The Way Home (43 page)

Seeing the determination in her mother’s face, Meg reached out reluctantly. The quilt was heavy and she drew it close, cradling it in her arms. Ruth’s eyes lingered on the quilt.

“Don’t you ever forget, Meg, building a marriage is like making a quilt Some people have nothing but scraps, and they turn them into something fine and solid. Some folks can go out and buy fabric brand-new and they can’t put together so much as a single block. It’s all in what you do with what the Lord gives you.”

“What about you, Mama? What kind of a quilt have you made?” Meg hadn’t intended to ask the question, but the words were out and couldn’t be recalled. For a moment she thought her mother was going to ignore the question, but then her mouth twisted in a half smile.

“Some people just choose a poor piece of fabric, that’s all. And then you do the best you can with what you’ve got.” She looked at Meg and, for a moment, Meg saw a deep sadness in her eyes. Then Ruth blinked and it was gone. “But you’ve got good, solid fabric,” she said briskly. “You just be careful what pattern you choose.”

Meg wanted to ask what her mother meant. Hadn’t the pattern already been chosen when they’d married? A marriage wasn’t like a quilt. You didn’t just pick out the colors you liked and stitch them into a pleasing pattern. Did you? But before she could say anything, she heard the sound of a car coming up the drive.

Both women stiffened, their eyes meeting as they realized whose car it must be. Without a word, Meg started for the door. She couldn’t be in the same house with him. If she had to crawl out a window, she’d do it, but she wouldn’t be in this house at the same time as her stepfather.

She reached the front door just as he was stepping onto the porch. Fumbling in her haste to be outside, Meg shoved open the screen, aware of her mother hanging back in the hall as the screen door banged shut.

“I heard you were back in town,” Harlan said, his thin mouth twisting in a sneer. “Mrs. McKendrick now, isn’t it? Mrs. High-and-Mighty McKendrick.”

He’d been drinking. The realization came as a shock. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her stepfather drink to excess. Not that he had to be drunk to be dangerous, she thought. She swallowed down the fear that rose in her throat and edged to the side.

“Come back to gloat, have you?” he demanded, his speech slurred. “Come back to see what a good job that husband of yours has done in ruining my life?”

“Ty hasn’t tried to ruin anyone’s life,” she said, though her better judgment suggested that it was futile to argue with him. He was too drunk to hear anything she said. Even sober, it wasn’t likely he’d listen.

“Well, you’ve come back too soon,” he said, ignoring her denial. He leaned toward her and she could smell the whiskey on his breath. “The McKendricks haven’t succeeded in destroying me. Not yet, they haven’t.”

“Let me by,” she ordered, feeling her stomach start to roll at his nearness.

“Getting mighty high in the instep, aren’t you? Think you’re somebody now that you’ve married McKendrick. Well, you’re nobody,” he snarled, pushing his face close to hers.

Meg felt blackness hovering at the edge of her vision, but she fought it off. She couldn’t faint. If she fainted, she’d be helpless.

“Get away from me.” She wanted the words to sound like a command, but they came out as a terrified whisper.

“Come inside, Harlan.” Ruth’s prosaic suggestion didn’t get so much as a flicker of attention.

“You’re always going to be a nobody,” Harlan told Meg.

“Let me go,” she said, beyond caring if it sounded like she was begging. She turned her face away from his, her stomach heaving at the smell of his breath.

“Look at me when I talk to you,” he snapped. Meg whimpered with fright when he caught her face in his hand, his fingers digging into her jaw as he turned her toward him. “I know what you are. You’re trash. Just like your sister. You’re nothing but trash. You may be able to pretend for a while, but sooner or later McKendrick will find out what he’s married. Just like I found out after I married your mother.”

“Let her go now, Harlan.” Ruth had come out on the porch and was tugging pleadingly on her husband’s arm. Meg couldn’t take her terrified eyes from her stepfather’s twisted face.

