“I can’t do that,” Rachel said, aghast.
“You can. And you will.”
Delia escorted her sister across the hall and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry, Rachel,” she murmured. “I’m so very sorry.”
“For what, Delia?”
“I should have found a way to stop Daddy earlier. Before—” Delia’s face scrunched up as she fought tears. She pounded her fist against the doorjamb. “If only I had gone to Mama sooner!”
“Stop, Delia. Please, don’t blame yourself.” Rachel’s lips quirked in a wobbly smile as she laid a comforting hand on Delia’s shoulder. “It wasn’t our fault. Remember?”
Delia felt her lips wobble in an answering smile. “Right.”
Delia made sure Rachel locked the door behind her, then sought out her mother. Hattie usually spent time early in the morning in her office downstairs, which had served as a sewing room for past generations of Circle Crown ladies. Ray John had already left for the Kincaid Hotel to have coffee and hear the morning stock reports. She and her mother had perhaps an hour alone before he could be expected to return.
It had been easy for Delia to say she would confront her mother with the truth. The reality of it was somewhat daunting. She stood for several moments in the open doorway, watching her mother sign checks to pay the expenses of running the ranch.
“Mama?”
Her mother glanced over her shoulder. “What is it, Delia? I’m very busy.”
Delia took a deep breath and stepped into the room. “Mama, there’s something I have to tell you.”
Marsh had been wrestling with his feelings ever since he had been forced to acknowledge the true relationship between Delia and her father. He could think of no other explanation for what he had heard her father say. It made him sick to think of what might be going on between them right now. He hadn’t seen Delia for three whole weeks.
Marsh yanked on the strand of barbed wire and tacked it tight to the mesquite post. He wasn’t taking any chances on North cows straying onto Carson land again. Ray John had promised a personal visit next time. Marsh wasn’t sure what he would do if he met Ray John face-to-face. If he had been carrying a gun with him three weeks ago, the man would already be dead.
Barring murder, Marsh’s first instinct had been to go straight to Sheriff Davis. But that would have meant exposing Delia’s dreadful secret to the whole world. And he had no proof of anything.
He felt confused. Angry at Delia and sorry for her at the same time. Appalled. Revolted. Disgusted. He had heard such things happened, but not in the town where he lived, not to someone he knew. He wondered how far it had gone. He wondered if Delia had done it with her father.
And hated himself for what he was thinking.
Of course she hadn’t. She wouldn’t even do it with him.
But maybe that was why she wouldn’t do it with him. Because then he would know she wasn’t a virgin. He imagined her with her father. And felt the bile rise in his throat.
He pulled off his gloves and tucked them in his back pocket, then dropped his Stetson on the fence post and tunneled all ten fingers through his sweat-damp hair, leaving it standing on end.
He turned to look across the fence. He should just go knock on her back door and ask to speak with her.
What would he say? What could he say?
I understand. He didn’t.
I was shocked by what I heard. She had to know that already.
What the hell is going on between you and your father? He didn’t really want to know. He was afraid he already did.
He shoved his hair flat with his fingers, slapped his hat back on, and tugged it down to shade his eyes from the midday sun. He put the tools he had been using back in his saddlebags, mounted his horse, and headed for the live oak where he had spent so many hours with Delia.
She wouldn’t be there. She hadn’t come in three weeks of waiting. But he couldn’t keep himself from going.
Today she might come.
One thing had become clear to him amid all the confusion. He still loved her. He still needed her. He still wanted her. More than that, he wanted to rescue her. Except he had no idea how to do it.
For the first time in a long time he wished he was on better terms with his father. He wished he could talk to him, get his advice, maybe even his help. But Cyrus was drunk most of the time. Marsh wouldn’t trust his father to keep what he knew to himself, let alone offer any useful suggestions.
Marsh thought how much worse it must be for Delia. The person responsible for keeping her safe from harm was the very person assaulting her. He wondered if her mother knew. Surely not. No woman could possibly condone such behavior by her husband. Why didn’t Delia tell her mother, so she could put a stop to it?
Marsh was formulating answers to that question in his head when he realized Delia’s palomino stood grazing under the live oak. His eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of her and finally located her lying curled up in the grass.
He spurred his horse to a gallop and raced the rest of the way to the fence. He leaped off the animal and edged his way between the strands of barbed wire rather than fussing with the gate. He jerked his shirt free when it caught on a barb, not caring that it ripped, not even feeling the bloody gouge the barb tore in his flesh.
All he saw was Delia, lying on the ground as though she were dead. He ran the short distance from the fence to the tree, and dropped to his knees beside her, completely out of breath.
“Delia!”
As he rolled her over, she opened her eyes. They were red-rimmed and brimming with fresh tears. She wiped her runny nose on her sleeve as she sat up.
“Marsh?”
He saw the uncertainty in her eyes. “Come here,” he said.
She launched herself into his arms, sobbing incoherently. He could understand very little of what she said, but one word stuck out.
Arrested.
“Your mother’s having your father arrested?” he asked. “It’s what she should do, Delia. There’s no reason to cry anymore. It’s all over now.”
“Not Daddy!” she cried. “You! She’s having you arrested.”
