Fletcher's Woman (18 page)

The old man actually blushed; his rough cheeks turned flame red with righteous denial. “Griffin didn't want the business. He and his daddy had one hell of a set-to about it, right here in this camp. Old Fletch, he near beat the livin' daylights out o' that boy, but he still wasn't havin' none o' fellin' timber and workin' saws. Fletch went stormin' off into the woods to set his hand to the work his men was doin', and Griffin went after him.” Sadness dimmed the flush in Swenson's avid face. “Mike was killed that day, and some say it were the boy's fault for breakin' his mind thatta way. When the will was read—Griffin's mama had already passed on while he was off learnin' his doctorin'—it said that the boy wouldn't inherit nothin' but the house and the shippin' interests if he didn't set aside that doctorin' fuss and work on the mountain like a man.”

Rachel closed her eyes, secretly pitying both Griffin and the domineering old tyrant who had been his father. She was careful not to speak, not to break the flow of Swenson's feverish talk.

Sure enough, the old man put a stirring cap on the wild story. “The lumber interests went to Jonas Wilkes, him bein' the son of Mrs. Fletcher's only sister.”

Rachel thought she understood the staggering hostility Jonas and Griffin felt toward each other now. It was incredible to think that they were first cousins—the sons of sisters.

•   •   •

Swenson watched in appreciative silence as McKinnon's girl walked out of the cookshack and past them leerin' woods rats playin' Sunday poker. Maybe he should have mentioned the woman, too—but that hadn't seemed delicate like.

Besides, Old Swen was no fool. He understood Little Fletch's murderin' temper as well as anybody. No sense stirrin'
that
up, no sir.

His eyes followed Rachel until she disappeared, and he hoped she wasn't countin' real heavy on ever seein' her daddy again.

•   •   •

Rachel stood in the bunkhouse doorway for a moment, her hands clasping the framework, and let her eyes rest on Griffin Fletcher. He was sitting on the cot opposite Dobson's, his dark head in his hands, his shoulders slack under the smudged white fabric of his shirt.

She understood him better now, although there was still much that puzzled her. His abject hatred for Jonas Wilkes was not such a mystery anymore, even if it was unfair.

Jonas had been kind—very kind—to her, and she liked him. She pictured him searching for her, back at the church picnic, and felt a rush of shame at her rude departure.

“If we don't leave soon, it will be too dark to travel,” she said, her voice sharp with her own guilt.

Griffin stood up, stretched his arms above his head, and yawned. “I'm afraid we're spending the night here,” he announced, with resignation.

Rachel's hands tightened on the framework of the doorway. “What?”

Griffin's smile was weary—and far too aware. “Sorry, Sprite. It can't be helped. This man is running a fever, and I think he has a concussion.”

Rachel's sudden, delicious terror made her croak, “Thanks to you!”

He ignored the remark and approached her slowly. “Jonas can get along without you for one night, can't he?”

Rachel's hand flew up, ready to make sharp contact with Griffin's wan face, but he grasped her wrist and stayed the attack. A long, charged silence crackled in the dusty confines of the bunkhouse.

Griffin's grip loosened, but his thumb caressed the tender flesh on the underside of Rachel's wrist, sending treacherous shivers throughout her body.

“Where am I going to sleep?” she whispered finally, her heart in her throat.

Griffin's free arm encircled her waist, drew her gently against the lean, hard lines of his chest, his hips, his thighs. Suddenly, everything within Rachel cried out to be joined with this man, to become a soaring, inexorable part of him.

She gasped as his lips brushed her temple, the tender, throbbing skin beneath her ear, the hollow of her throat. His soft, rumbling groan stirred awesome depths of need inside her, made her offer herself to him in silent surrender.

But, suddenly, he held her at arm's length. She felt shattering loss at the swiftness, the decisiveness of the gesture. “Griffin—”

His index finger came to rest tenderly on the tip of her nose. “Not now, Sprite. Later, I fear—but not now.”

Rachel felt such need that she changed the subject, just to keep herself from bluntly asking for his love, his touch. “I know why you don't trust Jonas now,” she announced, in a shaky voice.

