Runaway. Carolyn Davidson

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       Runaway

       Carolyn Davidson

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

       CAROLYN DAVIDSON

      Writing about small towns, ranches and farms comes naturally to Carolyn Davidson, who hails from a long line of farmers on her mother’s side. From her father’s side of the family, a strain of Gypsy blood lent flights of fancy to the mix, creating a child with a wild imagination. In her early years she made up stories to tell her nieces and nephews; as a teenager she wrote them in notebooks.

      

      Then came marriage to her high school sweetheart, a union that thrives today and has produced six children. Only when the nest was empty did she try her hand at serious writing. Serious, as in love and marriage. Romance, in a word. After selling seven novels during the past few years, she has decided that writing is far and away the most exciting venture she has embarked upon.

      

      Be sure to look for Carolyn’s next book, The Wedding Promise, available in October 1998. Readers’ comments are more than welcome in her mailbox, P.O. Box 60626, North Charleston, S.C. 29419-0626.

      To old friends, who only improve with age.

      To childhood memories and growing-up years. To those who have shared my life and enriched it—but especially to cousins Shirley and Kate, my first friends, who have wonderful staying power. And, as always—to Mr. Ed, who loves me.

       Prologue

       North Texas, 1894

      His hands curved, fingers spread, as if ripe peaches waited to be grasped and held against his palms. But the avid, greedy heat of his gaze focused not on a tempting display of fruit, but on the gently rounded breasts of the young woman across the room from where he stood.

      “Your mama would have wanted me to look after you, Cassie.” Thin and rasping, his voice grated on her ears, and the girl backed another step closer to the doorway.

      “I’ll take good care of you, girl.” He’d begun to wheedle now, and she recognized the direction of his thoughts. She’d seen him, heard him distract her mother with his coaxing, whining small tributes to her fading beauty, until he could reach out and grab the woman he’d sorely misused for three years.

      One more step and she would be within sight of freedom. One small glide to the right, the careful easing of her foot past his rumpled pile of clothing, and she would flee. She could outrun him, once she made the doorway. He’d had enough to drink, waiting for Cleta’s last breath to sigh past her ashen lips, to make him clumsy, to make his voice slur as he spoke.

      “Your mama’s barely cold. We need to see to her bury-in’, you and me.” He lifted his grimy hand to swipe beneath his nose, and Cassie’s flesh crawled, as if hundreds of small worms moved beneath her skin.

      She slid her foot a few inches, brought the other to meet it and caught sight of filtered sunlight, patterned across the floor of the next room. Her hands flattening on the wall behind her, she groped for the curved molding marking the doorway.

      “Don’t be thinkin’ you’ll run off, girl. We got things to settle here. Your mama told me you’d need lookin’ after, and who better than your pa to tend to you.” The same hand he’d smeared beneath his nose extended toward her, the ragged fingernails rough against her arm, and she bolted.

      Shuddering at his touch, she rounded the doorway, blinking at the sunlight, her eyes accustomed to the dark bedroom. She’d huddled next to the lumpy mattress for hours, tending the woman who’d lost almost all resemblance to the mother she remembered.

      “Come back here, young’un!” Remus Chandler plunged after her, his lips drawn back, his tobacco-stained teeth bared in a grim travesty of a smile. His curved fingers snagged the fringe of her shawl and he tugged sharply.

      It was a simple choice, and Cassie made it without a second thought. Releasing the hold she’d maintained during the night hours, when the shawl had been a matter of warmth, she relinquished it into his keeping. She scampered across the outer room, past the rough table that held the remnants of Remus Chandler’s breakfast, along with the dirty plate from his meal last night.

      Was it only yesterday when she’d found her mother curled on the bed, breath rasping as if she must conserve each small measure of air? Cleta had mumbled words of instruction against Cassie’s cheek. Words that warned of the evil inherent in the man she had married, both mother and daughter long since ruing the day.

      “Run, child. Get away…Remus…hide, Cassie.” Cleta’s frail voice had moaned the broken phrases and Cassie had brushed countless kisses against her mother’s brow, whispering words of assurance in reply.

      “I’ll be fine, Mama. Rest easy now.” She’d cried her tears in the months gone by, and now her eyes were dry, burning from the sleepless night. Hours without rest had left her body weary, but her mind and senses were sharpened, honed by the fear instilled in her by her mother. Remus Chandler was cruel, rotten to the core, and her legal stepfather. Only the needs of the frail woman who’d borne her had served to keep Cassie within the man’s clutches.

      Now his groping hand tugged at her dress, sharp fingernails digging at the flesh beneath, and Cassie cried out at the indignity of it. She reached back to snatch the cloth from his grasp and met the bony grip, his fingers wrapping around her wrist.

      “Let go of me, you filthy bastard!” As if it were familiar to her lips, the curse was spit in his direction, and he met it with a snarl.

      “I’ll teach you to talk to your pa thataway, girl!” His other hand reached for her and he shoved her to the wall, slamming her head against the logs.

      Pitching her slight weight against him, she retaliated, and caught him off balance. Together, looking like a tipsy pair of dancers in a barroom, they slid across the floor, Remus tottering, Cassie shoving him in a desperate attempt to free herself from his grasping hands.

      The table was against his back and his whiskey-laden breath was foul in her nostrils when he pulled her flush against his scrawny body. She reached to balance herself on the table, and her fingers met the sharp side of the knife he’d used to saw at his stringy beef last night.

      She grasped at it, unaware of the slice she inflicted across her palm. Allowing the knife to slide within her clasp, she gripped the bone handle with a fierceness that radiated to her very soul.

      Lifting the weapon, she plunged it to the hilt. It entered his back just next to his shoulder blade, the tip exploring the very center of his heart.

       Chapter One

      It looked like a bundle of clothing, tossed by the side of the stream, until he caught sight of a bare foot emerging from the froth of undergarments.

      If Will had had his druthers, he’d have finished watering his horse and gone on his way without a second glance. But the upbringing he’d received at