“What do you see, scamp?” Ben mumbled the words, but Lewis seemed to understand.
“A big white house, and a tree with a rope swing! And kids. A boy who looks a little older than me and a girl. She’s short. And she’s got a doll.” He reported the last with such a tone of disgust, Ben would have chuckled if he wasn’t sure the vibrations would set off a cataclysm in his head.
“Any grown-ups?”
Lewis made a show of looking right then left. “Nope. Wait. A lady just came out the front door.”
He heard a woman’s voice calling to her children. “Michael. Daphne. Come up to the house.”
The team slowed, and Ben grabbed onto the side of the wagon. As soon as they stopped, he was going to drag himself to a seated position. He didn’t want these folks to think him completely incapacitated.
“Please, I need help.” Tori started her plea before the horses halted. “My . . . friend is hurt. He was kicked in the head by a horse while protecting my son. If you could spare some medical supplies, I can tend him out here. I just need some soap and hot water—spirits, if you have them—and, perhaps, some salve and clean bandages.”
“There’s too much dirt blowing around out here,” the other woman said, her voice closer now that the wagon had stopped. “Let’s get him in the house. Michael, go fetch your pa. He’ll want to help.”
She came up alongside the wagon, and Ben finally got a look at his hostess while he slowly edged upward. Marching down to the rear of the vehicle, all business, she reminded him a bit of Tori. Blond, on the tall side, blue eyes. Eyes that widened when they fastened on him. She pulled up short at the tailgate.
“He certainly is a big fellow, isn’t he?”
Ben attempted a smile, but the scenery seemed intent on spinning and playing havoc with his stomach. The smile turned into a grimace as he concentrated on keeping the nausea at bay. “Benjamin Porter . . . ma’am,” he managed to force out as he gripped the wagon side and closed his eyes. If the world would just stop spinning. . . .
“Ben! You should have waited for me.” The wagon wobbled a bit, no doubt from Tori climbing up into the bed. An instant later, her hand clasped his shoulder. “Here. Wrap your arm around me.” She reached for the arm that didn’t have a death grip on the wagon side and wrapped it around her neck.
He cracked his eyes open a smidge. “I’d never . . . turn that . . . request down.”
Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. Score one for him.
“Lean on me,” she said, not letting his teasing interfere with her mission. “The wagon edge is not far.”
All thought of further teasing left him as he clenched his jaw and focused on keeping his head as still as possible as he inched his way toward the tailgate. As soon as his legs dropped over the edge, a second set of shoulders pressed themselves beneath his other arm. Ben forced his fingers to release the wooden slats at his side and let some of his weight fall on the woman whose name he still didn’t know. Not that it mattered. She was helping. Names could be exchanged later.
As the two women aided his pitiful progression up to the house, Tori admonished Lewis to stay on the porch and keep Hercules in line. The second woman gave similar instructions to her daughter, telling her to welcome their young visitor and perhaps introduce her doll to his puppy. Ben could imagine how well that suggestion would go over. He just hoped the doll didn’t end up a doggie chew toy.
Ten minutes later, the women had him sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, his head unwrapped, a box of medical supplies open and ready. Tori insisted on cleaning the wound, her thoroughness rather painful to endure, but Ben managed to tough it out by gripping the seat edge and clamping his jaw shut to keep any unmanly moans from slipping out. When she reached for the whiskey, he knew he was in trouble, but he braced himself and only let out a small hiss when the liquid fire hit his scalp despite the fact that it felt like acid eating a hole through his skull.
“I’m sorry, Ben,” Tori soothed, her hand cupping his shoulder as she blotted the excess wetness from his nape with a towel and waited for the liquor to evaporate. “I’m almost done.”
Too bad. He was rather enjoying her fussing over him. Well, except for the excruciating pain. Tori had never voluntarily touched him. Soothed him. Murmured his name in the affectionate tone usually reserved solely for Lewis. Getting kicked in the head seemed to have advanced his wooing. He could live with temporary pain if it helped him claim a permanent hold on the woman he loved.
