Saving Grace

by Carolyn Davidson

  Harsh, cruel hands gripped the front of her dress and tore it in shreds, to well below her waist. Again he gripped fabric and she felt the sheer material of her chemise split beneath his strength. Her eyes opened then as she looked up into his face and she shuddered as saliva dripped from his open mouth onto her flesh, his teeth meeting in a savage grin as he looked down at her naked breasts.

  “Thought I’d never get to try a taste of this, Gracie, didn’t you?” His head lowered to her throat and she stiffened beneath him. “Come on, girlie. You know you like it. Let me have what you been givin’ that preacher man.”

  Her head twisted and turned; she was barely able to force breath from her lungs and then she felt his teeth against the skin of her breast. Knew the degradation of filthy hands touching her flesh, a mouth fit for a pig’s trough against her throat and then again on her breast.

  With her last breath, drawn from lungs squeezed almost beyond pain, her voice rose in a strangled sob. She screamed as his teeth bit down and she felt the blessed blackness descend.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Joe Cumberland leaped from his horse before the animal stopped moving, then released the reins, letting his mount free. Flattening himself against the side of the barn, he peered around the corner, fearful of a bullet being aimed in his direction, but knowing that his niece was in mortal danger. Because of his own stupidity.

  And for that he might never forgive himself. Hoofbeats resounded across the meadow, heading toward the barn, and Joe lifted a hand in warning, for he’d seen, there in the corral, the empty saddle of the horse Kenny Summers was fond of riding. The animal was covered with foam, and his body heaved as he fought to breathe.

  And then, splitting the silence, a woman’s voice screamed aloud. A cry ridden with such pain, such despair, he could only shudder at the sound. Behind him, Simon Grafton left his mount with a single movement and Joe stepped before him, lest he burst into the barn unarmed.

  Standing in the open doorway, his rifle ready, Joe was stunned by the sight of Kenny, standing within the shadows of a stall. Kenny’s hands worked at his suspenders, sliding them over his shoulders, allowing his trousers to fall to his knees.

  Behind him, Simon’s utterance was a growl of fury, and Joe lifted his gun, aiming high, lest he hit the woman on the floor, her clothing torn into shreds. His shot struck its target and Kenny Summers flew the length of the stall, his head hitting resoundingly against the manger.

  “Grace.” With but a single sound, Simon pushed past Joe, shoving him aside and dropping to his knees beside the still form of his wife. He bent his head, his dark hair almost covering her nakedness, his face at her throat. From the layers of fabric that lay split asunder, a steady stream of blood flowed to stain the ground beneath her.

  Simon tore his shirt off, uncaring about buttons or seams, and covered Grace with it, lifting her from the straw and holding her against his chest. His eyes were anguished as he caught sight of Joe behind him, and for a moment Joe was silent, fearful of the blood that flowed, knowing that its source was the girl in Simon’s arms.

  Simon lifted her, turned with her toward her uncle, and tears ran down his cheeks, his bereft cry rising to the rafters. And down his trousers, dripping from Grace’s still form was a flow of blood, forming an obscene picture to the man who watched.

  In the corral two other horsemen had dismounted and stood at the doorway, their faces dismayed, their expressions uncertain. Charlie and Shorty watched in silence as Simon appealed to Joe.

  “Is she breathing? Feel her face, Joe. I can’t feel any breath from her mouth.”

  Joe stepped forward and bent his head to Grace’s face, his cheek beneath her nose.

  “She’s breathing, son. She’s breathing. Just go easy now. Take her to the house.”

  “Where’s the blood coming from?” Shorty asked, his face drawn, his lungs gasping, as if seeing the young woman had taken his wind from him.

  “Was she shot? I heard a gun fire.”

  “No, she’s not been shot,” Simon said, turning and carrying her from the barn, his steps slow as he made his way to the house where Harold Blackwood stood in the doorway.

  “What’s happened? Is that Grace?” He held the door open and Simon walked into the kitchen, to where Harold’s wife, Ellie, had been cooking at the stove.

