Amelia

by Diana Palmer

  Enid and the pretty Mexican Rosa unpacked Amelia's sparsely occupied bags and filled two drawers and only a small part of the chifforobe with them. They didn't say anything to the girl in the four-poster, but they exchanged speaking glances over her pitiful few clothes.

  King didn't come home that afternoon, and Alan didn't feel right about sitting in Amelia's bedroom. Despite the circumstances, it was a bit unconventional, with Amelia in her nightclothes. Enid sat with her until she fell asleep, and then she went into the kitchen to cook supper.

  She and Rosa were talking about Amelia's wardrobe when a weary, dusty King came in the back door.

  "You were expected much sooner," Enid told him.

  "I got tied up," he countered coolly. He hung up his hat and washed his hands in the sink at the hand-pump. He dried them on a cloth and turned to face his mother. "What was that about Amelia's clothes?"

  "Rosa and I were merely remarking that she hardly has any," Enid said as she made biscuits. "And the few in her chifforobe were badly worn and patched. Yet her father had several new suits of clothing."

  "He called her frivolous," King recalled, frowning.

  "Indeed he did." Enid finished rolling the biscuits into the pan and washed her own hands at the sink. Flour turned the water in the wash pan white. "Hang the bread tray up for me, will you please, Rosa?" she asked the Mexican woman, nodding to it.

  "How is she?" King asked after a minute.

  "Her headache has not passed," she replied. "And she is not very pleased to be here." She looked up at her tall son. "She says that you make her feel unwelcome."

  He stared at his mother impassively. "Do you expect me to pretend that I want her here?"

  Enid took him by the arms and shook him. "This isn't like you," she said curtly. "When you were a boy, you were forever bringing me hurt animals to bandage or strays to be taken in. Yet here is Amelia, who has been beaten within an inch of her life, who has seen her father die in front of her very eyes, and you have no feeling for her whatsoever!"

  He moved away from her, her face no softer than the table upon which the pan of biscuits was setting. "I'm sorry for her, of course," he told his mother, vaguely ashamed as he realized that his attitude had made things even harder for Amelia.

  "She won't be here for very long," Enid added quietly. "She has mentioned a cousin and we intend to contact her. The house will have to be sold, and Quinn lives in barracks. He lacks the financial resources for a house."

  King felt his stomach contract with fear. If Amelia were sent away and found herself with child, how would he know? She might not regain her memory, in which case she would have no idea of the circumstances behind her pregnancy. She wouldn't dream of writing to him about it, because she wouldn't know that the child was his!

  "Well, we needn't settle it tonight," Enid was saying, curious about the look on his face. "I'll fix a tray for Amelia. She won't be well enough to join us at the table."

  King didn't reply. He joined the men in the parlor, preoccupied and withdrawn while they talked of business matters.

  "Quinn has still not been found," Brant added after a few minutes. "I have no idea how to inform him of his father's death. I had a wire from the post in Alpine that he was on the trail of the bandit Rodriguez down in Mexico, and they have been unable to locate him. We can hardly keep the body lying in state for the rest of the month. Hartwell must be given a Christian burial as soon as possible and his business affairs concluded. Amelia is in no condition to deal with it, and I know almost nothing of Hartwell's business."

  "If Quinn hasn't been found by tomorrow afternoon, the funeral must be conducted without him," King said. "I could ride down to Mexico and backtrack him from Del Rio. Perhaps I can find him."

  "Mexico is a big country," Alan remarked, "and Rodriguez has been known to attack lone travelers near the border. We do not need another tragedy."

  King gave his brother a vicious look. "I'm well aware of that," he said curtly.

  "Enid thinks that Amelia will be better off back East, did she tell you?" Brant asked directly.

  "Yes. I disagree," King said, his deep voice short. "She and her cousin aren't close. She has no business in a home where she is barely tolerated, especially in her present state."

  The other men gave him curious looks. "You are the one barely tolerating her here, are you not?" his father remarked gently.

