Fletcher's Woman (29 page)

Griffin shrugged free of the men at his sides, turned, and stumbled slowly toward the shore. The police were arriving, and Malachi met them with an animated account of Frazier's many sins.

Chuckling over the small irony, Griffin climbed into the stolen buggy and drove off.

Rachel felt the warmth of the sun on her face, caressing her, cajoling her to open her eyes and take notice of it. Her lashes fluttered in response, but she was afraid to look.

Lying very still, she awaited the rolling sensation of a ship at sea, but it did not come. So, she was not on the ocean then, on her way to be devoured by some man she didn't know. Tears of gratitude seeped through her lashes.

Rachel's hands moved, and she knew that she was not in Chang's shanty either. There, she had lain on a narrow cot, but this was most certainly a bed, and the sheets were made of some deliciously smooth material that whispered when she moved.

Curiosity triumphed over fear, and Rachel opened her eyes. A woman sat nearby, in a rocking chair, knitting industriously and humming a soft, familiar song. Her hair was light, and the sunlight gave it hues of rose-gold and silver.

She seemed to sense Rachel's scrutiny, and looked up from the woolly red sweater she was constructing. Her face was that of a young woman, even though there were little lines, barely visible, at the corners of her dark blue eyes and the edges of her generous mouth.

“Well, good morning,” she said pleasantly. “I'm Joanna O'Riley; and you're perfectly safe here, so don't be frightened.”

Rachel sensed that she would not have been frightened of this woman even if she had awakened to find her standing over the bed with an upraised hatchet. “Where . . .”

Joanna O'Riley rose from her chair and dropped her knitting into the seat. As she crossed the room, the strangest thing happened—she stepped into a shaft of golden sunlight that ran straight up and down, like a pillar. The soft dazzle lent her an indescribable, otherworldly beauty.

Rachel was quite taken aback, until she looked up and saw that there was, of all things, a window right in the ceiling, a window that was round and had spokes like a wagon wheel.

Mrs. O'Riley stood beside the bed now, holding Rachel's hand. “Wouldn't you like to see Griffin now?” she asked.

This silky bed, this room bathed in light, and Griffin, too? Was she dreaming? She voiced the question aloud.

Mrs. O'Riley smiled. “No, Rachel, you're awake.”

Surreptitiously, Rachel raked the side of one foot with the toenails of the other, just to make certain. This was definitely the real world. “How did I—where—”

Joanna O'Riley laughed. “My husband and I are Griffin's friends. He brought you here last night, after that terrible business with Captain Frazier was over. Now—may I please send him in before he drives us all mad with his incessant pacing and grumbling?”

Rachel blushed, and then nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. O'Riley.”

“Joanna.”

“Joanna,” Rachel conceded, feeling very nervous and very happy, both at once.

When Griffin appeared at the foot of the bed, minutes later, Rachel was appalled. His face was so badly bruised that he hardly looked like himself, and his clothes were hopelessly disheveled. Through a gap in the buttons of his shirt, she could see that his ribs were bound.

“Griffin-what happened?”

His grin was engaging proof that this battered stranger was really Griffin Fletcher, badly in need of a shave. “That doesn't matter, Sprite. How do you feel?”

For the first time, Rachel realized that she was wearing a satiny nightgown of some kind, and she felt the sunlight touching the rounded swell of her breasts with its warmth. Blushing, she wrenched the covers up to her chin. “I feel better.”

Griffin laughed and shook his head. “You're safe with me, Sprite. Which is not to say I don't find you appealing.”

Rachel was confused. Was this the same man who had practically thrown her on board the steamboat only a few days before in Providence?

He grasped the carved foot railing of the bed and leaned forward, just slightly. The motion seemed stiff and cautious—probably, his injured ribs were hurting. “I have strict orders from the good Dr. O'Riley not to remain in this room for over five minutes. When you're stronger, we'll talk—with your permission, of course.”

Rachel was wild with curiosity, but too weak to do anything. She relaxed against the fluffy pillows at her back. “When I'm stronger,” she repeated, giving the words the tone of a promise. “Griffin?”

A crooked smile. “What?”

