’s gone? You gotta be a mite—”
“Quinn!” Camellia wanted to grab the doctor by his coat lapels and give him a shake, but her fingers weren’t working properly so she coughed instead. “Quinn was here. He did this to me—and he stole Molly away!”
“Stole her—why, bless my soul, he couldn’t—he can’t—but, Camellia—”