Griffin raised one eyebrow. “Do you?” he asked, with only moderate interest, his hands moving to her waist and resting there. “Tell me, Sprite—why don't I trust Jonas?”

Rachel swallowed a gasp as his hands rose to the space under her arms where her breasts rounded. “S-Swen told me about the w-will—”

Griffin laughed, and the dark shine of his eyes indicated that he knew what he was doing to her, and enjoyed it. “The will. Oh, yes, the Great Loss of the Lumber Empire. As far as I'm concerned, Jonas can keep it.”

Beneath his palms, beneath the silk blouse and the camisole, Rachel's nipples ached. “But—if that isn't it—what—”

“The lumber interests weren't important to me, Rachel. But Jonas took something that was.”

Rachel stepped back, out of his reach, and lifted her chin. “A woman?” she dared, meeting his eyes intrepidly.

But Griffin turned away, his face hardened, and didn't say another word until after they'd left the bunkhouse a long time later.

The evening was interminable.

First, there was Swenson's abominable cooking to be eaten. All during the meal, the fair-haired man, Wilbur, and some of the others, sneaked furtive glances in Rachel's direction, openly envious ones in Griffin's.

The earlier strain Rachel had glimpsed in Griffin was gone now; he ate a diplomatic portion of the dreadful salt pork and the gritty bread and listened with interest to the main topic of debate—statehood.

Washington Territory wanted to join the union and take her rightful place in the scheme of things, though there were those who maintained that statehood would be more trouble than it was worth.

Hoping for a respite from the unnerving inspection of her person, Rachel slipped away from the table and began helping Swenson with the preparation of dishwater.

At last, Griffin excused himself from the table, summoned Rachel with a courteous glance, and ushered her out into the warm, fragrant summer night.

What would happen now? she wondered.

Nothing happened, as it turned out. Griffin deposited Rachel at the door of a tumbledown shed, brushed her lips briefly with his own, and walked off toward the bunkhouse and his patient, Dobson.

Feeling wretched and wanton and brutally rejected, Rachel went inside the shed. The place had been neatened a bit, obviously, and there was a lamp burning beside the pallet of straw and blankets on the floor.

Rachel stripped to her drawers and camisole, mourned the beautiful taffeta petticoat for a moment, to keep herself from mourning other things, and lay down on the musty bedding to dream.

Through gaping cracks in the shed's roof, Rachel could see silvery stars glinting in the black sky. She blew out the oil lamp and lay motionless on the old quilt and the underbed of straw, looking up.

She felt only brief alarm when, nearly an hour later, the shed door creaked open. The silhouette filling the doorway was blessedly familiar.

Griffin's voice was very low, and carefully measured. “If you're going to say no, Rachel, say it now.”

She was silent.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

Rachel laughed softly. “Wide awake,” she answered.

Rachel was grateful that the darkness hid her flaming cheeks, that the nightsongs of the frogs and insects outside concealed the swift, sweet fearfulness of her breathing. She listened, the back of her head cupped in her hands, as Griffin undressed. The straw beneath her rustled as he stretched out beside her, all but invisible in the darkness.

Gently, cautiously, his lips parted hers. They nibbled, they tasted, they exhorted. Rachel moaned with this new, and singularly compelling, delight. She moved to lower her hands from the back of her head and entangle her fingers in his hair, but one of his hands closed around her wrists, imprisoning her.

And all the while, his lips were moving down, over her chin, onto her neck, to the pulse point beneath her ear. He tugged downward on the delicate camisole until one throbbing breast felt the cool touch of the night air.

Griffin's thumb roused the bared nipple to a hard, pulsing peak. When his lips closed around it, Rachel gasped with pleasure. And still, his hand held her wrists.

Presently, he bared her other breast, teased it ruthlessly, and then suckled.

Rachel writhed with the commanding, primitive need of him. Surely, he would take her soon. . . .

But there were more wonders to come. He released her wrists to slide her drawers down and toss them aside. His hand caressed the silky, secret place, and then his fingers parted it.

