"An inspirational romantic adventure that reveals the truth that we are never alone in this world."
Reviewed by Viki Ferrell
Posted August 8, 2011
Romance Historical | Christian
Clayton Proffitt is outraged when he learns why Vanessa
Grant is crying in the dark in the barn of her family's
ranch. Price Venture, her stepfather, has beaten her and
violated her. As foreman of the ranch, Clayton promised
Vanessa's father before he died that he would always take
care of her. Clay feels his only option is to leave the
ranch and get Vanessa to safety. Gathering just a few
items, they leave on horseback during the night.
After riding for a few days, Clayton stops at an old
friend's home. Ken Wiloughby was a tracker for Clayton
during the Civil War. When Ken learns of their
circumstances, he insists Vanessa and Clayton should be
married, for her own protection, and he is just the man to
do the honors. Ken is now a minister. In a whirlwind,
Clayton and Vanessa marry, but Clayton promises Vanessa
they will not consummate their marriage until she is healed
both physically and emotionally from this ordeal. He also
gives her the option of walking away from the marriage any
time she wants.
Their journey is long and tedious as they finally arrive at
Clay's sister's home in Colorado. They are welcomed with
open arms by Corrine and her husband Merritt. After a few
days, Clay leaves Vanessa at the ranch and sets out to seek
work. He feels he needs this time away to sort out his
feelings for her and to give Vanessa time to do the same.
Meanwhile, Price Venture and Vanessa's brother, Miles,
strike their own trail to find her. Price is out for
revenge and only wants her back to have his way with her
and for the money her father left her. Miles goes along to
try to put Price off track, slow them down and protect
Vanessa as much as he can. Can this have a happy outcome?
What will happen between Clay and Vanessa?
A TEXAN'S PROMISE is an inspirational romantic adventure
through the Midwest, set just a few years following the
Civil War. It's a tale about the fear of being alone in
this world and depending on God's guidance in every area of
your life. Shelley Gray has penned a touching story
in this first book in her new series, Heart of a Hero. If
you like historical romances, you'll enjoy this one.
SUMMARY
Past promises will be tested as new ones are given...
When Clayton Proffitt, foreman of the Circle Z Ranch in
Texas, discovers Vanessa Grant crying in the barn late one
night, he first thinks she’s gotten herself into another
scrape. But when he spies the marks on her back and hears
about her stepfather’s advances, Clayton knows he must
spirit Vanessa away to safety.
As they make their way west, it becomes apparent that
there’s something special between Vanessa and Clayton— far
more significant than mere friendship or his sense of duty.
Unfortunately, also heading west are Vanessa’s brother Miles
and her stepfather Price Venture. Price wants Vanessa back
for obvious reasons; Miles wants to earn his stepfather’s
respect. Eventually, unexpected confrontations reach a
harrowing conclusion. As their family begins to heal, their
journey and trials they've faced helps them realize their
future is in God's guiding hands.
Excerpt"Vanessa, honey, why you crying?"
Clayton! He stood in the doorway to the stables, his
pres- ence both a soothing balm and a source of panic.
Vanessa gingerly leaned back against the wood behind
her, willed herself to relax, but it was no good. It was
going to be some time before she could calm down
again. "I’m sorry I woke you."
"You didn’t." His eyes narrowed as he stepped
closer. "It’s midnight. Isn’t it awfully late for you to be
out of bed?"
Yes. Yes, it was. It was too late for a lot of things
now. Wiping her eyes with the side of her fist, she shook
her head. "I’ll go in soon."
Clayton crouched beside her, his knees brushing her
skirts. A puff of dust flew up, mixing with his scent, all
bay rum and horses. "Care to tell me what happened?"
She was thankful for the darkness. "No."
He rocked back on his heels. "It might make you feel
better." Just his presence made her feel better, but that
was how it always had been. Though only twenty-nine,
Clayton Proffitt was the foreman of her family’s ranch, had
been soon after her pa had hired him six years ago. When Pa
had died, Clayton kept the place going for her mother.
Now that Ma remarried, Clayton had proved to be the most
upstanding man she’d ever met. The differences between him
and her stepfather were like night and day.