“Ty will kill you,” she whispered. “If you touch me, he’ll kill you.”

“Please, Harlan. Let her go now. Don’t make trouble for yourself,” Ruth was saying.

Whether it was his wife’s pleading or her own threat, Meg didn’t know, but her stepfather’s hand dropped from her face and he stepped back, clearing a path to the steps. She didn’t wait to give him a chance to change his mind. She lunged away from him, almost falling down the steps in her haste to escape.

“You tell them they’re not going to win,” Harlan shouted after her. “I’m not going to let them ruin me.”

Meg scrambled into the car and slammed the door shut. Her fingers were shaking so hard, it took her two tries to turn the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, drowning out anything else he might have said. Meg backed out of the drive so fast that the wheels spit gravel.

By the time she reached the McKendrick house a few minutes later, she was shaking as if she had a fever. After leaving the roadster parked at a crooked angle and leaving the precious quilt lying in the passenger seat, she hurried up the walkway and let herself inside. She leaned against the front door for a moment, her breathing ragged, her skin flushed and damp.

She was safe. He couldn’t hurt her now. But the knowledge did nothing to slow the pounding of her heart. If she closed her eyes, she could see his face thrust close to hers, his hate-filled eyes glittering at her, smell the sour bite of whiskey on his breath. Her stomach rolled. Meg clapped her hand over her mouth and pushed away from the door. She heard her mother-in-law call to her when she was partway up the stairs, but she didn’t dare pause. As it was, she made it to the bathroom just in time.

Meg continued to kneel on the hard linoleum for a long time after her stomach had emptied itself. Too weak to stand, she crouched there, trembling with reaction, her body aching as if she’d been beaten. She’d spent months trying to forget that terrible night, to forget the feel of her stepfather’s hands on her, the cruel anger in his touch. In a few short minutes, Harlan Davis had brought all the memories rushing back, all the feelings of helplessness, the fear. He’d made her feel as if the safety she’d found were nothing more than an illusion. Even here, where she was surely beyond his reach, she didn’t feel safe anymore. Of course, he’d have to confront her mother-in-law to get to her.

The image of Helen McKendrick’s reaction to a drunken Harlan Davis demanding to see the daughter-in-law she despised drew a spurt of choked laughter from Meg. Hearing the edge of hysteria in the sound, she drew a deep, sobbing breath and tried to stifle the fear that clawed at her.

She wanted Ty. She needed to see him. Needed to feel his arms around her, to hear him tell her he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Then she could feel safe again. When he held her, nothing could hurt her, not even Harlan Davis.

Meg was in their room when she heard the front door open and the sound of Ty’s voice. She didn’t go down to greet him, knowing that his mother would already be there and not feeling up to dealing with the other woman. The incident with her stepfather and the bout of sickness afterward had left her feeling a little fragile, and she didn’t feel much like coping with her mother-in-law’s subtle contempt.

So Meg stayed where she was and continued to knit on the baby blanket she was making out of soft buttery yellow wool. She’d been knitting for the past couple of hours, letting the steady rhythm of the needles soothe her ragged nerves.

Ty’s footsteps on the stairs were slow and heavy, tired sounding. She frowned, her hands slowing. He was working so hard, trying to get the farmhouse in shape for them to move in, trying to prepare for spring planting. Most nights he came home chilled to the bone and exhausted. She was guiltily aware that he was doing all this for her, because he was convinced this was what was best for her and the baby. He pushed open the door and Meg let her knitting drop to her lap as she looked at him.

“Hi.”

“Mother said you came in earlier and rushed right by her without a word,” he said by way of greeting. “Are you all right?”

It didn’t take a psychic to guess that Helen hadn’t given him this piece of information out of any concern for Meg. More likely she’d been pointing out how rude Meg had been in not speaking to her.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” she said. “I — “

She broke off as Ty came closer and she saw the lines of exhaustion that bracketed his mouth. His shoulders were slumped with fatigue, and he was covered in dirt from head to toe. Flecks of pale sawdust powdered his black hair, and mud smeared across the front of his shirt and pants. There was a rip in the knee of his jeans and a tear that ran the length of one sleeve.