“I don't know what happened, but Joanna told me that you brought me here, and that I—I shouldn't be frightened because everything is over now. Captain Frazier won't come for me, will he?”

Something deadly flashed in the dark eyes and was subdued. “No, Sprite. He won't.”

Rachel's gaze slide, of its own volition, to the bandages binding his ribs and then back to his face. “W-Were you hurt like that trying to help me?”

He shook his magnificent head, and some of the sunlight that seemed to bathe the room caught in his dark, rumpled hair. “Molly Brady herself did this to me. You see, she'd just scrubbed the parlor floor, and I walked across it—”

Rachel giggled. “Liar.”

Griffin sighed, and his eyes caressed Rachel—or did she imagine that? “My five minutes are up,” he said. “Rest.” And then he was turning, walking away.

For a moment, Rachel was certain that she couldn't bear for him to go. “Griffin?”

He turned in the doorway and grimaced in mock impatience. “What?”

“Thank you.”

Griffin only nodded, but somehow, it was as though he had crossed the room and touched her.

•   •   •

In the bright light of that early summer day, it seemed incredible that the events of the night before had taken place at all. Griffin sighed, and a half-smile caught on his lips. Rachel was safe, and she was recovering. Nothing else seemed important.

In the stables behind Dr. John O'Riley's fine brick house, Griffin collected the horse and buggy he'd stolen on the Skid Road the night before and hitched them together. He would return the rig to the place where he'd found it, meet with Jonas, and buy something for Rachel.

Elliott Bay gleamed bright blue in the distance, as though it were trying to rival the sky. Beyond it, in the west, rose the craggy, white magnificence of the Olympic Mountains. And the trees—there were so many trees. Griffin never tired of their impossible, incredible, eye-jarring green. He had to force his attention back to the rattling traffic of Friday morning.

On the Skid Road, Griffin abandoned the horse and buggy, knowing that the animal had been fed and watered and curried, and walked back in the direction of the small hotel where Jonas stayed whenever he came to Seattle.

The visit to Jonas's room would not be a social call, but it would not be an attack either. In Providence, they battled constantly—it was a habit that had probably begun when their mothers made the mistake of putting them both in the same pram—but Seattle was neutral ground.

After striding past the room clerk with an impatient wave, Griffin climbed the stairs and rapped at the familiar door. “Jonas? Let me in.”

“It's open,” came the toneless reply.

Griffin entered, closing the door behind him. Jonas was still in bed, and the curtains were drawn against the sun. When Griffin threw them open, he was startled to see Mrs. Hammond, Jonas's nursemaid-turned-housekeeper, sleeping bolt upright in a straight-backed chair.

“What the hell—”

“Keep your voice down!” Jonas rasped irritably, making no attempt to get out of bed. “She's tired.”

Griffin nodded sagely. “Didn't she have the price of a room, Jonas?”

In spite of himself, Jonas laughed. “You bastard. She could have had any bed in the place, but she wanted to sit there and stare at me.”

“No accounting for taste,” shrugged Griffin, leaning back against the bureau and folding his arms.

“You ought to play the Opera House, Griffin. You're very goddamned funny.”

“I got beat out by a fat lady with tassels on her tits.”

Jonas laughed again and sat up in bed. “Damn it, Griffin, shut up. It's too early for that shit.”

There was a short silence; then Mrs. Hammond snored and they both laughed again. The sound awakened her, and she glared at them, disgruntled and very red in the face.

Mumbling something about finding coffee, she went out.

The laughter evaporated from Jonas's eyes. “How is Rachel?”

“She'll be fine.”

“Where is she?”

“With friends of mine, Jonas. That's what I came to talk about.”

Jonas was visibly annoyed. He settled back on his pillows and stared up at the ceiling. “Let's hear it.”

“We've got to leave her alone for a while—both of us. She needs time, and she needs rest. Jonas, I'll back off if you will.”

“You know where she is, and I don't. That makes it a little hard to be sure you're practicing what you preach, Griff.”

“Not if we go back to Providence together. Tonight.”

Jonas swallowed, thought for a while. “All right—on one condition. That we make sure Frazier isn't going to crawl out from under some rock and carry her off.”