  "I may not find her company stimulating, but at least she won't be maltreated here."

  "Except by you," Alan said coldly.

  King's teeth clenched, and his silver eyes began to glitter. "I have not maltreated her."

  "Not in the past twenty-four hours," Alan agreed, "but I remember how she came to be in her present situation. And I think she may be anxious to leave this place when she regains her memory and gets a good look at you!"

  King took a step forward, which Brant quickly blocked; inserting himself between his two hotheaded sons. "Stop it," he told King. "This is neither the time nor place for more violence. Try to think of your mother. She has had a difficult time herself."

  Alan shifted and straightened his suit jacket. "As you say," he replied. But he was still glaring at King.

  Enid came to the doorway before the older son could speak, a tray in her hands. "I have Amelia's supper," she announced. "I'm taking it to her. The rest of you can sit down. I won't be long."

  The atmosphere relaxed a little. She was aware of the confrontation she had interrupted, and she worried about how much worse the situation would get. Alan blamed King for Amelia's condition. King probably blamed himself as well, which would explain why he was so defensive when her condition was mentioned. Enid felt sorry for him. Her eldest had never learned to bend at all.

  She knocked perfunctorily on Amelia's door and walked in. The younger woman had just opened her eyes. She blinked, trying to focus on her visitor, and then she smiled drowsily.

  "I have been asleep," she murmured.

  "Indeed. Sleep is the best thing for you. Sit up, my dear, and try to eat a little something. I have soup and corn bread for you."

  "You're very kind to me," Amelia said. Her long, blond hair was down over her shoulders in braids, to keep it from tangling, and the white lace of her gown, worn as it was, made a beautiful frame for her pretty neck.

  "It is easy to be kind to someone as gentle as you, Amelia," Enid said softly. "Here." She helped Amelia prop up on pillows against the headboard and then slid the tray onto her lap. "You look very pale. Shall I mix you another of the headache powders?"

  "After I eat, yes, please," Amelia said. "My head throbs so."

  "You have a dreadful bruise," Enid said sympathetically. She touched the swelling and winced. "Is it terribly painful?"

  "Not at all," Amelia said. "It is just the headache which accompanies it. I shall be better tomorrow." She hesitated with the spoon in the soup and looked at Enid. "My father. When is the funeral to be? And has my brother been told?"

  "We have not been able to find Quinn, who is on assignment down in Mexico. The funeral will be tomorrow. And no," she said gently, "you must not try to go. You are simply not able. The doctor will have explained to those whose opinions matter why you cannot attend."

  "What a horrible situation," Amelia said sadly. Her eyes closed, and she shivered weakly. "What must I have done to cause my father to react so violently that he would treat me thus?"

  "Your father had a tumor of the brain," Enid said quickly. "It was nothing that you did."

  Amelia's big, dark eyes were tragic. "But it must have been, do you not see? Why would he have struck me, unless I had committed some terrible sin? And why can I not remember what it was?" she added huskily. "I remember that I came here with Alan for a picnic. Then I remember my father striking me with the belt. But I can remember nothing, nothing, of what happened in between! Does Alan know?" she added hopefully. "Can he tell me?"

  "Alan did not see you after you went home," Enid said evasively. "I am sorry. He knows nothing."
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  "Then it must have been something that happened when I returned home but before my father was finished for the day at his job," she puzzled, frowning. "Perhaps my father said something to someone at the bank. I will ask when I am better."

  "Yes, dear," Enid said slowly, "you may do that, certainly." Even as she said it, she was already thinking of ways to prevent Amelia from doing it. She must not connect her tragedy with King until she was better and able to cope with it. She was weak and sick and helpless now and needed time to get better.

  "This soup is so good," Amelia said, as she sipped it from the spoon. "Oh, but you are good to me!"

  "You eat that right up," the older woman said, moving away from the bed, "and I will be back to collect the tray."

  She went back into the dining room, where the others were already seated. She took her place and kept her thoughts to herself while they ate.

