Dancing With the Devil (18 page)

“Took you long enough,” Kit said with a cheeky grin.

Deacon ignored her and moved straight to Rhea, his face twisted into a tight grimace. For a fraction of a second, she felt herself reach toward him, needing to ease what ever it was that pained him so much.

That moment passed when she caught sight of Kit again.

“Are you all right?” Deacon asked. “Did she—”

“Come now, Deacon,” Kit sighed with feigned offense. “I’m not that horrible. In fact, I quite enjoy your new wife.”

“I’m fine.” Rhea dashed the back of her hand across her cheek and forced herself to meet his gaze. “What do you want?”

“I was worried.”

“Awww,” Kit drawled. “That’s so sweet. What a good husband you are.”

Gripping the back of a nearby chair, Deacon closed his eyes, clenched his jaw and turned on his sister. “Get out.”

“I’ve been invited to stay for coffee.”

“Now!” His roar rattled the windows, but Kit didn’t seem the least bit distressed.

Instead, her smirk widened. “All right, then, I’ll go and leave you two lovebirds alone.” She waggled her brow toward the tick in the corner. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to spend the time. Maybe she can help with that bandage.”

“What bandage?” Rhea frowned; it was only then she noticed the white cloth hanging out of Deacon’s pocket.

“Kit.” Deacon’s growing growl dragged her name out into two separate syllables. By the time he was done, she was already making her way to the door.

“I’m going.” With a final waggle of her brow, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her. Rhea
watched out the window, but never caught another glimpse of that all-too-familiar red hair.

Kit had disappeared, just as Deacon had done so many times before. All that remained was the pit of despair in Rhea’s stomach.

She slumped onto a chair and buried her face in her hands.

“Rhea.” The other chair scraped against the floor and a moment later, Deacon eased her hands away from her face.

“How did you know where I was?”

He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes; it barely reached his mouth for that matter. “If you were a man, I would’ve found you in the saloon. If you were any other woman—a sane woman—you would have gone to a friend’s house or locked yourself in your room to cry.”

“I did lock myself in our room.”

“Not for long,” he said. “You can’t sit still for more than five minutes, no matter how upset you are. And since you’d rather be doing anything than wallowing in misery, it wasn’t terribly difficult to find you.”

His thumb moved in circles over her palm as it always did; his voice was low, quiet. “I’ve been half expecting you to bring these damned animals into town so you could look after them properly.”

Rhea shrugged. Caring for the animals helped her think of something else besides her pathetic self.

“Are you all right?” Deacon’s blue eyes searched her own, looking for what? Rhea didn’t know, and she didn’t care; at least, she didn’t want to care.

“No,” she finally choked. “I’m not.”

“Tell me what to do. Let me help.”

“Help?” She shook off his hands and pushed away from the table. “How do you think you can help when you’re the problem?”

He followed her across the room. “But we’re going to make this better,” he said. “Once the judge arrives, and we make it legal—”

“God, Deacon, why don’t you understand?” She turned to face him, but warned him off from reaching for her. One touch from him would do her in at this point. “It’s not just about our
marriage
.”

“Then what?” His hands twitched at his sides until he tucked them under his armpits. The movement made him wince again. “D’you mean Salma?”

“No,” she sighed. “Yes. It’s Salma, it’s everything.”

“I told you the truth back there. Nothing happened between Salma and me.”

She shook her head. “Even if that’s true, what difference does it make now? You’re still going to leave, aren’t you?”

She’d never seen a person crumple before, but that was the only way she could think to describe what Deacon did. His shoulders sagged, and he wouldn’t look at her.

“You asked me to trust you, and Lord knows I want to.” Rhea dashed her hand across her cheeks again and sniffed back another round of tears. “But it’s not that simple.”

“It
is
that simple!” He raked his fingers through his hair and exhaled a long whoosh of air. “I hurt you, Rhea, and I just want to make it up to you. I want to help your heart heal so you can stop being so sad and go on with your life.” He paused, swallowed hard and looked as though he had more to say.

