Sophie drew in a sharp breath, feeling her eyes opening wider out of shock. "Your father beat him?"
Lucy shook her head. "It would have been better if he had. Instead, he grabbed Flower by her ears and held her over this old rain barrel that used to sit under the drainpipe. Mama always swore rainwater made her hair silky and sweet."
"Oh, no!" Sophie exclaimed softly. "He didn't drown her?"
Lucy nodded. "Ford fought Daddy with everything he had, but Daddy was bigger than Ford then and stronger. In the struggle Ford's shoulder was terribly dislocated, but he kept fighting. But it was too late. Flower was dead."
"It must have been horrible for both of you," Sophie exclaimed softly, hurting for the sensitive, caring boy who had become the hardened man.
"I've never forgotten the look on my big brother's face when he lifted Flower out of that barrel and hugged her against his chest. Tears were running down his face, and he was in terrible pain from a bunch of torn ligaments in his shoulder, but he wouldn't let me touch him, and he wouldn't let me call Mama or Doc. He just sat there until he didn't have any more tears, then he got up and carried Flower into the woods to bury her. I waited until he came back, and then I asked him why he didn't tell Daddy what he wanted to know."
"What did he say?"
Lucy smiled. "He said that Mama had made him promise never to tell anyone where she went or what she did. You see, promises are sacred to Ford. Mama always said he was a throwback to antebellum times when Southern men were willing to die to preserve their honor, or the honor of someone close to them,"
Sophie felt raw inside. "So he was faced with breaking his promise and losing his honor or keeping his promise and losing the pet he loved."
Lucy nodded slowly. "I've never seen him cry since that afternoon, not even when we buried Mama and Daddy. Maybe he can't, the way he could never bring himself to trust a woman enough to fall in love. Until now."
Sophie closed her eyes, her throat scratchy from unshed tears, and her heart aching for the pain she must have caused him.
Lucy came closer. "I don't know if that helps you or hurts you more, but I know I feel better for having told you."
"Thank you."
"He does love you," Lucy said with audible urgency. "Maybe he can't tell you yet, but I feel it here, inside." She pressed the hand wearing the ring against her heart, and Sophie fought back a sob.
"Maybe he was beginning to," Sophie admitted, feeling the brutal truth rip through her. "Now I'll never know for sure."
"Does that mean you still plan to leave?" Lucy asked, her tone disbelieving.
"Yes, just as soon as I give Jessie a quick bath." Sophie stood, willing strength into her suddenly watery knees. "Please don't look at me like that, Lucy," she cried, crying openly now. "I'd stay if I could, but believe me when I tell you I just don't have a choice."
Katie drove them to the bus station. The ladies insisted upon coming along. There was a certain ritual involved in saying goodbye, Sophie soon discovered. First came the usual cautionary advice and comments on the weather forecast and time changes. And then, as the luggage was being stowed in the underbelly of the big bus and the soon-to-be departing passengers were assembling in the shelter of a garishly lit, metal carport outside, the advice turned more specific.
"Now remember, sugar, don't eat fish in any form at roadside restaurants," Miss Rose Ruth cautioned, her white eyebrows bunching at the thought of possible consequences.
"And be sure to carry that can of disinfectant I gave you when you go into the lavatories," Miss Fanny added, her eyes red-rimmed and shiny.
"Don't be silly, Fanny," Rose Ruth protested. "Those folks at the bus company wouldn't let their passengers use unsanitary facilities."
"Now who's being totally ridiculous," Fanny proclaimed, pursing her lips.
"You have our number, right?" Katie asked after she and Sophie exchanged hugs. "And you'll call when you get settled in at your aunt's?"
Sophie nodded, unable to voice another blatant lie. While her three friends took turns hugging and kissing the baby goodbye, Sophie took her ticket from her purse. The bus she and Jessie were about to board would take them by a circuitous route to Richmond, Virginia, where the ladies expected her to transfer to a bus heading west. Instead, she was booked all the way through to Syracuse.
