Amelia

by Diana Palmer

  She touched her forehead and winced. "I don't know I can't remember . . anything else. My head hurts!"

  He wanted to pick her up and shake her, to make her remember what she had permitted him to do. It was she, not himself, who was to blame. Was that why she fought the memory?

  She saw his eyes, and her whole body tensed under the covers. Fear grew in her soft face, in her eyes. "Please go away," she said stiffly.

  "Fear," he scoffed. "You are full of it!"

  Her nails bit into the cover. "Only when I see you!" Her dark eyes were accusing. "You have hurt me in some way! I do not remember how, or when, or even what, but I know that you are my enemy!"

  Her eyes were huge, and he was almost overcome by sudden guilt.

  "And you are mine," he said heavily. "They all feel sorry for you. My own family has turned against me, because of you!"

  "Indeed?" she asked. "It is only because of me that they have found fault with you, Mr. Culhane? What a shocking person I must be, to bring out such sad qualities in you."

  His eyebrows lifted in surprise at her tone. It was mocking, and what he'd mistaken for fear in those dark eyes was something much more astonishing. "I hardly think my faults are any of your business."

  "That is so, thank goodness," she agreed readily, and with a cool smile. "Your mother has mentioned that you may see fit to marry the daughter of a neighbor, and I will certainly remember her in my prayers. Marrying you, she will have need of divine support!"

  He didn't seem to move. When he finally realized what she'd said, his silver eyes went molten. "So will you, Miss Howard, if you continue to toss insults at me. I find it frankly surprising that a mealymouthed opportunist such as yourself !"

  He broke off, because she threw a carafe of water at him in midspate, her eyes flashing. He sidestepped in the nick of time, but the carafe splintered noisily against the wall just past his shoulder and crashed water and glass onto the floor at his feet.

  "You get out of here!" she said fiercely, sitting up in bed to glare at him, despite her throbbing headache. "I had to put up with my poor father's tempers, because to provoke them might kill him, but you are not fatally infirm! Not yet, at least!" she added darkly, looking around for something else to throw.

  King moved back to the doorway and stood there, astonished, as he registered the sudden change in their houseguest. Perhaps she was still concussed.

  "Amelia? Are you all right?" Enid asked, ducking past King into the room as she glared at her son.

  "Is she all right?" King exploded. "My God, she threw a pitcher of water at me! She could have knocked me out with the damned thing!"

  "Stop cursing, please, and what did you say to her to warrant such a violent response?" his mother wanted to know.

  King glowered at her and then at Amelia. "She's riot herself."

  "Oh, but I am," Amelia shot back, her dark eyes glittering at him. "You just didn't know me, dear man. Now will you please leave? Why don't you go and serenade your loved one with those invectives?"

  "It can wait," he drawled. "In fact, she's coming here this afternoon to see you."

  "I can hardly contain my impatience," Amelia said haughtily. "Does she arrive by carriage or broom handle?"

  King stepped forward, but Enid put a hand on his chest and pushed. "Out," she said.

  "I will not have" he began hotly.

  "Out!" Enid repeated. She pushed him through the door and shut it. Then she collapsed back against it in laughter.

  Amelia shifted irritably against the headboard. "The arrogant, unfeeling, contemptuous beast !" she raised her voice, hoping King could hear her. "How dare he walk in here without my permission?"

  There was a rough curse outside the door, followed by the sound of angry footsteps going back down the hall.

  "My dear," Enid said, recovering, "how lovely to see you so changed!"

  "I am changed for the worse I fear." Amelia pushed back her hair and laid against the pillows with a long sigh. "I feel a little wobbly, but I shall improve. Your son said his fiancée was coming to see me. I do not wish to have company." She looked at Enid warily. "Do you mind?"

  The older woman beamed. "Not at all," Enid murmured wickedly. "I shall convey your regrets to Miss Valverde."

  King was on the porch with his father, apparently having given the older man a replay of what had happened, because King was glaring daggers at his father. Brant was doubled up with laughter.