Yet when he watched her fish a threaded needle out of a shallow tray filled with whiskey, a few dozen second thoughts reared their heads. He wasn’t a fan of needles. Jabbing and poking and dragging thread where it didn’t belong. He’d suffered through it a few months ago after the outlaw attack, and he remembered the squeamish feeling all too well. A shiver coursed through him.
Be a man, Porter. Men don’t flinch.
Making sure his feet were planted squarely on the floor, Ben sat up tall and nodded to Tori when she asked if he was ready. The jab of the needle wasn’t so bad. It was the long tug of the thread that sent his stomach swirling. Praying that the Lord wouldn’t allow him to disgrace himself by puking all over his hostess’s kitchen floor, Ben closed his eyes and inhaled long and slow, doing all he could to keep his innards under control.
Jab. Pull. Jab. Pull.
Breathe, man. Think about something else. Anything else.
Jab. Pull.
Unfortunately, nothing else came to mind. He tried to think about Tori, about holding her in his arms while she smiled adoringly up at him, about lowering his lips to hers . . . but since she was the one instigating his torture, the pleasure he usually derived from that particular fantasy fell a bit short.
“Just two more should do it,” Tori encouraged.
The sharp prick of needle entering flesh for a fifth time registered a second before the back door opened and a man stepped in, the boy Ben had noticed earlier at his side.
“Frannie?” The man’s gaze immediately sought out his wife. “Are you all ri . . .” The words died, and his eyes widened, no longer fixed on his wife but on Ben. Slowly the man raised his hands and stepped protectively in front of his son.
What was the fellow doing? Ben was no threat. He was woozy and bleeding and had a hole in the back of his head, for pity’s sake.
“Easy, lady,” the man said. “Put the gun down. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Lady? Ben slowly turned his head, ignoring the pain radiating through his temples.
There stood Tori. Face ashen. Eyes panicked. Hands clutching . . . a pocket pistol? What was she doing with a gun? And why did she have it trained on a man they’d never even met?
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, the words broken, angry, desperate. “Don’t touch me.”
Ben eyed the man, then cast a quick glance at the boy cowering behind his pa. A boy that bore a striking resemblance to the one playing outside with his new puppy. Suddenly Ben’s head was the last thing he cared about. Using the table as support, he slowly pushed to his feet and balled his hands into fists.
It was only the wife’s indrawn breath and the way her eyes filled with empathy as she gently approached Tori that made Ben pause.
“Heaven’s above. You’re from Deer Spring, aren’t you.” The quiet words were more statement than question as the woman, Frannie, gently touched Tori’s shoulder.
Tori didn’t seem to notice the contact. Every ounce of her attention remained focused on the man in front of her.
“He’s not Paul,” the woman said, her voice firm yet compassionate. “He’s not the one who hurt you. Look closer. His eyes are a darker brown. His nose has a bump on the bridge. He has an old scar along his chin from when he fell out of a tree as a child. He’s not Paul. This is Jed. Jed Crowley. My husband. He means you no harm. Please. Put down the gun.”
CHAPTER
9
He’s not Paul. He’s not Paul. Tori repeated the words over and over in her mind, wan
ting desperately to believe them. But the man looked just like her attacker—a face scalded into her memory. Except . . . His eyes were darker. Paul’s had been the golden brown of fresh-baked biscuits not the darker shade of maple syrup. And the tiny red line running along this man’s jaw didn’t fit her recollections, either. Paul’s features had been perfection. Not a flaw in sight. Hence why her friends had died of jealousy when the youngest Crowley son started hanging around the store to chat with her before closing time.
The youngest Crowley. There had been an older brother. Quieter. Kept to himself. Worked at the grist mill until he married and left town to start a farm. Jed. Jed with the darker eyes, the childhood scar, and the crooked nose.
The derringer wobbled in her hand. She blinked. Saw the rest of the room for the first time since the man had entered.
Dear Lord! Is that Lewis? She dropped her gun arm immediately, even as her addled brain recognized that the boy was taller, his face slightly rounder, his wide eyes hazel instead of blue.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, guilt stabbing her breast. Heaven above. She’d drawn her gun with a child in the line of fire! “I . . .” She had to leave. Had to . . .
