by Diana Palmer
"The dress does indeed suit you, Miss Howard," he said quietly, and without malice. Then he saw her hand resting in Alan's, and the contempt in his silver eyes heightened her color. "Do enjoy yourselves. Good evening."
He walked away briskly to join Darcy.
"I'm sorry about that," Alan said, tightening his grip on her hand. "Darcy is a spoiled brat, isn't she? How can King be so blind!"
"She isn't rude to him," Amelia mused with faint humor. "Don't worry, Alan. I've endured worse." She had indeed, at the hands of her father in public places, back in Atlanta just before they moved to El Paso. Her ability to field insults was almost legend by now. She turned her head toward the stage, where the orchestra was tuning up, and schooled her eyes not to turn one inch in King's direction.
The program was broken by a brief intermission, during which Alan escorted Amelia into the lobby and went to purchase sarsaparilla for them both.
While she waited for him, King, having left Darcy with two women friends, joined her by the doorway.
"It promises to rain before the evening is over," he said.
"I expect so." Clouds were low overhead, and there was an ominous rumbling. She ran her gloved hands up and down her arms, already feeling the chill. At home, her father would be waiting, probably drunk "Oh!"
King had touched her shoulder, and she jumped helplessly, her dark eyes wide and fearful.
He withdrew his hand at once, his face glowering angrily. "You have no nerve. Are you afraid even of storms?"
She lowered her eyes and moved away from him.
"Miss Howard!"
Her head turned. Her dark eyes accused, detested. "Your future wife is staring at you, Mr. Culhane," she said in a chill tone. "I have no desire to become her victim a second time in one evening. I would appreciate being deprived of your company."
He put his hands in his pockets, and his eyes searched hers in a static silence, making it impossible for her to tear her eyes away. The electricity outside was nothing compared to the current that was running between them. Amelia was alarmed by the growing strength of it.
"Fate plays cruel tricks on the senses, does she not?" he asked curtly.
"As you say."
"If Alan asks for the pleasure of your company again, deny him," he said bluntly. "I do not want my brother involved with you. Is that clear?"
He turned on his heel and went back to Darcy. Amelia had a terrible impulse to pick up one of the spittoons and fling it at the back of his head. Her thoughts unnerved her. She turned and began looking for Alan just as he came back with two bottles of sarsaparilla.
"The last two bottles left." He chuckled. "Here."
It was tepid but rather tasty, and she drained the bottle of its fruity contents just in time to hear the orchestra tuning up for the finale.
After the concert was over, she followed Alan outside, careful to keep a distance between herself and King. It wasn't until they were in the buggy and driving away that she relaxed. Wherever Alan's big brother had gone, she hadn't seen him again after they seated themselves in the concert hall for the end of the concert. It had been a relief not to find those silver eyes damning her again.
"There is a lovely spot on our property where a hill overlooks the cattle in the valley below," he mentioned as they raced the rain back to the boardinghouse where Amelia and her father lived. "I would like to take you there for a picnic next weekend."
"Your brother has warned me not to accept further invitations from you," she said, smiling gently at his shocked look. "You know that he doesn't approve of me, Alan. It is folly to risk his displeasure. There's no future in it," she added miserably. "You're my friend, and I'm very fond of you. But there can never be anything more. I do not want a relationship of any sort with a man."
"My brother doesn't tell me how to live my life," he said curtly. "I enjoy your company, and I hope that you enjoy mine. Amelia, I have no desire for marriage now," he added with a smile. "But we're both young, and it can do no harm for us to spend time together. King can mind his own business."
"And you know that he will not," she replied. "He is like my father"
"He is nothing like your father," he corrected gently. "Amelia, you don't know King. You see only the face he presents to the world, not the man beneath it. He is not what he seems. Least of all is he a bully."
"He has been to me," she said stiffly.
"Yes. It has puzzled us all, his odd attitude toward you. Mother thinks it is an attraction which he does not want to own," he added with a smile. "That may well be the case. You are a lovely woman."
