Jane Bonander (3 page)

Lucas gave another snort of disbelief as they exited the smithy. “Your bones have been wrong before.”

Wet, massy clouds tumbled down the sides of the mountains, gray as asylum laundry. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by rumbling thunder, ominously heralding a storm.

Cold, damp wind slithered beneath Dinah’s cape and gown, lifting the hem of her petticoat and wriggling over her legs like a snake. She shivered, clutching her valise closer to her chest as she trudged over the rutted road.

The wind bore down on her, requiring her to squint. In the distance a gloomy stone house stood silhouetted against the angry sky. She shivered. It belonged on a craggy cliff in a morose Gothic novel, not on a snow-spattered hillside in California.

She crossed her fingers, praying it was her destination, for she felt weak, both from hunger and from the uphill climb. The closer she got, the more unsure she became. Her imagination caught the threads of her unraveling resolve and she envisioned a gruesome scenario: a mad sister chained to a wall in the attic or the cellar, her screams piercing the silence and a brooding, tortured brother who would rage into a howling storm, cursing God for his plight.

Dinah laughed, nervous. It was the storm, that’s all, and her first impression of the house.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere and over the sound of the impending storm, she heard the dogs.

Might as well be bears, she thought, for she had equal fear of both.

The wind was strong. Her eyes watered, and though she couldn’t see the hounds, she could tell where they were coming from: the bloody haunted house. How fitting! With her heart slamming her ribs like a fist on a door, she dropped her travel bag, using it as a step to climb into the nearest tree.

She was perched on the lowest limb when they reached her, but when she saw their size, her eyes grew big and she scudded higher. They looked like horses! Their legs were long and gangly and their shaggy coats unkempt and dirty. They barked and howled, leaping higher and higher onto the trunk in their efforts to attack. Their jaws were strong enough to rip off an arm or a leg. She shuddered at the thought. Unfortunately for the dogs, she’d become quite attached to her limbs.

She tried to smirk at her play on words, but her fear stopped her. Sucking in huge gulps of air, she forced herself to climb to a loftier branch, although her knees quaked and her hands shook and the branch itself flapped wildly in the wind. Dogs. Damned dogs. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been afraid of them.

One of the hounds seized the hem of her cape between its teeth.

“Sweet Mary!” The force of the wind tossed her words back into her face. With her heart bounding in her ears, she grabbed at the bough above her, intent on climbing even higher. It snapped loose. Gripping the limb, she swung at the dog, clinging to the tree trunk with her other arm until she smacked the dog on the nose. It released her hem, yelping in pain.

“Help! Someone help me!” Again, the wind tossed her plea about, and she feared no one heard her. She squinted out through the leafy twigs that bowed before the gale. No movement came from the gloomy stone house, but someone exited one of the outbuildings and walked toward her. Her heart gave a lurch of desperation.

“It’s about bloody time,” she shouted, relief making her angry. “Call off your butt-ugly hounds!”

Her would-be savior ambled toward the tree as if he had all the time in the world. He was tall, his long legs encased in snug buckskin trousers. As he got closer, she noticed he wore a buckskin vest with no shirt beneath it. His coppery brown arms were admirably chiseled and gleamed with health. Anything but asylum pallor caught her attention.

Her pique increased as he strolled toward her; surely he could move faster than that. “You there! Hurry up!”

Her panic mounted as the dogs continued to bark. Didn’t he care if his beasts ripped her to shreds?

Apparently sensing him, the dogs stopped barking and left the trunk. They loped toward him, long, brushy tails wagging. Deceptive, she thought. She wasn’t fooled. They were vicious animals. One swish of a tail that size, and she’d be flat on her rump. She wasn’t leaving the tree. Not until he called off his hounds. Period.

“Wolf. Amy. Heel.” His command was barely audible, but the animals fell in beside him as he crossed to the tree. His eyes were dark and angry as he glared up through the branches. “Did you strike one of my
dogs?
”

She shook the branch at him, barely missing his head. “I smacked one on the nose with this, and I’d do it again.” What sort of man would care more for his dogs than he would for another human being? “The ugly creature was trying to kill me.”

He raised one thickly muscled arm and jabbed a finger at her. “Never, ever strike my dogs.”

