Dory listened to his footsteps going down the hallway and wished he hadn’t had to go.
CHAPTER
* 17 *
Dory was out of bed before Jeanmarie awakened; and while washing and dressing, she looked at herself in the mirror.
She was too shocked to cry.
Both of her eyes were blackened. They looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. One eye was open, the other swollen shut. The skin on her face was either black, blue, or red where the skin was broken. Her upper lip was almost twice its normal size. Both lips had been cut against her teeth, and it was difficult to drink without water dribbling down her chin.
When she removed her nightgown and the binding Odette had wrapped around her rib cage, she discovered dark bruises on most every part of her body. She thanked God that Wiley had come before Milo had broken an arm or a leg.
Not wanting to face Ben, Dory lingered in the room, dreading going down to the kitchen where Odette was preparing breakfast. But when she could stall no longer, she walked determinedly down the stairs and stood in the doorway, her knees shaking. Thank heavens, Odette was alone. She saw Dory as she carried dishes to the table.
“Dory? You all right?” Odette’s soft blue eyes were filled with compassion. “Oh, Dory… Dory—” She hurried to her and took her hand. “Sit down. I’ll do everything.”
“I should move around or I’ll get stiff.” Odette’s eyes questioned and Dory repeated.
“Poor mouth. I get the tablet.” She ran from the room. When she returned she said, “Baby waking up.”
Dory wrote swiftly, telling Odette to tell Jeanmarie before she brought her downstairs that her mama had hurt her face, and that the kitten had gone to find its mother.
Odette nodded and went back up the stairs.
Dory wandered to the door and out onto the porch. It was a beautiful spring morning. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun was warm and the birds were singing. A pair of mourning doves searched for seeds in the patch of grass beside the water trough.
Such a peaceful scene. It seemed impossible that so much ugliness had happened here just a few hours earlier. A man had died, and her own kin had enjoyed humiliating her, had used his fists on her, hating her, wanting to kill her.
Wiley was sitting on a box beside the bunkhouse door, his shotgun across his knees. Did he and Ben expect Milo to return with his sidekicks to finish what he and Sid had started last night? Or were they still thinking that whoever was murdering women would come in broad daylight? Dory stepped down off the porch and called to him.
“Wiley, have you had breakfast?”
“Yup. Couple hours ago.”
“Where’s Ben?”
“He’s ’round some’ers. Said fer ya to stay in the house till he gets back.”
Gets back. Fear erupted inside Dory. Her brain began to buzz. He wouldn’t go to the mill alone. If he went at all, he’d wait for James to go with him.
“Where did he go?” Dory stepped off the porch and started across the yard.
“Stay in the house, Dory. Ben said so.”
She stopped. “Did Ben go to the mill?”
Wiley didn’t answer. The longer he was silent the more frightened she became until she felt as if her heart would gallop out of her chest.
“He went to the mill,” she answered for him and held her breath while she waited for him to deny it. Wiley said nothing. “Oh, Wiley. Why did you let him go? If they don’t kill him they’ll beat him to a pulp… maybe cripple him for life!”
“It warn’t fer me to say, Dory. I’m thinkin’ he ain’t no slouch when it comes ta lookin’ after hisself.”
“He’s got stiches in his arm where Sid shot him. He won’t have a chance against Milo.” Through her mind raced the brutal realization of what Milo could do to him.
“He ain’t a man ta go off half-cocked. He knows what he can do an’ what he cain’t.”
“Does Odette know he went there?”
“I ain’t a knowin’ that, but I’m a thinkin’ not.”
Dory felt a numbness in her chest. She looked toward the trail that led to the mill for a long while before she started back to the house. She stepped up on the porch and turned to look back at the old man sitting on the box.
“When did he go?”
“Before daylight.”
“Why, Wiley?”
“Ya’ll have to be askin’ him that.”
Ben and Wiley had talked long after the women had gone to sleep. Wiley told Ben what he knew of the family, much of which Ben had heard before. Ben urged the old man to lie down in one of the other rooms and get some sleep. Wiley refused.
“Wouldn’t sleep nohow,” he said. “Guess in my old age I ain’t wantin’ to waste time sleepin’. I’ll sit here an’ count my blessin’s that Milo didn’t blow my head off.”
