Oh, she’d been right about this man. He was nothing like Uncle Matt. Nothing like the other Coltons she remembered from her childhood.
When he returned—much too soon for her peace of mind; she’d hoped he’d fallen off the train—she refused to look at him. Then something soft and cool pressed against her upper back.
“Lean forward a bit,” he said.
A pillow. He was stuffing a pillow behind her back and another between her shoulder and the wall of the train. Pillows softer and fluffier than any she’d ever known.
With surprising gentleness, he pressed her backward against the downy softness. The sigh of relief that escaped her lips sounded like weakness to her ears and sent a flush of shame to sting her cheeks. As near as she could recall, she had not once, since she’d met this man, given the appearance of a strong, competent woman.
Maybe tomorrow, she thought as her eyes drifted closed. Maybe tomorrow he would see her as a capable adult, rather than a helpless, feeble, beaten child.
Maybe tomorrow.
Spence watched her breathing turn deep and even as she fell into an exhausted sleep. The frown lines along her brow did not ease, nor did the tightness around her mouth. A tightness he should have seen hours ago.
He called himself every kind of bastard. Regardless of the fire that sometimes flashed in her eyes, she was still a child. A child who had somehow been injured, and who hadn’t had a real meal in days. Then the clever doctor breezed into her life, told her her father was dying, took her from the only home she’d know for nearly half her life, dragged her through a tension-filled wedding ceremony, then stuffed her onto a buggy seat and rattled her over rutted roads for four long hours before putting her on the train. He hadn’t considered her comfort for a minute. He’d arranged for neither water nor food all day. Hell, he’d taken better care of the rented nag that pulled the buggy than he had of Chee’s daughter.
Spencer, old man, you’re a real prize. A prize jackass.
If his mother ever learned what he’d done—Correction. When she learned. Daniella Colton invariably learned everything that needed knowing. She was going to skin him alive for his treatment of Chee’s daughter.
Chapter Three
The private compartment in the Pullman Sleeping Car was like nothing LaRisa had ever seen. The coach car had been lovely. Much nicer than she had expected. But this…this was…too much.
Maybe the breakfast she’d eaten had left her more sluggish than she’d realized, because the small compartment in which she now stood didn’t seem quite real.
When they’d stepped off the train from Harrisburg and learned their next train wouldn’t leave Philadelphia for over half an hour, the doctor had taken her to a café near the depot. He had ordered for her, probably because he thought she was too young, too stupid, or too stubborn to order her own meal. The plate the waitress had set before her a few moments later had held so much food, LaRisa had at first simply stared at it. Three huge eggs and the biggest, thickest, juiciest slice of ham she’d ever seen had stared back at her. Several long seconds had passed before she’d even noticed the biscuits and gravy.
Then the smell had finally registered. It came, and her resistance fled. She’d picked up her fork and tried her best to remember her table manners.
LaRisa had intended to eat every bite of food on her plate, but her stomach had other ideas. Too many days of nothing more than bread and water had left her with a diminished capacity with which to hold her food. One egg, barely more than a quarter of that beautiful ham, and a single bite of warm golden biscuit had filled her to near bursting. It had nearly killed her to leave the rest of the food there. The waste was surely a crime.
She was so full now that all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball to protect her over-filled stomach and sleep for a week. But she couldn’t stop staring at her surroundings.
She stood between the plush seats that faced each other and stared at the ornately carved woodwork in awe. The tiny room was even fancier than Old Prune Face’s front parlor.
Two thickly padded bench seats covered in plush red velvet faced each other across a three-foot stretch of floor cushioned with a glowing oriental carpet of blue and gold. A cabinet, which she suspected folded down into a bed, was built into the wall above the rear-facing seat. Two gas lamps with etched, rose-colored globes, were attached to opposite walls.
Fringed shades, ready to be pulled down for privacy, hung in tight rolls above the window in the outside wall before her and the window in the door at her back.
Another door, this one smaller than the one that opened into the aisle, led to a minuscule lavatory on her left.
But it was the ornate woodwork, particularly around the windows, that kept drawing her gaze. “Is this what a bordello looks like?”
She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until her white-man-doctor-husband burst out laughing. The sound of it brought her gaze to him, and the fancy compartment flew from her mind. Something happened to his face when he laughed. A number of things, actually. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his cheeks lifted, his mouth curved enticingly, urging her to join in the laughter. But it was his eyes that held her attention. The bright blue depths sparkled with good humor. There was a warm gaiety there she’d never expected to see. The desire to laugh with him, to say something else to keep him this happy, was strong.
“I’ll bet,” he said between chuckles, “you didn’t learn a word like that at school.”
Not offended that he was laughing more at her than anything—how could she be offended by a laugh so wonderful?—LaRisa pursed her lips. “I know a lot of words I didn’t learn in school.”
His laughter trailed away, but the smile stayed, both on his lips and in his eyes. “Do you know the word yes?”
He was up to something, but she had no idea what. “Of course I know the word yes.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Say it just like that one more time.”
Suspicious, but still caught in the spell of his laughter that echoed in her mind, she said, “Yes.”