  Enid joined them, casting a mischievous glance at her son. "You will have to explain to your fiancée," she stressed the word, "that Miss Howard is indisposed and unable to receive guests."

  "She'll be indisposed if she flings anything else at my head," he promised hotly.

  "Did she really do that?" Brant asked, recovering. "I can't believe it!"

  "Obviously, she knew of her father's condition and acted as she did only to placate and calm him," Enid told the men. "Quinn never mentioned Miss Howard being particularly docile, and I have heard of some of her exploits, especially when her younger brothers were still alive. Their deaths and her mother's, and her father's accident before his violent tendencies appeared—all of it must have been very difficult for her. I don't doubt that it made her docile, for a time." She glanced at King. "Not anymore, of course. If I were you, I should be more careful about how I addressed her in future. I have every intention of providing her with a replacement carafe."

  She smiled at her husband and went back into the house.

  Brant watched his son, correctly assessing the conflicting emotions on the younger man's dark, lean face.

  "I didn't know she had it in her," King murmured reflectively. He lit a cigar and glanced at his father with a rueful smile. "I suppose you think I deserved it."

  "Indeed I do," came the instant reply.

  King sighed. "Perhaps I did." His silver eyes twinkled. "What a temper!"

  "A woman without one would be a poor choice for you." He saw the flicker in his son's eyes and nodded. "As you knew already, I gather?"

  King moved away. "I have some chores to finish before Darcy arrives. She won't be happy about making an unnecessary trip."

  Which was an understatement. When Darcy alighted from her buggy only to be told that Amelia had suffered a slight relapse and couldn't have company, she exploded.

  "What nonsense, letting me come all this way for nothing!" she raged.

  Brant and Alan had left the house to escape her tirade, but Enid was trapped with King while the young woman vented her spleen.

  "I'm certain that Amelia didn't have a headache to spite you, Darcy," Enid said with faint malice. "And I hardly think your behavior is any credit to your parents. Please give them my regards. I'm sorry that you have to leave so quickly."

  Enid got up before Darcy could backtrack over her behavior and left the room, but not before giving King a speaking look that conveyed her opinion of his intended.

  "And now she's got her tail feathers in a tangle, hasn't she?" Darcy demanded petulantly as she stomped out to the porch. "Take me home!"

  King took her arm and pulled her around, not too gently. "My mother is not a hen. And your behavior leaves much to be desired, indeed!"

  He went off to the barn to get her buggy and his horse, leaving her to steam on the porch and remember how badly she wanted to be Mrs. King Culhane. By the time he returned, she was in a better mood and playing up to him all over again.

  Amelia heard the commotion as Darcy left. She was sorry for causing Enid any trouble, but she was delighted that she'd managed to throw King off balance.

  Apparently he hadn't realized that she'd only been deferring to her father, not because she was that afraid of him but because she didn't want to make him any worse. She still didn't understand what had caused his last, fatal outburst, but at least he was at peace now, and she could go on with her life. She had no intention of going on with it as she'd had to for the past four years. No man was going to keep her subdued ever again, least of all that man!

&nb
sp; Enid visited her several minutes later. "Darcy is gone. She had King go home with her, because the trip was so tiring, and she wasn't sure that she could make it home all by herself."

  "How sad."

  Enid chuckled. "That was only after she'd shown her true nature to all and sundry. And believe me, King wasn't any too pleased with her. Maybe this will open his eyes. Amelia, you don't even look the same. You are better, aren't you?"

  "I would like to get up tomorrow," the girl replied. "I feel a fraud Lying here, when I am almost well."

  "Not quite, but you will be. As for getting up, well we'll see about that tomorrow."

  Amelia smiled. "If you say so." She smoothed the covers. "I'm sorry about throwing the carafe. It must have been dear"

  "It was old and not my best one. You should have seen the expression on King's face," she added, chuckling. "My dear, it was worth losing the carafe to see my son taken down a peg. Feel free to throw anything you like at him. I think it may do him good."

  "So long as you don't run out of glassware," Amelia added wryly.