He’d always been patient and kind to her. Had always
had time for her when no one else had. Even more
importantly, he knew the Bible well, and often referred to
it whenever she sought his advice. Consequently, his
opinion mattered more to her than anyone else’s.
Which was exactly why she couldn’t tell him what hap-
pened. Desperately, she breathed deep. Inhaled his scent,
his goodness, before tucking her chin to her chest. "It’s
nothing. I’m . . . fine, Clay. I’ll be out of your way in a
minute. Sorry I disturbed you."
She moved to get up, but his hand stilled her. "I didn’t
say you disturbed me. I don’t think you ever could."
Peering closer, his expression softened as one calloused
finger touched her cheek. "Now. There’s got to be a reason
you’re out here crying after midnight. What happened?"
She wanted to tell him. But if she did, he’d just
shoulder all her hurt and responsibility, making her wish
that she was less of a burden.
She hated being nineteen and unmarried. Too old to ask
for help; too innocent to be self-sufficient.
"Well, if you’re not going to get up, I guess I’m just
going to have to join you, hmm?" Clay sat beside her,
stretched his legs out next to hers, making her feel petite
and insignificant. With no small amount of humor in his
eyes, he sighed dra- matically. Just like he had when
Delaney Brewster had teased her about having arms and legs
like sticks. Back when she’d taken to praying every night
for God to stop taking His time to make her a woman.
"Looks like you’re going to make me guess," he
teased. "Let’s see . . . George Law forgot to call on you
today."
Oh, Clay was so sweet to her. She hated to disappoint
him. "It’s not that."
"Ben Forte didn’t say how pretty you looked in that peri-
winkle gown you like so much."
Periwinkle. Vanessa hiccupped. The only reason Clay knew
such a word was that she’d corrected him when he said her
purple dress was fetching. "I’m not crying about a boy."
"Well then?" He folded an arm around her shoulder and
was about to squeeze her tight when she winced.
He turned, one knee facing her hip. "Vanessa?" he mur-
mured. His voice turned concerned. There was no trace of
humor lingering in his voice. "What happened?"
How could she tell him? "It’s nothing." It was
everything.
His eyes narrowed. "I don’t think so." With one finger,
he tilted her chin up, tilted her head so it moved into the
lone ray of glimmering moonlight shimmering down from the
loft’s window.
She knew the moment he saw the bruise on her
cheek. "I’ll be fine."
Tender fingers, so gentle, brushed her hair back from
her face. But his gaze had hardened. "You’re bleeding."
"My cheek is, too?"
"Too?" Shifting again, he propped himself on one knee.
Looking her over a little more closely. "Vanessa, what
happened?"
"I . . . I didn’t realize . . . " Shame—and the
lethal glare in his eyes—cut off her words. What
would she do if he thought she was unworthy? Ever since
her pa had died, she’d felt alone except for Clay. If he
turned away from her, she’d have no one left.
"Realize what?" His voice was hoarse. Urgent. Still he
touched her, petting her hair, tracing the swelling on her
cheek.
Against her will, the tears flowed again. Frustrated,
she mopped them with her sleeve, then winced as the action
brushed fabric across her back. "I . . . I can’t do this,
Clay. I can’t say it."
Clayton changed to a near crouch. Gone were all the
traces of brotherly affection. In its place was everything
that had made him a brilliant soldier. Determination.
Fortitude. Strength. "Let me see you. Let me see your
back."
Clay’s voice was firm. It was the voice he used when
order- ing cowhands around. The tone he used when Lovey,
Vanessa’s shepherd, forgot she was supposed to be working
and there were still twenty head of cattle to bring in.
It was the tone Clay used with her brother Miles when
Clay’s patience was at its wit’s end. He’d never spoken
that way to her before. Ever.
"Now, Vanessa."
Obediently, she turned her shoulders, closing her eyes
at his sharp intake of breath. As he very gently touched
her torn gown, she stiffened, then exhaled in relief when
his touch didn’t hurt, it was so butterfly-quick.
"Who did this to you? Price? Was it Price?"
She turned back to face him, stunned to find him shak-
ing. Stunned to see mist in his brown eyes. Almost
roughly, he cradled her jaw with one of his
hands. "Answer me, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. He’d done that for years. Called her a whole
host of endearments whenever they were alone. She supposed
it was because a couple of months after they’d buried her
daddy, she’d confided to Clayton how she missed the words.