With eyes twinkling, he gave her another nod. “Good. Now, when I say, ‘I’d like to examine your back now,’ you say ‘yes,’ like you just did.”
The game lost its humor for LaRisa. “No.”
The glint in his eyes turned hard. “Why?”
Well, that was an improvement. At least he was asking for an explanation instead of issuing another order. “Because there’s no point in it. I’m fine. Really.”
“Since I’m the doctor, I think I’ll be the judge of that.”
LaRisa sat down and tried to appear relaxed and confident. “I told you, there’s no need to trouble yourself.”
“In case you’re not aware of it, there are damp spots on the back of your blouse which I strongly suspect are blood. Now, we can do this easy, or we can do it hard. Either way, I’m going to examine your back. I don’t want to have to hold you down and take that blouse off you myself, because I’d probably cause you more pain than is necessary. But one of us is going to take your blouse off, along with whatever else needs to come off so I can treat those wounds. It’s up to you.”
Up to her? she thought with the return of her fury. It wasn’t up to her, because the choice he gave her was no choice at all. When it came down to it, not much in her entire life had ever been up to her, and she was damn sick and tired of it. Unfortunately, she didn’t see how she could remedy the situation just then. The look in his eyes told her in no uncertain terms that if she didn’t reach for the buttons on her blouse in the next few seconds, he would. The humiliation of having him undress her would be more than she was willing to bear.
She reached for the buttons on her blouse. To her eternal shame, her hands shook. And he noticed, damn him.
“Wait.” His hand on hers stopped her progress on the buttons. “You didn’t get much sleep last night, and I got even less. There’s no point in you having to get dressed again after I examine you, just so we can have the porter come in and make up the beds. I’ll g
o find him and have him do it now.”
Puzzled, LaRisa watched him leave. Why would he concern himself with how many times she had to dress and undress? Surely it was his own comfort and convenience he was worried about, for he had yet to consider hers.
He brought you pillows.
Yes, he brought her pillows last night. And he fed her this morning. It must be the doctor in him, looking after someone he now considered a patient—at least he would, when he got a look at her back.
She couldn’t let him see her back. He was a doctor. One look, and he would know.
Panic threatened to unnerve her. Frantically she tried to think of an excuse to put him off, but in less than a moment he was back with a porter on his heels. In what seemed like mere seconds, the upper and lower berths were covered in fresh linens, the pillows fluffed, the shades drawn to shield the compartment from view of those outside on the platform, and one lamp lit.
Then they were alone, she and the man taking her to her father. She and the doctor. Sealed together in a small, intimate room, the white-gold light from the gas lamp gilding the angles and planes of his face as he turned toward her.
“Now. I believe you were about to undress.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” She wanted—desperately—to step back, but forced herself to stand her ground. “You were right, I didn’t get much sleep. I think I’ll take that nap you mentioned.”
He crossed his arms, a speculative glint in his eyes. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I could almost believe you’re afraid of me.”
“Believe what you want.”
“Come on.” He reached for the top button on her blouse. She batted his hands away, but he brought them back. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve done this sort of thing dozens of times.”
“How nice for you.” She reached to remove his hands from her blouse, only to realize the buttons were undone and the fabric gaped open to her waist. “You dare!” She tugged the two sides of the blouse together and turned her back on him. “If you touch me again, I swear I’ll scream.”
“No you won’t. You’d be too embarrassed by all the attention you’d draw.”
LaRisa felt the blouse slip from her fingers as he pulled it off from behind her. He stripped the blouse away as easily as he had stripped away her pride earlier by forcing her to admit she’d been starved. Dear God, what more could he take from her? What more?
“Is that why you don’t want me to examine you? You’re embarrassed?”
“I’m not embarrassed,” she said tightly, trying not to let her voice break.
Spence scarcely heard her answer. The marks across her shoulders, visible above the back of her chemise, sent angry blood buzzing in his ears. Over the years he had, of sheer necessity to keep from tearing himself apart, managed to develop what he considered a pretty thick skin. Not thick enough, obviously, or he wouldn’t have decided to leave Mount Vernon and go home to the ranch. But dealing with non-life-threatening diseases or injuries didn’t usually get to him. It was the dying that had sent him running.
Yet he still had sympathy for the pain and misery of the sick and injured, even though he had refused to let it get to him. To that end, his emotions were kept on such tight rein that many people thought he had no feelings, that while he might care about his patients, it was an impersonal caring.
But this—what he saw now got to him in a way that made him forget his objectivity. The curse that left his lips was low and vicious. He slid the straps of the undergarment off LaRisa’s shoulders and carefully peeled the thin, worn fabric down her back. Between clenched teeth he demanded, “Who did this?”
She’d been whipped. Seriously beaten. What should have been silky smooth, coppery skin with the healthy tone of youth was instead covered in contusions and abrasions, some still oozing blood and fluid.
“I…fell.”
“Damn good trick, falling backward against a man’s belt buckle like that. What was it, at least a dozen times? What else did you fall against, a stick? A board?” The marks disappeared beneath the waistband of her skirt. “How far down do they go?” he demanded.