  King was sitting quietly in the buggy with a miffed Darcy. Her coy flirting hadn't produced any results at all, so she'd gone back to grumbling about wasting a whole afternoon visiting a woman who wasn't well enough for company.

  "You might have ridden over to tell me she was in such a state," she told King. "It would have saved me this trip."

  King didn't reply. He was still getting over the aftereffects of having a carafe flung at him by his mother's pet mouse. He'd discounted a lot of things Quinn had said about Amelia because of her subdued presence when her father was around. Now, he wondered how much was true. It seemed that he hadn't known her at all, if that bout of temper was any indication. Amelia in a flaming temper was a totally different proposition than Amelia bending her head to take any abuse offered her. He actually felt disconcerted.

  "You haven't said a word," Darcy muttered, glaring at him.

  "I've been listening," he said pleasantly.

  "What was that you mentioned last night about Quinn being missing?"

  "He's down in Mexico, and we can't find him. The funeral is at four, tomorrow. I hope he can be contacted in time."

  "Do you realize that it's almost two o'clock?" she replied. "I wasn't even offered a meal!"

  "We had already eaten by the time you arrived," he said evasively. "How is your father's bad back? He mentioned the other day that it was bothering him."

  Diverted, she began to talk about that, forgetting his sudden reluctance to talk.

  Rodriguez embraced the girl and laughed as he swung her up against his ample girth and spun her around. " Niña mía, niñita mía , I have been so worried!" he cried, and there were tears of joy in his dark eyes. "Oh, my Maria, Juliano has just been brought home by Aunt Inez and Uncle Lopez, crippled and upset. He has told me that Manolito left you alone in Del Rio I was even now getting together my men to come and find you."

  "Manolito, está aqúi ?" she asked quickly.

  "No more, niña ," he replied. His face clouded. "Manolito is dead," he added coldly, and his eyes held death. "How did you get back? And who is this gringo?" he added belatedly, glancing at Quinn.

  Quinn was glad he'd hidden his star. He stared at the bandit with a total innocence. "I'm from Texas, sir," he drawled, extending his hand. "I found this here young lady in bad straits down in Del Rio, and, well, I sort of rescued her."

  "This is true," she said heavily. "Papa, that Manolito, he left me in a a casa de putas ."

  Rodriguez's face seemed to blow up like a red balloon. "A what!?"

  She shook her head. "No, no, it is all right. Señor Quinn, he saved me! He protected me through the night from the attentions of other men, and at first light, he carried me out of that terrible place and put me on his horse and brought me back to you!" In her dialogue, she neglected to mention, of course, exactly how Quinn had "protected" her.

  "You saved my little girl." Rodriguez caught Quinn in a bear hug, his big body heaving with sobs, tears running down his unshaven face as he stared up at the taller man. "The Blessed Virgin preserve you, my son, for this wonderful thing you have done! She is my life, mi vida . Without her, I have nothing!"

  Quinn was embarrassed and uncomfortable. He felt as if he were flying a false flag. He didn't like doing dishonest things. On the other hand, this was a God-given opportunity to bring a notorious bandit to justice. He couldn't afford to turn his back on it. But the camp was full of heavily armed men, and he had to wait for the right opportunity to do what he had to do. Besides, he wondered how he was going to bear the look in her eyes when the girl discovered who he really was.

  "Come. Mi casa es su casa , you know this saying?" Rodriguez was saying, clapping Quinn on the back as he led him into the small, bare-floored hut. "It is not much of a house, I agree, but you will always be welcome here, todo tu vida. Aqúi estás siempre bienvenídas ."

  Rodriguez was already addressing him in the familiar tense, the one used only with close friends and relatives. It made Quinn feel worse than he already did.

  They sat around the small fire where Rodriguez's woman cooked enchiladas and beans for them, drinking mescal while the girl told of her ordeal in the soft, elegant Spanish which she spoke so well. After a minute, with a shy smile at Quinn, she excused herself and went to bathe and find a change of clothing.

  "Ah, pobrecita , what a life she has had," Rodriguez told Quinn after she was out of earshot. "Did she tell you about her home, her old home, señor ?"