Her pa had been openly affectionate, her mother far less so.
Clayton now called her "baby," "darlin’," "sweetheart,"
and "honey." Anything to make her smile. Anything to make
her feel wanted.
Never had the words seemed anything but teasing.
Never had they sounded as heartfelt as they did this
minute.
"Vanessa, did your stepfather do this?"
She couldn’t lie. The truth hurt, almost as much as the
belt had. Yet, lying to Clay would hurt worse. She nodded.
Clayton looked at her for a good long moment, then, as
if he made a decision, he stood up and carefully helped
her to her feet. "Come here, honey." Taking her hand, he
led her to his room.
She’d seen it before. When Pa had gotten so sick, he’d
asked Clay to build himself a nice suite of rooms in the
back of the barn so their foreman could be within shouting
distance of the house. Made up of two rooms, it had a
bedroom and a small sitting area, complete with a stove.
Her pa had insisted on that, since everyone knew Clayton
Proffitt liked both his coffee and his privacy.
Her brother Miles said Clayton was uncannily self-suffi-
cient. He often chose to eat by himself instead of eating
with the ranch hands or joining the family in the dining
room.
She’d knocked on his door a time or two. Or fifty. He’d
always come out to help her with her horse or to listen
when she had a problem. More than once he’d made her tea
as he listened to her prattle on about anything and
everything.
But now, as they entered his bedroom, Vanessa hardly
had time to do more than inhale the scent of tobacco and
mint before he motioned for her to sit. She perched atop
his quilt, a crazy quilt she’d made for him four
Christmases ago.
After checking to see that his curtains were drawn, Clay
lit a kerosene lamp. Then he crouched in front of her
again. When he spied her cheek in the better light a look
of such concern crossed his face that Vanessa felt a fresh
surge of tears struggle to come forth. She bit her lip and
hoped for strength.
"Van, honey . . . what happened? You’ve got to tell me
the truth. At the moment, I’m thinking the worst."
If she said the words out loud, it would mean it had
really happened.
And that was too hard to come to grips with. "I . . .
can’t."
"It would be best if you did."
Those eyes of his, so gentle and soft brown, ended her
struggle. Tears fell again. "Please, Clay. Not yet." When
she saw her hands were trembling, she pushed them under a
fold in her skirt.
After a moment, he sat next to her, edging closer when
he saw what she needed. "Come here, honey."
With a sigh, Vanessa rested her head on his shoulder.
She closed her eyes and breathed deep, taking in his
scent, his warmth. Finding comfort in his powerful
strength. Maybe he wouldn’t leave her when he found out the
truth. Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.
Clay didn’t know where to put his hands. Vanessa’s back
was marred by two thick bloody welts, each one a good six
inches long. The tender skin was bruised and mottled.
Fabric from her dress looked to be embedded in each one.
And that was what he could see.
He was afraid she had other injuries, areas that hadn’t
drawn blood, hurts he couldn’t see. Finally settling on her
upper arms, he gently rubbed her, said all those nonsense
words his mama had said to him a hundred times, back when
he was small.
Said those words Vanessa had always craved, loving words
that showed she wasn’t alone, that someone cared.
"Hush now, sweetheart. It’ll be okay, Van."
Her crying continued, making his shoulder wet and his
heart break. Figuring she needed to shed the tears and he
needed time to control his anger, he held himself stiff and
fought for patience.
After another few minutes, she pulled back. "Oh, my!
Clayton, I’m so sorry—I’ve made a mess of you. I’ll
just go and—"
"You’re not going anywhere." Tilting her chin up, he
prayed she’d trust him. "Vanessa, please. Tell me. Now."
She seemed to weigh her choices, then just as quickly,
gave them up. "Price . . . hit me."
Clayton swallowed hard.
Oh, Price had done more than that. In the dim light he
saw the swelling under the bruise on her cheek, the cut on
her lip, the awareness in her eyes that a man’s strength
could hurt her badly.
Clayton was also well aware of the damage a leather
strap could do. "Why did he hit you?"
"Because he . . . because I wouldn’t . . . " She halted,
swal- lowed hard. Met his gaze, looked back down.
