by Diana Palmer
"He is old?" Quinn asked slowly.
" Sí ," she said. " Muy viejo . But he can ride with the best of the young men, and his aim is straight and true. He is the world to us. To me, especially. I would do anything for my papa." Her eyes narrowed. "He will kill Manolito. I hope he does!"
Quinn grimaced. So it had been the girl's brother he had taken into Juarez, to the barrio . Fate had dealt him a strange hand. It was a good thing he hadn't told the boy his real mission in Mexico. And now he couldn't tell her, either, that he was sworn to bring in Rodriguez and see him hanged in Texas for his crimes.
"You are troubled," she said perceptively. "Please. It is not your fault. When you found me in that terrible place, apparently of my own free will, it was not unexpected what what you must have thought. I do not blame you for what happened."
"I blame myself," he said shortly. He poured beans and peaches into a tin plate and handed her that and a fork.
"It would have been someone else, if not you," she continued, gingerly tasting the hot beans and smiling, because they were good. "Perhaps someone less gentle and concerned for my welfare."
Quinn felt his cheeks go hot. "Nevertheless, it should not have happened."
"Just the same I will not let Rodriguez harm you," she said doggedly. "These beans are very good, señor ."
"Thanks." He made a mental note to hide that star in his boot before they went any further. It seemed that he was going to make the acquaintance of the wily Rodriguez. That he would inevitably have to betray this girl's trust was something he refused to consider.
"What is your name?" he asked suddenly.
"I was christened Mary, but I am now called Maria," she said softly. "And yours?"
"Quinn," he replied.
"Quinn." Her voice gave it a soft accent. "I like it very much. May I have some more beans?"
He lifted the pan and ladled a spoonful onto her plate. Her face was grimy and lined, and there were dark circles under her eyes. But he thought he'd never seen anyone quite as lovely. He wondered what Amelia would think of her.
King wasn't certain that he'd heard properly. He leaned closer to Amelia. "What did you say?" he asked, aware of the stares of the others behind him in the soft glow of the gaslights.
"I asked who you were," Amelia replied a little drowsily. "My head hurts."
"You don't know me?" he persisted.
She lifted her eyes again and stared straight into his. He had eyes like old silver in candlelight, she thought. He wasn't handsome. He was very tall and fit, though, and she liked the flat-nailed, long-fingered hand that was absently holding one of hers in its dark grasp. He was deeply tanned. Despite the suit he was wearing, he didn't look like a city man. "Are you a cowboy?" she asked.
"In a manner of speaking." His voice sounded odd. "Do you know any of us?" he asked.
She looked past him. There was a handsome blond man with a mustache and dark eyes. There was an older man, also dark-eyed and a little heavier than the younger ones. There was a woman, too, with silver-sprinkled dark hair and dark eyes. The woman looked as worried as the men.
"I'm so sorry," Amelia said gently. "Are you relatives of mine?" She knew that the silver-eyed man wasn't related to her, but she didn't know how she knew it. He made her feel very uncertain and uncomfortable, as if they were linked in some unpleasant way. Funny, to feel like that about a total stranger.
"No, my dear, we aren't relatives," Enid said. She moved forward, displacing King. "How do you feel?"
"Well, I have a headache, and my back seems very sore." She touched the disheveled blond hair around her face. "I feel a bit sick, too." Her hand touched her forehead, and she winced. There was an enormous bump there. "Have I hit my head?" she asked.
"Apparently," Enid said. "Oh, my dear," she groaned.
"Get the doctor," King said to Alan, his face drawn and very nearly white.
"He'll be at Mrs. Sims'. She was delivered of a son this afternoon, one of the ladies at the dry goods store said," Enid offered.
Alan didn't stop to argue. He left, his heart beating madly as he went quickly down the street. As luck would have it, he met the doctor halfway.
"Has she regained consciousness?" Vasquez asked.
"Yes," Alan offered quickly, "but she doesn't know any of us!"
