Johnston - I Promise (12 page)

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.”

But not that day. In fact, Marsh was out of jail in less than four hours. An advantage, he supposed, of being arrested early in the day. Cyrus surprised him by paying his bail. Maybe the old man cared a little for him after all, he thought. He thanked him on the drive home.

“Couldn’t afford to leave you in jail,” his father replied. “Need you to get the chores done around the place.”

Marsh swallowed that bitter pill along with the others he had been served over his lifetime. Whatever his father’s reason, he was grateful he hadn’t been left to languish in jail.

That evening, when Marsh went to the hospital to see Delia, he learned Sheriff Davis had been right about one thing. The town had already convicted him. He got some downright nasty looks from people in the waiting room who recognized him.

The nurse wouldn’t let him see Delia because her mother was with her.

“When do you think I could see her?” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

“Mr. North,” the nurse called after him.

He turned to look at her.

“I think what you did was despicable. If it was up to me, they would never have let you out of jail.”

It doesn’t matter what anybody thinks. I know I’m innocent. And so does Delia.

Only it did matter. Because he had to live here. He was a rancher, and he couldn’t pick up his land and move it somewhere else. But there was no way Delia could tell the complete truth, not without making it impossible for her ever to live here with him.

He had almost reached the second set of automatic glass hospital doors when they opened and Ray John Carson stepped inside.

Marsh threw himself at the man headlong. “You bastard! You sonofabitch!”

His attack caught the other man by surprise, and he went down under Marsh’s weight. Marsh clamped his hands around Ray John’s throat and squeezed. Ray John’s eyes were bulging by the time rough hands pulled Marsh away.

“Are you plumb crazy?” Ray John gasped, his hands gripping his mangled throat. “You could have killed me.”

“I wish I had!” Marsh raged. “I wish you were dead. I’d like to kill you myself.”

“What did I—?”

Marsh kept his eyes locked with Ray John’s and saw when the other man realized he knew the truth. Fear flashed. And defiant anger.

“Call the sheriff,” someone shouted. “Tell him the North boy is making trouble again.”

“No,” Ray John said. “Let him go. This is purely personal. The kid and I can settle this between us.”

Marsh sneered. Naturally Ray John didn’t want the cops involved. The truth might come out. He yanked himself free of the arms holding him captive and backed his way toward the door. “We’ll meet again,” he said.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Ray John replied.

Marsh left before he did something else stupid. Like bash the oily smile off Ray John Carson’s face.

Chapter Seven

Delia sat bolt upright in bed. The sound of a gunshot reverberated in her head. Sweat bathed her body. Her heart pounded in her chest. She had done it. She had finally killed Ray John Carson. She darted a glance at the pillow beside her. Even in the faint light of dawn she could see it was pristine white.

She dropped her head in her hands and groaned. It was the dream again. The same awful, wonderful, vengeful dream that had come every night in the week since her father had insisted—over her mother’s vehement refusal—that she be allowed to come home to the Circle Crown after her brief stay in the hospital.

She had called Peggy the first chance she got and discovered that Marsh was out of jail, if not out of trouble. She hadn’t seen him, and wasn’t sure she wanted to see him. Not after everything that had happened.

She had lost the baby.

Delia felt empty inside. Bereft. Even though she hadn’t wanted the baby. Even though she had wished it away a thousand times before it was gone. She didn’t understand her grief, she only knew it weighed on her.

Like her refusal to see Marsh at the hospital.

She couldn’t face him yet. It was her fault he was in so much trouble. She knew Marsh had seen the panic in her eyes the day of the accident and responded to it. In her weakened state, she hadn’t been able to make the sheriff understand that Marsh hadn’t done anything wrong. She loved Marsh more than ever for what he had done. But she couldn’t face him again until she had gone to Sheriff Davis and made things right. She planned to do it before Marsh had to go before a judge again.

Which meant today. Or tomorrow.

A bloodcurdling scream resounded up the stairs, raising the hair on Delia’s arms and nape.

She scrambled from her bed. That was no dream!

The screaming continued. Chilling. Macabre.

It stopped abruptly.

Delia flung her door open, expecting to see Rachel in the doorway across the hall. Rachel’s door stood open. Her bed was empty.

“Rachel?” Delia shouted as she raced toward the stairs. “Rachel!” She met her mother at the top of the stairs.

“Was that Rachel screaming?” Hattie asked, as they ran down together.

“She wasn’t in her room.” Delia caught the newel post and swung herself around toward the source of the sound. She stopped short in the doorway to her father’s gun room.

His blood and brains spattered the papered wall.

Rachel stood at his side, her eyes shining white around enlarged black pupils, one hand fisted on the walnut butt of Ray John’s favorite Colt .45. Her mouth hung open as though to scream.

No sound was coming out.

Daddy is dead. Rachel shot Daddy.

A tremor of joy and horror rolled through Delia. Followed by guilt and shame. Her younger sister had done what she had not had the courage to do herself.

Delia felt her mother brush past her.

“God. Oh, God.” Hattie grabbed Rachel’s arm and yanked her around so she faced away from the carnage, then tore the gun from Rachel’s iron grip and threw it onto the desk. “What have you done?” she demanded furiously. “You fool! You damned little fool!”

She shook Rachel violently, until her head snapped back and forth.

“Stop it!” Delia cried, rushing to her sister’s side. She pulled at her mother’s arm, trying to break her grasp on Rachel. She finally managed to separate the two and wrapped her arms protectively around her sister.

Her mother stood facing her, silvery blue eyes narrowed and cold as ice, her body quivering.

“It isn’t her fault!” Delia snarled. “I told you what he was doing to her. To both of us. But you wouldn’t believe me. Now look what’s happened!”

“I didn’t kill him,” Rachel said.

“Of course you didn’t,” Hattie said. She turned reluctantly to look at the remains of Ray John Carson and quickly looked away. “It was an accident. Ray John was cleaning his gun and accidentally shot himself.” She frowned and said, “Or it might have been suicide. I had asked for a divorce, and Ray John was upset about it.”