"Five minutes, ladies," the bus driver cautioned as he passed.
"Oh, dear," Fanny said, fumbling in her bag for her ever-present hanky. "I promised myself I wouldn't make a fuss."
"Go ahead and fuss," Rose Ruth said, plucking her hanky from her bag, as well.
Sophie was about to take Jessie from Katie's arms when she saw Ford's Camaro pull into the lot. Out of uniform again, he was wearing the worn jeans and a faded work shirt like the one that had irked his sister so much on Christmas Day.
He looked devastatingly male—and very tired. He didn't smile as he joined them. Instead, he greeted the others with a nod, then directed a cool look at Sophie.
"Can I have a private minute?" he asked, his voice wiped clean of all emotion, even disgust.
"Of course."
He glanced around, then drew her to a corner of the outdoor boarding area. "I wanted to give you this," he said, drawing a white envelope from his back pocket. Ignoring her frown, he tucked the envelope in a corner of the diaper bag she'd forgotten she'd had slung over one shoulder. "I figured cash would be best. Small bills."
The irony of a man like Ford forced into deciding the best way to help her escape the law was searing. "I'm so terribly sorry," she said, her voice breaking.
He accepted that without comment. "I'd like your permission to kiss Jessie goodbye."
The formality hurt her terribly. The lack of warmth in his eyes hurt more. It was as though they'd never been welded together by the sweat of passion. As though he hadn't shuddered in her arms, and she in his.
"Please don't hate me," she whispered, needing to touch him so badly her arms ached for him as they'd once ached for Jessie.
His mouth twisted. "If only I could," he said. The bitterness in his tone ripped at her, but he was already striding back to the others.
She returned more slowly, unable to draw her gaze from the sight of Jessie cuddled against his big chest while he whispered something in her ear. Ignoring the questions in Katie's eyes, and the tears in her own, she stood a few feet apart from the rest of them, struggling to find the strength to climb those few short steps that would take her from Clover forever.
Spying the driver approaching again, she stepped forward to take Jessie from Ford's arms. "No, no," Jessie protested, clinging to his shirt with surprising strength.
Ford's face twisted. "Go with your mama, slugger," he ordered, his voice thickening.
"No, no." Jessie buried her face against his shoulder, her trust complete, her love unconditional.
"Looks like that young 'un don't want to leave her daddy," the driver joked as he took his position next to the door.
Sophie was conscious of the sympathetic looks her friends sent her way, but her attention was focused entirely on Ford.
"Her daddy could come with us," she said softly, pleading with her eyes and her heart.
His eyes went black with pain, but his movements were rigidly controlled as he freed himself from Jessie's tiny grasping hands and settled her into Sophie's arms.
"Goodbye, Sophie. Have a safe trip."
She nearly lost it then, but the discipline she'd learned in prison saved her. "Goodbye, Ford," she murmured, her voice trembling only a little. "Take care of yourself."
He nodded, the ice back in his eyes.
She was the last one to board. The driver was checking his roster as she turned to climb the steps, a last flurry of farewells and good wishes still ringing in her ears. Blinded by tears, she cried out when a strong hand gripped her arm and spun her around. His mouth came down hard on hers, his kiss searing her with his pain and love.
"God bless you both," Ford whispered, his voice ragged w
ith an agony he could no longer hide.
"And you," she whispered as he released her. And walked away.
The thirty-six hours he'd given her were almost up. Ford had spent the day sitting alone in the house that seemed cold and empty now, drinking steadily.
His goal was to be so stinking drunk by the time he made the call to Portland he'd be too numb to feel the pain. So far he'd only succeeded in making himself so dizzy he'd damn near knocked himself out bumping into furniture whenever he got up to fetch another bottle from the supply Sophie had left with him after Mike's party.
He knew he wasn't drunk, because he still hurt. No matter how much poison he threw down his gullet, he still felt Jessie's tiny fingers clutching at his shirt. No matter how viciously his stomach might protest, he still tasted the pain in Sophie's kiss.
