Trilby. Diana Palmer
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to one of his men and sent him after a suitable mount. Trilby had gone back into the house at the beginning of the unpleasantness, but she was hopelessly drawn to the window as she heard the sickening thuds abate. What she saw made her run for the back porch, where she was violently sick.
While she was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping hot, sweet tea to calm her nerves, Thorn came in with her father. He was bare-headed, his face cut and badly bleeding, like his knuckles.
“Can you do something for Vance, Trilby?” her father asked curtly. “Your mother is in the bedroom and she won’t come out.”
Trilby didn’t blame her. “Of course,” she said, bucking up. She could hardly contain her nausea. The smell of blood was overwhelming. She got a pan and went to the sink, adding a clean cloth to the water she pumped into it. She sat down at the table beside a weary Thorn and slowly began to clean his cuts. She didn’t look into his eyes. In fact, he didn’t lift them; he acted oddly subdued. Perhaps, she thought bitterly, he was in pain. She had to fight the urge to leave the room and let him stay that way, but her soft heart outweighed her outrage for the moment.
“I don’t understand why you wanted the Mexican turned loose,” Jack said irritably.
“Keeping him would cause his men to come after him,” Thorn explained, wincing when Trilby wiped his cut cheek. “Some Mexicans are like Apaches when they want revenge.”
Jack was beginning to get the picture. “I see.”
“I doubt it, but you’ll just have to take my word for it. They make a habit of raiding north of the border for cattle and selling them to a big landowner in the southern province of Sonora. I told them if I caught them on this side of the border again, I’d have a little talk with their benefactor. I don’t think we’ll see them again anytime soon. But there are other raiders. This isn’t the end of it.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” He grimaced as he saw Thorn’s face. The man had helped him, despite the damage he’d done. “You look terrible.”
“Fighting isn’t pretty. Is it, Trilby?” he asked her, with a glint in his dark eyes as he suddenly looked up, full at her.
She averted her eyes. “No.” She had to choke the word out. “What did he say that made you attack him?”
“I’ll never tell you that,” he said solemnly. “He did it to provoke me, hoping he could catch me off-guard and put that knife into my belly.”
“Your Indian friend,” Jack said uneasily. “He’s not what I expected.”
“He’s not what anyone expects,” Thorn replied. “Thank God for his skill with a knife. I’d have been gutted but for him.”
“How fortunate for you that you weren’t,” Trilby said. Her eyes looked into his. “Am I to understand that you were actually defending me?” she asked, with quiet hauteur.
He caught his temper as it started to flare. When he spoke, his deep voice was soft. “Yes. No murderous bandit should be allowed to talk that way about a decent woman,” he said shortly.
She dipped the bloodstained cloth back in the water, noticing how pinkish the once clear water had become. She lifted it back to Thorn’s face. “But then, I’m not a decent woman, according to you,” she replied bitterly.
He caught her wrist tightly. His eyes were frankly apologetic. “Curt told me the truth. I’m sorry. More sorry than you realize.”
“Don’t ruin your image, Mr. Vance,” she said as she tugged her hand out of his grasp and continued her ministrations. “I hardly think apologies are part of your repertoire.”
Her father was hovering nearby. Thorn wished him in Montezuma. He needed to see Trilby alone, to see if he could mend the distance he’d put between them. She acted as if she despised him and he’d given her good reason. Even a blind man should have realized that her innocence was no pretense.
“Your man, the Apache,” Jack persisted. “He speaks English.”
“Does he, really?” Thorn asked, managing to look surprised.
Jack cleared his throat and walked out.
His absence gave Thorn the opportunity he’d wanted to patch things up with Trilby, if he could.
“Look at me,” Thorn said quietly. “Trilby…look at me.”
She forced her eyes down to his.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Did I frighten you that day?”
She flushed and turned away.
He got up, standing behind her. His lean hands caught her shoulders gently. “You’re upset. You’d never even been kissed, had you?” he said regretfully.
“No,” she said through her teeth. “And what you did…”
He let out a heavy breath. “Yes. What I did is something that belongs in a relationship between married people. You learned things about me that you’d never have known in the normal course of things.”
She flushed and was glad that he couldn’t see her face. “I’d better finish cleaning your face, Mr. Vance,” she said stiffly.
He turned her toward him, bending so that he could see her eyes. “Don’t hate me,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “I was wrong. I want to make amends.”
“Do you? Then please stay out of my way.” She laughed uneasily. “I want nothing to do with you.”
His face stiffened. He’d frightened and shocked her. She made him feel inadequate somehow. His hands fell from her shoulders and he sat back down again.
His attitude made her feel guilty. “You have my forgiveness if you think you need it, Mr. Vance. I’ll thank you for defending me, regardless. I’m sorry you were hurt on my behalf.”
“These little cuts?” he said heavily. “They sting, but they’re not much. I’ve had bullet wounds hurt worse. They tear the flesh when they penetrate.”
Her hand paused in midair. “Bullet…wounds?” She swayed and her knees turned to jelly.
He caught her as she went down, holding her propped against his strong body. “Trilby, for the love of God…”
She drew a slow breath and the nausea and the faintness began to dissipate. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “It’s just…there was so much violence!”
She felt fragile. So fragile. He bent suddenly and swept her up completely off the floor in his arms, turning into the living room, where her father had just reappeared from outside.
“Trilby, what’s wrong?” Jack asked.
“She fainted. I shouldn’t have mentioned bullet wounds,” Thorn said ruefully. “She needs to lie down.”
“Yes. Of course. This way.”
Her father led the way to her neat bedroom, standing aside to let Thorn carry her in and place her delicately on the white embroidered bedspread.
“Jack?” Mary Lang called suddenly, her voice almost hysterical. “Jack, where’s Teddy?”
“I think he’s out back with Torrance,” Thorn said over his shoulder.
“Oh, bother,” Jack muttered. “Trilby, dear. Are you all right?”
“Yes, Father,” she whispered. “I’m just a bit sick. And glad that you’re all right.”
He nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
Left briefly alone with Thorn, Trilby tried not to meet his eyes. He looked terribly cut up, and she wondered if that cut on his cheek would heal without leaving a scar.
“I’m sorry about all this,” he told her stiffly. “I guess you’ve