“Agreed,” Griffin said, moving across the room again, to the door. “I'll meet you at the courthouse in an hour, and we'll talk to the police.”

“I'll be there.”

Griffin opened the door to leave. “She's safe where she is, Jonas,” he said.

“She'd better be,” Jonas vowed. “And Griffin?”

“What?”

“Nothing's changed.”

“I know,” replied Griffin. Then he went out and closed the door behind him.

In the next half hour, Griffin visited three different stores. In the last, a tiny jewelry shop in the Pontius Building, he found what he wanted, bought it, and stuffed the tiny parcel into his shirt pocket.

Outside again, Griffin walked toward the telegraph office. It was going to be hard to leave Rachel now, even for a few days. As he dictated the wire letting Molly know that everything was all right, he worried.

What if Frazier happened to be released from jail? He might look for Rachel, just to avenge the indignities of the past night.

Half an hour later, Jonas and Griffin met outside the courthouse. Without exchanging a single word, they went inside.

Frazier wasn't going anywhere, a constable assured them. He was still unconscious, but when and if he came to, he wouldn't be released. No, sir, enough proof had been found in his boardinghouse and in his cabin aboard the
Drifter
to keep him in the territorial prison for the rest of his days.

Griffin glanced in Jonas's direction and knew that his cousin felt the same need he did. “I want to see Frazier,” he said.

The constable shrugged and led them downstairs, where over a hundred prisoners were incarcerated. Frazier had his own cell, and there was a doctor examining him. John O'Riley closed his medical bag, turned, and met Griffin's gaze.

It was the worst kind of luck. Jonas knew O'Riley, knew that in spite of the vast difference in their ages, the two doctors were close friends.

Griffin risked a sidelong glance at Jonas and saw a smug light in his eyes. He'd guessed where Rachel was staying, that was clear.

“How is he, Doc?” asked the constable, unaware of the sudden tension in the air.

John rattled the cell door impatiently. “Let me out of here, Horace, and I'll tell you.”

Horace hastened to comply, and led the way back upstairs and into a small, incredibly cluttered office. There, John O'Riley plucked a handkerchief from the pocket of his rumpled suit coat and wiped his brow.

“Frazier is comatose,” he said finally. “Frankly, I don't think he's going to last the night, let alone stand trial.”

Horace looked genuinely concerned, and Jonas's face was closed tight. Griffin wasn't sure what he, himself, felt—hatred surely, but a singular sort of shame, too. Whatever else Frazier
might be, he was a human being, and if he died, it would be because of Griffin.

Dr. O'Riley cleared his throat, careful not to look in Griffin's direction. “Horace, are your people looking for the other man—the man that fought the captain last night? Maybe meaning to arrest him, too?”

Horace shook his head. “Cap'n Lindsay—he's skipper of the
Merrimaker
—he says the fight was provoked.” A look of wonder played in the man's heavy-jowled, mustached face. “I'd sure have liked to see that fight, John. From what I've heard, it was like nothing you and me has ever seen.”

Griffin felt sick. Without saying a word, he left the courthouse and stood staring at the ugly bell tower of the church across the street.

Presently, a hand came to rest on his arm. “Griffin,” John O'Riley began in the level, sane voice that so reassured his patients. “You did what you had to do. Don't torture yourself.”

“I'm a doctor,” Griffin whispered.

“Before that, you're a man. And men lose their heads sometimes, Griffin—especially when there's a woman as lovely as Rachel involved.”

Griffin closed his eyes, remembering. “I wanted to kill him, John.”

John's sigh betrayed his weariness, his advancing age. “I guess Old Mike was trying to prepare you when he hired that Frenchman to teach you to fight special, but I think he did you a disservice by it. More than one, actually. But that old cuss was as hard-headed as they come—and he wanted you to be bull-of-the-woods.”

Griffin opened his eyes, searched the face of his friend, his father's friend. “You'll do what you can for Frazier?”

“You know I will, Griffin. But if he dies, you keep in mind that none of this would have happened if Frazier hadn't been what he was. And you weigh the loss of his life against the lives of all the young girls who won't end up in the hold of his ship, on their way to hell.” John paused, then added, “If it turns out that you've taken one life, Griffin, remember all the lives you've saved.”