Not here. Not now.
Molly, barefoot and bare-armed, was wearing only a dirty white cotton batiste nightgown. Lord only knew what damage lay underneath. Her hair, the color of Diablo’s coat but presently absent the sheen, was a tangled mess that hung around her pale, bruised face like a curtain, as if to hide from the world what might be otherwise revealed.
“Okay, then. Whatever happened, Molly, can you accept that I’ll do you no harm?”
Another slow, mute shake of the head.
Unseen, Paul gritted his teeth. Not with frustration, but with fury for the force that had changed a beautiful, vivacious bride into this battered, bedraggled wife of one day.
“Can you at least understand that you’re safe now? That I’m here, and that I won’t let anyone touch you, ever again, without your say-so?”
The gaze of tearful turquoise eyes fell away, in shame, and she pulled herself into an even smaller curled-up body of gelatinous goo. Perhaps then no one would take notice of her.
“I’m gonna go inside now, and gather up anything you brought along out with you. Then we’re headin’ back to your sister’s.”
“No!” At that, she came suddenly to life, croaking, “No, I can’t! You can’t take me away from here, I have to stay!”
“Molly.” Carefully he took hold of the clutching hand that had scrabbled out to restrain any movement he might make. “You can’t stay here all alone, Molly, just waitin’ for Hennessey to come back. Why, there ain’t even a stove set up, to cook your meals, and I dunno where you might find a well for water.”
“I have to stay. He said—he said he’d—he’d track me down—and—and kill me—if I left!” And, overwhelmed, Molly burst into a flood of bitter tears.
The sheriff had never claimed to be an expert in the care of weeping women. But he could recognize when any human being needed sheltering, and cosseting, and concern. Murmuring something unintelligible, even to himself, he drew Molly right into his arms and held her close and tight. One big hand smoothed down the tumbled hair, much as he might soothe his restive gelding; the other gently patted the sharp wing of her trembling shoulder blades.
At last, when her sobs had quieted (and the muscles of his thighs had almost gone to sleep in protest of this awkward position), Paul released her and got to his feet. Bone and sinew nearly groaned as he took a few steps to disburse the pins-and-needles sensation from hip sockets to ankles.
“You just wait right on this spot for me, y’ hear? I’ll be back sooner’n you can figure out I’m gone.”
The few personal items she had brought with her—hat and stockings, shoes, hairbrush, and so on—were bundled into the food sack and easily fastened onto the Diablo’s cantle. The horse, obliging soul, wasn’t likely to take offense at a bag hanging off his flank. One necessity taken care of.
The cover of a typical Penny Dreadful might depict a stalwart hero mounted upon his brawny charger, rearing into the air, with some beautiful golden-tressed damsel lolling across his thighs. In real life, the details were a bit more difficult to arrange.
True, Paul had the charger (albeit one that rarely reared), and he had the damsel (albeit with tresses of black instead of gold); he just wasn’t so sure about assuming the role of stalwart hero. Given two of those three specifics, however, the events tying everything together until they could set off for Turnabout would forever remain a bit muddled in his mind.
Daring to risk moving the girl’s palsied limbs, after indulging in their prolonged embrace, he wrapped Molly in yesterday’s brave and spritely pink-and-white lawn dress and plumped her lightly atop the saddle. Then he climbed aboard and settled her, as in those illustrations, across his thighs. Surprisingly, she gave a trusting little sigh and snuggled against his accommodating sturdy chest as if he were her last bastion of hope.
She spoke not a word during the several miles’ return trip. A little moan now and then did escape her lips, when a stumble by the usually sure-footed horse might jar something particularly hurtful, or if Paul shifted position just enough to accidentally cause harm.
It seemed a surreal couple of hours. A situation to which Paul, despite years of varied experience, was entirely unaccustomed. He could be forgiven for this unusual state of mind, for daydreaming, as they trotted along, with only the sycamore tilting their green branches toward each other, overhead, and bird song preceding and accompanying and following every hoof beat.
He would admit that, no matter the circumstances, this was a delightful burden he was carrying in his arms. The lavender scent of her hair, blowing loose without a single pin to hold it in place; the soft warmth of her body, astonishingly unfettered by corset or crinoline; the unconscious vulnerability of her face, turned away from sight, darkened and dirtied and discolored by who knew what.
Paul wanted to hunt down Quinn Hennessey with tracking dogs and whips. His palm itched to curl its fingers, to form a fist, to take the errant husband in hand for fitting punishment. As an officer of the law, charged by duty to do what was right and proper, he might never know the full story of Molly’s treatment in such a short time. But he could guess. He had seen enough other cases, over the course of his career, to realize what damage a raging temper could cause.
Fortunately the Forrester house lay situated far enough from the edge of town that no near neighbors could witness Paul’s arrival with his rescue. Molly stirred, as he pulled Diablo to a halt at the hitching post, and murmured something querulous but faint.
“You don’t need to worry right now, girl,” the sheriff soothed, as he swung one long leg over the saddle and to the ground. “Just hang for on a few minutes more.”
So she did. Paul lifted up, lifted down, and swept her off, bundled garments, bare feet, and all, to the front porch.
To give her credit, Camellia let out only a little squeak of disbelief at the apparition that stood before her door. Then she immediately stepped back, allowing Molly to be carried to the settee—the settee which had seen so much use as a hospital bed during the past few weeks.
Struck completely dumb, Camellia turned to the sheriff with no idea what to say or do.
As a good professional law officer, Paul resolved the immediate problem for her. Lightly touching his hat brim, he excused himself to go fetch Ben.
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Chapter Ten