Fletcher's Woman (14 page)

Griffin shrugged with an indifference he didn't feel. “Who knows?”

Field turned away quickly, but Griffin saw the old grief in the set of his shoulders. The room darkened as a cloud passed overhead, and then it was light again.

Field gathered enough composure to return to his chair. “What now, Griffin? What are you going to do about Rachel?”

A brutal headache grasped the back of Griffin's neck, throbbed in his temples. “I haven't had a chance to give that a lot of thought,” he said, again avoiding Field's eyes. “She's in no condition to leave right now.”

“Nonsense. Have Molly pack her things, and I'll take her to Seattle myself and see her settled there.”

“Seattle?” Griffin rasped. “Why don't you just set her down on Jonas's front doorstep and be done with it?”

Field sighed in frustration. “I'm beginning to wonder if you aren't just as obsessed with her as he is.”

Griffin felt impossibly restless, all of a sudden. He raised himself out of his chair and went to stand facing the fireplace, his back to his friend. “I can't let him touch her, Field. I can't.”

“Then listen to reason, Griffin! Let me take her away, where she'll be safe!”

Clasping the mantelpiece with both hands, Griffin lowered his head. “In a few days, Field. She needs the time.”

Field's voice was low, forceful. “Does she, Griffin? Or do you?”

The words landed on Griffin's mind like blows. He tried to answer and failed.

Field was suddenly beside him, searching his face, seeing, Griffin feared, all the things that should be hidden.

“Dear God, Griffin—it's true, isn't it? You want her yourself!”

Griffin closed his eyes, swallowed. “Yes,” he whispered, after a long, long time.

Field's voice was gentle. “Be careful, my friend. Be very, very careful!”

Griffin released his hold on the mantelpiece and straightened his weary, aching shoulders. “I will.”

“And be certain that you're not using her. You know as well as I do that anything Jonas wants has infinite appeal for you as well.”

Griffin looked away. “This is different.”

One of Field's hands came to rest on his shoulder. “If you care about Rachel, you have two choices. You can ask her to marry you, or you can see that she starts over in some other town. But make the decision carefully, Griffin, and make it fast.”

Griffin nodded, then listened as Field turned and walked out. The decision had already been made. When Rachel was composed enough to travel, he would take her to Seattle himself, and buy her passage on the first outbound ship he could find.

•   •   •

Saturday morning found Jonas largely recovered from the unfortunate tangle with Griffin and in very high spirits. He enjoyed the look of shocked outrage in Molly Brady's face when she opened the front door and found him standing there.

“Good day,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.

Flushed with fury, Molly tried to close the door again, only to find it blocked by Jonas's left boot.

“I want to see Rachel,” he said smoothly. “Right now.”

Molly's chin shot up, and it was clear that she was going to resist him fiercely. At least she didn't try to convince him that Griffin was around, he had to give her credit for that. “I'll not let you near her, Jonas Wilkes. Aye, and the poor thing has troubles enough as it is!”

Jonas resisted a need to close his left hand around Molly's proud, flawless throat and kept a smile fixed on his lips. “Now, Molly—”

The small, firm voice broke in then, startling both Jonas and Molly. “It's all right,” Rachel said. “Please—let Mr. Wilkes come in.”

Jonas recovered sooner than Molly did and caught her off balance. He brushed her aside graciously as he strode into the wide hallway and approached Rachel.

What a wondrous sight she was, even in that infernal brown woolen dress. Again, Jonas withstood the violent, savage need of her. “I'm sorry about your mother,” he said softly.

Tears rose in the brave, violet eyes. “Thank you.”

Jonas was devastated by the sight and suddenly he felt a new desire for this woman, a wish to shield her and cause her to smile again. “Rachel, come for a carriage ride with me. You need some fresh air.”

A slow, sweet smile spread across her pale, pinched little face. “Oh, that would be wonderful, Mr. Wilkes!”

“My name is Jonas,” he corrected, smiling.

A fetching blush rose in her finely sculpted cheeks. “Jonas,” she repeated, shyly.

“Now just a minute!” Molly burst out, finding her voice at last. “You're not taking her anywhere, Jonas Wilkes!”