“Tori?” Ben’s voice. Calm. Strong. Supportive.
But she couldn’t look at him. What must he think of her? A deranged lunatic waving weapons at innocents. Or worse . . .
She closed her eyes and groaned, the sound echoing in the still room like a wounded animal.
He would know. He would fit all the pieces together and know.
Ducking her head, she dropped the derringer on the table and ran. Straight out the door. She didn’t stop when Ben called after her. Not when Lewis jumped to his feet, questions etched on his face. Not even when she reached the wagon. She ran all the way to the end of the drive, not stopping until she reached the road. The road that led to Deer Spring. She turned her back firmly against the town that had turned its back on her, crossed her arms over her middle and stared in the direction of home. Harper’s Station. People who cared. Who needed her. Who saw her as a person of worth. Of value.
Gradually her breathing eased and the silence soaked into her soul. She stood there for several minutes, letting the warm southern breeze brush back her hair and calm her spirit.
“He hurt me, too.”
Tori turned at the low, feminine voice. Frannie stood behind her, her gaze stretching up to the sky.
“Paul,” she clarified, finally bringing her eyes down to meet Tori’s. “He attacked me, too. A couple years before you, I would guess, judging by the age of your boy.”
All Tori could do was stare at the woman, so shocked was she by what she was hearing. Why would this complete stranger tell her such a horrible, intimate secret?
Yet when she looked into Frannie’s face, she didn’t see anger or bitterness or the brokenness Tori so often felt deep inside whenever the memories of that day worked themselves out of the prison where she tried to confine them. No. What she saw in the woman’s face was peace and compassion and astounding courage.
“Jed and I met at a church revival meeting up near Wichita Falls. I fell hard for him. So quiet and serious.” The smile that bloomed on her face radiated adoration. “We started courtin’ soon after. Jed would stop by the farm whenever he was out making deliveries for the mill. I would look for excuses to ride into Deer Spring.” Her eyes sharpened. “Until I met his brother.”
Tori finally found her voice. “What happened?”
Frannie lifted her gaze back to the sky, a shadow dimming her smile. “He was a cocky kid. Competitive, too. Sure any girl would prefer him to his brother and determined to prove it. He tried to woo me away from Jed with charm and wild promises. The attention was flattering, but Jed held my heart, so I turned Paul down. Gently at first, then more adamantly when he refused to accept my decision.
“Then one day when I rode into town to meet Jed at the mill, Paul intercepted me on the road. He told me Jed had been hurt while chopping wood out behind their house that morning and was in bad shape. I spurred my horse and raced to the Crowley house as fast as I could go. Only no one was at home. Mr. Crowley was at the bank, as usual. Mrs. Crowley was out making her social rounds. And Jed, not hurt in the least, was at the mill. Waiting for me. Only I never kept our appointment.
“Paul trapped me in the house and forced his attentions. When he finished, he left me lying on the parlor floor. Shattered. Numb. Destroyed.
“Jed tried to see me for weeks after that, but I told my mother to turn him away. I couldn’t tell him what happened. He’d never believe his charismatic brother capable of such a terrible deed. And even if he did, it would destroy the love that had started to grow between us. I was damaged. Soiled goods. No decent man would ever want me. And I wasn’t sure I wanted one to. The idea of being intimate with a man, even a kind, loving man like Jed, filled me with terror.”
Tori drank in every word, the tale resonating deep within her. The fear, the self-loathing, the shame this brave woman voiced—Tori had felt it all. She still did on occasion.
“How . . .” A tightness in Tori’s throat cut off the question she longed to have answered, the one she sensed could help her find true peace. She inhaled and steadied herself, then tried again. “How did you get past it?”
For the woman must have. Somehow. She was married to the brother of her attacker, a man who bore a horribly strong resemblance to the barbarian who’d hurt her. Yet not only was she married, she’d had children—at least one, if not both, by her husband.
