by Diana Palmer
It was reverence, more than profanity, that last startled exclamation. His powerful torso seemed to hang above her as he arched there, his voice breaking, his whole body suddenly convulsed in a rigor like that of a dying man.
Somewhere outside himself he saw his own helpless abandon, the death throes of ecstasy as he spilled himself in her body and suddenly collapsed, suffocating as he continued to shiver from the violence of his fulfillment.
Amelia felt him with shame and degradation. Her eyes closed to shut out the sight of it. Her body felt torn and used, and she wanted nothing more in that moment than to die. The tears slid hotly down her cheeks in silence, while the man lying so still against her slowly began to stop trembling and breathe normally again.
So that was what it felt like, she thought. All the soft words and long, hungry glances and tender kisses, they were nothing but a lie. Here, as in every other way, a man was an animal, a brutal, unfeeling animal who took his pleasure and repaid a woman with pain and debasement. Hadn't she heard her cousin cry and moan in just such a way through the wall at her home? How could she have forgotten!
King couldn't believe what he'd just done. His fall from grace had been sudden and unintentional, but she wasn't going to believe that. All the excuses and apologies in the world wouldn't undo what he'd done. He'd robbed her of her virginity, disgraced her. And now she'd expect marriage, he thought bitterly. Of course she would, because of the risk. He'd been a fool!
He pulled away from her without a word and turned to rearrange his clothing.
She did the same, quickly, with shaking hands, her face wet and her humiliation just beginning.
She got up from the bed on shaky legs. She felt the blood on the inside of her thighs and was only grateful that her outer clothing had been left in place, so that there were no stains on the bed linen to advertise her disgrace.
Moving away from him, her eyes lowered in unbearable shame, she went to the door and started to open it. His big hand slammed down beside hers, preventing her.
"I will not marry you," he said bluntly. "If this bit of seduction was planned toward that end, it has failed miserably. Nor will I allow Alan to marry you. If you attempt to lure him to a minister, I'll tell him what you permitted me to do to you in sordid, glorious detail. Is that understood?"
"Yes," she said in a strangled tone.
He forced himself not to remember how it had happened, that it had been himself, not her, who initiated it, who insisted. He had all but forced her, but he couldn't admit it to himself. He couldn't admit his weakness. It was part of his plan, he told his conscience. He had prevented her from marrying Alan, had that not been his intention all along? If his body had benefited by ending the whip of his hunger for her by satisfying it, then that was only part of his scheme. He had won. Why did he feel so guilty? Was she not a dishonest, dishonorable woman, as all her sex were? And was she not also a spineless woman of pitiful intellect who had the endurance of a hothouse orchid?
"May I leave, please?" she asked in a choked tone.
He hesitated for just an instant before he jerked erect and permitted her to open the door.
She went straight out onto the front porch, too shaken to even remember her bag lying on the sofa. "If you would ask someone to drive me home, please," she whispered wildly. "I would rather not wait for Alan to return, or your your parents."
"As you wish." Her back was as straight as a poker. He turned away before the sight of her stricken face made him feel worse than he already did.
He went down to the stable and spoke to one of the men. He didn't go back up with him when the buggy was ready. He didn't look at Amelia or speak to her. He turned his back and went into the barn to pitch hay to the animals.
She didn't look in his direction. Her body was sore and hurting, and she felt like a lady of the evening. Hysterically, she thought that if her father became very ill, she was now suited for a profession that many women before her had practiced. King had taken her innocence, and no decent man would ever want her now. She was ruined. Disgraced.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" the young cowboy who had been dispatched to drive her asked with concern. She was white and shivering.
"I am very well, thank you," she said. "It is only that I feel a little sick. I must have overeaten."
"Yes, ma'am."
She dried her tears and put a stoic face on it. When she was back in her own house, she quickly threw off her clothes, leaving them on the floor of her room, and went to soak in the bathtub. She stayed there a long time, thinking of what lay ahead. King might very well decide to brag about the experience to his brother or his friends or even his men, she thought hysterically, and laugh at how easily she had given in to him. He might think nothing of adding to her disgrace. He might even tell her father!
Things had been going so well. How could she bear her life now? She had been stupid, stupid!
The water was cold when she finally climbed out of the bathtub and put on her robe. There was a noise out in the hall and then in her room, followed by her father yelling for her.
She wrapped the thick robe closer and opened the door. Her father was standing just inside her room, his face livid. He was staring down at the upended slip and dress she'd worn out to the Culhane ranch. The stains were unmistakable.
But he wasn't looking at them. He was shaking with fury. He looked at Amelia with fury in his whole expression and jerked off his belt. The glazed eyes and white face told their own story. His arm came up and caught her just as she tried to run.
"You slut!" he raged, lifting the belt. "Did you think I would not find out? King Culhane himself came to see me, to tell me that you blatantly offered yourself to him! Do you think any man will marry what he can have for the asking? Alan will never want you now! You have disgraced me! You have disgraced us all!"
