The Edge of Hell: The Mitchell Brothers Series Book One

11

Wolstan paced the back veranda, waiting for his mama and Mae to emerge from the bathhouse. Whether due to the time that had passed or his frustration, he was tempted to march down there and demand confirmation of his suspicions of the identity of her attacker.

As though sensing his thoughts, Emerson straightened from leaning against a column and settled a hand on his shoulder when he passed, stopping him in his tracks. "Wearing a path in the floorboards isn't going to get you closer to any of the answers you're looking for."

"How can you be so calm? Are you doubting Cyrus was responsible, even after I told you about the hoof prints I saw?"

Emerson sighed.

"It looked like she was chased off the road into the grove."

A warm breeze ruffled Emerson's salt and pepper hair as he leaned his right shoulder against the column again, folded his arms across his broad chest, and murmured, "Who says I'm calm?"

He quirked a dark brow before turning his grey gaze to the bathhouse. "And no, I don't doubt it was Cyrus—hoof prints or not."

"Did you ask her if she knew who it was?"

Emerson nodded.

"And?"

"And she said the identity didn't matter as she'd already handled the situation."

Wolstan heaved an irritated sigh and perched his fists on his hips, "Damned frustrating woman."

"Does this show of protectiveness mean you're no longer mad at Mae?" Emerson murmured after a moment of silence, his attention still fixed on the bathhouse.

Wolstan hesitated, then turned to watch the back of the small building as well. "I don't know what it means."

The curtain in the window moved, and several heartbeats later, Emmaline and Mae walked into view around the building.

At the sight of Mae in a navy blue gown, Wolstan's heart kicked against his ribs and then started racing. A swarm of butterflies took flight in his stomach, and the powerful urge to wrap her in his arms and never let go struck with such force it knocked the breath from his lungs and nearly drove him to his knees.

He wanted to call the sensations awful, to despise to the depths of his soul that she could arouse anything within him other than a mild stirring of sympathy. But he couldn't.

So, Wolstan pushed the undesired feelings aside, reminded himself for the hundredth time that she was Corporal Stoker—not some defenseless female—and focused his attention on the vibrant purple bruises visible from head to collarbone, and along both arms.

A cleansing wave of fury swept through him, eradicating the butterflies in his gut and making his heart race for an altogether different reason. Mae's left eye had swollen shut, scratches marred her forehead and right cheekbone, and a deep gash split her lower lip.

Muttering an expletive, Emerson straightened from the column and hurried down the steps to meet the women. "Are you in pain? You look awful."

Mae smiled, then winced and covered her mouth with her bandaged right hand. "I've suffered worse."

"Emerson," Emmaline chided, "you should know even if a lady is on the verge of dying, you never tell her how awful she looks. You compliment her and make her feel beautiful."

"Apologies," he muttered, slipping his right arm around Mae's waist and escorting her up the stairs. "Seems widowhood and concern have loosened my tongue... you look rather fetching in blue."

Wolstan grunted and waited a few moments before following them inside to the kitchen. He tried to appear unconcerned while Emerson led Mae to the sink full of water. He unwrapped the bloody bandages from her right hand, and thoroughly cleaned the gashes and puncture wounds, ensuring the deep gashes were cleansed of debris.