Free Amelia by Diana Palmer Page B

their father's incredible cruelty, could offer her no help. He lived in barracks. And if she told him, what then? How could she show to any man, even her own brother, the proof of her accusations? Her own modesty protected her father as much as her fear for his health and well-being.
    Men were such brutes sometimes, her mother had said once when Hartwell had been in a fight over a political race. She had smiled, though, and Hartwell had chuckled at her comment. They had been so happy…
    She looked at the bruise on her wrist and remembered trying to snatch it from King's ruthless, steely grip. But it was his mouth that she felt when she touched her wrist. What an odd thing for him to have done, to kiss the hurt he'd inflicted. Her skin tingled, her heart leaped, with the memory of his shocking tenderness. It had angered him, that lapse. Perhaps it was why he had said such terrible things about her.
    She had to remember that her father had been kind and pleasant until the death of her brothers. How could she ever trust her life to a man, knowing what she did about their dark side? And in marriage there would be much worse than a male hand wielding a riding crop.
    A distant cousin and her husband had come to visit only once, at Christmas while her mother was still alive. Amelia had awakened one night to pitiful, wrenching sobs and pleas, followed by a muffled scream coming from the bedroom her cousin was using. The violent sounds had shocked and then frightened Amelia. The scream had terrified her. It had been followed by more sobbing, but by then Amelia had the pillow over her head, shivering. It had convinced her that a man's brutality was not limited to a lifted hand, and she was terrified of what would happen in marriage, in the darkness behind a closed door.
    Her lack of suitors was due as much to her own repugnance of men as to her father's watchfulness. She remembered King's mouth on her wrist and palm, though, and wondered vaguely at the pleasure it had given her, at the sensations it had produced in her virginal body.
    King had felt that same pleasure, she was certain of it. She had, after all, seen his hand shake. Amazing, she marveled, that he despised her but could still be attracted to her. Not that he wanted to be, she realized. He'd made that very plain to his mother. She turned her hot cheek into the pillow. A minute later, she pillowed it on the wrist that King had kissed and went to sleep.
    Â 
    The trail had grown cold for Quinn. He lost it in the Guadalupes and had just started, reluctantly, back down to the valley below, when he spotted three riders with pack mules in the distance.
    In the wilderness, it paid to be careful. He withdrew his rifle from its saddle sheath and urged his mount slowly down the path, his keen dark eyes never leaving the distant riders. He worked his way down and around behind them, using all his skills not to be detected.
    When they stopped and dismounted, he did, also. He moved quietly through the underbrush in a stop/start motion like that of an animal. Only man, he knew, made rhythmic footsteps.
    He hesitated just at the edge of their camp with his rifle ready. But there was something familiar about those men, especially the eldest.
    When he realized his mistake, he laughed out loud. The sound brought the three men around, the oldest one reaching for his sidearm before he recognized Quinn.
    "For heaven's sake!" Brant Culhane chuckled, holstering his pistol. He went forward to shake the Ranger's hand. "What are
you
doing way up here?"
    "Tracking Rodriguez," he told Brant. "Hello, Father. And you, Alan."
    "Rodriguez is dead, they say," Brant Culhane mused. " Or invisible."
    "He is neither, I assure you," Quinn said wearily. "I grow tired of pursuing him however. How is Amelia?"
    "Very well," Hartwell said curtly. "She is staying with Enid while we're away."
    Quinn frowned. "And King?" he added.
    "Certainly, and King," Hartwell muttered. His dislike of King was apparent. "Your