by Sierra Rose
“I’ll just bet you do,” chuckled the first speaker. Earl? The other had nothing to say for himself. Both were so close now that she was being forced to breathe in their rank smell, forced to tolerate their increasingly obnoxious presence.
She dared not pull her gaze away. She feared that, were she to do so, they would attack, like ravening wolves.
“Let’s just g’wan in with her, hey, Eli? You head on up them porch steps, little lady, and we’ll follow along behind. Wanna have a talk with you, and some privacy.”
Touch her, and she would scream bloody murder, no matter what sort of gossip and repercussions might follow!
Pushing her bodily along the flagstone walk, they hung on her every footstep as she inched toward what should be safety—what should be sanctuary!—from ruffians such as these. When she fearfully reached the front door, the brother named Earl shoved her into the corner with a savage arm.
“You give a message to that spiffy new husband of yours,” he muttered in a menacing tone.
His horrible face hovered over hers, his great hairy hand encircled her throat to hold fast. Camellia, swallowing hard, tried to turn away, but to avail. His lardy fingers tightened their grip, so that she choked a little, even as she struggled for freedom.
“Stand still, Missy. You ain’t goin’ nowheres, till I say you can.”
From top to toe she was trembling in every muscle. Never had she felt the vulnerability of her own womanhood so much as now: helpless in the clutch of a brute. And it was far too late to scream.
His large hooked nose was only inches away as, with his free hand, he smoothed her hair under its flirty spring bonnet, caressed her cheek, rubbed almost absently at her shoulder and collarbones, edged lower to fumble at her bosom. Camellia, caught like a bird in a snare, almost gagged. Unable even to cringe from his disgusting touch, she was struck sickly and dazedly by the thought: would she ever feel clean again?
“You tell him,” Putnam hissed, “that I ain’t waitin’ any longer. He knows what we talked about. He knows what I want. And it better happen soon!”
Cackling, he made as if to move off, only to suddenly lunge back and smack her hard across the cheek. With a muffled cry, and a blaze of shooting stars that cascaded down from somewhere, Camellia crumpled and slowly collapsed to the floor.
“It better happen soon,” the man repeated, between his teeth, “or there’ll be more of that in store for you. And for him, too.”
Swinging on his heel, he swaggered away as bold and arrogant as if he owned the place.
Maybe he did. Or maybe he was just working on it.
Chapter Fourteen
THE RAINS STARTED FALLING sometime after midnight. They swept in with a blustery, ragged wind that rattled and poked at the window panes, seeking entrance. A steady show of lightning, that sent brilliant prongs across the black sky, accompanied the deluge, amid an occasional boom or rumble of thunder. An impressive display all around, were one inside, and well protected from the elements, to observe.
It was almost dawn before the storm wore itself out and meandered on its way east toward the distant Mississippi. Left behind were small branches torn from the trees and flung about with mad abandon, some damage to anything left out in the open, and, here and there, an inch-thick carpet of mud. Animals, both wild and domestic, had hunkered down wherever they could find shelter and shrugged off the worst of it.
Farmers and ranchers alike appreciated the moisture that replenished dry pasture, rye grass, tall fescue, and so on, for the benefit of stock relying upon it. Townsfolk, not so much. Men felt no compunction about clomping around through mucky soil in their heavy boots, scraping where necessary only to clomp along further and add more. Shopkeepers, doing their best to keep the stuff at bay, via shovels and brooms, could merely sigh. The ladies of Turnabout, meanwhile, had no interest in venturing out until sunshine and cloudless blue skies had returned streets to their normal dusty state.
Which, given the East Texas mid-May temperatures, shouldn’t take long.
The medium-tall shrub known as summer-sweet merely shrugged its glossy green leaves free of raindrops and lifted its fragrant pink spires skyward, as did the lovely dogwood and the white gardenias with their heavenly scent. Wildflowers and garden flowers both, all breathed out a sigh of relief that they had survived but one more storm. They straightened their petals, shook loose their petticoats, and went back to doing what they did best: adding beauty and perfume to the picketed yards of Turnabout.