Frannie smiled. “A lot of prayer, and one very patient man.” She strolled a couple strides past Tori, then turned back, a look of regret darkening her eyes. “I never told my parents.” She shook her head. “Foolish, I know. But I was so afraid that it would change the way they looked at me. That my shame would touch them. Defile them. So I kept the secret buried inside. And when my woman’s time came, I thanked God, sure that I would never have to tell anyone. That somehow, I could piece my life back together and pretend that awful day had never happened.
“But secrets fester, and buried pain poisons the soul. Looking back, I’m sure my parents knew something was wrong, yet I think they were afraid of causing me more pain, so when I continued deflecting their questions, they eventually stopped pressing me for answers. But Jed . . . ” A look of pure love flashed across Frannie’s face as her lashes blinked back the moisture gathering in her eyes. “Jed never gave up on me.”
Tori’s heart beat a little faster, pumped a little harder. How many times had she thought the same thing about Ben? Wondered at his persistence. His patience.
“About a month after I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore, Jed stormed my house. His face was battered, his knuckles bleeding, his shirt torn. I was so worried that he’d been seriously hurt, I forgot to keep my guard up. I let him in the back door and started fussing over his wounds. But he grabbed my hands the instant I moved within reach and refused to let me go.
“Earlier that afternoon he’d overheard Paul bragging to one of his cronies about how girls preferred him over his brother. I was proof. Paul claimed that, once he had shown me what being with a real man was like, I turned my back on Jed the same day.”
Frannie bit her lip as if trying to keep her smile contained. “Now, my Jed is a peaceable man, as even tempered as they come. But when he heard Paul’s boast, the truth of what had happened to me must have clicked into place. He suddenly understood that his little brother had forced himself on me, and that was why I’d turned away. Enraged, he lit into Paul like a man possessed. Later I heard that it had taken three men to pull him off.
“Jed’s mama was so incensed over his violent treatment of and foul accusations about her youngest son, she took Paul and boarded a train the next day for an extended visit to her parents’ home in Navarro County. She vowed not to set foot in Deer Spring until Jed was gone.”
Frannie glanced off into the distance, back toward the town her husband had left in order to be with her
. “I never knew whether his father believed in Paul’s guilt,” Frannie said, “or if he just wanted his wife back, but he helped Jed buy this piece of land and frame the house.
“In the meantime, Jed courted me. He told me he loved me—that nothing could ever change his feelings, that he wanted me for his wife. Even when I told him that I didn’t think I could ever give myself to him the way a wife should give herself to her husband, he insisted that he wanted me anyway. That he would wait as long as it took.”
Frannie turned her gaze back to Tori and sighed. “Deep inside, I still loved him. Still wanted to be his wife. And most of all, I didn’t want Paul to win, to steal happiness from both Jed and me. So I took a chance and married him. We didn’t consummate the union until our first anniversary. It took me that long to banish Paul’s ghost. Those differences I pointed out to you when you thought Jed was Paul?”
Tori nodded.
“I made a list. A long list of every physical difference I could find. And over time, I trained myself to see the differences instead of the similarities. And I prayed. Every night I prayed.”
Frannie inhaled a deep breath, and the last of the shadows melted away from her gaze. “Did you know that when God cursed Eve after her disobedience in the garden, he hid a blessing in between the pain of childbirth and her subjection to her husband’s rule? He told her ‘ . . . thy desire shall be to thy husband.’ I took that promise to heart and prayed for it every day, prayed that God would give me a desire for my husband. That he would heal the hurt inside of me and free me to love Jed with the physical closeness he deserved. It took months, but little by little my fear receded and my desire grew.”
Frannie reached out and touched Tori’s arm. “Unlock the secrets. Release the shame. The fear. Only truth can fully set you free. And if you have a man who is patient and kind, he’ll listen and understand.”
“Ben.” His name fell from Tori’s lips so easily. She pictured his face. His kind eyes. His protective nature. His . . . wounded head. “Oh, my stars! I left him half-stitched with a needle stuck in the back of his scalp.” Tori whirled around and lunged back toward the house.
Worth the Wait Page 7