"I am a milksop," she said curtly. "That is what he believes. That I am dull and uninteresting and a jellyfish. Oh, and I am stupid as well."
"Has he said this to you?"
"He said it, and I overheard," she replied. "I know what your brother thinks of me, and I do not care! His opinion is of no consequence whatsoever to me!"
It was the first time Alan could ever remember hearing Amelia's voice so brittle and full of anger. He wondered if King was the only one who was fighting an unwanted attraction.
"Come on the picnic with me," he said. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Or are you too afraid of King to risk displeasing him?"
That was a challenge. Amelia took a deep breath. "Very well, then. If you are willing to risk it, so am I. If my father approves, of course."
"Your father will approve." He hesitated, turning the reins in his hand. "Amelia, he has odd turns of mood, did you know?"
"I knew," she said flatly.
"And periods of utter violence," he added. "He took a buggy whip to one of the pack mules. My father had to wrestle it away from him and pin him to the ground until he came back to himself." He looked at her white face. "You know about these incidences, do you not?"
"It is worse when he drinks and takes those powders that are meant to help the headaches," she said with sick fear. "I think that one day he may kill me, Alan"
"Amelia!"
She put her gloved hand to her mouth. "I did not mean to say such a thing. Of course, he will not harm me, it is only that he is so frightening when he gives vent to his temper," she said quickly. "Please, do not think of it again."
He didn't want to give it up, but she looked terrified. "Of course, if that is your wish."
"You must not speak of it, either, least of all to your family! If it should get back to him"
"It will not," he promised. "Here, Amelia, I will walk you to your door."
She let him help her down. It had been a disastrous evening. She only prayed that her father wouldn't be drinking.
And, glory of glories, he wasn't. He was, in fact, congenial. He offered Alan a brandy and spoke to him with real affection. Alan left convinced of the man's sanity.
Once he was gone, however, Hartwell turned to Amelia with cold eyes. "See to it that you give him no cause to break off this growing relationship," he warned her. "It is my wish, that you will marry him."
She started to tell him that it was impossible, that she didn't, couldn't, love Alan in that way. But his eyes were gaining that familiar gaze.
"I find him very pleasant," she said. "He is taking me on a picnic next weekend. With your permission, of course, Papa."
"He has it. Go to bed."
Grateful for the respite, she went quickly to her room and closed the door. Her hands, she noticed, were like ice.
Alan and the cowboys came Tuesday to help the Howards move, which was accomplished in short order. Amelia cooked a big supper for all of them, and her father was in a rare good mood, laughing and joking with everyone. For a little while, he was the kindly father of her youth, and she relaxed as she hadn't been able to since their move to El Paso. It would be different here, she thought. It would!
The rest of the week went without incident. Her father was civil and courteous, and the headaches had actually seemed to stop. But they were replaced by a period of violent illness that came on suddenly and lasted several days.
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Amelia nursed him, feeding him broth and sitting with him until the spell passed and he was back to himself again. By Friday evening, he was able to sit up. But he seemed not quite as alert as before, and when Amelia insisted on calling for a doctor, he couldn't argue about it. The doctor who attended him, Dr. Vasquez, took Amelia out into the hall after his examination.
"It is not like any condition I have treated," he told Amelia bluntly. "His pupils indicate a light stroke, but he has none of the paralysis one would expect from this. Señorita , he must be closely watched. I fear there is much more to this condition than simple vapors."
"I will take care of him."
"He has violent episodes?" he queried suddenly.
"Why sometimes," she faltered.
He put his bag down on the hall table. "Describe them to me."
She did, leaving out the most damning evidence, because she was ashamed to tell this intelligent, cultured man that her father had taken a leather strap to her and very nearly killed her with it. She did describe her father's violent behavior toward animals.
The doctor said nothing, but he looked even more worried. "If you should need me, even in the dead of night, send someone to fetch me, and I will come. In the meanwhile, I wish you to give these to your father at bedtime each night. It is only a sedative, señorita ," he added hastily when he placed the medicine bottle in her hand. "It will not harm him. In fact, it may bring a small improvement, if only temporarily."
