She rolled onto her back, groaning. The sides of the old cellar were oozing springtime mud, the sun filtered through the remaining beams above her and the gash in her arm no longer seemed quite so desperate. She still felt sick and weak, but from somewhere in the back of her brain came the memory that blood usually had that effect on her. Especially her own.
And then she heard the sound again, the low whine. “Beastie,” she croaked weakly, but the sound was barely audible. “Beastie,” she tried again, but it was useless.
There was a great crashing of wood, and an old beam thundered down, missing her head by inches. “What the hell are you doing down there?” Patrick’s angry voice demanded. Molly had never heard anything so annoyingly welcome in her entire life.
“Taking a nap,” she snapped. “What did you think?”
But he was gone again, and she almost called after him. He couldn’t have left her there, could he? But then, what did she really know about him? Maybe he wanted to finish what he started.
And then she heard a crashing about at the far end of the structure, and she closed her eyes in relief. He hadn’t left her. If he’d been the one to push her he would hardly have come to rescue her. In a moment he was beside her, his eyes dark with a fear and an anger that woe both oddly comforting. “Are you all right?” he asked unnecessarily, poking at her arm.
“I...I guess so,” she stammered weakly. “I hurt my arm, but that’s about it. I think.”
“You did, indeed,” he said grimly, his hands gentle as he probed for possible damage. She didn’t like it, the impersonal feel of his hands on her body, touching her with the same care and interest he might show a wounded horse. Perhaps less. “And it serves you right,” he added. “What the hell were you doing, wandering around here? It’s dangerous; any fool would know that! Did you have some incredible urge to return to the scene of the crime, to see how much damage you did? If it weren’t for Beastie I might never have found you.”
During this tirade he managed to lift her up in his arms with a tenderness at amazing variance with the harshness in his voice, and he carried her out into the brilliant sunlight by the remaining flight of stone steps.
“Are you always so angry?” she asked wearily, leaning her head against his shoulder, too weak and tired to fight.
“With you, yes,” he answered grimly, stalking down the road and jarring her poor, bruised body with every step.
“How did you happen to fall? Didn’t you have enough sense to keep your distance from the edge? Or were you too fascinated by the ruins...?”
“I didn’t fall. I was pushed.”
The silence that followed was overwhelming, and she half expected him to drop her in the middle of the road. He didn’t, but his expression grew even more grim.
“Still dramatizing, Molly?” he drawled in an unpleasant voice. “I would have thought you’d get tired of being the center of attention all the time.”
“You don’t believe me?” she demanded, fury wiping out the last of her shock and fear.
“Not for a moment. No one else would either, so you might as well save your breath. Why would anyone want to shove you down in the cellar? If they were trying to kill you there are a lot more effective ways.”
She shoved at him, desperate to break his hold on her, but she’d forgotten how strong he was. He simply tightened his grip, almost painfully, as he stalked toward the house, and she gave up her fruitless struggle as a belated, comforting thought hit her. His anger at her story, his disbelief, was honest. If he refused to believe she’d been pushed, then he couldn’t be the one who’d pushed her. The true culprit would have lied to cover for himself, or tried to throw suspicion on someone else. Her enemy, her nemesis, had to be someone else.
She was almost smiling by the time they reached the house. She sat in the kitchen, watching her husband glower at her, while Mrs. Morse clucked and moaned in distress and Uncle Willy, who was already slightly the worse for alcohol at such an early hour, kept his pale, watery eyes averted from the steadily oozing blood as he tried to make encouraging noises.
Dr. Turner arrived, a grumpy, middle-age woman who seemed annoyed at being bothered. She poked at Molly, with even less care than Patrick had evinced, bandaged her up, and pronounced her none the worse for a little shock, all with an audience of interested bystanders. “But you should be more careful, Mrs. Winters,” she said gravely, snapping her battered case shut. “All you’ll feel is a little stiffness. It could have been a lot worse. You could have hit your head again, and then we’d have to put you in the hospital for observation. I imagine you’ve had enough of hospitals for the time being.”
“Yes, Dr. Turner,” she murmured in a docile voice, thoughts racing through her head. She could have been killed. And someone had pushed her, she knew it as well as she... Well, she didn’t know anything about herself too well, but she knew that she’d been pushed. Patrick had already made it dear that no one would believe her, and she didn’t bother trying to explain. If no one would listen, why should she waste her breath?
Except that Patrick was watching her with an odd expression behind the annoyance in those blue, blue eyes. Maybe he believed her after all. Maybe he knew she’d been pushed because he was the one who’d pushed her, and he’d been afraid to finish her off for fear Toby would return and see him.
Dr. Turner was already heading for the door. Molly racked her brain, trying to think of a discreet way to call her back. Finally, Mrs. Morse spoke up.
“Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask Dr. Turner about, Molly?”
Four pairs of eyes turned to stare at her, with Patrick’s being the most suspicious.
“Well, young lady?” Dr. Turner demanded when Molly didn’t say anything. “Is this an emergency?”
“Er...no.”
“Then call my office and make an appointment like everyone else. I’ve already been here too long as it is. Next time, Patrick, you take her to the emergency room.”
“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Patrick said in a quiet voice. And Molly wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or terrified.
“I think you’d better spend the rest of the day in bed,” Patrick announced after Dr. Turner had left. “And from now on you aren’t allowed out unless someone goes with you.”