The little man shook his head. "After so many shocks, is it any wonder? The blow to her brain must have damaged her memory."
"Will it come back?" Alan asked.
" ¿Quien sabe, señor ? Who knows? That is up to God, not to any of us."
He and Alan went back to the house and up the stairs. The three people standing near Amelia were quiet and subdued. The doctor ran them all out and began to examine her.
"I'm all right," she insisted. "I seem to be a little addled, but" She stopped, frowning up at him. "My father," she said slowly as her mind tugged at a vague memory. "He was hitting me." She caught her breath. "He was hitting me!"
Dr. Vasquez took her hand and held it tightly. "Your father has died, my dear," he said sadly. "I regret to tell you."
"Died. He has died." She bit her lower lip hard and felt hot tears in her eyes. "Oh, my."
"He had a tumor of the brain," he told her. "I examined him just an hour ago, to be sure of it. It was a very large and malignant tumor," he added solemnly. "Had he lived, the pain would have been unbearable, and nothing would have spared him, or you, its agony. It is God's will, and a true mercy, señorita ."
She felt the tears running down her cheeks. "I don't remember him. All I remember is that he was hitting me. Why was he hitting me?"
"I do not know." He didn't mention his suspicions. But perhaps he could trick her into telling him, if she remembered. "Had you been somewhere yesterday, señorita !" he asked. "With someone?"
She thought and thought. "I I went on a picnic with Alan," she forced her mind to work. "Yes! The blond man that's Alan!" She smiled with relief. "That was Alan. And his mother and father." The smile faded, and she frowned. "The other man" She felt a surge of panic. "I don't remember. I don't remember him. I won't remember him!" She put her hands to her head and squeezed.
The doctor began to understand. "Gently," he said "Gently, do not force it. The memory will return when you are ready to face it. Sometimes, the brain hides from us things which are too distressing, you understand? Let it be, señorita . Be at peace."
She began to breathe normally. There was a veil, a curtain, and behind it was terror. She didn't want to look. She didn't want to raise the curtain. Her wide, frightened eyes opened and looked into the doctor's. "I don't know him," she said firmly.
"Perhaps it is just as well," he agreed. "Now, I will give you something for the pain, to make you sleep. The Culhanes will take you out to Latigo, where you will be cared for."
"No!" She shivered. "No, I can't go there, I can't !"
"Mrs. Culhane will care for you," he insisted, calming her. "You will be in no danger at all. None whatsoever. Your brother is being sent for. Do you remember your brother?"
"Brother. Quinn." Her mind pictured a tall, strong man with thick blond hair and dark eyes in a lean face. Her brother Quinn. She smiled. "Oh, yes!"
"I am sure they will find him quickly. It will do you good to have a member of your own family here."
"My father," she said hesitantly. "The funeral."
"It will be arranged, but you must not go," he told her firmly. "You are in no condition, señorita, lo siento . I will make certain that it is understood by all that the shock of your father's sudden death has caused a collapse."
She understood even through the fog in her brain. "God bless you, señor ," she said gently.
"And you."
He stood up, fastening his bag. "I will check on you in the morning before you are moved to Latigo. Buenas noches ."
"Thank you."
He smiled. " De nada. "
He went out and closed the door, facing three anxious sets of eyes.
"She has partially regained her
memory," he told them. "I have told her that she must not attend her father's funeral, and it will be in her best interests to remove her from this house at the earliest possible moment."
"We'll hire a carriage and take her out to Latigo first thing tomorrow," Brant said firmly. "You said that she's partially regained her memory. What does she remember?"
"Very little. Being hit by her father and his collapse. And she remembers her brother and the three of you."
"And me?" King asked, joining them with a brandy snifter in one lean hand, his face set in lines none of the others had seen there since Alice's tragic death. "Does she remember me?"
