The mater took no notice. She said brightly, “It’s Bronwyn Morgan, dear! The girl you told me about, the one who—well, you know, don’t you! She’s come to see you.”
Preston pushed away from the wall, and walked with deliberate steps toward the door. “Bronwyn,” he said. “Time has been much kinder to you than to me.”
The girl’s pupils flared in those lovely eyes, nearly swallowing the irises. She pulled back her foot, then her hand, as if she were shrinking into herself. Mrs. Dunlap stepped up behind her, hands out in support, a look of fury on her face.
Nice woman, Mrs. Dunlap. Nice, but stupid. She should have known Mother wouldn’t warn the poor girl. Mother didn’t see his scars. She managed, in some magical way, to see her golden boy the way he had been, instead of perceiving the ruin he had become. It was perfectly understandable if Mother believed little Bronwyn Morgan would do the same. The Dunlaps should have known.
Bronwyn managed to close her mouth, at least. Her nostrils flared as she drew a long, noisy breath, and then another. Beads of perspiration appeared on her temples, and Mrs. Dunlap put a steadying arm around her waist.
Preston grinned, knowing how horrible the expression looked on his scarred lips. He said, “Pretty, ain’t I? So sorry to surprise you.”
The girl swallowed, and drew herself up with obvious effort. Mrs. Dunlap released her, but stayed close. Probably thought the poor kid was going to faint. “I knew there was a fire,” Bronwyn said in a frail voice. “I didn’t know you were so—so badly burned.”
“No. Bit of a surprise, isn’t it? I do think someone might have warned you.”
She lifted her little pointed chin in a gesture that was oddly courageous. “Yes,” she said. “That would have been good. But your mother thought we—that we should—” Her words trailed off into silence, and her face bore the look he had come to dread and hate. He would rather have seen her swoon, right there in the corridor, than have to see her look like that.
“Mother thought we should,” he snapped in his roughest tone, “and now you pity me. Not what you expected, was it?”
“No.” Her voice steadied, and the color returned to her cheeks. She stood as tall as she could, and didn’t look away, though she must have wished she could. Gutsy little thing, really. She said, “Of course I pity you, Preston.”
“Don’t.”
“Those are terrible scars. You would pity me, if I had suffered such injuries.”
He laughed with a grating sound that made her flinch. “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.” He swayed toward her, without his volition. His hands were clenched, the scarred flesh aching as his fingers pulled on it. “Explain to her, Dunlap. Mother, you tell her, for God’s sake. Tell her the way I am. Make her understand.”
“Understand what, dear? I don’t know what you—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted, directly into Bronwyn’s face. “Can’t you see it for yourself?”
Old Dunlap took a step toward him, saying in a warning tone, “Mr. Benedict—”
It happened fast, faster than he would have expected, so fast he had no control over it.
The old anger rose in his belly, burned in his lungs until he couldn’t breathe, blurred his thoughts. It was familiar to him, that anger, blazing up like a bonfire, flames and smoke and heat, all demanding an outlet. He had tried, all his life, to manage it in his mother’s presence, but there was nothing he hated more than that look of sympathy, that look of empty, meaningless sorrow for him. The great Margot wore that look all too often. He loathed seeing it on this girl’s face, this girl who had loved him, who thought he was a hero, her shining knight.
He couldn’t bear it. It made him shudder with fury.
“Listen to me, you little fool!” He staggered forward, a single step, wary of Dunlap’s interference. He had to get that look off her face or he would explode. “I wouldn’t pity you! I wouldn’t give a damn what happened to you! I didn’t give a damn, don’t you get that?”
“That can’t be true, Preston,” she said steadily. Her face still wore that sad expression—for him. Why should she be sad for him? It should be grief for herself. She was the one who had to carry the brat, after all. She was the one whose life path was altered, whose childish dreams were shattered. Why the hell should she feel sorry for him? What in damnation was the matter with her?
“Listen!” he cried. “You think I didn’t read your silly letter?”