“What?”
“For rape.”
“What?”
He rose abruptly, pulling free of her grasp, and stood staring down at her with his mouth gaping. “You told your mother I raped you?”
She scrambled to her feet. “No, no. You don’t understand.”
“I sure as hell don’t!” She laid a hand on his arm, and he jerked himself loose. “If somebody’s been fucking you, Delia, it hasn’t been me!”
She stared at him, her eyes wide and wounded. “I told her the truth. I told her Daddy got me pregnant. She wouldn’t believe me.”
“Pregnant? You’re pregnant?” He realized he was shouting.
She started crying again and slumped to the ground in a heap. “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”
His mind was too busy whirling with his own problems to handle hers.
Sheriff Davis was going to arrest him for raping Delia. No one would believe he wasn’t guilty.
He looked down at Delia, at the pitiful picture she made, and was struck by two other horrible truths.
The woman he loved was pregnant. Her father was the father of her child.
He dropped back onto his knees beside Delia and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her flesh was tensed as hard, and felt as cold, as marble.
“I want to die,” she choked out. “I want to die.”
He lifted her into his lap and pressed her face against his chest. “It isn’t your fault,” he muttered.
“How do you know?” she challenged. “Maybe I liked it. Maybe I wanted him to do those things to me.”
“Is that what your mother said?” Marsh asked.
She grasped handfuls of his shirt and sobbed against it. “Yes. Oh, God, yes. She said I must have tempted him. She called me terrible names. She said . . .”
She was crying so hard she could
barely catch her breath. He made soothing sounds and held her tight against him. He had never felt so helpless in his life. There was nothing he could do to save either of them.
Except hold her. And tell her he still loved her.
Only, when he tried to get the words out, they stuck in his throat.
“I’m sorry, Marsh. I’m so sorry,” she moaned.
He couldn’t offer solace. There was none to give.
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Delia.”
“I let him . . . I let him . . .”
“Shhh,” he said. He felt a tickle in his throat, an unfamiliar feeling of tightness. He squeezed his eyes shut, very much afraid he was going to cry. It had been so long, the feelings were foreign.
He fought the tears, battled the ache in his throat, and lost. He tightened his arms around Delia, so she couldn’t look up and catch him crying like some dumb kid.
Something else rose to replace the pity he felt. A deep hatred for the man who had done this to Delia. Someone ought to rid the world of Ray John Carson.
He didn’t know how long he sat there holding her, but when he looked down, she had fallen asleep in his arms. He brushed away several strands of hair stuck to her damp cheek. His heart welled with feeling for her.
What was going to happen to them?
By now Sheriff Davis would have come to his house looking for him. His father would have told the sheriff he had gone to mend fence. He wondered if the sheriff would come after him, or whether he would wait at the house for his return. Likely the latter, since they wouldn’t know Delia had come to warn him. Well, he wasn’t going home anytime soon. He had a few things to do before he let himself get put in jail.
“Delia.” His throat hurt, and his voice grated like a rusty gate. “Wake up.”
Her eyes opened slowly, and he saw the panic before she realized who was holding her close.
“You have to go home now.”
She clutched his shirt, and he saw the desperation mount in her eyes. “I can’t go back there, Marsh. Can’t I stay with you?”
He shook his head.
When she ripped herself from his embrace it felt as though his skin were coming off along with her. “I thought you cared. I thought I could count on you. It was all lies, wasn’t it? You’re no better than Ray John!”
“Wait one damn minute before you start comparing me to your father,” he roared, coming to his feet after her.
“You’re both liars,” she accused.
“I’m not the one who was having a love affair with my father on the sly,” he snapped back.
She looked as though he had slapped her. He might as well have. He couldn’t have hurt her worse if he had physically hit her. “I’m sorry, Delia. I don’t know what came over me. I—”
She turned and ran, grabbing the reins and throwing herself into the saddle before he realized what she was going to do. Her horse whinnied with fright and shied as she kicked it in the direction of the barbed wire fence.
“Where the hell are you going?” he yelled.
It looked like she intended to jump the fence. It was dangerous and foolhardy, and she was going to get herself killed. Then he remembered what she had said.
I want to die.
“Delia!” he shouted. “Don’t!”
She ignored him, aiming her mount at the barbed wire fence and slapping its rump viciously with the reins. But there wasn’t room for the animal to get up enough momentum to clear the fence, and at the last possible instant the gelding sat back on its haunches.
Delia was poised high over its neck, ready for the jump, and she went flying. Her scream of terror was cut off abruptly as her body slammed against the trunk of a mesquite on the other side of the fence.
Marsh was already running when he heard her hit the ground. He set his hands on the top strand of barbed wire and vaulted it, sprinting toward her as he landed on the other side.
A stream of blood trailed from her nose. Her eyes were closed, and her skin was bleached white.
“Delia!” he cried, dropping beside her. “Damn you! Don’t you dare die on me!” He felt her throat and found a thready pulse.
He was afraid her back was broken. Or her neck.
He was afraid to move her, afraid he might hurt her worse than she already was.
“Don’t die,” he begged. “I’ll be back with help. Just don’t die.”