"You think that it is more than bad temper that drives him," she guessed. "Might it have something to do with his headaches?"
"Yes," he replied. "Springing from the accident he endured some years ago. Are you strong, señorita ?" he asked suddenly. "Can you withstand unsettling news without hysterics?"
"I can," she said without blinking.
He glanced toward the closed door of her father's bedroom. "I suspect a tumor of the brain," he said quietly.
She leaned back against the wall. "What?"
"A tumor. It is in keeping with his symptoms, which perhaps the accident worsened. If it is a slow tumor, which must be the case, the pressure on the brain would grow steadily worse. It would account for these moods and violent tempers, and the headaches. If this is the case," he added slowly, "I regret to tell you that nothing can be done to save his life. Inevitably, he will die of it. And judging by the severity of the symptoms, it will not take much longer. I shudder to think of the pain he must be suffering."
She closed her eyes and shivered. No wonder he'd changed so!
"Is there nothing that can be done?" she asked plaintively.
"Medical science, alas, has not progressed so far." He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "I can arrange for a nurse when it is finally necessary. You will not have to bear it alone. Have you family, señorita ?"
"My my brother, only."
"He must be told," he added. "It is only a matter of time. Not too much time, either, I fear. This attack has brought on a fever which may have caused even more damage. You should not be alone with him," he added. "Men inflicted with this sort of thing are often violent. He could kill you."
She shivered. "Yes, I know."
"So, it has already happened, has it not?" he persisted.
She hesitated. Then she nodded. "I tried to run away a year ago in Atlanta. No one would believe that he would hurt me; he was such a kind man, before. When I went back home, he beat me very badly. He was sorry for a few minutes, and then he raged that I deserved it. He has been like that ever since the buggy accident." It was so good to talk of it, so good! She felt tears rolling down her cheeks. "I have never been able to tell anyone," she whispered. "I was ashamed of him, and of myself for allowing him to mistreat me. But I was afraid"
"With good reason," he replied solemnly. "It is a fact that you risk your life by disagreeing with him. Señorita , there is an asylum in which he could be placed."
"And have everyone know?" Her face was tragic. "He could not bear the shame!"
"Alas, the world we live in is a prison, is it not?" the good doctor said grimly. "Public opinion dictates our every action. A man can be ruined, or a woman, by only the slightest gossip. I pray that this will change one day."
"As do I."
"Can you have a relative come to stay with you, then?" he persisted. "Is there someone you trust?"
"My brother is a Texas Ranger," she said, "and he is rarely here. He lives in barracks. I would hate to put this burden on him."
"Nevertheless, you may have to consider it," he returned. "Your position is desperate, did you not realize? Your father will soon be unable to work, señorita ," he said flatly. "What will you do then?"
She felt her face go white. Unable to work! She had no way of employing herself. All of a sudden the enormity of her situation made her knees go weak. The doctor eased her into a chair and gave her some smelling salts.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. It's just that it's so sudden."
"I understand. I must go," he said regretfully. "Mrs. Sims is in labor. I was on my way to her when I stopped by. Please try not to worry so much. God looks out for us."
"Indeed He does," she replied with a tearful smile. "But I think that perhaps He is sleeping right now."
Chapter Nine
» ^ «
Amelia didn't sleep that night. Her father seemed better, but he was very much changed from the man he had been only a day or so before.
"I don't think I should leave you," she said hesitantly, when it was time for Alan to come for her.
"You go ahead," he said huskily. He was hoarse and a little confused, too. "Go with Alan. I'll be all right. The pain isn't so bad now."
"I'm glad." She hesitated. He was so much like he had once been that she felt affection for him. "Shall I find someone to sit with you?"
"I don't need a damned bodyguard!" he yelled at her suddenly. His head turned, and his eyes were glazed, full of hatred and pain. "Get out! Get out, you stupid woman! Get out!"