“No!” With the chemise hugged to her chest she whirled on him. “You’re not taking off any more of my clothes, damn you! Just leave me alone!”
“LaRisa.” Dismayed, he reached for her. “It’s all right. I’m a doctor.” Again, only a small lie. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve seen worse, believe me.”
“I don’t care what you’ve seen,” she cried. “I’m ashamed. Can’t you understand that?”
“No, I can’t, unless you managed to do this to yourself.”
“They beat me! They beat me like a dog and it shames me!”
It was all there in her eyes, the pain, the humiliation, and underneath, a deep, burning rage all but smothered by self-disgust. Had they done more than beat her? Had she been raped? Spence grasped her by the arms—gently, for there were bruises there, too—and felt her trembling. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s their shame, not yours, do you hear me? Come and lie down and let me take care of you.”
She shook her head mutely and tried to pull back from his hold, her eyes wide, wary, puzzled.
“Come on,” he urged softly. “You’re safe now.”
She stared at him, indecision etched on her face.
“Let me help, LaRisa.”
For a long moment, she made no move. Then slowly, warily, her black eyes never leaving his, she edged down onto the bed. Spence opened his medical bag and took out the things he needed. When she finally rolled to her stomach he sat next to her and went to work. “This is going to sting.”
“Just shut up and do it.”
He smiled. He’d rather have her snapping at him any day than see that look he’d just seen in her eyes. “So tell me,” he said to distract her while he cleaned the worst of the wounds. “Where did you learn words like contusions and abrasions? That’s not part of your regular school work, is it?”
When he dabbed at a particularly deep cut left by the metal tongue of a belt buckle, she flinched. Spence flexed his jaw. He’d like to get his hands on the bastard who did this.
“I told you, I’m nineteen. I don’t go to school anymore.”
Nineteen. He’d been trying to think of her as a child, but presented with her shapely back, a waist much narrower than her clothes had hinted at, and the sides of her full breasts so near his fingers, he was forced to admit that naïve or not, this was no little girl, but a woman. His fingers threatened to fumble in the act of something that usually came second nature to him, the act of cleaning a wound.
“No?” he said. “Then what are you doing still at Carlisle? Why haven’t you gone to live with your father?”
“Are all doctors this nosy?”
“The way you bandy about words like contusions and abrasions, I figure maybe you’ve been around enough doctors to know the answer to that.”
“I’ve been around a few.”
“Meaning?”
Her sigh sounded impatient. “Since I finished school three years ago I’ve been working in the infirmary.”
“No kidding? Are you a nurse?”
“Not so that anyone but Mary would admit it. I mean, my only training has been there in the infirmary.”
“Mary?”
“The nurse who trained me.”
So, Spence thought, there was more to LaRisa Chee than he’d first realized. He studied her back, what he could see of it through the cuts and bruises. “What’s this?” He brushed a finger across an old scar at her shoulder, a small curved line about an inch long.
LaRisa felt his gentle touch and fought back a shiver. “Another gift from a white man.”
The bitterness in her voice didn’t surprise him. “Looks old.”
“I was five. Soldiers came. I was in the way.” She hissed at a particularly deep cut.
“Sorry. Five, huh? Were you at San Carlos then?”
“Cibecue Creek,” she said bitterly.
“Have you ever heard of it?”
“Oh, yeah.” Who hadn’t? That was where troopers had ridden down on an old shaman and killed him. He’d been practicing the ghost dance, supposedly to raise all the dead warriors to kill the white men. The Army hadn’t been worried so much about that as that the old man had been able to bring together former enemies, different Apache tribes who had always fought each other, and to unite them against the whites.
“I remember,” he told her. He would never forget that summer. That was when Serena had been kidnapped. Spence was the one who found her buggy hidden in the brush. The incident at Cibecue Creek had happened shortly after Matt had rescued her. “What happened? Did you fall on the rocks?”
“I got kicked with a spur.”
Spence took a slow, deep breath. “Geronimo led a breakout the next day, didn’t he?”
“Yes. My father and I went with him.”
“So you haven’t always lived under the white man’s thumb?”
“No,” she said quietly. “Sometimes we sought freedom and lived under his gun instead.”
Spence had no answer for that. No answer for anything anymore. “Are you going to tell me who did this to you?”
The muscles beneath his hands tensed. “No.”
Deciding to let it go for now, he worked his way down her back and unfastened her skirt. She protested, but he shushed her. “Just take it easy.”
She tried, but it was useless. She could not relax while a man loosened her skirt, her one petticoat, then her drawers. He inched them down her hips, baring half of her backside, leaving her more exposed than she’d ever been in her life. She didn’t want his voice, as he talked quietly about nothing, to calm her, but it did. She didn’t want his touch to soothe, to ease, but it did. She didn’t want to wonder what it would feel like to have him touch her in other ways, ways that had more to do with a man and woman than a doctor and patient.
“Do I need to go farther?” he asked as he smoothed salve over a small cut on her right rear cheek.
“No.” She shook her head, grateful that he’d interrupted her thoughts. “They end there.”
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