The doctor glanced worriedly from the others back to King. "No," he said. He suspected that Amelia did remember, but she was determined not to admit it. Her fear of this man was not a physical one, but that made it no less damaging to her recovery. If it helped her to pretend that she didn't know him, the doctor wasn't going to give her away.
King was silent. He took a sip of the brandy and stared into it with eyes that didn't see.
"Is it temporary, her loss of memory?" Enid persisted.
"I do not know," the doctor replied gently. "These head injuries, señora , can be very unpredictable. She has some nausea and a headache, and she must be carefully watched. You must send for me if there is any change. I have given her only a light sedative, but she must not be left alone."
"I'll sit with her," Enid said.
"So will I," Alan volunteered. "She won't be alone for a minute."
King was swirling the brandy in his glass, not looking at anyone, while the doctor quietly outlined the necessary care and his prognosis. King was now the only one who knew what had happened the day before in his bedroom. Amelia herself didn't know that she could be pregnant, and neither did anyone else. That burden was his alone, and he might have to bear it for life. If her memory didn't come back, what then? Could he allow her to marry his brother when she might be carrying his child without being aware of it?
The doctor was speaking to him, and he hadn't even heard. Nor had he realized that he was alone in the hall. His family had gone back into the room with Amelia.
"What?" he asked the little man dimly.
"Come with me, please."
The doctor went downstairs into the parlor, waiting for King, and closed the door behind him. The little man's dark eyes were vaguely accusing.
"You must answer a question for me which I cannot, dare not, ask in front of the others. She was not only beaten. On her underclothes was the unmistakable evidence that she had experienced sexual intercourse very recently. Did her father rape her?"
"Of all the sordid accusations !" King exploded.
"Are you naïve enough not to believe it happens?" Vasquez asked quietly. " Señor , if you only knew the things I have seen. I must know about her condition. If she has been raped, there is the possibility of a child. I know of a way to terminate it. There are herbs I can give to her without her knowledge, you understand, to expel the baby, if this is the case."
King was shocked. He stared at the doctor, feeling sick all over. Kill the baby. That was what he was proposing to do. He was proposing to give her an herb, like those used by women in the back streets of town who slept with men for money. Any madam knew how to get rid of an unwanted baby. But if Amelia became pregnant, it would be with his child. His own flesh and blood.
His white face spoke volumes. The doctor stared at him without speaking for a long moment. "You have known her intimately," he said to King.
The younger man slowly nodded. He averted his eyes. "It was not her fault," he said gruffly. "I seduced her."
"And she does not remember."
King threw down a swallow of brandy and grimaced as it stung the back of his throat and then began to warm him all the way down. "No. She does not remember."
"What do you want me to do?"
King didn't know what he wanted to do. He took a deep breath. "I do not want you to do anything."
"And if there is a child?"
King looked up, his silver eyes stormy. "It will be mine. And the responsibility for all of it. Just as the crime was mine."
"You do not love her?"
"Of course I do not love her," King denied violently, averting his eyes with a cold laugh. "She is everything I detest most in a woman."
"But she loves you."
King turned around and went back to the brandy snifter. "She did," he said. "Not anymore." He filled the snifter and snapped the top back on the crystal decanter. He moved back to face the smaller man. "You know, don't you, Vasquez?" he drawled. "You've reasoned it out. I didn't want her to marry my brother. So I seduced her and told her father what she'd let me do, and he beat her nearly to death. The violence caused his own death. Well, I don't need you to recount my sins," he added fiercely. "I'm all too aware that I've tried to play God here. Ironic, isn't it, that the only other person who knows what really happened is Amelia, and she doesn't remember. I should be happy, because she can't accuse me of my crimes." His face hardened. "Perhaps that's to be my hell. I have to watch her and wonder if I've given her a child, while she walks around in blissful ignorance of it."
"What will you do if it happens?"
"I'll marry her, of course," King said. "I'm not totally without honor."
"If you do not love her, to marry her would be an act without honor."