Oh, Lord, no. "Because you wouldn’t . . . what?"
Examining her closer, he spied a rip in her gingham near
the collar. Caught sight of a fingertip bruise.
"Because I wouldn’t . . . because he wanted . . . me.
Me?" She looked at Clayton, wonder in her eyes. "He said
horrible things. I couldn’t. I couldn’t, Clayton." Her eyes
turned wild.
He sought to calm the memories. Rubbing her arms, still
afraid to touch her anywhere else, he looked at her
directly. "I know, honey."
"Price grabbed me. Grabbed the collar of my dress. I
screamed."
"Then what happened?"
"He blocked the door, and I . . . I ran to the window."
She was shaking now, reliving the memory. Clayton linked
his fingers through hers. When she gazed at their joined
hands and drew a fortifying breath, he pushed her some
more, just like he used to do with the young boys in his
unit during the war. Sometimes, even the worst truths
needed to be admitted. "And then?"
"He went mad. He hit me. I tried to hit him back. And
then . . . then he pulled off his belt." She shuddered. "I
was so afraid."
"I know." Clay had seen Price display acts of violence
more and more throughout the past year.
Her pretty green eyes, so luminous and desperate,
stared at him in wonder. "I . . . I didn’t understand,
Clay. Why? Why now?"
Because she was beautiful. Because she was
untouched. "I don’t know," he lied.
"He struck me. I screamed and cried and tried to get
away—
but there was nowhere to go." "And then?"
She paused. "And then Momma rushed in and pulled him
away." With a ragged breath, she looked down at his
quilt. "Thank goodness she came."
She’d come far too late, by his estimate. Carefully,
Clay turned to look at her back again. "He struck you more
than once."
Back down went her chin. "I know."
"Did he . . . Vanessa, tell me the truth. Did he . . .
do more than that?"
Alarmed, she shook her head.
He was frightening her. Praying to the Lord for the
right words, Clayton carefully spoke again. "Honey, you
can tell me. You can tell me anything, remember?" he
coaxed. "Did he. . . undress?" He gazed at her legs, curled
tightly underneath her. "Did he force you to—" He
couldn’t say it. "Tell me the truth, sweetheart. I won’t
think—"
She stopped him by putting two fingers across his
lips. "When Momma came, he left. All Price did was hit
me. I promise."
Clayton glanced at her back again. The blood was drying,
right in sync with how the skin had swelled. Most likely,
she’d have scars across her upper back for the rest of her
life.
The thought of anyone hurting her so brought forth
another wave of anger. "Where was your brother? Where was
Miles?"
"I don’t know. Maybe in the hall? After Momma and Price
left, I locked my door and turned off my lantern. But I got
so scared, Clay. The room smelled like him. When things
were quiet, I came out here." She looked at him, begged him
with her eyes to understand. "I couldn’t stay in the house
any longer."
"I understand."
Wearily, she brushed a lock of hair away from her
forehead. "I . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do in the
morning."
He did. "I’m taking you away from here. You can’t stay
another night."
"But—"
"There’s been rumors that Price has a disease," he
said slowly, wondering how much to tell her about what the
women in Camp Hope were saying about Price, "that it’s
affecting his mind. You’re not safe." No way was he going
to let Price get within ten feet of Vanessa again.
"I can’t leave. Then I’ll have no one."
"You’ll have me." Once again, Clayton wished her family
had done more than gone to church when time allowed it.
Vanessa never seemed to realize that the Lord could be on
her side—if she’d open her heart to Him.
"But—"
"If we don’t leave, a locked door will never be enough
to keep your stepfather away." He gripped her
shoulders. "Do you understand, honey?"
"I do." She winced as she shifted.
Her pain brought him back to his responsibilities. He
needed to take care of her. Taking care of her had always
been his most important duty.
"But before we do anything, we’re going to have to fix
you up, sugar." Grateful for the small stove he’d insisted
on having, he stirred up the dying fire then poured a
small amount of water into the kettle he kept nearby. As it
heated up, he poured more water in a basin, then sorted
through his trunk and found his softest broadcloth. The
fabric was old and worn, too soft to wear on the
range—but perfect for Vanessa’s tender skin.