It was late afternoon of a balmy and bright-bouqueted Wednesday when Ben Forrester got back into town.
He and Balaam had been on the road for some eight hours, clopping along at a steady trot through flattened grass and a pebbled mix of sand and grit. They had stopped, several times, for food and drink and a brief rest; and Ben, quite satisfied as to the results of his first business trip, took great pleasure in his surroundings during this triumphant return.
Manifest, nearly forty miles north and west, had fortunately been passed over by the ferocious storm, so travel home had been easy. As simple as holding the reins, occasionally clucking a tongue at the conceited horse, and wandering here and there toward the horizon into his own thoughts.
Rosy plans for the future, with a newly purchased building under his belt; steady ruminations about the present, with a redirection of energy and resources to encompass not one but two stores; troubled musings concerning the recent past, with the acquisition of a wife who was not even attempting to fit into his idea of what a partner should be.
“Hey, Balaam,” he called out suddenly. “Let’s stick to the tried and true, whatddya say? No more wanderin’ off to who knows where.”
With a disdainful switch of his tail, the horse merely looked down his nose at the admonition and carried on as he had been. And Ben, feeling that he had done his own duty by reminding the steed of his, pushed his hat back, settled himself more comfortably upon the padded seat, and began to softly whistle through his teeth.
Whatever was going on with Camellia, it was time to put his foot down. A man ought to be master of the household behind his own doors, hang it all. And she would just have to realize—and accept—that fact.
Except... Except...
He had missed her, these three days of his absence. During the brief hours of their marriage, she had proven to be almost all he had hoped: intelligent, caring, beautiful, charming, generous. But for that one flaw. Opinionated. Just too opinionated. And not at all shy about expressing it.
Could he live with that, when so much else was good about her? Could they build a marriage together, with her determined stance on various issues at opposite ends to his?
Ben’s head began to ache. Not nearly as fiercely and demandingly as the morning after his drinking binge, of course. But enough to make him sit up and take notice. Somehow, every time he reflected upon his marital woes, and the differences between his bride and himself, he was assaulted by some physical ailment.
“Balaam!” he called again, flapping the reins. “You are wreakin’ havoc with my good nature, you worthless hawse. Wouldja mind movin’ it along, there, please? Sure would like to get home before next January.”
With an almost human sigh of resignation, Balaam obligingly picked up the pace.
Leaving Ben to wonder.
He wanted to get home? That alone was surprising, given what might be awaiting his return, after his mishandling of the woman he had promised to love, honor, and cherish. Wouldn’t his parents just be delighted by the way he had behaved! “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he could imagine his mother chortling. “Chip off the old block,” his father would have chimed in.
Two more repellent individuals he had never known in his life. The miracle was that he had, fortunately, grown up entirely in opposition to their views and behavior. And he fought, every day, to remain so, to stay as decent, as kind, as fair, as principled as he possibly could, in every dealing, in every facet.
But had he succeed
ed?
No. In all honesty, he would have to admit he had not, when it came to Camellia.
They must make a fresh start. Mail order or not, she was his bride, and she deserved to be treated accordingly, with respect and approval and consideration. If he took the first step, maybe she would follow along, and they could put this devastating quarrel to rest.
Pondering over what they two could accomplish together, he was more anxious than ever to get home. What had she been doing while he was gone? How had she kept occupied? Shame on him for not being concerned about her well-being in a new life, in a new town, surrounded by a new populace and a new culture.
More to the point, had she missed him as much as he had missed her?
He and Balaam parted company at the livery stable, and both looked decidedly happier when each went his separate way. After paying Abel Norton for the privilege of renting his arrogant, strong-willed steed, Ben hauled his valise and his portfolio of business papers from the buggy and set out for the Forrester house.
Whistling. He was actually whistling.
Abel, who had encountered Ben Forrester in a number of moods—quiet, congenial, gloomy, intractable, but never actually lighthearted—stood scratching his head in puzzlement. Was the world about to end?
