Running footsteps pounded the ground, going past her. Mary lay still, her body limp and her eyes closed.
She heard low cursing, and the footsteps returned. "Mary," a commanding voice said. "Are you all right?"
She managed to open her eyes and looked up at Clay Armstrong. He was soaked to the skin, his blue eyes furious, but his hands were gentle as he turned her onto her back and lifted her in his arms.
"Are you all right?" The words were sharper now.
The rain stung her face. "Yes," she managed, and turned her head into his shoulder.
"I'll get him," Clay promised. "I swear to you, I'll get the bastard."
There was no doctor in town, but Bessie Pylant was a registered nurse, and Clay carried Mary to Bessie's house. Bessie called the private practitioner for whom she worked and got him to drive over from the next town. In the meantime she carefully cleaned Mary's scrapes and put ice on the bruises, and began pouring hot, too-sweet tea down her. Clay had disappeared. Bessie's house was suddenly full of women; Sharon Wycliffe came and assured Mary that she and Dottie could handle things on Monday if Mary didn't feel like working; Francie Beecham told tales of her own teaching days, her purpose obvious, and the other women took their cues from her. Mary sat quietly, clutching so tightly at the blanket Bessie had wrapped around her that her knuckles were white. She knew the women were trying to divert her, and was grateful to them; with rigid control she concentrated on their commonplace chatter. Even Cicely Karr came and patted Mary's hand, despite the argument they'd had only a few hours before.
Then the doctor arrived, and Bessie led Mary into a bedroom for privacy while the doctor examined her. She answered his questions in a subdued voice, though she winced when he probed the sore place on the side of her head where the man had struck her with his fist. He checked her pupil response and her blood pressure, and gave her a mild sedative.
"You'll be all right," he finally said, patting her knee. "There's no concussion, so your headache should go away soon. A good night's sleep will do more for you than anything I can prescribe."
"Thank you for driving out here," Mary said politely.
Desperation was growing in her. Everyone had been wonderful, but she could feel a fine wire inside her being coiled tighter and tighter. She felt dirty and exposed. She needed privacy and a shower, and more than anything she needed Wolf.
She left the bedroom and found that Clay had returned. He came to her immediately and took her hand. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm all right." If she had to say that one more time, she thought she would scream.
"I need a statement from you, if you think you can do it now."
"Yes, all right" The sedative was taking effect; she could feel the spreading sensation of remoteness as the drug numbed her emotions. She let Clay lead her to a chair and pulled the blanket tight around her once more. She felt chilled.
"You don't have to be afraid," Clay soothed. "He's been picked up. He's in custody now."
That aroused her interest, and she stared at him. "Picked up? You know who it is?"
"I saw him." The iron was back in Clay's voice.
"But he was wearing a ski mask." She remembered that, remembered feeling the woolly fabric under her fingers.
"Yeah, but his hair was hanging out from under the mask in back."
Mary stared up at him, the numbness in her changing into a kind of horror. His hair was long enough to hang out from under the mask? Surely Clay didn't think—surely not! She felt sick. "Wolf?" she whispered.
"Don't worry. I told you he's in custody."
She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug crescents in her palms. "Then let him go."
Clay looked stunned, then angry. "Let him go! Damn, Mary, can't you get it through your head that he attacked you?"
Slowly she shook her head, her face white. "No, he didn't."
"I saw him," Clay said, spacing out each word. "He was tall and had long black hair. Damn it, who else could it have been?"
"I don't know, but it wasn't Wolf."
The women were silent, sitting frozen as they listened to the argument. Cicely Karr spoke up. "We did try to warn you, Mary."
"Then you warned me about the wrong man!" Her eyes burning, Mary stared around the room, then turned her gaze back to Clay. "I saw his hands! He was a white man, an Anglo. He had freckled hands. It wasn't Wolf Mackenzie!"
Clay's brow creased in a frown. "Are you certain about that?"
"Positive. He put his hand on the ground right in front of my eyes." She reached out and grabbed his sleeve. "Get Wolf out of jail, right now. Right now, do you hear me! And he'd better not have a bruise on him!"
Clay got up and went to the telephone, and once again Mary looked at the women in the room. They were all pale and worried. Mary could guess why. As long as they had suspected Wolf, they had had a safe target for their fear and anger. Now they had to look at themselves, at someone who was one of them. A lot of men in the area had freckled hands, but Wolf didn't His hands were lean and dark, bronzed by the sun, callused from years of hard manual work and riding. She had felt them on her bare skin. She wanted to shout that Wolf had no reason to attack her, because he could have her any time he wanted, but she didn't. The numbness was returning. She just wanted to wait for Wolf, if he came at all.
An hour later he walked into Bessie's house as if he owned it without knocking. An audible gasp rose when he appeared in the doorway, his broad shoulders reaching almost from beam to beam. He didn't even glance at the other people in the room. His eyes were on Mary, huddled in her blanket her face colourless.