Promises Prevail (The Promise Series) (63 page)

He stroked her tear-wet cheek with the quirt. The leather was hot and wet against her flesh. Had he cut her?

“Good girl,” he murmured again as if they were lovers on a tryst. She felt the muscles in his chest stretch as he raised the quirt. She sucked in a breath as she felt them tense and his weight come down.

The blow she braced for never came. Instead, Mark jerked, threw his head back and swore. She looked up. Mara was on the other side of the bars, looking like a virago, one hand clenched in Mark’s hair as she stabbed at his back with the knife, her lips drawn back from her teeth in a feral snarl, equally feral growls coming from between her lips.

Sparks flew as the blade hit the bars. Above Jenna, Mark twisted. She tried to throw him off by heaving up but her legs gave out. She went down, taking him with her, but not soon enough. As she twisted she saw Mark’s ham-like fist connect with Mara’s jaw and the tiny woman went sailing across the dirt floor, landing in a puff of dust. She didn’t get up.

The little bit of hope Jenna had been holding onto left her, along with it her grasp on reason. Arching her head back she screamed loud and long, crying for Clint, for their daughter, for what might have been if her life hadn’t been tainted by her father’s belief, her husband’s weakness, and Mark’s insanity. She screamed, clawed, and bit when Mark tried to haul her up. She kept screaming when the rush of cold air added to the agony in her buttocks. She screamed louder when Mark’s heavy weight suddenly left her back and a strange thumping and groaning began.

She stopped screaming when the words that blended with the odd pounding reached her consciousness.

“You worthless piece of shit!” She opened her eyes. Reverend Swanson had Mark up against the wall. He was holding him there with nothing more than the speed and force of the blows he was raining into his midsection, seemingly heedless of the blood and vomit Mark was coughing all over him.

With a last punch that Jenna fully expected to see come out his spine, Brad let Mark drop. He turned. There was nothing civilized about his face. His lips were white with fury and his eyes burned with the fires of hell. If he was one of God’s angels, he was an archangel. One with a thirst for justice. He snatched the quirt off the floor.

Mark held up his hand. Dirt and blood covered the surface. “Please,” he moaned as blood slid down his face. “No more.”

With two vicious slashes, Brad laid opened the man’s cheeks.

Mark screamed and sobbed, rolling into a ball on his side, his bloody hands covering his face. Jenna closed her eyes, unable to watch anymore. She heard the quirt whistle, that peculiar slapping sound it made as it landed, Mark’s pitiful moan.

“Reverend,” she whispered, “enough.”

She sensed the change in the room. The stillness coming over Reverend Swanson, the control seeping back into his breathing. Something snapped and then fell to the floor beside her. She opened her eyes and saw the quirt in pieces.

The faintest of touches on her skin and then her dress was carefully lowered over her legs. Just the brush of the fabric was agony and she whimpered.

“I’m sorry.”

“Mara,” she managed to croak through her scream-torn throat. “He hit Mara.”

The ache in her head blossomed again and she had to close her eyes against the pinpoints of light stabbing at her.

She traced the reverend’s movements through sound, hearing the rattle of the door as he tested it, the jingle of keys as he took them off the hook, the clank as the lock gave, and mostly his soft “bastard” as he reached Mara.

The door creaked again and then she was surrounded by the scent of bay rum and the sensation of power. She opened her eyes. The reverend was squatting before her, reaching for his boot.

She licked her dry lips. “Mara?”

“I think she’s just knocked out.” He touched her forehead, where it throbbed. His fingers came away red.

“Bleeding?”

His smile was a weak shadow of his normal grin. “Just a little.”

He wiped his hand on his pants. Metal scraped on leather. She caught a glint of steel and then her arms were free. She dropped into the reverend’s arms, leaning into his strength because she had none of her own left.

She looked over at the bloody pulp that was Mark. Reverends were supposed to be peaceable, which could only mean one thing. “You’re not a reverend?”

“Yes, I’m a reverend.” He looked over at Mark. “Just a little more Old Testament than most.”

He shifted his grip. His arm brushed the welt on her back, she moaned, then cut off the sound, and asked the one thing she needed to know more than anything.

“Brianna?”

“She’s safe at the rectory.”

She wanted to ask why she wasn’t with Clint but all that came out was a broken, “Clint?”

“He’s coming, Jenna.” The reverend eased her down to her side on the floor. “Elijah went for him.”

She moaned again, this time unable to keep it back. It was over then. Clint would come, find out what had happened—and what had happened to her before—and it would all be over. The gentle touches, soft teasing, comforting arms.

Tears trickled down her cheek to puddle in the cold dirt.

“Are you all right?”

Jenna stared across the dirt floor at Mara, lying unconscious. She thought of her baby girl, of what could have happened. Of what did happen.