Ben reached his own front porch with an ebullient stride. Key in lock, door swung open, he moved inside and set down his bags. He paused to sniff the air, like a gray wolf roving into unfamiliar territory, and looked around. The room was familiar, and yet not.
Furniture had been rearranged, in a more pleasing, complimentary style, and the clutter of normal living removed. And the place smelled different. Um...fresh; clean.
Clearly Mrs. Forrester had been busy in her new abode.
But something felt off-kilter. Cotton-soft silence, muffling sound and motion, that might have been an actual physical barrier. A sixth sense told him—warned him?—that all was not right. And that, as home owner, he’d better see what was going on.
“Camellia? Hey, Camellia, you around here?”
It was possible she’d gone visiting. To see her sisters, perhaps. Or to have tea with a new friend she’d made. Ladies were big on having tea, and Turnabout boasted a nice little feminine tea shop, all ruffles and lace. Or she might be wandering amongst Main Street’s markets and emporiums, examining their wares.
After all, he wasn’t expected home for another few days.
A very slight noise in the kitchen caught his attention.
“Cam?”
Closing the door, he made his way toward the back of the house. The heart of the house, as far as he was concerned. In his mind, the kitchen would always be associated with warmth and comfort and every soothing panacea known to man.
“Camellia?”
The room had been deliberately darkened, with shades pulled against brilliant post-storm sunlight. Come to think of it, the parlor’s shades had been pulled, as well. That was one of the phenomena he’d subconsciously noticed, and filed away to be contemplated later.
She was sitting at the table, with a cup standing alone upon the cloth. So still, so silent, her form might have been drained of all living material and embalmed, like a mummy, stoic and upright.
A ripple of something like apprehension raised the hair on his arms as Ben approached.
“Too darned gloomy in here to see. I’ll just raise this shade a bit, and—”
“No!”
The protest came from a dry, cracked throat, with such force and terror that he was stopped, dead in his tracks. Carefully, as if he were dealing with some hydrophobic wild dog, he advanced close enough to take a seat beside her.
And then he gasped out an expletive.
“Camellia, what happened?”
Dimness obscured the worst of the damage. But even what he could see revealed the outcome of a shattering ordeal. A cheekbone reddened by the actual imprint of someone’s big brutal hand; a whole right side of the face, including temple and eye and jaw, blackened and bruised; a throat marked by nasty purplish fingerprints.
And more. At almost suppertime, she was still swaddled in her pretty beflowered wrapper; her hair, falling loose around both shoulders, had not been combed, and her poor swollen, tearstained face had not been washed.
Swallowing hard and creakily, Ben reached for the hand lying limply in her lap.
“Camellia—darlin’—can you tell me what has happened to you?”
It was the sweet, unaccustomed endearment that seemed to release her from the shell of ice in which she had been encased.
“Ben,” she whispered. Tears of blue crystal filled her eyes and slowly overflowed.
It cut him to the quick.
“Yes, Cam. I’m here. I ain’t leavin’ again. Talk to me, Cam.”
It took a few minutes, and a little more gentle urging, before she was persuaded to slowly, haltingly describe her horrifying encounter with the Putnam brothers yesterday afternoon. His heart swelled, first with overwhelming compassion, and then with pure blood lust. With the telling, he could almost feel the fibers of cord that held everything together inside him beginning to loosen, and snap.
But she was frightened enough already. She, his wife, had been frightened, and menaced, by those two monsters. He dared not make it worse.
“He—hit you—?” From blood lust to cold hard rage, he barely got the words out.
A feeble nod was her only response.
“And you’ve been hidin’ inside the house ever since?”
Her lips trembled. “Uh-huh.”
“Okay.” Ben wrapped both his big warm hands around hers, so frozen to the touch. “I have to leave you for a bit just now.”