Ben spread a bedroll on the floor. He had trained himself to catch a few hours’ sleep whenever he could, but tonight thoughts of what Milo had done to Dory kept him restless. When he could shut them off, he lay thinking about her. Dory’s arm had been around his neck, her soft breasts against his chest. How good it had felt to hold her. Was what he felt for her the love a man felt for his mate? The only thing he knew about that emotion was what he had read in the classics introduced to him by his old friend, Tom Caffery. He had known then that someday he wanted to be loved as Cathy had loved Heathcliff, but he had held out little hope for it.
He wondered if Dory would be shocked to know he thought of her naked in his arms, her belly pressed to his. Did she even suspect that her sweet, caring presence was beginning to fill that vacant place in his heart?
Ben could feel the swelling in his groin as he thought about her. He was a man of strong sexual hungers, but he didn’t regard this physical change in his body as a sign of love. He liked her, liked to be with her.
Waller, he asked himself just before he gave himself up to sleep, what happened to your plan to set your sights on a woman only when you had something to offer her? And how do you know she’d even have you after she learns that your daughter’s mother was a whore and that you have to guard the girl against involvement with James because he may be her uncle?
It was still dark when he awakened. The birds were chirping, a sign that dawn was near. He got up and rolled his bedroll. He heard the plop of a chaw of tobacco hitting the can and knew that Wiley was awake.
“Ready for some coffee?” Ben asked.
“I’d give a dollar fer a cup.”
“It won’t cost quite that much.”
Ben got the fire going and put the coffeepot on. While waiting, he cleaned and checked his gun and strapped on his gunbelt.
“Ya goin’ huntin’?” Wiley asked.
Ben didn’t answer until after he had set the pot of beans on the stove to heat and sliced bread from the loaf on the table.
“I’m going up to the mill. I figure it’ll be better for me to settle with Milo. If I take care of it there’ll be no need for James to go storming off up there. The men would be sure to take sides, and that’s the worst thing that can happen to a logging crew. Some of them could end up under a raft heading down river, or traveling down a sluice with a couple tons of logs on their tail.”
“Milo’s got a bunch of ornery sidekicks up there that’s jist full of cussedness.”
Ben shrugged. “I figure there’s some of the other kind too.”
After they ate, Wiley made a painful trip to the outhouse, then settled on the box beside the bunkhouse door. Ben led his saddled horse out of the barn.
“Tell Dory to stay inside and keep Odette and Jeanmarie with her,” he said, as he stepped into the saddle.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the east. He reached the trail to the mill and took a few precautionary minutes before venturing onto it. The thick growth of pines on each side could easily conceal a predator. That was a risk he would have to take. A cathedral-like stillness hung over this timbered trail. Every few minutes he stopped to listen for riders c
oming toward him. His ears were alert for any sound or lack of sound as he moved the horse on up the hillside.
A gray dawn hovered over the mill site when he reached it. His eyes searched the area carefully, but he could see no movement except at the cookshack, where the men had gathered for breakfast. His timing had been just right. He tied his horse to a sapling, walked to the cookhouse, and opened the door.
A dozen or more men, Milo and Louis among them, were seated at the two oilcloth-covered tables wolfing down slabs of meat, cornmeal mush, and biscuits, and taking great draughts of coffee to wash down each mouthful. Only the cook noticed Ben standing in the doorway.
“Have a seat, Waller. Fresh batch of biscuits coming up.”
“Thanks, but I’ve had breakfast. I’ve got business with Milo. I’ll wait until he’s finished.”
Idle talk ceased abruptly and all eyes turned to stare at Ben.
“Business with me?” Milo’s big jaws continued to chomp on the food he had in his mouth. “I ain’t doin’ no business with a killer. Ya come to the buryin’?”
“You know why I’m here. Finish your breakfast and come on outside.”
Milo laughed, but his eyes were mean. “Now wouldn’t that jist put the frost on yore balls? The donkey man’s callin’ me out and he done the killin’ a poor Sid.”
“That isn’t what this is about and you know it.”
“I think ya kilt old Sid ‘cause yore whore was shinin’ up to ’im. Ya scared ya’ll lose yore pecker hole, donkey man?” Milo laughed extra loud. The look he gave to his friends produced a chorus of guffaws.