  "Is she eating?" Alan asked.

  Enid smiled. "Yes. She likes the soup." She looked from Alan to the taciturn, silver-eyed man across the table from him. "She cannot remember what happened between the time she left here and her father beating her," she said suddenly. "Don't say anything that might jar her memory. She must not be worried with anything else on the heels of her father's death."

  "I had no intention of saying anything to upset her," Alan said quietly. He glared at King. "My brother more than likely cannot say the same !"

  King's eyes stabbed at him. "That's quite enough," he said curtly.

  "She might have died, damn you!" Alan said huskily.

  King knew that and was tortured by it. He threw down his napkin and got up, striding out of the room without a backward glance. He went out the front door, slamming it behind him.

  "You must stop this," Enid told Alan, and her husband echoed the thought. "Alan, can't you see that King is cut up inside and hiding it in bad humor?"

  Alan couldn't. But his mother's soft question brought him to his senses "Perhaps I overreacted," he confessed. "But he has been so cruel to her."

  "He knows it and will have to live with it," Brant said. "Let him be."

  King mounted his horse and rode toward the Valverde estate, his hat cocked over one eye and a smoking cigar in his hand. He didn't take time to change clothes. He had to get away from the accusations, from the sight of Amelia in that bed, from the memories. He urged the horse into a trot and followed the long trail from the ranch without turning his head in either direction. Darcy would make him feel better, he told himself. Darcy would help him forget. She was going to be his wife. She might as well start being a comfort to him now.

  But she was in a foul humor when he arrived at the Valverde ranch. The maid had ironed one of her best dresses and burned the lace. She struck the poor woman and screamed abuse at her, with King standing stoically in the doorway. He hadn't seen Darcy act this way before, and it startled him to find her so venomous. His mother had never struck a servant.

  "Fool!" Darcy muttered, fingering the lace. She glanced at King, and her full lips pouted. "See what she did? It was my prettiest dress. I was going to wear it just for you, my dear." She moved close to him and peered up through her lashes with a teasing smile. "Would you like to kiss me? Mama and Papa have gone visiting, and I am on my own. It is quite all right if you do. After all, we are very nearly engaged, are we not?"

  Until he heard her say the words, he had tried to pretend that they were. But the thought of living the rest of his life with Darcy made him choke. He looked at her and for the first time saw her as she really was. She had eyes like a snake, he thought idly. She was selfish and cold, unless she could profit by being affectionate. She had no patience with what she considered incompetence, and she was vindictive. Her beauty was a poor match for her personality.

  "No, we aren't engaged," he replied quietly.

  Her eyebrows arched. "I beg your pardon?"

  He was not himself. He could not reconcile his feelings, and Darcy was confusing him even more. "I can't talk about it now. We have a houseguest," he said wearily. "Amelia Howard's father died of a brain tumor last evening, and she's staying with us, because she has nowhere else to go. We can't find Quinn."

  "Mr. Howard is dead? I am so sorry," Darcy said formally. "Amelia is doing poorly?"

  "She collapsed from the shock of it," he lied. "He died in front of her eyes." That much, at least, was not a lie.

  "Poor thing. I shall have to pay a call on her tomorrow. Is this why you came, to tell me about Mr. Howard?"

  "Yes," he said abruptly.

  "And to get away from Miss Howard, I expect, if she is in residence," she guessed coyly. "I am aware of your contempt for her."

  King didn't reply. He was feeling not at all himself. He wondered why he'd ever come here. Comfort was the last thing he was going to get from Darcy, unless he paid for it. "I have to get back," he said.

  "Please tell your mother to expect me tomorrow afternoon. I will only stay for a few minutes. You haven't forgotten that I invited you to a dinner party in town at the Sutton House at six?"

  "I haven't forgotten."

  "Senator Forbes will be present with his wife. The good offices of a superior politician are always of value," she reminded him.

  King couldn't have cared less about being in the good graces of a politician. But this was something Darcy set great store by.