  “She’s bleeding,” Ellie said. “Get towels, Harold. Right quick. And you, Simon, take her in the bedroom. Put her on the bed.”

  But Simon could not release her from his hold and instead sat on the edge of the wide bed, holding Grace in his arms. He balanced her across his knees and with his free hand lifted his shirt from her breast. Marks marred the soft flesh and he bent a bit to see better where the blood flow originated. His hand was tender, his touch gentle as he lifted the soft weight of her right breast and exposed the tender underside.

  Behind him, Ellie gasped and began to cry. “That bastard bit her. Look at the teeth marks.”

  Simon nodded. “Give me a clean cloth and warm water, Ellie. I’ll bathe it.” He held the cloth against her torn flesh and his tears fell against his own hand as he gently wiped the bloodstains from her skin.

  “A pad or a towel—something to soak it up, Ellie.” He waited, holding out his hand, and Ellie took the clean washcloth from next to the basin and folded it in fourths, placing it in his palm. He laid it carefully against the still-bleeding wound and held it in place.

  “Simon.” It was Charlie in the doorway and he came closer. Simon pulled the damp cloth over Grace’s breast and lifted his head, his gaze meeting that of the sheriff.

  “She’s alive, Simon. And he didn’t—”

  “I know.” The reply was bitten out, his voice harsh and grating. Had Charlie not known, he would not have recognized it as coming from Simon Grafton, for he sounded like a man whose rage had not known release.

  “I wish I’d killed him, Charlie. I should have been the one to avenge my wife. I failed her all the way around, and then at the final moment, when I should have been the one to shoot, I let Joe handle it. Not consciously, but my only thought was to get to Grace. I feared he’d killed her for a moment, and then I thought it would be justice if a man could die more than once.”

  He rocked Grace in his arms, sitting there on the side of the bed, and when she moved, her body spasming against him, she cried out. He winced, his eyes closing, his teeth biting into his bottom lip, as if he could not bear to hear her pain uttered aloud.

  “Simon.” It was but a whisper but he bent to her, his lips against her brow, then her cheek. Her eyes opened a bit and she spoke his name again, a painful sound that caused the sheriff and Joe to look aside lest they allow their own tears to fall.

  For Simon there was no such shelter, for the salty drops that fell from his eyes blended with hers and slid silently against her cheeks.

  “I’m here, Grace. I have you, sweetheart. No one will hurt you again.”

  “But he did, Simon. It hurts so bad…” Her words faded and her breath caught as if she could not speak aloud.

  “Oh, baby…” His tears flowed unceasingly and his arms held her tenderly, careful not to touch the damaged breast. And when his next words came they were dark and filled with a hatred no man could have doubted as he looked directly at Charlie. “Is he dead?”

  “I shot him,” Joe said tightly. “A head shot, Simon. He hasn’t moved and he won’t, ever again. Not till we pick him up and dump him six feet under.”

  His wide shoulders shuddered and Simon lifted his head. “Ellie, some more water please, and another clean pad.”

  The men in the room looked aside as Ellie moved to stand in front of Simon, moving the cloth that hid Grace’s breast. They heard her gasp, then the silence as Ellie did as Simon directed, wiping the blood flow, her soft words telling them that it had slowed considerably, and a tight bandage should solve the issue.

  Simon held Grace almost erect in his lap, her face against his throat, while Ellie wrapped a long piece of fabric tor
n from a sheet around her middle, holding the thick pad in place, bringing the bleeding to a slow seepage that looked to be slowing even as Simon watched.

  She tenderly draped Simon’s shirt over Grace’s breasts, then searched through the closet for one of Harold’s for Simon to wear. With Charlie’s help, he slid first one arm, then the other into it. “Thanks, Ellie.”

  She only patted his shoulder and helped him to rise from the bed. “I think you need to take her home,” she said quietly. “Let the doctor come to your place, Simon, and check her out.”

  He stood before his friends and they gathered around him, Joe’s hand on Grace’s head. “Horses,” Charlie said, heading for the door, motioning Shorty to go with him as they went through to the kitchen and out the back door. Behind the barn, the horses waited, their reins touching the ground, Simon’s still without a saddle.