"Nope, not nearly enough," he muttered, bringing the bottle to his mouth for a long, searing swallow. He'd lost the ability to taste the stuff a good hour or so back. Right about the time he figured Sophie's bus would be getting into wherever it was she was going.
In a few minutes, he would pick up the phone and call the number given to him by that sleazy PI. What the hell was his name? Hangman? No, Hegelman.
"How's that for a Freudian slip?" he muttered, slugging back another two fingers or so. Liquor was supposed to be numbing, damn it. So why the hell did he still feel as though he'd been skinned alive and left to die a slow death under a blazing sun?
Because you love her, you jackass. And you're going to spend the rest of your life trying to forget how she feels and tastes and smells. With his luck he'd live to be a hundred, he thought, staring at his reflection in the window.
"Damn if you don't look almost that old now," he muttered. His hair looked as though he'd combed it with an eggbeater. He hadn't shaved since Saturday morning, and the only reason he didn't smell worse than he did was because he'd gotten caught in a downpour at about 6:00 a.m. when he'd found himself walking in the woods, trying to argue himself out of turning her in.
"Here's to Ford Maguire, keeper of the faith," he muttered, lifting his glass to the sorry-looking excuse for a man glaring back at him.
He saw her then, wearing the same shirt and jeans she'd been wearing when she'd boarded the bus. The booze, his mood, the churning in his gut—he figured they were enough to bring on a hallucination this real. Weren't they? His only answer was the sound of his labored breathing and the roar of the blood moving through his head.
Though he knew she was only a figment of his booze-soaked imagination, he watched her hungrily, the hole in his belly yawning wider until it was as deep and as black as the pit of his own personal hell where he knew he'd spend the rest of his days.
"You're in my blood, Sophie Reynolds," he muttered, need and grief pounding in his head so fiercely he could scarcely hear the words he uttered. "Damn it, you're in my soul and heart, every place but my house where you belong."
"Don't be so sure about that, my darling."
Ford turned at the sound, adrenaline whipping his already ravaged system into overload. The bottle dropped from his hand, exploding into jagged bits when it hit, but he ignored the mess at his feet as she moved toward him.
"Why is it I'm always cleaning up after you, Ford Maguire?" she murmured, her eyes very dark and intense. He could smell her, damn it. That light, airy, powdery scent that combined the drawing room propriety of a lady with the untamed spirit of a sensual tigress.
"What the hell are you doing here?" He was shouting before he thought to temper his anger as was his custom of long-standing.
"I came back to keep you from doing something stupid, like resigning," she shot back, twin roses blooming pink in her cheeks.
His jaw dropped, then snapped shut, but not before Sophie had seen his gaze flicker to the single sheet of stationery on the table. The telephone was there, too, along with a small white business card.
"I assume that private detective who spoke to you left the number of the person in Portland handling my case," she said, advancing quietly, her knees not quite steady.
"Where's Jessie?" he demanded, raking his hand through his already wrecked hair, a hand that trembled visibly, she noticed. Just as she noticed the marks of suffering on his face, and the ravages of too much Scotch and, she suspected, nothing else in his belly.
"Our daughter is with Miss Fanny," she said softly. "They were absolutely ecstatic at seeing each other."
"You should be a thousand miles away from here by now." His voice was harsh, his drawl more slurred than usual. Apparently the bottle on the floor wasn't the first he'd killed. Compassion and remorse fought a pitched battle inside her, just as she'd been battling with herself for the past twenty-four hours. Twelve hours north, twelve hours back south. All the while wondering if she was doing the wrong thing.
Perhaps Ford wasn't going to resign. Perhaps she hadn't felt a shudder of despair run through him when he'd kissed her goodbye. By the time she'd seen the lights of Clover in the distance she'd been a quivering wreck.
"Why don't I make a pot of coffee first, and then we'll talk."
"No coffee," he grated. "Just answers. Now."