  "I'll see you tomorrow, then," he replied. He bent to kiss her cheek with cool lips. "Good evening."

  She frowned. He was acting totally unlike himself. The old King was more forceful, less reserved. Tonight he was preoccupied and out of humor, and when she had mentioned their upcoming engagement, he'd acted as if the subject had never been approached. She would have to play up to him more. For her family's sake, she couldn't afford to lose the Culhane fortune.

  King rode back to Latigo slowly, his mind on Amelia and what to do about her. If her memory didn't return, things could become complicated indeed. And he didn't dare think of marrying Darcy when another woman could even now be carrying his child. Honor sometimes demanded much of a man. He could hardly deny that the entire terrible situation was his own fault. He had brought it on Amelia, and on himself. Now he had to cope as best he could. But pray God, let her not be pregnant, he thought. That would lock them both into a prison from which there would be no escape.

  Across the border, Quinn was escorting his lovely companion into the small town of Malasuerte. It was, like most Mexican pueblos, very poor and without much more than a fountain and a mission. The people glanced at him from their dirt-floored huts with the thatched roofs, some smiling, some not. Gringos were viewed with suspicion here.

  "My papa will be happy to see me and grateful to you for bringing me home," she said warmly, smiling at Quinn from her blue, blue eyes.

  "Until he learns what I've done to you," he murmured ruefully.

  "I will not tell him," Maria said firmly. "And neither will you. It is between us, as you said."

  He only nodded. But inside, he was worried. Her papa was Rodriguez. Whatever his personal feelings, he had to bring the man in. It would be difficult to get Rodriguez extradited, too, because he had friends in government here. The best way, the only way, would be to tie him over a saddle and take him out by night over the Rio Grande. That, too, would be difficult. He was a Ranger. But he was also one man, and Rodriguez had many, many friends.

  Besides, Maria appealed to him. She had courage, and she was beautiful. Quinn found himself drawn to her more and more. He didn't want to hurt her by arresting her father.

  He stopped his horse in front of the small hut where the girl indicated she lived and helped her to the ground. She felt light and warm in his arms, and he smiled at the way she made him feel inside. She was very pretty. She made him feel like a man, in a way no other woman had.

  "It will be all right," she whispered, smiling back at him. "You do not need to be afraid of my papa."

  "That was the last thought in my mind."

  "Then what, señor , was the
first?"

  "That I should like very much to kiss you," he replied. "You are very lovely."

  She lowered her eyes shyly. "You must put me down. This is not a good way to meet my papa."

  "So there you are," a deep, accented voice came from the doorway. "Praise the saints, you are all right!"

  Quinn turned, and there was the man himself, the bandit Rodriguez.

  Chapter Fourteen

  » ^ «

  King was up before the rest of the family the next morning. He stopped by Amelia's room, opening the door very slowly, so as to not awaken her.

  She lay quietly under the covers, her pale cheek against the white pillowcase, her eyes closed. He stood by the bed, scowling down at her. This woman had aroused more violent emotions in him than any woman he'd ever known. He couldn't imagine why he despised her so, when the rest of his family seemed to adore her. It was a bad time indeed to remember how she felt without her clothing, the joy of her body in an intimate embrace, the yielding soft response of her mouth to his rough kisses.

  She stirred unexpectedly, and her eyes opened. They were dark and soft as they sought out his face. She frowned as if trying to focus.

  "How are you?" he asked stiffly.

  She touched her head. She was still disoriented, confused. It disturbed her to be in here with him, to see him, even to hear his deep, slow voice. She pulled the covers closer.

  "I am very well, thank you," she said faintly. She frowned more, as turmoil grew inside her.

  King understood, as she did not, the uneasiness that showed in her face.

  "What do you remember?" he asked bluntly.

  She gnawed unconsciously at her lower lip, trying to focus one of the wild thoughts whirling around in her mind. "I remember the picnic. Alan took me on a picnic. And then my father my father hit me."

  His face lost all expression. Only his eyes were alive in it. "What else?" he persisted.