Controlling himself with great effort, Ben spoke calmly.
“You’ve not only got a filthy, rotten mind, you’re a mewling coward. Only a low-down, sneaking sonofabitch shithead fights a woman.”
Ben’s words had the effect he intended. His contempt washed over Milo in a chilling torrent, and Milo jumped to his feet, his eyes wild, his teeth bared. He felt the steel-gray eyes stabbing into him, but he was too angry to realize the danger he was facing.
“Yo’re fired!” he shouted. “Get the hell off my land.”
“I don’t work for you. I quit the minute I saw what you did to Miss Dory. You low-life bastard, you beat her almost senseless.” Ben took a few deep breaths. It wouldn’t do to let his anger rule his head.
“That’s family business and none of yores,” Louis shouted.
“And that makes it all right?” Ben shouted back, his aroused voice overriding Louis’s. “For Christ’s sake, Louis, use the few scrambled brains you lay claim to. It’s any man’s business to protect a woman from a goddamned snake.” Ben’s blazing eyes never left Milo’s flushed face. “I want to see if this flap-jawed loudmouth who uses his fists on a woman has the guts to face a man.”
“She had it comin’. She’s just a slut, a whore an’ not even a good’n.”
The muscles along Ben’s jaws rounded into hard knots. He took a long, deep breath to steady himself.
“You’d goddammed better believe that the next time you call her a whore you’d better hang onto your balls. Because if you hit her with that word again, it’ll be the last time they’ll be of any use to you.” He spoke in a low, controlled voice.
Milo stared numbly at the cold-eyed man, shocked by the lethal hatred in his face. He opened and closed his mouth as if he were strangling. He glanced at the men around from him. There were very few smiles or encouraging grins on their faces. Despite his bravado, Milo wondered for the first time if he had bitten off more than he could chew.
“By gawd, I’ll call ’er what I want. Come on, boys. Let’s learn this flop-eared jackass some manners.”
Several men got up to follow Milo, then stopped in their tracks. The man in the doorway had dropped into a crouch, a revolver in his hand.
“You”—Ben waved the gun at the men behind Milo—“stay out of it. It’ll be just me and him.” His voice and his eyes were coolly threatening.
“Ya talk big with a gun in yore hand,” Milo sneered. “Hell, I ain’t no slick-handed gunfighter.”
“And I’m not going to be jumped by a pack of wolves. Call off your dogs. If you don’t have the guts to take me on say so, and I’ll shoot your pecker off here and now and be done with it.”
Tinker and several of the men got to their feet.
“They’ll not jump you,” Tinker said. Then to the men standing with Milo, “Stay out of it. Hear? If they fight it’ll be fair—no gouging of the eyes, no biting. Fists and feet, that’s it. I’ll shoot the first man that noses in on either side.”
“Sounds fair to me.” Ben slammed his gun down into the holster.
“There ain’t goin’ to be no fight,” Louis roared, his face fiery red and contorted. “I ain’t payin’ wages fer ya to stand ‘round watchin’ a hard-peckered rooster a fightin’ fer a hen. Get to work.”
Ben was suddenly out of patience with the senseless exchange. He ignored Louis. His eyes, glittering like sunshine on steel, were pinned to Milo.
“Just you and me, horseshit, unless you’re scared.”
All eyes were on Milo. He glanced at the faces of the men who stood with Tinker and knew that what Waller had said had set them against him. He still had his friends. He couldn’t lose face in front of them. Every man in the cookhouse was waiting to see if he would accept the challenge. He outweighed Waller by thirty pounds and had the longest reach of any man in the camp. With the dirty tricks he knew, he should be able to whip him. Then the sonofabitch would pay for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.
“I’m goin’ ta bust ya up; I’m goin’ ta stomp yore ass in the ground.” Milo laughed harshly and headed for Ben.
“It’ll take more than bragging to do it.”
Ben backed out of the doorway and into the space in front of the cookhouse. It was now daylight. Milo came out, followed by Louis and the rest of the men. They quickly formed a loose circle.