Her smooth brow wrinkled. “My letter? You mean you received it? You read it? But you never answered me.”
“Why should I answer?” he snarled. “So you were pregnant!” Dunlap drew breath to protest, but Preston threw up a hand to silence him. “What did you expect me to do about it? You expected me to take on your brat?”
Mrs. Dunlap said, “Mr. Benedict—”
Bronwyn cried, “Naturally, I thought you would—when you knew, you would—”
“What?” he said, his voice rising, thinning. “What? You thought I would care?” He staggered forward, and was rewarded by seeing her fall back a step, into the corridor. “You thought,” he shrieked, “I would marry you? Christ, don’t parents teach their daughters anything?”
“Preston!” his mother cried. “Darling, there’s no need to be cruel! She couldn’t have known—”
But he couldn’t hear her anymore, nor could he see her. Rage blinded him, turned his vision scarlet, made his scarred flesh burn with agony, as if he had been plunged anew into the flames. He threw himself toward the door. He seized the girl, feeling the tender flesh of her arms give beneath his hard, burned hands, and he heard her cry out in pain. He shook her. He had to wipe that look of pity from her face. He had to force her to understand, to comprehend that he would never, never have had anything further to do with her, no matter—
Oscar burst into the room, a large, hairy tornado blocking his path, seizing him in thick, unsympathetic arms, tearing him away from Bronwyn. She fell back, and Preston gasped out a final curse.
He had lost all control. He hadn’t intended to harm her, only shake sense into her, but he wouldn’t bother explaining that. He regretted having such an outburst where his mother could see him, but it was done now. Like so many things, it couldn’t be changed. Couldn’t be reversed.
Oscar hauled him backward, away from Bronwyn, and well out of range of his mother’s reaching hands. A syringe appeared in Dunlap’s fist, and before Preston could draw another breath, the steel needle pierced his skin, sending the cold syrup of a sedative into the muscle of his arm.
His mother was weeping, of course. “Goddammit,” he muttered, as the drug began to quench the fire, to calm the tremors of his fury. “Goddammit, Mother. So sorry! I just—it’s all so—”
How many times had he persuaded her, with his heartfelt explanations, his clever justifications? How often had he heard her trying to explain to other people that he was just sensitive, that he felt things more deeply than anyone else?
How many excuses could there be?
He sagged against Oscar’s broad chest, the drug sapping all the strength from his muscles. His eyelids grew heavy, and the light in the room seemed to dim. He said again, “Goddammit,” but weakly.
Oscar lowered him to the bed, and he felt the humiliating pressure of straps being buckled around his arms, around his ankles. He heard, distantly, his mother’s sobs, her pleas to Oscar to be careful, not to hurt him.
He heard the patter of Bronwyn Morgan’s feet as she retreated down the corridor, and the heavier tread of Mrs. Dunlap going after her.
Dunlap was trying to persuade Edith out of the room, assuring her Oscar had everything in hand, that it would be all right, that they would give the patient a bit of time, let the sedative do its work. Preston, over the slowing thud of his heartbeat, heard all of that. He heard his mother’s cries escalate, heard her screeching his name from the corridor, heard her begging to be allowed back into the room, to talk to her son, to plead with him.
What he didn’t he
ar was his mother making excuses for him. He wondered if, at last, her supply was exhausted.
He turned his scarred face to the door to watch Dunlap leave, closing the door firmly behind him. Preston heard the heavy click of the key in the lock.
But on the floor, forgotten in the melée, was Edith’s small brocade valise. And inside it, if there was any justice at all, was his sapphire.
Bronwyn fled the commotion without a backward look. It had taken all her strength to conceal her horror at Preston’s appearance. There was almost nothing left of his face! He had been so handsome, with such silken skin and finely cut features! Now his golden hair was gone, his lips distorted, his cheeks drawn with scars. Only his eyes, those icy blue eyes, told her it was really he, and those had been filled with such anger, such—such hate—
She had done her best. She had swallowed her shock, tried to speak to him with kindness, and he had lashed out at her, raised his fists, said those awful things. She had never been witness to such an ugly scene. Could being hurt change a person so much? Could his disfigurement have altered his true nature?