She drew a breath. "I thought losing my child was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I was wrong. Losing the man I love is worse. But worst of all would be trying to live the rest of my life knowing I'd destroyed him. So I came back."
He ran his tongue over his mouth. His lips were numb. "I have to turn you in," he said, each word a bloody wound inside him.
"Actually I've given that some thought, and I think it would be better if I turned myself in." Still watching him, she pulled the card closer, glancing at the number handwritten beneath the printed name.
"Don't," he cried when she reached for the phone. "I'd have to be the one to arrest you."
"I know that, just as I know it will be awful for us both when you do, but we've both gone through some bad times before, and survived. This time…" She was forced to stop and refill her lungs. "This time we'll face the pain together." Drawing back her hand, she moved closer. "Or didn't you mean it when you asked me to marry you?"
"Hell, yes, I meant it!" he shouted, reaching for her. His mouth was hot on hers, the taste of Scotch as strong as the wild surge of joy running through her. He framed her face with hands that shook, his need alive and savage.
"You're mine, damn it," he whispered between kisses.
"Only yours, always yours." Her mouth molded his. His tongue found hers.
"We'll fight," he vowed hoarsely when at last, starved for oxygen, they drew back.
"Whatever happens, I love you," she murmured, running her hands over him possessively, goaded by passion and relief.
"Then for God's sake woman, say you'll marry me before I lose what's left of my sanity," he growled, his eyes so suspiciously shiny her breath caught.
"They might put me back in prison, at the very least for breaking parole," she whispered, trying not to flinch at the thought. "In fact, they probably will."
His jaw bunched, giving him that fierce, dangerous look she'd loved and feared from the first moment she'd seen it. "Then I'll marry you there," he said with quiet, implacable force. "I'll find a job in Portland, wherever the hell that is, and I'll wait for you to get out."
"No, I won't let you ruin your life."
A smile found his eyes, and lingered. "You and Jessie are my life."
"Oh, Ford," she whispered. "I love you so much. Can you forgive me for lying to you?"
"Already done."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." He offered her a lopsided grin. "'Course if you ever do it again, I'll be forced to put you under house arrest. Might have to keep you in that bedroom yonder for days until you learn the error of your ways."
"I have to tell you, Sheriff," she murmured through her tears. "I'm a slow learner."
"That's okay, sugar," he said, drawing her into his arms again. "I'm a very patient man."
* * *
&nb
sp; Epilogue
« ^
"I can't do this. I really can't." Sophie touched the single pearl at her throat and tried to stop the roaring in her head.
"Of course you can, dear," Miss Fanny said firmly, skewering her flowered hat to her hair with a lethal-looking hat pin.
"No one gets married in a dress like this," she said, staring at her reflection in Miss Fanny's mirror. The champagne silk looked like burnished skin beneath a froth of shimmering glass bubbles.
"You do when your fiancé insists," Katie murmured, concentrating on getting the orchid corsage pinned to the dress's bodice just so.
"You look more like a bride than I do." Sophie eyed Katie's simple ivory sheath with envy.
"I'd rather be wearing beads and marryin' the man I love and who loves me."
"But that's just it, Katie, this dress is too sexy for a wedding dress," Sophie wailed, biting her pale lip.
"After six weeks of celibacy, my brother would think anything you wore was sexy," Lucy said, her green eyes shining with excitement. Her own wedding was only days away, though Ford kept muttering about locking her in her house and throwing away the key.
"There you go, all set," Katie said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "I know it had to be terrible for you to be back in prison for a month, but you really are blooming."
Sophie smiled her thanks, still self-conscious about discussing the time she'd served for violating her parole or the events that had led to her imprisonment the first time. As it was, every time she thought about the masterful way Ford had defended her to the parole board she wanted to laugh and cry and thank God for creating such a man in the first place.
"Katie's right," Lucy pronounced firmly, her eyes bright. "I believe you've even managed to gain a little weight on prison food."
THE BACHELOR PARTY Page 26