Amelia felt frightened. He had started to get out of the chair where he was sitting, and she backed away.
She ran down the hall, grabbing her bag and parasol on the way, and darted out the front door as if all the hounds of hell were sharp on her heels. She was shivering, but she managed to get herself back together as Alan got down from the buggy, smiling, to fetch her.
"Hello, sweetie," he said, holding out his hand. The smile abruptly faded. "Amelia?"
She didn't realize that her face was white, her eyes like black coals. She was shaking.
"What is it?" he asked abruptly.
"My father," she began. "He's worse."
"I'm sorry. Shall I go in and speak to him?"
"No! No," she added more calmly. "He'll be fine. But I would like to stop by Dr. Vasquez's surgery and inquire if he'd look in on Father while we're away. I hate to leave him alone."
"We shall do that, of course. Has he been ill?"
"Yes," she said wearily. "Ill."
He stopped by the surgery, and she told Dr. Vasquez, out of Alan's hearing, what had happened.
"I will go by to see him, of course. I have a man who can sit with him a few hours, too."
"Thank you," she said fervently.
"You will be home before dark?"
"Certainly."
"Something must be done," the doctor added quietly. "This cannot be allowed to continue. You will be in constant danger."
"I know," she said heavily. "It's just that I don't know what to do! I do not wish to involve outsiders in what is a very private business!"
"It is an act of great courage to take the risk of staying with him, even for a member of one's family," he said quietly.
"He is my father," she replied. "Before the accident, he was a good and kind man who took wonderful care of his family. I love him. What else could I have done?"
He smiled at her. "You are a singular woman."
She flushed. "No. Only a weary one. Thank you for your help."
"It is my p
leasure to do what I can for you. Good evening."
She nodded.
Alan put her back into the buggy and drove out of town. "Something's very wrong, isn't it?"
"Yes, Alan. But it's nothing I can tell you about. I'm sorry. I must handle it as I think best."
He frowned. "Aren't friends supposed to help each other?" he asked softly.
She sighed. "Alan, only God can help me now." She turned and forced a smile. "Tell me about this spot you've chosen for our picnic."
It was a lovely day. The rain of the past weekend, a brief storm with little substance, had not been repeated. There was a drought in the Rio Grande Valley, and talk of drilling more wells was on everyone's tongues. Alan was in good spirits, and the sun and crisp spring air made Amelia feel more relaxed and hopeful than she had in a long time.
She had worn a blue plaid cotton skirt and a lacy white blouse with a big, flower-covered hat for the picnic. Alan was in a neat gray suit that emphasized his good looks. What a pity, Amelia thought sadly, that she could not love him.
"I had Rosa's daughter pack the basket full for us. Rosa is indisposed," he said, unwilling to mention that she was in labor in front of a lady like Amelia.
"It looks delicious, Alan," she said as she helped him unpack it and set the dishes out on the spotless white linen cloth that had also been provided. Crystal glasses were produced and a bottle of wine. Amelia exclaimed with delight when she saw it.
"It is a very light white wine," he assured her. "Nothing which will threaten your senses. Do sit down, Amelia."
She did, wrapping her long skirt around her, taking off her hat to let the air touch her high-piled blond hair. Wisps of it teased her flushed cheeks.
"You look happy," he said, "but very tired. Can you not tell me what is wrong?"
"My father has been ill. I did tell you."
"Amelia"
She reached over impulsively and put her hand over his where it lay on the cloth. "No more questions, I implore you," she said softly. "Let it rest."
"As you wish," he said heavily. "Here, dear, have some chicken."
They were just beginning to eat when the sound of a horse's hooves startled them. A lone rider was coming up the rise. He was long-legged and lean, with his hat tilted at a rakish angle across his right eye and his red and white bandana fluttering in the wind. Wide chaps with silver conchos lay over black boots in the stirrups. Amelia's heart jumped. Even at a distance, the arrogant way he sat that horse betrayed his identity.