Dance with the Devil (4 page)

The surgery, too, was empty.

Where the hell was Emma?

Somehow during the night Drew had ceased thinking of her as 'the woman'. Now her name seemed to flow into his mind with surprising familiarity.

The front door was open. The howling appeared to be coming from the stables across the yard. It was a skin-prickling sound, penetrating the wall of rain, setting his teeth on edge. Drew frowned. Something was very wrong to make a dog howl like that. Could Emma be in trouble, perhaps injured? Or was there something more sinister behind it?

He'd had enough of being kept in the dark. The irony of his analogy hit him and he grinned wryly. He took a Driza-bone from the hall stand and eased it on, sliding the oilskin coat carefully over his shoulders, then pushed a battered Akubra on his head. A pair of old boots and socks lay just inside the door. He didn't like the thought of wearing them with the way his feet were, but it was preferable to getting the wounds wet.

It seemed to take an incredibly long time to work his way across the yard, carefully avoiding the debris left by the cyclone. Each step was a painful reminder that he still didn't know who had inflicted these injuries on him.

The howling continued. Rhythmic thumps sounded as he neared the stable door. The door was slightly ajar and he cautiously pulled it open further.

Two cattle dogs raced at him, snarling, teeth bared. Their eyes gleamed yellow in the dim light. He stiffened, eyes adjusting to the gloom, startled to see Emma, the mattock in her hands poised to swing, stagger backwards as the colour washed from her face.

His gaze riveted on the blanket-wrapped shape behind her.

On the unmistakable outline of a body.

Emma gasped in shock.

The mattock fell from her gloved hands and she looked wildly behind her.

He was still there, still wrapped in the blanket. She realised then the familiar coat and hat were worn by the man she'd found last night. She'd been so absorbed in the digging, so consumed by her anger, her guilt, her grief, she had almost forgotten Drew's presence in the house. She called to the dogs. They backed off reluctantly and dropped to the ground.

Suspicion, anger and, for a fleeting moment, hurt flared in Drew's eyes. He moved towards her, a big man whose size was emphasised by the bulky coat he wore.

Emma shrank back, suddenly afraid. Drew was obviously a strong man and, in spite of his wounds, would be capable of hurting her badly if he chose to. And he was also capable of ignoring pain - walking all the way from the house had proved that.

'Unwrap the blanket.' His voice was so cold and hard Emma felt shivers run down her spine. Her gaze flicked to the mattock but Drew bent and picked it up, only a slight grimace betraying his pain. He tossed it aside.

'I can't.' The words squeezed out of Emma's throat. Her grief suddenly welled up in her chest. She couldn't look at the body again, she couldn't. It had been hard enough wrapping him in the blanket, unable to give him the decency of a proper coffin. Digging the crude grave had only been made easier by the knowledge that this was where he would want to be buried, with his beloved horses, or what was left of them. The musty smell of straw and horse and dust was suddenly overwhelming.

She'd managed to keep control of her grief long enough to kiss his cold, rigid face and cocoon his body in the only covering she could think of, but now that control had shattered. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ease the pain in her heart. Tears trickled from her eyes.

Drew flung her a searching look. He bent and unrolled the blanket from the body. The face was familiar, and it struck him forcibly. He'd seen it only five minutes ago, in the photo on Emma's dresser.

He looked up at her, at the tears now coursing down her cheeks as the silent sobs racked her body.

'My father.' The words choked out of her, and her face twisted in pain.

Drew felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut. He normally prided himself on being a fair man, yet here he was, suspicious of her actions before he had even given her a chance to explain. Even knowing his ordeal was probably justification for his attitude, he still felt ashamed.

He rose swiftly and pulled her against him. His coat parted and her tears fell hot on his chest. He shuddered with the overwhelming need to comfort her, protect her, draw her into him and never let her go. Silent sobs shook her slim body. Her cheek was soft against his chest and kindled a flame deep inside him, a yearning he'd never before experienced.

