The Way Home (18 page)

“Now that I know, will you tell me what happened?” She hesitated but there didn’t seem much reason not to tell him what he’d asked. After all, what he already knew was far worse than anything else that had happened.

“He was furious that I’d gone out with you — with any man, I think. He said I was a … He said things that weren’t true,” she finished awkwardly, unable to tell him just what Harlan had called her. “I told him he was wrong; that you hadn’t … that we didn’t … that we didn’t do anything wrong, but he didn’t believe me. I don’t think he even listened to me.”

“What happened?” Ty asked.

“He hit me,” she said simply. “I think he’d have hit me again but Mama said that she was sure I hadn’t done anything bad and that he shouldn’t get so upset. And then he said thathe’d taken her and her daughters in and that he wouldn’t see any shame brought down on his name.”

“Did he … Was he upset about the same thing tonight — last night?” Ty corrected as he glanced at the clock and saw that a new day was not far off.

“Yes. He kept saying that we’d done things that we hadn’t.” She stared past him, seeing her stepfather’s flushed face, the insane rage in his eyes, the flecks of saliva that had shown at the comers of his mouth as he shouted at her. Her mother had been huddled in a chair, curled into herself as if trying to disappear.

Meg had tried to reason with him, tried to tell him he was wrong, that she hadn’t done anything to bring shame to his precious name. But that had only seemed to make him angrier. He’d slapped her, the blow hard enough to make her stagger, but he’d caught her arm, holding her for the next blow and the one after that. She’d felt her lip split, her teeth snapping together as his hand connected with her jaw.

She’d been shocked by the ferocity of his anger. This was nothing like the beatings her father had given her. George Harper had been a mean drunk and he’d taken that meanness out on his family. But there’d been an oddly impersonal feel to his anger, a feeling that it was a rage at himself and the world that drove him more than anything she’d done. But the look in Harlan Davis’s eyes was different. There was an anger she didn’t understand, something that approached hatred.

She’d tried to bring up her hands to push him away, but he’d brushed them aside. And then his fist struck her eye and pain had exploded through her head, dazing her. She’d fallen then, her knees hitting the thin carpet with a force that jarred her body. Vaguely she’d heard her mother whimpering, but then her stepfather grabbed her arm, dragging her upright, his fingers digging cruelly into her flesh.

She wasn’t sure what had happened then. Had he deliberately tom her dress, or had his hand caught in the collar when she tried to pull away? She didn’t know. But she did remember the feel of air on her skin and the sudden change in her stepfather’s eyes.

For a split second, time had stood still. Meg had stared at Harlan, her head ringing with pain, the salt taste of blood in her mouth. And he’d stared at the skin bared by her tom dress at the prim white cotton of her slip.

“He — he reached out. I thought he was going to hit me again, but then he put his hand on me.” Meg stopped and swallowed the nausea that rose in her throat. She’d forgotten where she was and whom she was talking to. She was looking backward, reliving the terror of that moment, oblivious to Ty’s pale face and the sick look in his eyes.

“I tried to get away but he was stronger than I was. He kept touching me and he tore my dress again.”

“Don’t.” Ty’s voice was choked but Meg didn’t hear him.

“I couldn’t get away,” she said. “And then Mama started pulling on him, telling him he had to stop, that he didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t seem to hear her but she kept pulling at him and crying, saying he had to stop. Finally he shouted at Mama to stop her whining and I was able to get away from him. He started toward me but Mama kept hanging on his arm and crying. And then he said it was my fault for tempting him and that I was a … slut and that he’d deal with me later. So I ran.”

Meg hadn’t realized she was crying until she felt Ty’s fingers brushing the tears from her cheeks. She lifted her eyes to his, suddenly aware that she was bone-deep tired and strangely numb, as if the scene she’d just described had happened to someone else, someone she barely knew.

“I came here because I didn’t know where else to go,” she said slowly.

“You did just what you should,” he told her, his voice tight with some emotion Meg was too tired to put a name to.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered.

Ty shifted his position, moving so that his back was against the headboard, his arms coming around her, cradling her against the lean strength of his body. Meg let her head settle on his chest, her eyelids drooping. The beat of his heart was strong and steady under her ear, as reassuring as the feel of his arms holding her.

“I’ve got you safe,” he said softly. “Go to sleep.”

As if that command was all she’d needed, Meg relaxed into his embrace and let sleep’s heavy curtain fall across her consciousness.

Ty held her lax body, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing and cursing himself for being the most selfish bastard in all of creation. How had he managed to cause so much harm to the one person he knew who deserved it least?

Why had he believed her story about bumping her mouth on the edge of the table? Was he blind that he hadn’t seen the truth?

Nothing was ever going to hurt her again, he thought fiercely. He’d told her that he’d keep her safe, and come hell or high water, he was going to keep that promise. No matter what it took.

Ty dozed off near dawn but he slept only a short while, waking to find pale sunlight sliding through the thin curtains. There was no period of confusion about where he was or what had happened the night before. Meg’s body was a soft weight against his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder, one slender hand on his chest, the fingers curled around a fold of his sweater as if clinging to a lifeline.

The room was chilly, a reminder that he’d forgotten to shovel coal into the furnace the night before. He’d slept propped against the headboard, and the awkward position had put a crick in his neck and made his back ache. Moving slowly, he eased off the bed, shifting Meg gently, careful not to wake her. But she was so deeply asleep that she didn’t even stir.

Ty winced as he straightened his spine. Putting one hand on the back of his neck, he rolled his head, trying to work the kinks out. Away from the warmth of the bed, the chill in the room was even more noticeable, but Ty lingered next to the bed, his eyes on Meg.

