Paul had taken the turning off the main road into an overgrown lane that the average traveler would not even see, obscured as it was by hanging branches and shrubbery. The cabin was set back even farther into the trees, in a small clearing.
It was a disheartening, unprepossessing place, with potential for anyone inclined to put a lot of time, hard work, and cash into its remaking. Right now, though, that was not the case.
As he dismounted and tied Diablo’s reins to a convenient bush, Paul kept a sharp lookout.
No smoke from the chimney, no movement at the window, no sound of activity.
Heart beating more quickly than usual, hand hovering near the butt of his Colt, he climbed the rickety steps and knocked at the warped front door.
Silence.
Another knock.
“Miz Hennessey,” he called out. “It’s Sheriff Winslow. You in there, ma’am?”
Still silence.
Another knock. “Miz Hennessey? Just stopped by for a quick visit, if that’s all right. I gotta tell you, if you ain’t comin’ out, then I’m comin’ in.”
Finally the door, its splintery boards scraping over the threshold, its rusty hinges rasping in protest, was pulled inward a few inches.
Paul took a slow, careful step forward. “Ma’am, I was wonderin’ about—”
Instantly a hand emerged, palm up, in the universal sign of “Stop.”
He did. And waited. Still silence.
Then the barest of whispers: “You have to—go away...”
“Miz Hennessey—Molly—I came out here special to check on you. I ain’t leavin’ till I see you’re all right.”
From the gloom within there was the glint of turquoise eyes. “Where—where is he—?”
“Your husband? He’s in town, last I saw. Bein’ kept occupied by Ben and the family.”
The door was open just wide enough for him to see the wh
ite-clad form give a sudden violent shiver. And then, with one soft moan, it sagged and slowly crumpled to the floor.
Chapter Nine
WET. SOMETHING WET. Not cool, not hot—just the temperature of the surrounding air. Not exactly a shock to the system, except for coming into contact with abrasions or scrapes.
Light pressure. Pleasant in some places; painful in others.
Someone was ministering to her. What a miracle simple gentle touch could be, after the torment of the last—what, twenty-four hours? It seemed a month, or longer. But what would follow a gentle touch? It could only be more mistreatment. As she had so wretchedly, helplessly, hopelessly learned.
Molly came to full consciousness with a sudden harsh gasp and a frantic scuttle away from those ministering hands. Scooting on her bottom across the rough planks of the rickety front porch, she came flat up against the outer wall as if poleaxed and stuck there, panting.
“Miz Hennessey. Molly. It’s me, Sheriff Paul Winslow. Paul. I was a guest at your weddin’, remember?”
Her eyes blank with memory, she shuddered.
“Looks like things’ve been kinda rough for you,” Paul commented quietly. He was squatted down near the steps, watching her with kind, pitying eyes; the handkerchief he had wetted from his own canteen still lay gripped by his fingers. “Can you tell me about it?”
Slowly she shook her head.
It was early afternoon, with bees buzzing companionably in the stillness, and squirrels chattering furiously at one another and the bothersome bluejays. A lovely summer day, under any other circumstances: a Sunday given over to family dinners and naps and easy conversation and, perhaps, as twilight drew in and the temperature cooled, a game or two of croquet.