The feeling was so powerful it scared him more than the fear he'd felt as the first nail had been driven into his palm. When the devil had tried to possess his spirit, he had been able to fight him with little trouble, but if he let her, he suspected this woman could possess him, body, mind - and the soul his mother had always told him he had.

Gently he pushed Emma away, the warm scent of her body fading from his nostrils, and when he spoke his voice was rough. 'How did he die?'

He watched Emma gather herself in like a tide retreating from the sand as she tried to bury the pain, the grief. She took off one glove and brushed the tears from her face with a determined hand.

'When the cyclone worsened, I made him stay in the bathtub. Then when the eye came over, I went to open the windows on the opposite side of the house. He was gone when I came back. I found him outside. I'd tied the dogs in the stables to keep them safe. And the horses - Dad must have let them out.' Emma's voice faltered and she shivered, and Drew watched her struggle for control once more. It did strange things to his stomach and he almost reached out to steady her. Almost.

'It looked like he'd been hit by a fence post that must have been blown onto the stable roof. I think it fell off as he walked underneath. It broke his neck.'

'So you decided to bury him. Why?'

The hurt, bewildered look in her eyes surprised him.

'What else was I supposed to do with him? There's no cold room to put him in, and with no electricity it wouldn't work anyway. In this heat, a body decomposes quickly. I couldn't just leave him here.'

'Why can't you take the body to Cairns when the creeks fall? A day or two won't make much difference, will it?'

Emma leaned back against the railings of the horse stall. She looked exhausted, dark smudges under her eyes betrayed her lack of sleep. 'If it keeps raining like this, it could be a week before the roads will be clear.' Even her voice sounded tired. 'And I heard on the radio this morning that the cyclone hit just south of Cairns. Enormous property damage, no power, no water. They have enough problems of their own.'

She turned wearily aside, tugged on her glove and picked up the mattock. She swung it in a practised rhythm, tearing chunks from the compacted earth. Drew eased the heavy Driza-bone from his shoulders and placed it and the Akubra next to Emma's coat. He re-wrapped the body, and sat on a feed drum. Frustration gnawed deeper with each swing of the mattock. He should be digging, he fumed, not this slim-hipped woman with her tender doctor's hands. He looked down at the bandages on his own.

He swung abruptly off the drum. Tack room - there had to be a tack room. With no lights or sunshine the stables were gloomy, and even the air felt damp. He passed clean, spacious horse stalls, but only two showed signs of recent use, with fresh feed and water.

He soon found the tack room. Smells of leather and grease and something else assailed him. He glanced around the room. Saddles, bridles, leather grease. Nothing unusual. The smell niggled at him. Then he saw it - a drum of wood shavings. Their sharp, aromatic smell hit him again and suddenly he was back, back in the shed, blind, chained, at the mercy of his tormentor.

A wave of panic hit him. He swayed, his fear another smell in the musty, dim room. For a few seconds it possessed his body, his mind, then he fought it off with savage determination.

He rummaged among the accumulated mess on the wall-length bench, finally finding the leather gloves he sought.

Emma's rhythm was slowing when he returned. He touched her gently on the shoulder and she turned towards him. She looked at his hands as he reached for the mattock.

'No. You can't. Your wounds will open.'

A long strand of hair had escaped from her ponytail and he brushed it back off her sweat-streaked forehead. For a moment their eyes met and he felt an unfamiliar rush of tenderness at the torment in her gaze. Before he could allow himself to act on it, before he gave in to the temptation to pull her into his arms and kiss her soft lips, he took the mattock and stepped into the grave.

'I'll do the shovelling.' Emma spoke in the 'don't disobey me' voice she had used on him last night. He was tempted to grin at her tone, but didn't. He understood her determination to be part of burying her father.

'Okay,' he nodded, 'we'll take it in turns.'

It was strange watching Drew work, watching the muscles ripple under the tanned skin. Emma's heartbeat seemed to skitter with each upward swing, her gaze following the trickles of sweat through the dark hairs on his chest. His unkempt hair and stubbled face made him look a dangerous man, and Emma was well aware of the type of danger he posed.

