The Best Man in Texas. Kelsey Roberts

      PROLOGUE

      “HE’S GOING to kill you.”

      Ignoring the weave of tubes and electrodes, Violet Mitchum shifted on the gurney so she could peer through the small opening where the well-worn emergency room curtains didn’t quite meet.

      Breath snagged in her throat when she caught sight of the woman lying almost close enough for her to touch. Through the small opening in the privacy curtain, Violet was easily able to catalog the young woman’s injuries. Beneath the raw, battered face, she suspected the woman was attractive. Though blood matted the long, pale-brown hair and the woman’s clothes were torn, Violet was quite certain this was not a homeless person or woman forced to sell herself on the street.

      What was left of her clothing indicated that, whoever she was, she took an effort in her appearance on a limited budget. There were traces of expertly applied makeup on and around the welts and abrasions marring her face.

      “I know that,” she heard the young woman reply wearily. She winced and held tentative fingertips to her rapidly swelling lip.

      The attending physician rolled a stool next to the bed. His actions were so smooth from obvious repetition that they resembled an eerie kind of choreography. He was looking down at his patient with what Violet could only classify as frustrated compassion. That sentiment was echoed in his tone.

      “Sara,” he began on a rush of air, “let me call the cops. Hank Allen deserves—”

      “To rot in hell,” the woman named Sara finished with a spark of forced humor. “I’m taking care of it, Dr. Greene.”

      Violet watched as all pretext of professional distance drained from the doctor’s face. “Really? How?”

      “He didn’t mean to hurt me,” the woman replied with tenacious conviction. “Besides, he never would have hit me tonight if I hadn’t mouthed off at him first. You’ve known me most of my life, Dr. Greene. I’ve never been very good at keeping my smart remarks to myself.”

      Violet stifled the urge to scoff.

      “That hardly justifies Hank Allen beating you, Sara.”

      She attempted a grin in spite of her puffy upper lip. “I’ve got it under control,” she insisted.

      “Really?” the doctor challenged. “I’ve been hearing that same tune for the past three years. You’re a young, intelligent woman, Sara. Why you stay with a husband who beats you makes no sense.”

      The young woman broke eye contact with the concerned physician.

      “I married him, Dr. Greene. I can’t just walk away from a commitment.”

      “You’re right,” the doctor agreed with more than just a measure of disgust. “A few more like tonight and you won’t be walking away. They’ll be carrying you out in a body bag.”

      Violet was distracted for the better part of an hour while a physician’s assistant sutured her finger. She felt rather silly about the whole matter. She had come to Louisiana to help her friend Betty recuperate from a hip replacement. And here she was in an emergency room getting stitches because she had not been paying attention while chopping carrots. It seemed an inconsequential injury when compared with the poor girl in the next room.

      Violet thought of her own wonderful marriage and couldn’t fathom the life of the young woman in the nearby bed. Violet had been loved—no, cherished. That was marriage.

      “Excuse me?” Violet began rather cautiously as she yanked open the flimsy curtain.

      Gingerly, the young woman half turned on her side, angling herself so as to get a clear look at Violet through the less swollen of her two eyes. Violet’s initial assessment had been accurate. Beneath her injuries, this woman was stunning. Except for the torment marring those beautiful brown eyes.

      The young woman surprised her when she asked, “Do you need help? Should I call the nurse?”

      Interesting, Violet thought, that this Sara should be concerned with her when she was clearly in a more serious condition herself.

      Violet used her good hand to smooth back a few strands of her hair. It had long ago gone white and she hoped that alone was enough to lend some credence to what she was about to say.

      “No, no,” Violet assured her. “I’m simply awaiting a release from the doctor.” She held up her now bandaged hand and turned it as if to prove it functioned.

      “Me, too,” she responded on a slightly labored breath.

      Never one to mince words, Violet met and held the woman’s gaze. “Your name is Sara, right?”

      The woman nodded.

      “I suppose you’re going to go back to the man who did this to you?”

      Sara’s lids fluttered to shroud her eyes. “Do you always listen in on confidential conversations?”

      Spirit, Violet thought. Good sign. “Only when I think I can help.”

      “You can’t,” came Sara’s rote-sounding reply. “Anyway, I don’t need anyone’s help.”

      Stubbornness. Bad sign. “Your face and your ribs will heal but the problem with your husband won’t,” Violet continued, undeterred. “The doctors can fix your body but only you can fix your life.”