Finally, he searched and found an old handkerchief,
faded but clean. After pouring a liberal amount of hot
water in the basin, he crouched in front of Vanessa again.
Placing his hands on either side of her knees, he said, "We
need to doctor your back. Will you trust me?"
After a long moment, she nodded.
Oh, he hated this! Swallowing hard, he said, "Your
shirt— it needs to come off." Obediently, she
fumbled with her top button. Clay watched her attempt
loosen it but her hands shook so; tears of frustration
pooled in her eyes again. "Let me," he whispered, moving
her hands to one side.
Still kneeling in front of her, he unbuttoned the next
two, taking care not to brush her skin with his fingers.
Finally, the top of her blouse was open, a white camisole
peeking out underneath. A pair of dark bruises mottled the
fair skin near her collarbone.
He wanted to beat Price Venture.
After moving to sit by her side, Clayton gently guided
her arms out of the sleeves, then did his best to lift the
fabric from her back.
Vanessa winced as it stuck. "Oh, Clay."
"Lie . . . lie down on your stomach, sugar," he said,
giv- ing her his pillow to cradle. After smoothing her long
brown hair to one side, he dipped his bandanna in the warm
water. "I’m going to dampen the fabric, see if I can remove
the cloth easier. I’ll try not to hurt you."
"I’ll be fine, Clay."
Gingerly, he dabbed the top cut, heard her sharp intake
of breath, but continued when Vanessa said nothing.
After moistening it again, he loosened the fabric,
gently pulled it away from her skin. Clay’s hand shook as
he made progress. Finally one welt was revealed, then a
second. Under the second was evidence that Price had stuck
her a third time, her skin was bruised and swollen.
How could this have happened? What’s more, how had he
allowed it? How had he not heard her cries?
"Clay? Are you done?"
Her damaged shirt was wadded in his hands. Before him
lay Vanessa’s back, covered by a plain white cotton
camisole. Swallowing hard, he gently traced the line of the
top cut. To his eye, it was obvious cotton fibers were
still embedded. Though he hated the thought of hurting her
further, he knew he had no choice. If he didn’t clean it
well, infection would set in. "I’m going to have to wash
out these cuts."
"I . . . all right."
She squeezed her eyes shut. He didn’t blame her. During
the war, men had whimpered over less. Gently squeezing the
curve of her shoulder, he murmured, "It’s okay if you cry."
"I think I’m all cried out, Clay."
Knowing nothing would get done if he didn’t do it, Clay
steeled himself to her pain. Systematically, he cleaned her
injuries, doing his best to concentrate only on his duty,
not her sounds of discomfort. Finally, he poured a liberal
amount of hot water onto his bandana and dabbed.
Vanessa’s back arched in pain.
"It’s over, sugar." With shaking hands, he helped her
sit up. Next, he handed her one of his old shirts then
turned away so she could cover herself again in at least
the illusion of privacy.
"I’m dressed now."
He tried to smile at the picture she made. She was
indeed covered; his too-large shirt was wrapped around her
securely, like a robe. But it was her face that held his
attention. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she was
valiantly doing her best to keep them at bay.
"Some ointment would be a good idea, but it’s in the
back of the barn," he said, hardly recognizing the rasp in
his voice, thick from worry over her. "I’ll get it when I
go inside to get your things."
She moved to stand up. "I’ll go with you, Clay."
"No you won’t. I won’t let you go near Price again. Tell
me what you need."
"Dresses. Boots. Undergarments." After a brief pause,
she said, "Clay, maybe we should talk about this, talk
about your plans. I can’t ask you to leave the Circle Z."
"You didn’t ask me."
"This—what happened—it isn’t your concern."
How could she imagine it wasn’t? He’d promised her
father he’d take care of her. Had promised it with a hand
on his Bible. The vow was irrevocable. "It is. You are my
concern."
"Maybe Miles—"
Clayton cut her off. "Miles didn’t look after you
tonight. He won’t protect you tomorrow. Neither will your
mother. And this—" Able to look at her again now that
she was cov- ered, he added, "This will happen again."
"Maybe—"
"Honey, you know I’m right."
After a long moment, she nodded. "What can I do?"