Rachel arched her back and gasped in a spasm of delight as
the warm demands of his mouth sent searing flames of need throughout her system. As his hands pressed downward on the insides of her knees, a series of shattering, soundless explosions burst inside her.

She cried out lustily in release and then lay perfectly still.

Unbelievably, Griffin chuckled. “That ought to keep them talking for a while,” he teased.

Rachel didn't care if the lumberjacks had heard the outcry. At the moment, she didn't care about anything beyond finishing the wondrous ritual, carrying it to its natural completion.

Understanding, Griffin lowered himself onto her and entered her gently. There was only the slightest, briefest pain before the throbbing enchantment began again.

It grew with each motion of their bodies, with each muted gasp, until they were both lost together in a sparkling storm of complete release.

•   •   •

She was asleep.

Griffin listened to the soft, winsome meter of her breathing and hated himself for using her as he had. He'd been so sure that she wasn't a virgin—so damned sure.

But she had been, and the knowledge made him feel like a skulking thief. He had no right to want her, nothing substantial to offer her.

A stray shaft of silver moonlight illuminated her face, and Griffin drew in a sharp, aching breath.

What could he give her? Fidelity, surely—just the thought of coming to her whenever he needed her precluded turning to any other woman—a comfortable home, money, lust. Definitely lust.

But she deserved more, so much more. She deserved love, and Griffin Fletcher no longer had that shining, noble element to offer. He was incapable of it.

Even as he reaffirmed an earlier, very painful decision, that he would send Rachel as far from Providence as could be managed, Griffin again felt the staggering, hungry need of her. When he reached out, she awakened, came to him eager and sleepy and warm.

•   •   •

The birth of the new day held no interest for Jonas Wilkes; his nerves were still raw from the slow passage of the night, his vision was slightly blurred from lack of sleep.

Where was Rachel? The question dogged him as dauntlessly
now as it had during the long, torturous night. He'd searched the saloon and Tent Town himself, while his men had questioned Field and Molly and even the Chinese cook, Chang.

Wherever she was, she was with Griffin. For the thousandth time since Rachel's disappearance from the picnic, Jonas closed his eyes and let the full, crushing anguish of that pass over him.

Mrs. Hammond startled him by appearing suddenly at his side and setting a plateful of fried eggs and sausage before him. “Land, you haven't slept a wink, have you?”

Jonas pushed the plate away. “I'll kill him. If he's touched her, I'll kill him.”

Jonas's former nanny and present housekeeper took the liberty of sitting down at the great, polished dining table. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He drew a cheroot from the inside pocket of his suit coat and clamped it between his teeth. The light of the match was warm on his face. “I'm talking, Mrs. Hammond, about Griffin Fletcher.”

“And Rachel,” guessed the woman.

Suddenly, Jonas's weary mind caught onto something he'd overlooked before. Just as Rachel had fallen so unceremoniously into the parish pond, someone had shouted Griffin's name.

Of course. The mountain. Griffin had been summoned to the mountain, and he'd taken Rachel with him. And Jonas had been so distraught that the obvious answer had eluded him.

Perhaps she hadn't even gone willingly.

Rage surged through Jonas, searing the last remnants of fatigue and then consuming them. He stood up so fast that his chair overturned with a resounding crash and then he strode out of the house, leaving Mrs. Hammond and calm reason behind.

McKay was just riding up, his face haggard in the glowing dawn. “Me and Wilson been keeping watch all night, Boss. Ain't nobody over there at the Fletcher place besides Molly Brady and her kid.”

“Well, get Wilson and Riley and whoever else you can round up,” Jonas ordered evenly. “I know where they are. When Griffin rides down off the mountain, we'll be there to have a few—words—with him.”

McKay shifted in the saddle, uneasy. “What about the girl?” he muttered.

Jonas ached at the mention of her, but he wasn't about to
reveal the things he was feeling to a slug like McKay. He kept his face under rigid control. “I don't want her hurt, under any circumstances. The man that lays a hand on her will have his back laid open with my whip. Is that understood?”

McKay nodded, looking even more uneasy. “I ain't so sure it's such a good idea, tangling with Fletcher, I mean.”