With a concerned cry, Meg rose, stepping over her knitting as it tumbled to the floor.

“What did you do to your arm?”

“It’s just a scratch,” Ty said, giving the injury an indifferent glance. “Tell me about you. What was wrong this afternoon?”

A quick glance confirmed his assessment of the wound. Her hands resting on his arm, Meg looked up at him and opened her mouth to tell him about the confrontation with her stepfather and found herself noticing the tired lines around his eyes.

“It was just your son acting up,” she said lightly. “I rested for a little while and I’m practically good as new.”

“Are you sure?” The relief in his eyes warmed her heart even as it made her wonder at her acting ability. Millie would be proud of her, she thought wryly.

“I’m sure,” she said without hesitation. She felt guilty for even thinking of telling him about the ugly scene with her stepfather. He had so much to worry about already. “Now, why don’t you go get cleaned up. You look exhausted.”

She met his searching look steadily, smiling a little to show that there was no reason for concern. After a moment he nodded, apparently satisfied that she really was all right.

“I’m beat,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders as if they ached.

“Sit down.”

“I’m dirty,” he protested as she urged him toward the chair she’d been sitting in.

“It’s nothing that won’t brush off.” Meg bent to pick up her knitting and set it on the table as Ty sank into the wing chair with a sigh that said more than words about how tired he was.

“What did you do today?” Meg knelt at his feet and began unlacing the heavy work boots he wore.

“Thanks. I’m so stiff, I’m not sure I could get down there,” he admitted with a rueful grin.

“Just doing my job,” she said, smiling up at him as she tugged off first one boot and then the other.

“Your job is to take care of yourself and the baby,” he contradicted.

“I think I can do that and still manage to help you off with your boots.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You look pale.” Ty’s fingertips stroked across her cheek. Meg leaned into his touch, closing her eyes against the quick sting of tears. She cried so easily these days.

“I’m fine.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the huskiness in her voice.

“Mother says you spend a lot of time in here.” He was still frowning. “You’d tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” She hoped he was too tired to notice that she’d sidestepped his exact question. “I spend time up here because it keeps me out of your mother’s way.” She realized her mistake when Ty stiffened, his brows lowering in a frown.

“Has she said anything to you?”

Briefly, Meg wondered if “anything” encompassed Helen McKendrick’s subtle stream of criticism. “No, she hasn’t said ‘anything.’ ” Laughing, she shook her head. “Stop worrying about me. I’m not a helpless child, Ty.”

“I know. But my mother can be hard to get along with. God knows, I haven’t managed to learn the knack and I’ve known her all my life.”

“Well, I’m doing just fine,” she said briskly. It wasn’t exactly a lie. She hadn’t come to blows with the woman yet. Stilling kneeling in front of him, she reached for the buttons on his shirt.

“It’s nice to know you missed me,” Ty said. Despite his fatigue, his smile had a wicked edge that made Meg’s face warm.

“I’m just trying to get you out of these dirty clothes,” she said primly.

“Oh.” He let her slip another button loose and then reached out and began unbuttoning the top of her dress.

“What are you doing?” Her hands flew to stop his.

“I’m just helping you out of your dirty clothes,” he said, widening his eyes innocently.

“This dress is perfectly clean.”

He shook his head, pulling his mouth into a regretful line. “There’s a smudge right there.” Meg turned her head to see where he was pointing, and he leaned forward to kiss the vulnerable skin just behind her ear.

“I — I don’t see a smudge,” she whispered. A shiver ran up her spine as he nibbled on her earlobe.

“You just aren’t looking hard enough.” His fingers were quickly finishing the task of opening her bodice.

“Ty, we haven’t even had supper yet.” It was a weak protest but the best she could manage with his hand cupping her breast through the soft cotton of her slip.