There was a warning in the gaze he turned to Molly, however pleasantly it was delivered. “I promise to be a gentleman, Mrs. Brady. And I think you and the doctor have kept Rachel a prisoner long enough.”

Molly's green eyes shot to Rachel, frantic. “Don't go, Rachel—please. . . .”

Rachel's rebellion was dignified. She raised her chin and met Molly's shamrock gaze with one of dark orchid. “I can look after myself, Molly Brady. And I intend to have that carriage ride.”

Molly subsided, pale with frustration and anger. “The doctor won't like it,” she warned.

Rachel took the arm Jonas offered, but her eyes were still
fixed on Molly's face. “Perhaps he won't,” she said. And then she allowed Jonas to lead her out of the house and down the front walk.

But at the gate, Rachel hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn't go. They've been kind to me, and . . .”

Jonas was careful not to press his advantage; it was too delicate, at the moment, and far too precious. “Another time, then?” he asked evenly, prepared to walk away affably if necessary.

The words were exactly right. A daring smile flashed on the soft, mobile lips, danced in the magical eyes. “No, Jonas. If I have to stay in that house any longer, I'll perish.”

He tilted his head to one side. “We can't have that, can we, Urchin?”

Rachel's face brightened. “You did promise to be a gentleman,” she reminded him.

“And I will,” he said, helping Rachel calmly into the carriage even though a shout of delight was clamoring at the back of his throat. “I'm not the monster Griffin believes me to be, Rachel.”

She studied him with wide, stricken eyes. “Why does he feel that way, Jonas?”

He settled into the seat across from hers, removed his hat. “The truth is, Rachel, we've never gotten along well. I admire Griffin, actually—he's a brilliant man—but he's just not fond of me.”

The sympathy in her face made Jonas want to laugh with triumph; he would have to think of more nice things to say about Griffin Fletcher. Still, he must be very careful not to move too rapidly and frighten her. If he did, she might fly away, like a terrified bird, and disappear forever.

It was not until the carriage was moving, until she heard the slight creak of leather and the clomp-clomp of the horses' hooves that Field Hollister's words came back to her.
“Jonas Wilkes wants you. That is an established fact.”
Behind Field's remembered voice came the echo of Molly's.
“From what I gather, he fancies you.”

Rachel raised her chin and returned Jonas's calm, appealing smile. Suppose Field and Molly were right? What would be so terrible about that?

An image of Griffin Fletcher surged, unbidden, into her mind. Unaccountably, achingly, she wanted him. Even as his gruff, unfeeling sarcasm repelled her, his arrogant strength drew her.

She shifted uncomfortably on the carriage seat and looked out the window.

Jonas Wilkes spoke gently. “What is it, Rachel? Are you having second thoughts?”

She was remembering Griffin Fletcher, standing in front of that small Tent Town cottage, his shirt plastered to his chest by the rain. Hot color flowed into her cheeks as she met Jonas's eyes. “It's my father. Mr. Wilkes, he's gone away without me, and that's very strange.”

The cherubic face sobered with concerned sympathy. “Perhaps he had something important to do, and he plans to return.”

Rachel lowered her eyes. “No,” she whispered, as the knowledge broke over her like a small, brutal storm. “No, he won't be back.”

When Jonas's hand touched her chin and gently raised it, Rachel did not resist. “What makes you so sure of that?” he asked softly.

Rachel's throat closed, opened again. “I know he wouldn't have left without telling me. He was very determined to go, even though I begged him to stay here and live with me, in Mother's building.”

One of Jonas's dark gold eyebrows lifted just the slightest bit. “So you do want to stay in Providence?”

Rachel nodded.

She heard caution in the even voice. “And live in a brothel?”

Rachel suspected that this man's reaction to an affirmative answer would be interesting indeed, but she couldn't bring herself to offer one. “I planned to convert the establishment into a boardinghouse,” she said.

“Planned? Have your plans changed?”

Glumly, Rachel nodded again. “Yes. Dr. Fletcher and Molly are most anxious to see me go away, and well, it just wouldn't be the same here without my father. As soon as I can collect the money my mother left and arrange for her business to be sold, I'm going to Seattle.”

Jonas's eyes darkened to an unsettling shade of topaz, and his smile appeared oddly fixed. “What will you do in Seattle, Rachel?”