He ran to where he had left his horse grazing and leaped into the saddle and spurred the animal toward home. Sheriff Davis would be there. He could call for help.
He saw the white county sheriff’s car parked in back of his house and started yelling long before he reached the door. The sheriff opened the door to the mud porch and looked out. Marsh saw his father standing behind the man.
Marsh came out of the saddle on the run. “It’s Delia!” he cried. “She’s been hurt. Call an ambulance.”
He tried brushing past the sheriff to get to the phone inside the house, but the burly man caught hold of his arm and wouldn’t let him by.
“Hold on there, boy. You’re under arrest.”
“Forget about that right now. I’m telling you Delia’s hurt! She needs an ambulance!”
He tried pulling free again, but this time the sheriff whirled him around and shoved him flat against the outside of the house, dragging his arm behind him and clamping a metal cuff around it.
“No! Let me go!”
“Resistin’ arrest ain’t too smart a move, boy,” Sheriff Davis said, as he captured Marsh’s other hand in the other half of the cuff.
Marsh was desperate. “Listen to me! Dad, please, make him listen to me!”
He met his father’s eyes and saw him look away.
Tears of frustration formed in his eyes. “Please, Sheriff Davis. Delia fell off her horse. She’s out by the big live oak near the Carsons’ north pasture gate, unconscious. She needs help.”
What he was saying seemed to register. “Why the hell didn’t you say so, boy?”
Marsh stood there helplessly cuffed while Sheriff Davis went to his patrol car and radioed for help.
“You shouldn’t have done it,” his father said.
“I didn’t hurt her. She fell off her horse,” Marsh replied.
“The other thing, I meant.”
Marsh shook his head. There was no sense denying it. His father was already convinced he was guilty. His only hope was that Delia would tell the truth. Surely she wouldn’t let him be convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed. Only, how could she do that without naming the father of her child? And he knew there was no way she was going to point a finger at her father. Marsh felt a chill run down his spine.
“Paramedics are on the way,” Sheriff Davis said. “Oughtta be here any minute.”
It took twelve agonizing minutes, and Marsh worried every second of the time whether Delia would regain consciousness and think he had deserted her.
“You’ll have to come along to show us where to go,” the Fire Rescue driver told Marsh.
The ride across the rutted pasture in the front seat of the ambulance was rough. His hands were still cuffed behind him, so he was bounced mercilessly against the door. “There,” he said at last, pointing with his chin. “At the base of that mesquite.”
“I see her!” The driver bolted from the vehicle and raced toward the prone figure on the ground, forgetting about Marsh, who twisted himself around to reach the door handle and then followed after him and another paramedic who had been riding in back. The sheriff got out of his car and quickly caught up to them.
When they reached Delia, Marsh saw her jeans were drenched with blood.
The driver turned and demanded, “What the hell did you do to her?”
His face turned ashen. “The baby,” Marsh whispered. “She’s losing the baby.”
The sheriff grabbed his arm. “You got the Carson girl pregnant? Boy, days gone by you’d be garglin’ rope by now.”
“Marsh,�
�� Delia rasped.
“Delia!”
The sheriff grabbed his arm. “Stay away from her, boy. She doesn’t want to see you at a time like this.”
“Marsh.”
“She’s calling me. You have to let me talk to her,” Marsh pleaded.
Delia’s eyes opened, and Marsh saw they were filled with pain.
“You want to speak to this boy?” the sheriff asked her.
“Yes.”
The sheriff let Marsh go, and he bent down on one knee beside Delia while the paramedic slipped an IV into her arm.
“I didn’t want to leave you, but I had to go for help,” he said.
“The baby.”
He shook his head.
She closed her eyes, and tears seeped from them. He wondered if she was mourning. Or if they were tears of relief.
“You don’t have to worry about this boy botherin’ you anymore,” Sheriff Davis said. “He’ll be makin’ license plates in Huntsville for a long, long time.”
“I didn’t rape her,” Marsh said. “Tell them, Delia.”
“Speak up, girl,” the sheriff said.
“Marsh . . .”
He watched her swallow convulsively, saw the look of pleading in her eyes. He knew what she wanted him to do. Even why she wanted him to do it. The thing was, he loved her enough to take the blame. It was a small enough sacrifice. Another blot on his already-spotted reputation to save her from having to reveal the truth.
He fought back the feeling of panic at the thought of being put behind bars. He knew what it felt like to be locked in at night, to lose your freedom for days and weeks and months on end.
But surely it wouldn’t come to that. It was enough for him to be accused. That would divert the attention of those looking to discover the baby’s father long enough to keep Delia’s awful secret. She would never testify against him in court, and without her testimony that he’d had sex with her, he couldn’t be convicted of anything.
“All right, Delia,” he whispered close to her ear. “I’ll make them think the baby’s mine.”
“No! Don’t!” she cried.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” the sheriff said, grabbing Marsh and pulling him away from Delia. “You’ve done enough to that poor girl. Leave her alone.”
The sheriff pulled him roughly toward his patrol car. “You’d better say your prayers, boy. This town’s gonna hang you sure.”
I Promise Page 9