Amelia had stopped hearing him when he said that King had gone to him. She didn't care after that what he did. She was numb with shame and anguish. So that was what King thought of her. He hated her enough to do this
Her father jerked her robe down from the nape of her neck, baring her back, and violently brought the doubled leather belt down on her soft skin with killing force.
Chapter Eleven
» ^ «
Alan came home to find King just unsaddling his horse in the barn and Amelia gone. Judging by the look on his elder brother's face, everything had gone wrong. He didn't ask any questions. He left his horse with the cowboy outside the barn and went quickly about his own business without further ado.
The elder Culhanes came home in time for the evening meal, which King barely touched. He sat stiff-faced and brooding throughout, hardly hearing what anyone said. Later, the men went into the parlor to smoke, and Brant reached down into the chair and picked up Amelia's purse.
"Amelia left her purse," Brant murmured, glancing curiously at his sons. "Didn't either of you think to give it to her?"
"King should have. I wasn't here," Alan confessed reluctantly. "I had an emergency at the drilling site. King took her home."
"He did not," Enid said from the doorway, her eyes flashing. "Rosa was sent home, and young Billy Edwards drove Amelia, in tears, back to her house. I want to know what happened here. I want to know, especially, why you did something almost guaranteed to ruin Amelia's good name, King."
"Alan had plans to marry her," he said, staring coldly at his brother. "I have said repeatedly how I feel about having that featherbrained little coward in my family."
"I shall marry her if I please," Alan said curtly, playing his part to the hilt. King was obviously jealous. It seemed that something had happened while he was away.
But just as he was congratulating himself for making King realize his feelings for Amelia, the smile on King's face grew suddenly triumphant and cruel. "Will you marry her? Even if she was willing to give herself to another man? Which she was, in your absence," King added brutally. "She confessed that she would do anything I asked of her. I sent her home,"
he said, stopping just short of confessing all that had happened, "and then I went by the bank and had a long talk with her father. There will be no more attempts on his part to throw Amelia into your arms as a prospective wife, I have seen to that. She will not marry you now. Nor will her father dare to speak of marriage after what I said to him."
Alan's conscience exploded, along with his temper. He threw a punch that caught King off guard and actually knocked him down. His parents, horrified at King's behavior, stood quietly by, not saying a word.
"You fool!" Alan raged at him. "You arrogant fool, don't you realize what you've done? Her father is a madman! He will kill her!"
King sat up, fingering his jaw. "You exaggerate," he scoffed, surprised by his brother's fury. "He was upset, certainly, but not murderous."
"I never thought to say this to a son of mine," Brant said angrily, "but I'm deeply ashamed of you, King. You have disgraced us."
"The shame you have caused Amelia is unforgivable," his mother added coldly.
"Indeed," Brant added icily.
"She has no loyalty. She professes to care for Alan, but she offered herself to me!" King said roughly as he got to his feet.
"You have no idea what a victim she really is," Alan told him. He ran a worried hand over his hair. He took her purse from his father's hand. "This will give me an excuse, if I require one. I must get to town!"
"He would not hurt her," Brant began slowly, alarmed by Alan's attitude. "Surely, he would not."
"I had a chance to speak with Dr. Vasquez. Didn't you suspect that her father had already beaten her once, and that he was violent enough to kill in one of his rages?" Alan asked. "And you have driven him to murderous fury This is my fault. My fault! I am so ashamed!"
He was out the front door running. King stood stock-still, his face white as paper. He recalled Amelia's face when her father was nearby, her irrational fear of the man. Now it all made sense, when it was too late. And he had gone to that brute with his tale of Amelia's weak character
A minute later, he had his hat in his hand and was rushing out the door after Alan.
It took precious minutes to get into El Paso, and the streets were crowded. Alan reached Amelia's house seconds before King, neither of them sparing their mounts on the way. They didn't even take time to leave the horses at the stable but threw the reins the minute they arrived and ran to the front door.
Alan knocked and knocked again, but there was no answer. "Oh, God," he groaned, because it was past time for the elder Howard to be home from work, and Amelia would surely be there, in any case.
With a muffled curse, King went around to the side of the house and began looking in through the slitted curtains, room by room. Suddenly he stopped. The sight that met his eyes made him sick.
He ran back around the house. "Get the police!" he yelled to Alan as he made a run at the front door. Pray God he could break it in, because Amelia had been covered with blood. He didn't dare let himself think about her condition beyond that. He knew he couldn't live with himself if she died because of his stupidity. Why hadn't he known?
Alan hadn't argued. He'd gone at once, at a dead run, when King had called to him. Now King went about breaking the lock. It was a heavy door but not bolted, thank God. He gave it one last furious kick, his fear for Amelia spurring him on, and felt it give.
He ran down the hall to the room he'd seen from the outside. The door was open. Her father was shaking from his exertion, slumped over a chair.
"Damn you!" King cursed roundly as he went past the man to kneel beside Amelia. She barely seemed to be breathing at all. Her poor back was covered with blood. It had soaked into her white robe and into the floor rug beneath her, onto the floor. King thought that he'd never seen so much blood in his life. Her face was as white as flour paste, and she was obviously, mercifully, unconscious.
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.