She waited a minute, but when he didn’t finish, she brushed by him and yanked the pot of heated water off the stove.

“I’ve been gone too long,” she said. “I need to get back to the store.”

“Dammit, Rhea!” He was across the room before she could catch her next breath. His hands gripped her upper arms and shook her, gently, but enough to get her attention. “I just don’t want to hurt you anymore. Why can’t you believe that?”

“I want to.”

She let him pull her closer, but turned her face away from his.

“I came back because I missed you, and I wanted to earn your trust again.” His fingers tightened around her arms. “So help me, I couldn’t stand being away from you for another minute.”

“It hasn’t been a lot of fun for me, either,” she retorted. “But it is what it is. I can’t help what I feel for you any more than you can help what you
don’t
feel for me.”

“You have to know—”

She pressed her hand against his mouth. “Don’t. I’m too tired to fight about this anymore. Let’s just leave it alone, okay?”

His mouth opened beneath her hand, but she shook her head.

“You didn’t come back to stay, and every day you’re here makes it harder for me to remember that.”

His only answer was to tighten his lips.

“I’m trying my best to accept what this is.” She choked over a small sob. “Or what it isn’t. But all it’s doing is turning me into a half-crazed lunatic.”

She covered the milk pail with a cloth and reached for the door, but he reached past her and pushed it shut. He was so close she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back.

“Before you go,” he said, his voice full of regret, “I need your help.”

“With what?” She slumped against the door and waited. All she wanted to do was go back to the store.
At least there she could concentrate on something, even if it was only a bowl of mismatched buttons.

He pulled a large piece of white cloth from his pocket and set it on the table.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said as he stepped back, easing his jacket down one arm, then the other.

Guilt flooded Rhea. “Is it your shoulder?”

He chuckled quietly but shook his head.

“Was it the fight with Colin?”

He didn’t answer, just began unbuttoning his shirt. Rhea blinked hard. What were those stains? And why was he grimacing so much?

Her mouth tasted of dust. Deacon never took off his shirt in front of her. And now that he’d pulled it open, she wished he’d put it back on.

Wrapped around his torso was the nastiest piece of cloth she’d ever seen. Caked in blood and God only knew what else, the filthy rag looked as though it would need to be scraped away from his skin. And if that didn’t kill him, the infection probably would.

“What the—” Rhea gasped. Colin couldn’t have done that to him.

“I need you to clean it and rewrap it with the other bandage.” He slipped the shirt off and stood facing her. “Can you do that?”

“I, um…oh, Deacon.” She set the milk down and inhaled a shaky breath. She could do this; she might need to vomit, but she had to help him.

Pinching the end of the rag between her fingers, she began to ease it away from his stomach as gently as she could. The first time it stuck, he sucked in a sharp breath; the second time, he pressed his hand over hers to stop her from pulling it any further.

The third time, he pushed her hands out of the way and with a gut-wrenching howl, ripped the rest of the
cloth from around his body and let it fall to the floor. Rhea stumbled back in absolute horror.

Ragged, angry slash marks crisscrossed his rib cage, but there was no doubt those marks were simply the ends of the real wounds. “What happened?”

Once he’d caught his breath, he tried to shrug it off, but even that made him wince.

“Let me see your back.”

“It’s worse,” he muttered, stepping away from her.

“All the more reason to see it.” When he hesitated, she looked up at him. “I’ve seen it before, remember?”

“Yes, but that was when they were healed over. It’s different when they’re fresh.”

She had no answer for that. All she could do was swallow hard and nod. “Turn.”

Very slowly, Deacon turned in a half circle. As ghastly as his sides were, it hadn’t prepared her for the shock of his back. She swallowed the gasp that started in her throat and blinked past the tears that sprang to her eyes. Regardless of what he’d done to her, she didn’t need to shame him with her horrified fear.