With each passing minute she was having trouble convincing herself there was nothing more to this attraction than heightened emotions caused by the trauma of the past twenty-four hours; that she had been merely grateful for the comfort of his arms when she couldn't keep the grief at bay any longer. But her heartbeat still skittered, and her chest tightened against the tentacles of desire that wound their way deep inside her.

It was a relief when he took a breather and she could shovel the dirt from the hole. When she stood with the ground almost at waist level, she nodded to him. 'It's deep enough. When I can, I'll give him a decent burial. I know Mum would want that.'

'Were your parents…'

'Divorced. My mother's remarried.'

Drew only nodded, as though he hadn't picked up on the faint nuance in her tone. She had reconciled herself years ago to her parents' divorce, but there was hurt underlying the acceptance, like festering under a closed wound. She slammed the spade into the rich, cool earth. Now there would be no way to lance that wound and let it heal. Even in death, her father had cheated her.

Soon they were tamping down the earth over the temporary grave. Drew pulled the gloves from his hands and Emma frowned at the blood-soaked bandages. Without a word she picked up his Driza-bone and helped him into it, then gathered her own from the corner where she'd left it.

'Come into the surgery.'

Emma hung their wet coats from pegs on the veranda. Drew pulled the boots and socks from his feet and followed her inside. The pain made him hobble and he was grateful to sink onto the examining table. He watched as Emma cut through the bandages on his hands and feet, her concentration focused on her task.

He wanted to reach up and pull off her hair tie, watch the honey brown strands fall down to frame her face. He wondered if he gave in to the temptation to kiss her, to feel the moistness of her tongue against his own, if she would taste as wonderful as he felt she must.

He tried to ignore his need to feel her long slim legs wrapped around him, urging him to take possession of her body, her soul. But overriding this deep, powerful desire was the urge to comfort and protect this woman who was both strong yet strangely vulnerable.

The pain in his hands and feet was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. It was a new feeling for him, this desire tempered by tenderness, and he wasn't sure how to handle it.

'You're lucky whoever did this went by the popular artists' impression rather than the true Roman method.' Her comment focused his mind back on her doctoring. She had re-bandaged his feet and was now examining his hands.

'What do you mean?'

'The Romans actually nailed through the wrists. The palm of the hand won't support the weight of a body - it would rip right through between the fingers and the thumb. Whoever did this used nails that weren't large enough either - hopelessly inadequate for the purpose intended.' She finished applying dressings to the wounds. 'The nail didn't go all the way through your right foot, and your hands weren't ripped. Obviously whoever did this to you didn't get a chance to finish what he started. Someone stopped him. Do you remember anything, Drew?'

Remember? Hell, it had been going over and over in his mind most of the night, making the sweat pour from his body as he remembered the pain, the horrible feeling of helplessness as his drugged body wouldn't respond to his mind's plea to fight. And none of it made sense. Perhaps if he told it to Emma she could pick up something he'd missed.

So he told her. Recounted the hazy memory of thunder shaking the walls of his prison hut as he surfaced from a drugged daze. Then the screaming, words lashing him like blows, that God had sent the sign that now was the time to offer up the sacrifice.

'And that sacrifice was you.' Emma's voice was soft.

He shuddered, recalling the pain as the whip cut into his flesh, jerking him back to full consciousness. He was no stranger to pain, but this was pain over which he had no control, and it was very different.

'Yes.' The word hissed out of him, anger and frustration mingling with the fear of the unknown.

Emma's hand was smooth against the stubble on his cheek, drawing him back to the present. Her eyes were soft with compassion - and something else. Warmth flooded the ice in his belly as he realised what it was. She was afraid for him, the worry shadowing her eyes, tightening her brows.

'You're safe for now. But who stopped him? Who took the nails out? How did you get here?'

'When he was whipping me, I heard someone crying.' Drew laughed, a harsh sound in the small room. 'I wondered at first if it was me. Then I realised it was a woman. She was telling the devil to stop, that it wasn't what God wanted. But he just said that the sign had come - something about purple lightning - and then he chained me down and started hammering in the nails.'