“What was I supposed to do, let them drag me from this tree and devour me?” When he continued to stare at her, Dinah experienced the need to fling the branch at him. Instead she tossed it to the ground, and her anger turned to disbelief.

She smacked her palm against her forehead. “Well, what could I have been thinking? How silly of me to want to protect myself.”

His gaze slipped over her so casually it was insulting. She suddenly became very aware of where she was. It was not a dignified position for a lady to find herself in. There was undoubtedly plenty to see from his angle. She shifted on the branch, trying to tug her cape lower to cover her legs. He refused to look away; she stiffened, indignant. There she was, trapped in a tree with the demon dogs still drooling over her as though she were lunch, and to add to her discomfort, the idiot of a man stared at her in a way that made her wish that one of them would disappear. Preferably he. Maybe the dogs. Or both.

Just then, her stomach growled. Lord, what else? She raised her eyes heavenward. Why didn’t God strike the tree with a bolt of lightning? Her stomach rumbled again, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten all day. Oh, what wouldn’t she give for a hot cup of tea and a warm scone. She swallowed the saliva that pooled around her tongue.

“Who the hell are you?”

She bristled. “Who the hell are you?”

His angry gaze impaled her. “What are you doing on my property?”

Amidst her indignation, her heart sank. “Your property?” Her eyes went to the gloomy house again and she suddenly hoped it wasn’t her destination. Crossing her fingers, she asked, “This isn’t the Fletcher ranch, is it?”

One of his black, satanic eyebrows quirked up. “And if it is?”

Her stomach dropped. “You can’t be Tristan Fletcher.” Even as she said his name, there was a change in his angry eyes. Somehow it would be fitting if he were, she thought, for he, the dogs, and the house were a perfect trio. Foreboding, frightening, and gloomy. The consequences of trying to be something she wasn’t struck her. She couldn’t pull this off. There was no way she could fool a man like this one. Lord, he was angry because she’d smacked his dog on the nose. How mad would he get if he actually let her stay, then discovered she wasn’t the women he’d hired? She wasn’t qualified to care for anyone but herself, and right now even that was in question.

“I am.” He crossed his burly arms over his wide chest, giving himself the stance of an executioner. All he needed was a black mask with holes cut out for his eyes and a great big hatchet. She shivered.

No longer hungry, she felt her stomach twist into nervous knots. If only she could slither down the tree and escape. She gnawed on her thumbnail. No chance of that. The beasts had positioned themselves between her new employer and the tree, as if somehow she were the threat.

She studied Tristan Fletcher, noting his hard, dark eyes and his ink-black hair. Standing before her, with nut-brown muscles so taut they appeared etched in granite, his maleness struck a chord of fear and disappointment inside her. The Tristan Fletcher of her thoughts and daydreams had been nothing like this. He’d been like Charles Avery, suave, charming, and highly amusing. Unthreatening. Sweet. Quick to laugh with her and admire her lively wit.

He wasn’t this hard, stern, bitter man whose maleness was threatening, and who so blatantly flaunted himself in front of her. Why, he was as frightening as Satan. How fitting it was that he should have devil dogs.

How much easier it would have been to simply tell him she was lost. To make up the name of a family she was searching for, then hurry away, her tail between her legs. It was too late for that. Her mouth was forever getting her into trouble.

“I’m here to care for your sister.” She inched her chin up, hoping for an imperious veneer. In spite of her false bravado, there was a sick feeling in her chest, for now there would be no turning back. The sensation that spread through her was similar to what she imagined it would feel like if she stepped off a circus high wire, knowing there was no safety net below.

He scowled. “You?” He sputtered a curse. “I asked David for a nurse, not some skinny, whiny urchin who can’t even find her way to my door without disrupting my dogs.”

Her eyes went wide with disbelief and her stomach started to rebel. Sweet Mary, he didn’t want her no matter who she was. But it would be far worse for her if and when he discovered she was an escapee from a loony bin instead of a nurse employed in one.

She swallowed hard, his anger coming as a surprise. She hadn’t given much thought to how he would feel about her. Most of her energy had been centered on how she felt herself.

“How was I to get to the door without disturbing them?”

“They wouldn’t have hurt you, but don’t be deluded. If they’d wanted to catch you, you’d never have made it to the tree.”