  “He’d better ride mine,” Charlie said. “I’ll take the mare. He’ll need the saddle to balance with.” Shorty nodded and together they rode up to the back of the house, waiting as Joe held the door open for Simon to bear his wife from the house.

  “I’m heavy,” she murmured against his throat, and he only shook his head carefully.

  “Take her, Joe, till I get on the horse,” he said, his voice having lost its roughness, control returning with an effort. Joe lifted his niece into his arms and held her with gentle care, then with Charlie’s aid, they lifted her into Simon’s arms. He held her as though she were made of priceless porcelain and bent once more to touch his lips to her brow as he turned his mount toward home.

  Once they arrived back at the parsonage, the doctor appeared within minutes after Simon carried his bundle into the bedroom, for Shorty had ridden ahead to alert him that he was needed. Simon had placed Grace on the waiting bed, Ethel having pulled back the sheet and quilt in preparation when Shorty rode ahead to let her know the small caravan was on its way.

  When the doctor entered the bedroom, it was to find Simon on his knees beside the bed, one arm holding Grace still, lest she move and cause herself more pain. His other arm had found its place beneath her head and she had turned to lay her cheek close to his shoulder. He looked up and met the doctor’s eyes, both men wearing the same look of grief.

  The doctor spoke first. “I reckon I know what he did to her. He marked her as he did the woman over at the saloon, didn’t he?” And at Simon’s nod, the medical man shook his head and muttered a word he was seldom prone to use.

  “There’s not a lot we can do for it, but Belle knows of a salve that worked well for her. One of the ladies at the saloon made it out of some sort of leaves and cobwebs, mixed with a strange kind of tea. Don’t ask me any more than that, Simon. I don’t question stuff like that. I just know enough to use what I’m given and thank the good Lord that there’s those in this world who know a different kind of medicine than I learned in college.”

  “Will you send Belle over?” Simon asked, for he would gladly seek help for Grace from whatever source was available. And the doctor seemed to believe in what Belle had to offer for Grace’s healing.

  The doctor spoke up. “She’ll no doubt be here before I’m done looking at Grace. I sent Shorty to tell her she was needed.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Simon bowed his head and moved back a bit, giving the doctor room to work.

  “Simon.” Grace’s voice was soft, but her hand lifted to him and the doctor merely nodded and waited.

  “I’m here, sweetheart. Don’t move, baby. We’re gonna take the bandage off so the doctor can look at it.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “I won’t touch you till Belle gets here, Mrs. Grafton. She’s got some salve that works for this sort of injury. To prevent infection.”

  From the front of the house, Simon heard Belle’s voice, then that of Ethel speaking. The ladies appeared in mere seconds at the bedroom door and Belle’s eyes were reddened, her mouth firm, as if she withheld tears.

  “Belle.” He greeted her simply and she put her hand on his arm.

  “Let me see her, Reverend.”

  He moved, only a bit, for Grace would not re lease his hand from her grasp, and he would not make her cry out by leaving her side.

  But the woman knelt beside him and touched Grace’s arm. “I’m here, Grace. It’s Belle, come to see you…”

  The blue eyes opened and Simon saw within her such pain, such darkness, it was all he could do not to look away, but he unflinchingly met her gaze as she turned her head toward him, his mouth lifting in a smile that cost him much. And then she looked at Belle and her nod was a greeting in itself.

  Simon left her with Belle, alone but for the doctor standing by. It was out of man’s hands, be he husband or doctor. Perhaps another woman, one who had known the same pain, the same cruel treatment from a man, was what Grace needed now.

  And as for Simon, he knew not where his healing would be found. He walked to the church next door and entered the front door, walking down the aisle to where his pulpit stood to one side of the congregation. He knelt at the altar, looking up to the place where he stood on Sunday mornings and guilt fell upon him as had the stones on Stephen in the Bible.

  He’d wanted to kill, and kill with violent means, for he knew he would have gladly pounded the brute into the ground, bloodied him and battered him beyond recognition. And such violence could not live in the heart and soul of a man who had vowed to serve the church and obey his Maker. He could only be thankful that he’d not been the one to pull the trigger. And yet, he felt he’d somehow failed Grace by letting another avenge her.