On a peg was his mother’s old carpetbag. "Put some
coffee, beans, and bread in here." Remembering her tender
skin, he pointed to a soft wool blanket. "Roll that up,
it’s cold out." He opened the door, whistled for Lovey. The
pretty shepherd came running. "Stay," he ordered the
dog. "Guard Vanessa."
Unable to help himself, he turned to stare at Vanessa
again. She was standing by his lone chair, doing her best
to look brave but failing miserably. Lines of exhaustion
rimmed her eyes. The knowledge that it would be some time
before she could rest made his tone harsher than he meant
it to be. "Lock this door behind me. Don’t open it until I
come back. Do you hear me?"
Her eyes darted to the lock as if she wondered if it
could really keep her safe. "I do."
Her voice sounded unsure. Would she try to
bolt? "Vanessa, promise me."
His knot of fear dissipated as trust filled her gaze,
gifting him with a present he could hardly bear to
accept. "I promise. I won’t open this door for anyone but
you."
"I’ll be back within fifteen minutes."
"I’ll be waiting."
Clay knew where her room was. After letting himself in
through the back door, he climbed the stairs, then strode
toward her room. He hadn’t bothered to remove his boots; he
supposed half of him was itching for a fight.
When he heard nothing, he searched Vanessa’s room, pull-
ing out sturdy boots, undergarments, and calicos with the
ease of a lady’s maid. He silently thanked his sister
Corrine for being such a ninny. From the time she’d been
eight, he’d had the misfortune and experience of serving
as her dresser, thanks to their mother passing soon after
their little brother Scout had been born.
The silly chit had been blessed with a penchant for
numer- ous buttons and the sore inability to fasten them
easily.
The memories of Corrine’s vanity reminded him to grab
Vanessa’s silver-backed brush and combs. He was just gazing
at the pale ivory wool shawl she wore on Sundays,
remembering how pretty she looked with it wrapped around
her shoulders on her way to church, when Miles stepped in.
"Clayton? What are you doing in here?"
Miles was one year older than Vanessa. At twenty, he
was more than old enough to be a man. Unfortunately, no one
had seen him that way.
His father had ignored Miles’s assertions that he was
ready to manage the ranch, leaving it firmly in Clayton’s
hands.
When Price had come along, he too had kept a firm grip
on the boy, ignoring his ideas, tamping down his efforts
to accept responsibility. Now, few on the ranch thought
much of Miles. The twenty year old seemed destined to
falter forever on the brink of manhood—old enough to
be responsible but too green to be of use.
His somewhat tentative, almost lazy disposition had
driven
Clayton to distraction more than a time or two.
And now the boy had the audacity to ask why he was gath-
ering Vanessa’s things in the middle of the night. "I think
you have a fair idea why I’m here. It’s obvious your sister
can’t stay near Price a moment longer."
Miles’s eyes bugged. "You can’t just take her."
Clay felt like he was speaking to a child. "I can, and I
will." Twin spots of color splashed across his
face. "You’ve got to keep her here. You don’t know what
Price will do if she’s gone missing."
A sharp image of Vanessa’s back, damaged and hurting,
struck him hard. "I believe I do."
"Clayton, you need to stop and listen. Price . . . he
didn’t mean to get out of hand."
"Out of hand?" His patience snapped. Gripping Miles by
the shoulders, Clay pinned him in place. "He hit your
sister with a leather strap. He tried to do far worse."
"I know." Miles’s skin turned a pasty
white. "But—" Disgusted, Clayton dropped his hands,
shoved Miles to one side. "If you intend to talk some more,
do it outside. Your sis- ter’s waiting." Clay scooped up
Vanessa’s clothes and brushes, stuffed them into a
pillowcase. At the last minute, he added her shawl, her
diary, and her ivory fountain pen. There’d hardly been a
day go by that he hadn’t seen her writing.
He strode out the room, pausing as Marilyn peeked out
from the master suite. A cheek was bruised and swollen,
accentuat- ing the lack of color in her face.
Gesturing to the stuffed pillowcase, she
whispered, "You taking Vanessa, Clay?"
"I am."
Overwhelming relief flooded her features. "Good. Price
drank almost a bottle of whiskey. He won’t wake for
sometime. I’ll do my best to keep her disappearance quiet
for as long as possible."