If not, then he was not at all the person she had believed him to be. Not the man she had mourned, and had yearned for all this time.
She reached the end of the hallway on flying feet, pursued by shouts and screams and sobs. She didn’t bother with the elevator, but pushed through a heavy door leading to a stairway, and dashed headlong down the steps. She tripped on the first landing she came to, but caught herself on the wooden banister, and plunged onward. The door at the bottom of the stairwell opened onto a blank corridor, the sort used by servants and tradesmen. She raced on, not choosing a direction, simply moving, escaping.
As she ran, the last fragments of illusion fell away. She felt as if she were crushing each and every one beneath her feet. Mrs. Benedict was wrong. There could be no reunion between herself and Preston Benedict, and not because his looks had been destroyed. The man she thought she loved didn’t exist. Perhaps he never had. She couldn’t understand what he was, but she would never, ever, want to see him again.
She came upon a door and pushed it open. It led into a kitchen, where women in white aprons were working at long wooden counters. Bronwyn froze just inside the door, then spun back, searching for an exit.
One of the cooks, a girl hardly older than herself, stepped forward, saying politely, “Miss? Are you looking for Reception?”
Bronwyn’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t speak. She shook her head, and the young woman looked concerned. She put down the spoon she was using, and started toward Bronwyn, but before she reached her, Bronwyn gulped an awkward apology, backed out into the corridor, and ran the other way.
She burst through a set of double doors, and found herself on a loading platform. A truck was just backing up, its driver peering over his shoulder as he worked the gears. He spotted her, and braked with a squeal of metal and rubber. Bronwyn whirled, and crossed the platform to jump down from the far side. She dashed around the side of the building toward the gravel drive where their taxicab had dropped them. Bronwyn hardly knew where she was, or where she was going, but she raced down the drive, out to the packed dirt of the road, and on.
CHAPTER 22
The temperature was well into the eighties as the elder and younger Parrishes, along with Tim, their hired hand, piled into the Model T and drove down the valley to a neighboring ranch. Several other automobiles and two or three trucks were already parked along the packed dirt lane leading to the ranch house. The barn was a weathered two-story structure with an enormous weather vane in the shape of a running horse. Two carriages waited near it, their shafts resting on the ground, the horses that had pulled them stabled in the shade. Long cloth-covered tables had been set up in the yard, and at least twenty people were standing around them. The women wore broad-brimmed hats and printed cotton dresses. The men were in their usual boots and denim trousers.
Everyone turned to wave as Robert and Jenny stepped out onto the running board of the dusty Model T. Tim followed, and then Frank. When Margot appeared, the easy smiles turned to open stares of curiosity, making her glad of the drooping brim of her borrowed hat. She wore a white shirtwaist and a trim linen skirt, and she saw, before she climbed down to the ground, that her skirt was shorter by six inches than any other in the gathering. She was the only one wearing gloves, as well. She found herself wishing Ramona were here to reassure her.
Frank helped her down. He tucked her hand under his arm as they followed his parents toward the group of their friends and neighbors, and he gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.
He had told her when they went to bed the night before that Elizabeth would probably be present at the picnic. “Everyone comes to these things,” he said. “Old folks, kids, ranch hands—everyone.”
“I understand,” she said. “It’s wonderful, really. Community.”
“They’ll like you,” he added, unnecessarily.
She laughed, and nestled close to him under the age-softened quilt. “For your sake, maybe, Frank,” she said softly. “I’m not much good at social events.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said.
That made her laugh again. “I suppose not. But I warned you.”
He laid his book aside, and reached to put out the lamp. As was their habit, she slept on his right side, so he could encircle her with his good arm as they fell asleep. She laid her head against his shoulder, and sighed with contentment.