She eyed the beasts, believing his words.

“Running was the worst thing you could have done.”

“Now you tell me.” Her perch was getting uncomfortable and her rump was numb. She adjusted her position.
“It wouldn’t hurt to post a warning,” she muttered. “You know, Beware of big, ugly, hairy spawns of the devil.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t find her amusing. His face was stony, his cold eyes dark and dangerous, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up her travel bag and started toward the house.

She stared after him, astounded at his rude behavior. “Excuse me?” When he turned, she said, her voice laced with sarcasm, “I could use some help getting down.”

“You got up there by yourself, why do you suddenly need help coming down?”

Lord, chivalry was dead west of the Mississippi, just as that woman on the train had warned her. This man was an insufferable clod. Clamping her jaws in anger, she started down, losing her footing on the craggy trunk. She fell to the ground, gasping in pain at the abrupt contact.

Both dogs loomed over her. Her heart nearly sprang free from her chest. “Call them off! Get them away from me!” She scooted backwards so fast, her head slammed into the trunk of the tree, and she momentarily saw a profusion of stars.

The cold, arrogant clod whistled, and the dogs returned to his side.

With caution, she got to her feet, her eyes never leaving the huge, furry beasts. For a brief second, black spots danced in her vision and her head throbbed. “Keep them away from me.”

“Listen.” His voice was harsh as he turned to her. “I’m not too sure I even want you here. But if I were you,” he threatened, “I wouldn’t start giving orders.”

She swallowed the dead lump of apprehension in her throat. What in the name of heaven was she doing here? She’d only arrived, and already she wanted to leave. Taking in a deep breath, she willed away her fears. She hadn’t come this far to be turned out into the cold. If she were to leave, it would be her choice, not his. She grimaced. Brave talk, considering her current position. She’d never warm up to the dogs. To this day, she had the scars of teeth on her rump from when she’d been bitten by a dog as a child. After she’d tumbled from a tree and broken her arm. Even now, it ached, as if reminding her that she had absolutely no rapport with animals.

“Are you coming, or have your feet grown roots?”

She shook herself and inched toward him, her gaze going over the cold, stone house. There was movement in a second-story window, a slight fluttering of the curtains. A chill shuddered over Dinah’s spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck, but when she glanced upward, she saw nothing.

Training her gaze on the dogs, she swallowed a sigh. She was giving her imagination free rein, but considering the ominous appearance of the house, she wasn’t surprised. None of this would be easy. At least at Trenway she’d had an ally in Daisy. As she followed Tristan Fletcher into the gloomy house, she doubted she would have one ally here.

The foyer was predictably somber. Obscure shadows flickered in the corners, and again, Dinah fought her imagination.

“Wait here,” he ordered, dropping her travel bag. “My housekeeper will show you to your room. I’ll want to see you immediately after that.”

He disappeared down a long, dark hallway. Dinah allowed her gaze to travel over the entry. An enormous bear’s head was mounted on the wall, glaring down at her with flat black eyes. She grimaced, despising anyone who would kill for pleasure.

Over the thumping of her heart, she heard noises in the far recesses of the house. Squeaks and moans. Distant voices. The slow, methodical ticking of a grandfather clock. Something hard struck the floor above her and she jumped, her heart in her throat.

She picked up her travel bag, clutching it to her chest as she closed her eyes. What in the devil was she doing here? She was crazy to stay. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She crept to the door, opening it carefully so it wouldn’t make any noise, only to find the hounds from hell guarding the stoop.

Tristan’s mood had worsened, if that were possible. After taking a quick bath, he dressed in fresh buckskins and went to his study to await the nurse.

Nurse.
Now, seated at his desk, he glowered. She’d be as helpful as tits on a bull. God, what had David been thinking? Because Tristan had been as close to David at school in Boston as he was to his childhood friend Lucas, he’d left the decision to find the right person in David’s capable hands. After all, he was a doctor, studying the insane, writing an extensive paper on the subject. He was highly qualified to find a sensible, compassionate, mature woman, who would speak only when spoken to. Who would be obedient and even-tempered. One who would blend into the background, quietly assuming her role as wife-in-name-only while she cared for Emily, allowing Tristan to go about his business as usual.