  "Just that her stepfather was cruel to her and her brothers."

  "He was a madman," Rodriguez said coldly. "He tried to rape her, many times. She tell you this?"

  Quinn lowered his eyes to the camp fire. No, she hadn't told him it was that bad. So it had been fear, not just innocence, that had made her fight. Afterward, he'd registered the ease with which her body accepted him. Now he felt worse than ever. She'd been emotionally scarred, and he hadn't known. What if he'd made things worse?

  "What happened to her stepfather, after you got her to safety?" Quinn asked Rodriguez.

  The man drew his forefinger slowly over his raspy throat. "It took a long time," he added quietly. "And I felt no pity for him. If you had seen the little boys, señor ." He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "He did to them what he had done to her, and more. Men can be animals. I had not realized how savage a man could be until I found her cowering in the bushes. She was ten years old. She stood up when she saw me and closed her eyes. She stood there very quietly, waiting for me to kill her." The bandit's voice choked up. He had to stop and take a sip of mescal before he could continue. "She pleaded with me to save her. She meant with a bullet, but I could not kill a child so beautiful. I took her up in the saddle with me, and her last living brother was also found by my men. We brought them here, and they have been with me ever since. I cannot have children of my own," he said with faint embarrassment. "I have a how you say accidente . But I have these two niños now, and they are my own, you know, even if I did not know their mother. I have loved them like my own. I think they like me a little also," he added, chuckling, and his eyes twinkled as he remarked, "because they never try to run away."

  As if an abused child would run from love, Quinn thought. He remembered his childhood, when his father had been a kind, happy man and his mother a delightful companion. Those days were so far away now, and his father had become a virtual madman. Amelia was trapped there, and Quinn could not make her leave. She felt sorry for their father. She was convinced that something was wrong with him. Perhaps there was, but Quinn was afraid that Hartwell would lose control one day and hurt her badly. He had to do something to help her, he told himself. He must find a way out.

  "You are silent, señor ," Rodriguez prompted.

  "Sorry," Quinn said. He sipped the mescal, feeling warmth slip into his very bones. "I was thinking of my sister. She has had a very hard time of it with our father. He is not kind to her, yet he once was a good man."
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br />   " Ay de mi , how the world changes," the Mexican said sadly. "I have watched men become animals, because they cannot give their little children enough food to eat or even a pair of sandals to wear or a blanket to keep them warm at night. They live like dogs while the rich gringos come into our country and live like kings on our silver and gold. It has been the way of things since the days of the conquistadores , but I tell you, it must change. It must!"

  Quinn frowned. " Señor , you sound like a revolutionary."

  "A man should be when his people go hungry for the basic necessities of life," came the quiet reply. "You are not a rich man, señor ?"

  "I own my horse and my gun, and not much more," Quinn had to admit, smiling ruefully.

  "Then surely you know what it is like to be without the things you most need. You know the gnawing emptiness of a stomach which craves food when there is none. You know the cold of a desert night when there is no wood to burn, no blanket to cover with."

  "I have known these things," he had to admit.

  "I have watched a baby starve to death," Rodriguez said, the horror still in his eyes. "It was my own little baby sister, and there was not enough food for both of us, so my mama gave the milk in her breasts to me. It is why I am alive, that sacrifice." Tears poured down his cheeks again. "Do you know why she did it, señor !" he asked, lifting his red eyes to Quinn's. "Because I was male, and when I grew up I would be better able to provide for her and mi familia than a daughter could. She had to choose between us. The little girl was new, but she had had me for three years, and I was precious to her. It was sacrifice one or both, and she could not let me die." He took another long swallow of mescal. "When I am tempted to stop robbing those rich gringos across the border, when I am tempted to come home and raise my goats and plant my fields, I go to the cemetery to that little grave of my sister, who died for me. And as I pray for her soul, I think of our beloved Virgin Mother whose only son was sacrificed to save us all. It makes me more determined than ever to keep on, señor . To keep fighting, so that no more little babies will have to starve because the gringos have all the money and all the land and all the power in this country!"