He startled her, a good five minutes later, by saying, “Margot, I think you might be surprised by these folks.”
She had been half asleep, but her eyes opened to the starlit darkness, and she glanced up at him. She could just see the lean plane of his jaw, the gleam of silver in his hair. “In what way, Frank?”
“They’re not social the way—say, the way Ramona is. Or Allison.”
“What do you mean?”
She felt the lift of his shoulder beneath her cheek as he shrugged. “Oh, they gossip, of course. Talk about what everyone’s up to. But to me they seem more—more real, I guess.”
“Real?”
“We’re so close to the ground here,” he said, which might have been obscure, but somehow wasn’t. He didn’t speak again, and she didn’t say anything more.
Soon she heard his breathing slow and soften, and she lay listening to it, and listening to the faint night sounds from beyond the open window. She thought about what he had said, applying it to Jenny and Robert, to Tim. Close to the ground. The phrase made sense. They worked hard to care for the land, the animals, to put food on the table. There was nothing artificial in their lives, because there was no room for it.
Before she fell asleep, she couldn’t help comparing Jenny Parrish to Edith Benedict, which was probably unfair. Her mother was a product of her background, and Jenny was no doubt the same. But if Jenny had had a son like Preston, he might have turned out a different man.
Margot thrust the thought aside. Speculating was a waste of time. She turned on her side, and plumped her pillow, and reminded herself that the part of her life with her younger brother, as awful as it had been, was over and done with. Preston was safely stowed, and though her mother longed for him, that couldn’t be helped. She would put it out of her mind, and enjoy the few days of vacation left to her.
She intended to enjoy this picnic, too. She walked beside Frank, and as the introductions began she pulled off her gloves, and shook every hand that was offered to her. She did her best to listen to the flurry of names, each one inevitably followed by a description of where their ranch was in relation to the Parrish place. She met women of Jenny’s age, and younger women with babies braced on their hips. She met older men, a few young husbands, a young man in a wicker wheelchair, several girls and boys in their teens.
Their hostess was a plump, red-cheeked woman well into her fifties. Everyone, it seemed, called her Grandma. She wore a bib apron just like one of Hattie’s, and was busily supervising the food. Every family had brought something. Je
nny had been up early frying two of her fattest hens. There were bowls of potato salad, loaves of fresh bread, a large platter of cucumbers in vinegar, and an array of pies. Grandma greeted Margot and Frank over her shoulder, and said, “So glad to meet Frank’s young lady at last. Hope you came hungry!”
Margot eyed the bounty with appreciation. She wished she could take a photograph to send to Hattie. She said, “It all looks wonderful.”
She turned from the table, and found Frank shaking the hand of a pretty, rather soft-looking young woman in a white cotton dress and a matching hat. She was smiling, looking up into Frank’s face and holding his hand with both of hers. He took a step back, releasing her, and reached for Margot to draw her forward.
The young woman’s smile faded as he said, “Margot, this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth—my wife. Margot.”
Margot extended her hand, and Elizabeth, after a fraction of a second, took it. Her hand was hot and dry, and her cheeks were pink with heat beneath the white straw. Margot said, “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s good to meet you at last.”
There was a moment’s pause, not long enough to be truly awkward, but distinct. Elizabeth pulled her hand back and said bluntly, “I don’t know what to call you. Since you’re a doctor, I mean.” Her eyes were a soft blue, but there was strength in her mouth, and despite the feminine dress, with its layers of lace and ruffles, she looked sturdy, as if she was used to physical labor.
Margot found her frankness refreshing. It eased things somehow. She was glad not to have to come up with some artificial courtesy. “Since my husband has known you for so many years, Elizabeth, why don’t we go straight to Christian names?”
“Sure.” Elizabeth tilted her head up, and gave Margot a measuring look. “Your photograph doesn’t do you justice.”
Margot blinked. “My photograph?”
“Jenny showed me your wedding pictures.”
“Oh.” Margot laughed a little. “I’m no good at being photographed. I always look too tall and too bony.”
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