It was impossible to tell how many lashes had sliced into his back, but it looked as though each one had curled around his body, which would explain the gaping wounds along his ribs.

She pulled a strand of dirty string out of the gaping wound, causing him to jump as if she’d shot him again. “Sorry,” she muttered. “They need to be cleaned out.”

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just do it quickly.”

Rhea twisted the chair around and motioned for him to sit. “Where’s the whiskey when you really need it?”

“Still swooshing around in my shoulder.” Deacon’s grin was just short of pathetic.

“What happened?”

He straddled the chair and leaned his arms over the back. “Don’t ask.”

“I’m asking.” She used the warmed water from the coffeepot, wet a cloth and set to cleaning each slash as gently as she could. What could make someone do this to another person? Her hand froze in midair as Deacon spoke.

“My father stopped by for a visit this morning.”

She forced in a breath, then swallowed. “Your…he was
here
?”

“He’s only interested in me.”

The devil himself had come to Penance. Breathe. Focus. Deacon needed help.

“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get infection from that filthy rag.” She tsked, forcing another breath. The devil had come to Penance, and she was cleaning his son’s wounds. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and tried to push the madness of the whole thing out of her mind. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

He turned his head a little and flashed her a quick wink. “It was a little difficult to get a word in between you and your brother, especially once he started swinging.”

“That’s not funny.” She flicked the back of his ear. “Stand up.”

He pushed up from the chair and straightened, but not before she saw him wince again.

The cuts across his ribs had stopped bleeding, but they were still oozing and raw. With every touch of the cloth, he flinched, which in turn made her start.

“I-I don’t even know what to say about this,” she murmured.

“Don’t say anything.”

He’d been sliced open over and over again, and she wasn’t supposed to say anything?

“But this is just so—”

He covered her hand with his and left it there until she looked at him. “Please.”

The words she couldn’t find a moment ago danced across her tongue, pushing to be set free, but that look on his face—part weariness, part humiliation—made her stop. She cleaned the rest of them in silence, keeping her head bowed so he wouldn’t see her tears.

So much pain…

She had no idea how much time passed. As long as it seemed to her, it must have been a hundred times worse for Deacon. When she’d finished, she dashed her hand across both eyes and stood.

“You should leave these open to the air for a while so they can heal.”

“I can’t do that,” he said, his voice flat. “Just wrap it.”

After a moment, she nodded briefly and unfolded the cloth to one long, wide strip. She held the end out to him, but instead of taking it, he circled her wrist with his long fingers and held her still.

“Rhea.”

She looked up at him, blinking past the pain she felt for him and his poor beaten body. But she must not have blinked hard enough.

Deacon swiped the pad of his thumb beneath her eye, catching the tear before it fell. “Don’t waste these on me,” he murmured. “I’m not worth it.”

He took the end of the cloth and held it against his stomach, but it took her a moment before she was able to move. Holding the cloth firmly, she walked in a slow circle around him, making sure she covered each gash as much as possible.

When she was done, she fastened the end to the top layer with a pin and stepped back. She didn’t know where to look or what to do now.

“Thank you.” Deacon reached past her and retrieved his stained shirt from the table.

“You’re welcome.” She scooted out of the way and retrieved the bucket of milk. “I need to get back.”

“Rhea, wait.”

She closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest.

Deacon’s breath whispered across her neck, sending goose bumps racing down her arms.

“Kit’s going to keep on pestering you,” he said, his voice laced with regret. “But no matter what she says or does, you need to stay strong. Don’t give her anything she can use against you, and if you can figure out a way, try to block her from seeing…inside. Keep your guard up around her.”

“I will,” she said quietly. “I have enough problems without either one of you being able to use my feelings against me.”

He lifted a strand of her hair and twirled it between his fingers. “I would never do that to you.”

Trembling, she pulled his hand away and pressed it against his own chest. “You do it every time you touch me.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

B
y the time Rhea made it back to the store, Ernest had locked up and gone home. Just as well; the last thing she needed was him asking questions or hovering.