Ben took off his vest and turned up his shirt sleeves, being careful not to reveal the bandage on his arm. While he worked at the buckle on his gunbelt, a fierce love of battle welled up inside of him. During his six years in prison, he had fought to stay alive; fought older, bigger and stronger men. He had learned to fight with his brain as well as his fists. He never underestimated an opponent and always avoided getting in close until he found out if he was up against a puncher or a grappler.
“Ya’ll never work in the Bitterroot again,” Louis snarled. His eyes blazed with a queer, leaping light and his teeth bared a little. “I’ll see to it. We didn’t pay ya wages to go sniffin’ round a bitch in heat.”
“Only a sorry piece of stinking horseshit would talk that way about his own sister,” Ben said, his voice heavy with contempt. He took the few steps necessary to hand Tinker his vest and gunbelt, then turned to see Milo charging him with a bellow of rage.
Ben just had time to sidestep and swing a jarring right to the mouth that flattened Milo’s lips against his big square teeth. The blow would have stopped a bigger man, but it merely slowed Milo. Roaring with anger, he swung a huge fist that caught Ben in the jaw. As Ben rolled with the punch, his foot lashed out, the heel of his boot connecting with Milo’s shin.
Ben threw up an arm to weather the windmilling attack of arms and fist. A fist landed on his wounded arm and another on his chin. Pain shot through his arm like fire. He backed away. Milo lowered his head for another charge and Ben let him come on. Before Milo could land a blow, Ben’s fist came at him with such force that his head snapped up and his body arched backward. Milo staggered, then planted his feet wide apart and became as rooted as an oak tree. Before Ben could back away, Milo’s big fist thudded against his cheekbone, opening a gash.
Milo was bleeding from the nose and mouth. Ben moved around him, then came in low, hitting him so hard in the stomach with his head that Milo lost his balance and fell heavily to the ground, dragging Ben down with him. Gnashing teeth tried to grab at some part of Ben’s face or neck. Milo’s arms were
locked around Ben’s body. They rolled. Milo brought his head forward in short raps, striking Ben in the face. Blood spurted. Ben brought his knee up between Milo’s legs, but without leverage the blow rendered only enough pain to cause Milo’s arms to drop from around him. Agile as a cat, Ben sprang to his feet.
A rock-hard fist caught the slower-moving Milo in the mouth as he got to his feet. He staggered back, then plunged in to throw punches. Milo was a rough-and-tumble fighter. Ben had spring steel and rawhide in his rangy frame. He moved in and hit, but danced away from Milo’s grappling arms.
Suddenly Milo grabbed Ben by his arm, his wounded arm, and slammed him against the wall of the cookhouse. Ben’s head hit hard, then the ground flew up and hit him. Milo moved in to stomp his face with his heavy boots. Ben rolled and staggered to his feet. He blinked, shook his head to clear it.
The determination to survive that he’d known while in prison surged through him in full force. He’d not let this hunk of low-life beat him down. He ducked under Milo’s swinging arm and lashed out with his fist. Milo caught the rock-hard fist in the mouth and reeled back. A tooth was sheared off. He backed off in surprise, and spit it out of his bloody mouth.
“Is this the best you can do, you stupid ox? Now I know why you only fight women.” Ben taunted and waited. Blood flowed from the deep cut above his eye, from his gashed cheekbone, and from his nose, where Milo had battered him with his head.
Realizing that a front tooth was gone, Milo roared with rage and charged. Ben crouched and put all his strength behind the fist he sent into Milo’s stomach. Milo’s head came down as he grunted. A knee rose up to meet his chin; a fist hit him behind the ear. He went down on one knee. A boot heel caught him on the jaw, knocking his head to one side. He swayed, but didn’t go down.
It was only during this brief breather that Ben heard the cheers from the men. He didn’t know if they were for him or for Milo.
Milo was not finished. He quickly scooped up a handful of loose dirt and flipped it with a quick motion toward Ben’s eyes. Ben shuttered his eyes just at the right time and took the dirt in his face. Almost babbling now with pain and insane rage, Milo rose and barreled toward his enemy. Ben stepped aside and with as much strength as he could summon, aimed a blow at the place he realized was Milo’s weakest spot: the pit of his stomach. He heard the whoosh as the air was knocked out of him. Milo doubled up, grabbed his gut and fell heavily to his knees.
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