Camellia’s eyes widened tragically. “No. Please, don’t go. You said you wouldn’t, and I—”
“I have to, Cam. I need to fetch Dr. Havers, have him look you over and see what I can do to help you. The place is dark, the doors will be locked. And I’ll be back in just a few minutes. You’ve been mighty brave already, darlin’. Can you be brave just a little while longer?”
“I’ll—t-t-try...”
“Good girl. All right, then.”
Gabriel Havers was, fortunately, ensconced in the office, leaning back in his wooden swivel chair with both feet propped on the desk top and a book spread open across his belly. He was asleep, filling the space with a round of hearty snores. Business must be slow. Dead slow.
“Stir your lazy stumps, Gabe,” was Ben’s admonition as he swung open the door to stride across the waiting room. “Got a patient for you to see, right now.”
The doctor came instantly to life. Must be due to the training at understaffed, overfilled hospital corridors, that he would nap whenever a chance came along. “Done. Let me get my bag.”
Hastily Ben explained the reason for his visit as they rushed along. By the time they reached the Forrester front porch, Gabriel had all the pertinent facts in hand. He asked no questions. Not yet. Once inside, he even sternly clamped down on his shock and consternation at Camellia’s appearance. For now, his whole medical experience was attuned to the kindness and compassion that always came into play during any examination.
“Doesn’t look like any permanent damage,” was Gabe’s conclusion, when he had finally finished and his patient could relax somewhat upon the settee. “I think the bruises will gradually fade away, and your pretty face won’t have any permanent scarring from the injury. But everything hurts you right now, doesn’t it, Cam?”
She felt safe enough, in the presence of these two, strong husky males, to admit that, yes, everything did hurt.
“And you took care of yourself, right after—this happened?”
“Hot tea. A lot of hot tea, and a lot of sugar. And cold compresses, for my face.” She winced.
“You did the right thing, Camellia.”
Her blurry gaze sought out Ben, who had been perched on the very edge of his chair, warily watching while the doctor did what needed to be done. “I—I did give you—the message—?”
“Yes, Cam. You did.”
“The Putnams?” asked Gabriel, with interest that was more than casual.
“Yeah. Ever since they found some bit of rock that they swore was copper ore, off in the foothills beyond town, they been houndin’ me to open up the area for minin’ and smelters.”
“Nothin’ that you’re interested in doin’, I reckon.”
Ben snorted. “Not me, nor anyone else. The rock was assayed. There ain’t nothin’ to it. And even if there was, a mine is an ugly, dirty, smelly thing. Nobody wants to deal with it. But the Putnams are determined to try, regardless. Last time they pushed the idea again was at our weddin’. I told ’em no, for the umpteenth time, and they’d oughta not bother me in the future.”
“But that wasn’t the last of it,” Gabriel shrewdly guessed.
“No. The brothers said this town needed a new mayor, someone more in keepin’ with progress for the future, and they’d haveta do their best to see that happened.” Another snort, and a fidgety shift of position. “Empty threats. Or so I thought.”
“That’s why they—they attacked me—?” Camellia’s voice sounded as tremulous as her insides must be feeling.
“That’s why.” No smile could lighten Ben’s face, or his mood, even as encouragement for a woman who desperately needed it. His brain was already working overtime, absorbing facts and calculating repercussions. “And more fool me, for not givin’ you fair warnin’ of the risk roundabouts. I’m so sorry, Camellia. I’m so consarned sorry! But I didn’t think—I never thought they might—” His big tough hands were grinding together, in futile agony, and abruptly he let out a string of pithy, heartfelt oaths that echoed across the room.
“Ben,” she said quietly. “It’s true I was—I was utterly petrified. But you’re here.” Her beautiful blue bruised eyes closed for just a moment, in gratitude and prayer. “You’re here now.”
“All right, enough of this,” Gabriel broke in. “Camellia, my dear, I’m gonna give you a good dose of laudanum, and I’ll leave a small bottle here that you can take if things get too bad for you to put up with.” He surveyed her, shaking his head. “I must say, I’m mighty upset that you were alone in the house all this time, scared and hurtin’. Had I but known—”