  Grace. The woman who needed him now. The girl who lay on his bed, with an open wound perhaps still seeping blood, and her husband still aching for revenge. Revenge on a man already beyond such things. A man who would lie in a grave come tomorrow. A man who would suffer eternal death.

  He was unworthy, both of the title he held that bound him to this church, and of the name of husband. For in both, he had failed. He knew, as surely as he drew his next breath, that the ache in his heart would not be healed until Grace was whole again. And he feared it would be a long row to hoe before they reached that time. For though her body would heal there was an even greater, deeper wound in her soul.

  And he feared that in his own strength he might never find a remedy for it.

  If the town thought it strange that Grace’s most regular visitor was a woman from the saloon, Simon cared but little. For the word had gone around, thanks to the ever-reliable grapevine, that Belle was in possession of a salve made originally by the Indian tribes who had once been in the area, and that salve was known to work miracles of healing. So Simon accepted Belle into his home with a smile of kindness, for the woman’s only mission in life seemed to be the healing of the dark-haired female who lay within the walls of the parsonage.

  As for Grace, she slept. More than Simon thought was good for her, more than the doctor himself thought was healthy, but according to Belle, they must leave her alone and allow her body to heal as it would. Grace awoke when Belle came to her, spoke quietly with the woman and hugged her when she left. And if Simon wondered at the bond that formed between them, he did not discuss it with anyone, for whatever made Grace feel better, whatever helped her convalescence, it would be done.

  And when he undressed at night and lay down beside her, she turned to him, at first with hesitation. Indeed for the first night, she held herself apart, only touching his hand or arm, allowing him to kiss her, but unwilling to have his arms encircle her.

  Simon grieved privately for the loss of intimacy, not that he yearned to make love with his bride, but that he dearly wanted to hold her in his arms. It seemed, though, that she could not allow it, and he took what he could get, which was precious little, to his way of thinking.

  But he did not utter a word of complaint, only rose each morning and brought her tea to the bed, sitting with her while she drank it, watching as ounces and pounds of flesh dropped from her slender frame.

  And in all of
the days that passed, he dragged with him, dogging each step, the guilt of his hatred toward the man who had caused such harm to a helpless woman. He could not speak of it to Grace, for the syllables of Kenny’s name were not allowed to touch her ears. He could only hold within himself the burden of his blackened soul, for even the bishop, when he’d called on Simon the week before, did his best to console the young man, prayed with him and tried to bring a sense of healing and forgiveness to Simon.

  But in vain.

  And then one day, when Grace refused the tea he offered, when she’d turned her face away, he reached a point of pain he could no longer bear. He left the bedroom and went to the kitchen. When he returned he was carrying a bowl of soup Ethel had prepared, knowing it was Grace’s favorite. She lay before him on the bed with her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  “Sweetheart, I want you to eat some soup,” he said softly, sitting beside her. “Let me help you to sit up. I’ll hold the bowl for you, love.”

  Once more she moved her head in a negative gesture and he was crushed by her refusal, not because he felt it was directed at him, but because the food did not appeal to her.

  “Grace, I need to talk to you,” he said gently. He lifted her to lean against three pillows, stacking them against the headboard and carefully propping her there. She closed her eyes, as if she would thus escape him, and he bent to her, kissing her forehead.

  She froze, her eyes flying open, and he took her hand in his. “I can’t bear it if you won’t let me touch you, Grace. Please try not to cringe from me.”

  Her eyes filled with bitter tears and they fell to her nightgown. “I’m so sorry, Simon. I truly am. I know I’m a great burden on you, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Stop, Grace. Stop right there. Don’t you ever again call yourself a burden. You are the light that brightens my day. I have no sunshine without you, and my soul is dark with your pain. I can only pray for guidance, for you don’t give me any hint as to what I can do to help you. You must eat or you will wither away to nothing. I fear for your very life, my heart. I can only coax you to take a bite.”