“Not to worry. My deputies and I will be there; we’ll watch your back. Though you’d oughta see about gettin’ us hazard pay.”
“Hmmmph.” Ben’s standard answer when he had nothing else to say. Except something else might often crop up, when he had a chance to think about it. Looking up from under thick brows, he demanded to know how’s come the sheriff could take off so much time from the job to park his boots under the Forrester table.
“Whatddya expect?” The sheriff could be offhand, as well. “I’m the boss. And I ain’t never gonna give up the chance to cadge a free meal, ’specially the kind you get served here.” A wink at Camellia, and she dimpled and tucked into her own dinner with lightened spirits.
They had finished a serving of cobbler and were working on a third or fourth cup of coffee when Molly glanced up to ask about whether she might retire to Ben’s study.
“With Paul, if you don’t mind, Cam.”
“Of course not. Do go on. But not too long, Molly. You need to rest more this afternoon. And, if I don’t miss my guess, Dr. Havers will be along anytime now for a consultation. The dinner hour isn’t completely over,” added Camellia, in tones of resignation and just a hint of irony.
The study, or library, as it was sometimes considered, was kept in rather good order, with a minimum of clutter. As the owner of a successful mercantile, Ben had access to a number of fine furniture stores, carpet warehouses, and the like. Thus, he had splurged on a heavy-duty red wool rug for the floor, curtains patterned in matching red and beige print—warm and cozy, tailored to masculine taste—and two comfortable wing back chairs just waiting to be used.
It was into one of these that the sheriff settled Molly, before he took the wooden rolling chair situated in place behind its desk. Whatever her feeling now for males in general, Paul, exhibiting a sensitivity toward the gruesome subject of her ordeal that few understood, was careful not to touch her unless she herself initiated contact.
He wondered, as he watched her adjust the navy skirt and try out a small tentative smile for his benefit, whether she remembered any of the details of that harrowing trip back to town and safety, just three days ago. Whether she remembered the feel of his arms around her bruised and battered body, providing support, providing snugness and safety. Whether she remembered the thud of his heart pumping steadily almost in rhythm with hers, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath her tucked-in form, the curl of his fingers through her hair when a loosened wisp blew across his cheek.
He did. He remembered.
“I don’t recall,” she began, in a low, resonant voice, “if I have thanked you, Paul. What with my—with what happened—and Dr. Havers’ medicines—” again the tremulous smile, “—I seem to have lost sense of myself. My head hasn’t felt really—clear—until today.”
“You needn’t—”
“Oh, but I do. You saved my life, Paul,” she assured gravely. Her eyes, rain-washed turquoise set off by long sooty lashes, studied him carefully. “I have no doubt that Quinn would have—” a pause, a shudder, a slight moue, “—he would have come back and—and killed me... So, you see, I owe you—I owe you a great debt of gratitude.”
“I was just doin’—”
“Please don’t tell me you were just doing your job. That makes me feel like a burden on the whole taxpaying body!”
He allowed himself a smile. “All right, then. We’ll just say that your kin was mighty worried about you, and mighty relieved to have you home again.”
“Yes. I’m sure that’s an incredible tactful way to put it.” The bruises on her white face were fading from angry red and purple to something more bluish-yellowish-green. Not an attractive shade, by any means. The black lashes drifted down, lifted wide once more. “It’s difficult—it’s very difficult to admit when one has behaved like a doddering fool.”
Paul shrugged one shoulder. “It’s called bein’ human, ma’am. People make mistakes. Some can rise up and overcome what they’ve done wrong, and then make changes; some have to live with ’em for the rest of their lives.”
“Which brings me to what I wanted to discuss with you, Paul. I received this, earlier today, along with a big impressive bunch of flowers.” Leaning forward, she handed the morning’s missive across the desk to him.
Silence for a minute or two, while he perused the few lines written by such an elegant hand. Her gaze went to the windows, propped open just an inch or so to let in the fresh outdoor scent, the glass streaming with the rain, now falling more heavily, that obscured any view. It was the type of day one could relish being inside, to enjoy feeling sheltered and secure. Unless one were being kept a prisoner.
“Camellia was quite—outraged,” Molly, seeing that he had finished, commented thoughtfully.
“Ahuh. I can understand that. What’s your opinion?”
A slight tremor ran through her slender frame. “It makes me more afraid. It’s as if Quinn is proud to display his power over me, to show that he’s the final authority when it comes to my future, and I have no choice but to obey! Oh, he’s trying sweet talk and pretty gestures first, but...”
“Ahuh,” said the sheriff again. His long brown fingers folded the note together to return to its envelope. “Well, I think you’ve called it, for a fact.”
“Paul.” She made an appealing picture, with both hands clasped together and her beautiful blue-black hair tied up loosely into a knot, and he couldn’t help being touched. “Am I stuck?”
“I could run him outa town on a rail, Molly. But that wouldn’t change the circumstances. You took your vows b’fore a licensed preacher, you’re legally wed.”
“Camellia and I talked. We talked prior to the marriage. We talked a good deal after. She explained that I—I am nothing more than a piece of property to my husband. That he can treat me as—as badly as he wants: beat me, break me...and it’s all—legal...”
Regretfully, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s true. A woman hasn’t got much say in what goes on with a marriage. That’s how the laws have been written, and how they’re
enforced.”
“By men,” she said bitterly.