“I mean to find a job, Mr. Wilkes. And ask after my father, of course.”

The topaz eyes slid politely over Rachel's rumpled brown dress, and the conversation veered off in an entirely unexpected direction. “Where is that lovely lavender dress you were wearing when you left my house?”

Rachel, coloring at the memory of Griffin's stormy invasion of Jonas's home, was freshly wounded to recall the way he'd taken such a dark view of the pretty dress. “I-I suppose it's still in Tent Town,” she answered. “It—it was very wet, you see, and Dr. Fletcher never gave me a chance to go back for it. . . .”

Even as she marked the swift, veiled annoyance rising in Jonas's eyes and the sudden hardness of his jawline, Rachel mourned the soft, wispy beauty of that pale purple gown.

“You looked incredibly lovely in it,” Jonas remarked, after a throbbing, uncomfortable silence. But his eyes were far away now, as though he were seeing some painful, tragic scene.

Rachel felt an unaccountable need to say something that would bring him back. “If we could stop at Tent Town, I could get the gown and wash it and return it to you.”

The distance in Jonas's eyes faded, and he smiled at her. “Of course we'll stop. But there is no need for you to return the dress, Rachel. It looks far better on you than it ever would on me.”

A medicinal burst of laughter rose in Rachel's throat, coupled
with the first real joy she'd felt in a long, long time. The wonderful dress was to be hers! “Thank you.”

“There are other dresses, Rachel. Will you take those, too?”

Rachel was unaware of the way her orchid eyes widened at the prospect. “I couldn't—”

“Of course you could. And you would be doing me a great favor in the bargain. The dresses take up too much space and they're—er—a painful reminder.”

Rachel was ecstatic, even though a vague, disturbing question pulsed in the back of her mind. To whom had the dresses belonged in the first place? “A painful reminder?” she echoed.

Jonas sighed bravely. “Yes. But to see you wearing those splendid clothes would be a delight.”

“Really?” she whispered, enchanted.

“Oh, yes. Say you'll take them, Rachel.”

Feeling eager and magnanimous and wildly expectant, Rachel nodded.

And so it happened that she returned to Griffin Fletcher's house, two hours later, in possession of trunk after trunk full of billowing gowns, satiny underthings, lace-trimmed nightgowns, delicate silk blouses, and crisp, flattering skirts.

Jonas's coachman, McKay, carried each trunk past a stunned Molly Brady and up the stairs to the room Rachel had specified.

Rachel's joy sparkled within her, and she had already forgotten Molly's original opposition to the carriage ride with Jonas. “Oh, Molly,” she beamed, “I've got such beautiful, beautiful clothes! Just wait until you see!”

Molly's eyes darkened to an ominous shade of emerald. “Saints preserve us!” she breathed, thrusting her hands out in a gesture of hopelessness.

Rachel was on the stairs, gripping the banister so that she wouldn't float away. “And there is a picnic tomorrow, after church—”

“Is there, now? And what has that to do with you, Rachel McKinnon?” Molly Brady's hands came to rest on her small, trim hips.

“Oh, everything!” cried Rachel, smiling down at Griffin Fletcher's housekeeper. “I'm going to have a wonderful time there! Mrs. Hammond is packing a basket for us; there'll be chicken and chocolate cake and—”

“And trouble,” said Molly Brady, just before she turned and strode away, skirts swishing with fury as she went toward the
kitchen. “More trouble than you've seen in your young life, Miss Rachel McKinnon!”

Rachel shrugged and then dashed the rest of the way up the stairs and into the hallway. She would wear a white silk blouse tomorrow, she decided, with a crisp, black sateen skirt. . . .

•   •   •

Exhausted, Griffin fell into the chair at his desk and bent forward to fill a glass with whiskey. Well, he'd seen Fawn; at least he wouldn't have to worry about her for a while. She was staying at Becky's and under the quiet care of the black cook, Mamie, she was recovering nicely.

Griffin kicked one booted foot, and the other, up onto the desk's surface. His tired legs throbbed in momentary protest, and then began to feel better as the blood flowed back toward his knees and thighs. He closed his eyes and reviewed the day's cases methodically.