King stared at him. That was all. He simply stared at him with steady silver eyes that were as dangerous as a pointed gun.
Vasquez shrugged. "I will keep a close watch on her," he said. "If she is in a delicate condition, I will know it."
"Don't don't do anything," King said, lowering his voice.
"In good conscience, I could not, unless the child was conceived of incest." His face hardened. "In that one case, señor , I would act without conscience."
"Her father had a tumor, you say?"
"A malignant tumor. It is truly a kindness that he died. In the end, he would have killed Amelia. Her loyalty to him would have meant her death." He left King with a curt nod of his head.
King stayed in the parlor drinking brandy until his mind began to go numb. The doctor spoke of mercies, but a numb brain had to be the best one right now. He couldn't, didn't dare, think about what he'd done to Amelia. If he did, he'd go mad.
He sat down in her father's wing chair and drank until there wasn't one thought left in his head.
The snifter in his limp hand fell onto the floor rug and made a dull thud. King lay back with a heavy, relaxed sigh, his body boneless, like his mind.
A few minutes after midnight, Enid came downstairs to check the fire in the parlor. She saw her son sitting there and instantly connected his slumped posture with the empty brandy decanter and the equally empty glass beside his chair.
With a sad smile, she found a bearskin carriage blanket folded on a chair near the door. She draped it gently over him, watching his eyelids flicker.
He was taking it very badly. She knew that he felt something for Amelia, even if he wasn't quite sure what it was. The fact that she remembered everyone except him was, she was sure, the worst of it. He was tormented, and she was sorry for some of the things she'd said to him. Well, time would heal Amelia's memory and her wounds, and perhaps it would do the same for King's conscience.
Chapter Thirteen
» ^ «
Amelia was taken in a carriage out to Latigo the next morning. Word had come that Quinn still hadn't been located, although he had been seen in Del Rio. Hartwell Howard lay in quiet repose in the mortuary. He would be buried tomorrow, whether or not Quinn was found, because they could not leave him lying in state indefinitely.
Although Amelia had wanted to see her father, the doctor and the Culhanes had not allowed it. She was weak and disoriented, and they felt that she had had enough shocks already. For the same reason they told her nothing about the funeral arrangements. Her head was giving her so much pain that she was hardly able to think at all.
King went back to Latigo alone, refusing to accompany the carriage. Amelia wouldn't even look at him now. They said that her memory of him hadn't returned, but he wasn't sure of it. The one time he'd caught her eyes, they had been evasive and wounded. He couldn't bear the hurt they dealt him, so he rode on alone. If Quinn wasn't found today, he decided, he'd go and look for him on his own. It would spare him Amelia's contempt, if nothing more.
Alan and his mother sat with Amelia in the back of the carriage while Brant drove. The dust was bad, and she felt less than well. Her head was pounding by the time they reached Latigo. Amelia didn't remember exactly why it should disturb her so much to see the ranch house, but she was disquieted by just the look of it. She remembered coming here with Alan. She remembered the belt in her father's hand. Why couldn't she remember what had happened in between? And why did it upset her to look at King?
Alan helped her down from the carriage. He wanted to carry her inside, but she would have none of that.
"I'm quite fit, really," she assured him with a wan smile. "Just let me hold on to your arm, please, Alan." She hesitated at the front door, though, turning to Enid with big, worried eyes. "I'm imposing on you," she said. "And your other son doesn't want me here. He's very polite, but his eyes wish me far away every time he looks at me. I mustn't stay for long"
"My dear," Enid said worriedly. "King would never presume to say who we may have as our guests. But he isn't wishing you away. He's as concerned for your well-being as we are ourselves."
Amelia didn't believe that, but she didn't argue. She allowed herself to be shepherded down the long, wide hall to a guest room. It looked familiar, but it was another room they had passed that caused her some inner distress. She was careful to keep it hidden, because she had no idea why a room should upset her. So many things did, in very odd ways.