Clay struggled for control. "Yes, ma’am."
She stepped forward and gripped his arm with a shaking
hand. "Tell Van I love her. I did my best—"
Clay couldn’t bear to hear anymore. To his way of think-
ing, Marilyn’s best had been a poor effort. "I will," he
said, cutting her off.
He felt sorry for Marilyn, but not enough to give her
com- fort. The woman should have known better. They’d all
known Price had only courted and married Marilyn for the
Circle Z. The man had never been anything but a drunkard
and a schemer.
Marilyn should have cared about that. She should have
done more for her daughter. Didn’t she remember what the
Bible said about taking care of God’s children?
With a start, Clayton realized Miles was still by his
side. "I need to go," he said to the boy before quickly
sprinting down the stairs as Marilyn disappeared back into
her room.
Miles padded after him. "Where will you take her?" he
asked as they walked through the kitchen and out the back
door. "What will you do with Vanessa?"
The night was still dark but already a mockingbird
cried in the distance. He needed to saddle up Lee and get
going. "You don’t need to know."
"How will I find her?"
"She’ll find you—if she ever cares to."
Miles’s soft face went slack. "There was nothing I could
do, Clay," he whined. "Price was going crazy. You
should’ve heard him."
"I should have heard him?" All the anger Clayton had
held at bay from the moment he’d seen Vanessa’s back
burgeoned forth. Violently, he grabbed Miles by the neck
and slammed him against the barn door. "You make me sick,
huddling in the hallway while your stepfather did his best
with your sister. Listening to her screams. Allowing him to
lay a hand on her. To touch her."
"But Clay—" "Don’t."
"Clay! Price is gonna be so angry when he finds out.
He’s going to send for the sheriff. Form a posse."
Clay knew that to be true. What he was doing was a hang-
ing offense, and no one would say different no matter how
many scars decorated Vanessa’s back or face.
He was about to thrust Miles away from him when he spied
something new in his expression. Determination? Bravery?
Clay dropped his hand. Gave him one last chance. "You’re
at a crossroads, Miles. You can tell Price what I did and
help him get your sister back or you can be a man and
protect her. I will keep her safe, you have my word."
Miles straightened his thin shoulders. "I know you will.
I’ll . . . do my best to help you."
Clay shook his head. His best wasn’t good enough.
Miles darted out a hand, stilling
him. "Clay—stop. I will protect her. The posse will
be called, but I’ll send them north. Clay. You . . . you
have my word. My vow."
His vow.
Clay looked at the horizon. Dawn would be breaking in
three hours and they had a long way to go.
But perhaps tonight Miles had finally decided to become
a man. "Don’t disappointment me."
Miles reached in his vest and pulled out a wad of
cash. "You’ll need this. Vanessa’s got some money at the
bank in her name, but this should tide you over."
Clay took the money. He, too, had some funds, but not
enough for an extended length of time. "Thank you."
As he slipped it into his pocket, Miles called
out, "Should
I pray? You said Jesus answers prayers."
Clayton paused, memories of leading boys to battle
flashing before his eyes. "Jesus does," he said quietly.
"Then how come this happened? How come Price came into
our lives?"
"We let him."
"But his being here, it’s not right. Now Van’s got no
one." A sense of calm rushed over Clayton, thankful to Miles
for reminding him of who was in charge of all of
them—who always was, who always had been. "You’re
forgetting that God brought me here to the Circle Z. I’m
here to take care of her. Maybe I’ve been here all along
for that reason. Good-bye, Miles."
When Miles slipped back into his house, Clayton stepped
quickly back into the barn. When he reached the locked
door, Clayton did his best to make his voice tender once
more. "I’m back, Vanessa."
She opened the door immediately. "Clay."
He couldn’t help but stare. She’d pulled back her hair
and had tied his shirt in a knot at her waist. She looked
young and beautiful. She looked like Vanessa.
Then the shadows shifted and the bruise on her cheek
came to life. Unable to help himself, he brushed her cheek
with one finger. "You okay, honey?"
She closed her eyes at his touch. "I will be. Now."
Clayton closed his eyes for a brief moment as well. How
in the world was he going to last being her savior when
all he wanted to do was hold her close and never let her go?
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