She shook her head. She didn’t know if she was ever going to be all right again.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Son of a bitch, as soon as you can get out of this bed, I’m going to beat you black and blue.”

Jenna sank deeper into the pillow under her cheek, relaxing into its softness as she relaxed into the gentleness of Clint’s touch as he spread ointment over the welt on her back.

“Okay.”

“Okay. Is that all you have to say?” Clint eased the sheet up over her back. It stuck to the ointment, sealing off the burn of air. “You go and damned near get yourself and Mara killed and the only thing you have to say is, ‘Okay’?”

A tug at the foot of the mattress jostled her.

“Would you prefer please?”

The cool air of the bedroom slid up her legs with the sheet.

“What I goddamn well would prefer is my wife letting me know when there’s trouble afoot.” His teeth snapped closed on the last word as the sheet pooled at the base of her spine.

“I didn’t know the mayor had appointed Mark deputy in the Sheriff’s absence.”

The growl dropped from his drawl.

“Jesus Christ, Sunshine.” His fingers shook as they grazed the edge of her right hip.

“I’m sure it looks worse than it is,” she offered, trying not to wince from even that light touch.

“Shut up and hold still.”

She did, not liking the new note that had entered his drawl. It was hard, mean, and unforgiving. He’d been waffling between the two extremes ever since he’d picked her and Bri up at the rectory. He’d spoken with the Reverend Swanson, then picked her up and carried her to the buggy he’d rented, laying her down on a mattress in the back, not saying a word as he’d placed Bri beside her.

As they’d pulled away, she’d seen Cougar carrying Mara in his arms. She’d looked so tiny, so defenseless, and Cougar so wildly, primitively furious.

The small group of towns people who’d formed outside the rectory when word had spread that the McKinnely women had been abused, parted as Clint and Cougar urged the horses forward. The look the men exchanged chilled her to her bones. Both men were hanging onto control by a thread. Both men looked capable of anything.

A fiery shaft of agony ripped outward from her buttock as the softest of cotton pressed against her welt. She bit the pillow and curled her fingers into the sheet, smothering her whimper in her throat.

Another harsh “Son of a bitch” rent the silence. Jenna bit back another sob. The silk of Clint’s hair brushed her left buttock before the softness of his lips.

“Go ahead and scream, Sunshine.”

A string of equally soft kisses were trailed over the rise of her ass and up onto the hollow of her spine as Clint held the compress to her.

“I know it hurts, baby, so go ahead and scream. Do whatever you need to do but let me make you feel better.”

The kindness in his tone broke the damn she’d been backing her emotions behind. Her “I’m sorry” was a puddle of tears.

The mattress shifted as Clint eased his big body up beside hers.

“Ah shit, baby. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I thought it was over when Jack died.”

He propped himself up on his elbow beside her. His hair fell in a curtain, limiting her vision to the expanse of his chest and the powerful muscles of his arms. If she lifted her gaze just the slightest bit she’d be able to see his beautiful face. She kept her gaze locked on the too fast pulse in his throat.

Clint’s fingertips slipped between the pillow and her cheek, pressing gently.

“Did he rape you, Sunshine?”

Her breath froze in her lungs. “What makes you ask that?”

“Brad said he found you tied and naked.” His thumb stroked over her mouth. “It’s a natural assumption.”

He hadn’t raped her today, but he’d raped her before, and the memories she’d buried for so long were clawing their way out of the grave she’d made for them, screaming and wailing to be recognized.

“Clint?”

“What?”

“I know you’re angry but please, please…”

He tipped up her chin, forcing her to look at him, to see the anger in his face, the primitive rage blending with concern.

“I’ll give you whatever you need, Sunshine. Just tell me what it is.”

She wanted what she could never have, but for now she was ready to pretend.

“Please just hold me like it doesn’t matter. Just for a few minutes.”

“Son of a bitch!”

He lifted her and slid beneath her, taking her moans of pain into his throat, not stopping until she was lying on top of his big warm body. His arm on her waist held her firmly in place, his other hand cradled her head to his chest while he brushed kisses over the top of her head.

“It doesn’t matter, Sunshine. Doesn’t matter at all.”

Beneath her cheek she could feel the tension vibrating through his muscles, feel the throb of his heart as it raced to keep pace with his emotions.

“It has to matter.”

“Why?”

“Men care about that.”

His thumb tipped her chin up as his mouth met hers in a kiss that defined tender.

“I care that I wasn’t able to protect you,” he whispered against her lips, the edges of his moving hers with every syllable. “I care that you were hurt. I care that you keep secrets that endanger your life. But Sunshine, nothing anyone does to you can change how I feel about you.”

“And how is that?”

“You’re sweet and special and you’re mine.”

Which wasn’t the same as saying he loved her.

“Mark didn’t think I was sweet.”