The pale sunlight revealed the bruising on her face with merciless clarity. The blue that circled her eye had darkened to purple, the swelling making it doubtful that she’d be able to open it more than a slit when she woke. Her lower lip was still puffy, and the swelling along her jaw seemed worse. She lay on her back and the pajama top had twisted around her so that the neck pulled open, revealing the fragile line of her collarbone. He could just see the beginnings of the scratch that ran across her chest — the scratch Harlan Davis had put there when he tore her dress open.

Ty’s jaw tightened until it ached, his eyes grim and cold as he thought of what Davis had done to her — and of what he’d tried to do. Ty shook his head. There was no sense in running over it again and again, imagining what might have happened.

He turned away from the bed, leaving Meg to what he hoped was a healing sleep. After going downstairs, he dumped out the dregs of last night’s cold coffee and filled the percolator with water before setting the freshly filled basket in the pot and putting it on the stove to heat. The most important necessity taken care of, he went down into the basement to feed the furnace a ration of coal.

Ty was halfway through his second cup of coffee when he heard Meg stirring upstairs. He hesitated a moment before setting his cup down and leaving the kitchen. He wasn’t sure how she would feel about him this morning. He might be the last person she’d want to see. He couldn’t blame her if she held him at least partially responsible for what had happened. God knew, he held himself responsible.

He tapped on the bedroom door and obeyed Meg’s muffled invitation to enter. She was out of bed and standing unsteadily beside the wing chair that sat a few feet away. Ty had draped his heavy robe across the chair when she’d gone to bed the night before, and she’d apparently been attempting to put it on. She had one arm through the sleeve, but the rest of the garment eluded her.

“Let me help.” Ty was across the room in a moment, reaching for the soft wool and pulling it into position.

“Thank you.” She eased her arm into the sleeve, her movements stiff and painful. He tugged her hair from under the collar, feeling anger chum anew in his gut.

“I’ve got coffee downstairs, if you’d like some,” he said, allowing none of what he was feeling to color his voice.

“No, thank you.” She kept her head bent, her voice muffled as she tied the belt around her.

Ty stared at the top of her head a minute, caught between the need to respect her privacy and the feeling that, if he let her, she’d close herself away — from him, from the world.

“How are you?”

“Fine.” The answer was automatic, polite. And a lie.

“Meg.” Her fingers had been tugging nervously at the fabric belt, but the soft command in his voice made her hands still, her whole body tensing in a way that reminded him a doe scenting danger but uncertain of its direction.

Ty reached beneath the tangled curtain of her hair, his fingers gentle on her chin as he tilted her face up to his. The daylight illuminated her battered features with cruel clarity, but Ty refused to let her duck her head.

“This is me you’re talking to,” he reminded her quietly. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes shifting away from his face.

“And you don’t have to apologize either. Just tell me how you feel.”

“I’m all right,” She caught the lift of his eyebrow and flushed. “A little achy,” she admitted reluctantly. “It hurts when I move. But it’s not near as bad as it probably looks.” She lifted one hand to her face, gingerly touching the swelling around her eye.

“Maybe I should ask Dr. Corey to come over and take a look at you,” Ty said slowly, his eyes worried.

“No! No, please.” It was the first spark of real emotion she’d showed that morning, but Ty would have preferred that it be something other than pure panic.

“You could be hurt inside somewhere,” he argued. “Maybe have a couple of cracked ribs or something.”

“No.” So great was her distress that she reached out and caught hold of his wrist, her fingers digging into his skin. “Please, Ty. I’d be so ashamed if he found out what happened. If anyone knew what he tried to do.”

“The shame isn’t yours,” Ty protested angrily. “Your stepfather’s the one who should be ashamed.”

But she shook her head, her fingers digging pleadingly into his arm, her eyes begging him to understand. “Please. Don’t call Dr. Corey. I’m not hurt bad. Just a little bruised, that’s all.”

A little bruised
didn’t begin to describe her injuries, and Ty hesitated, the desire to make sure she was all right warring with the need to banish the fear from her eyes once and for all.

“Please, Ty,” she whispered, the despair in her voice telling him that she didn’t expect him to pay any attention to what she asked. He wondered suddenly if anyone had ever paid attention to what Meg wanted — what she needed.

“All right. I won’t call the doctor.”

“Thank you.” Meg sagged with relief, her eyes filling with quick tears. She didn’t know how she’d bear the shame if anyone else were to find out what her stepfather had tried to do. It was bad enough that Ty knew. It seemed almost miraculous that he could even stand to look at her.

“But that means you’ve got to rest,” Ty told her. His stem tone was a contrast to the gentleness of his fingers as he touched her bruised face.

“I can’t do that,” she said, her relief changing to uneasiness. She let her hands fall to her waist to begin twisting at her belt again.

“Why not?”

“I have to go home.”

“Like hell you do,” Ty snapped. “You’re not setting foot in that house.”

It didn’t occur to either of them that he had no real right to dictate what she would or wouldn’t do. Nor to wonder just what she’d do if she didn’t go home eventually.

“I left Mama alone with him. There’s no telling what he might have done. He was so angry.” She twisted her hands together in distress.

“You’re not going back there,” Ty said flatly.

“I’ve got to see that she’s all right,” she said, trying to make him understand.

“I’ll go.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not? I’ll go over there and just make sure your mother’s all right,” he said as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

Meg rubbed her fingers over her forehead, trying to soothe the pounding ache that was lodged just above her eyes. It was so hard to think clearly, nearly impossible to make even the simplest decision.

“I don’t think you should be involved,” she said at last.

“Meg, I’m already involved.” His voice was gentle. He reached out to stroke her forehead and the ache seemed to recede a little.