Fletcher's Woman (3 page)

All around her, other women left other tents, herding listless, silent children toward the center of the odd village. Rachel followed them, her shawl drawn tightly around her slender figure.

The dining hall was, Rachel soon discovered, just another tent. It was large, though, and adequately lit by kerosene lanterns that flickered and smoked on the long, rough-hewn wood tables. There was sawdust on the floor; it was damp and pungently fragrant and it stuck to Rachel's scuffed black shoes as she walked.

The delicious warmth radiating from the big black cookstove at one end of the tent seemed to reach out and caress Rachel's frozen bones, and the comforting smell of sizzling bacon came to meet her like a welcoming friend. She forgot the hideous odor waiting beyond the tent walls and allowed herself a deep breath.

Hunger impelled Rachel toward the table where the food was being distributed. She took a blue enamel plate and a tin fork and gave her name to a reedy, wheezing woman who recorded it carefully into a ruled account book.

A small, chattering Chinaman wrenched Rachel's plate from her hand, graced it with three slices of bacon, one egg, and a piece of toasted bread, then surrendered it again. She helped herself to a mug and coffee from the large pot sitting at the far end of the serving table.

Long benches lined the other tables, and Rachel found a place within the radius of the stove's warmth and sat down.

Looking at the meal before her, she trembled with mingled guilt and anticipation. Her father hadn't eaten the day before, nor had she, but now he was on his way up the mountain to work a full day. Would Mr. Wilkes see that his men had food to eat before they began their tasks?

The splintery benches began to fill with severe, wary-eyed women and fussy children. Rachel forced herself to believe that her father would soon enjoy an even better meal, and then she began to eat. She chewed slowly, savoring the food.

Now and then, at some other table, a defiant spirited giggle would erupt, dispelling a little of the gloom. Covertly, Rachel scanned the sallow faces of the other women, looking for the person who could live in Tent Town and still laugh like that. She longed to find her and somehow become her friend.

Involuntarily, Rachel sighed. It had been a long, long time since she'd been in one place long enough to make a friend.

When Rachel had finished eating, she took her empty plate back to the Chinaman. He snatched it from her and hurled it into a large tin washtub at his feet, obviously outraged by her ignorance of the rules. Then he railed at her in his odd, quick language.

Rachel blushed with embarrassment, all too aware that the other sounds, those of eating and muted conversation, had ceased. Everyone was probably staring, thinking what a fool the new woman was. She tried to say that she was sorry, that she hadn't known what to do, but the Chinaman gave her no opportunity. Rather, he raged on, like a tiny, furious bird.

Rachel's chagrin gave way to righteous wrath. Surely such a modest infraction as not knowing where to discard one's dinner plate didn't justify the creation of such a terrible scene!

Before she could frame a retort, however, a chill draft swept into the tent, stinging Rachel's flesh through her thin dress and shawl. The silence among the women and children still sitting at the tables deepened, and the cook swallowed his invective in one convulsive gulp.

“Is there some sort of problem here, Chang?” asked a wry, gentlemanly voice.

Rachel turned to see a lithe, good-looking man standing just behind her. He had cherubic brown eyes, she noticed, and a boyish, clean-shaven face. His tailored suit, somehow very much out of place among so much calico and poplin, was made of a fine, dark woolen and was beaded with little sparkling droplets of rain.

“Well?” pressed the man, in even, ominous tones.

The Chinaman swallowed again, and his slanted eyes were downcast.

Rachel felt both empathy and remorse; there were many who enjoyed baiting the Chinese, and she wondered if this finely dressed man numbered among them. “There is no problem,” she dared to say.

The gentleman assessed her, an unsettling mixture of appreciation and suppressed amusement flashing in his velvety eyes. “Is that so? Considering the fact that I could hear Chang raving even before I got out of my carriage, I find that difficult to accept.”

The hapless Chang was visibly shaken now, and he abandoned his dialect for a halting, awkward form of English. “Missy not put dish!” he cried, trembling in his shapeless black trousers and shirt. “Please, Mr. Wilkes, Missy not put dish!”

Mr. Wilkes.
Jonas
Wilkes? Rachel bit her lower lip, surprised and a little awed. From the things her father had told her about Mr. Wilkes—how he had sweeping power and almost unlimited wealth—she had expected him to be much older.

Instead, he appeared to be somewhere in his early thirties. He had soft, glossy hair the color of new wheat, and his wide eyes and small, straight nose gave him an innocent look.

Rachel had already surmised that he was no angel.

“Mr. Chang is quite correct,” she said, squaring her shoulders and meeting Mr. Wilkes's amused gaze directly. “I did not put my plate in the proper place.”

Mr. Wilkes drew in a sharp breath and an expression of mock stupefaction played in his face. “That, my dear, is an abominable sin if I've ever heard one. What is your name?”

She hesitated, finally said, “Miss Rachel McKinnon.”

The mischievous eyes swept over her, lingering almost imperceptibly at her breasts and her narrow waist. But when they came back to her face, there was a disconcerting look of
recognition in them. “Rachel McKinnon,” he repeated, thoughtfully.

Rachel felt swift, fierce color surge into her face, though she couldn't have said why. “I'm sorry that I've caused so much trouble,” she said.

To her utter amazement, Mr. Wilkes cupped his right hand under her chin and made her look at him. His skin was smooth and fragrant from some spicy cologne, but his touch was not gentle. “I'm sure you cause a great deal of excitement wherever you go, Urchin. Those violet eyes insure it.”

Rachel was stung by the word “urchin,” even though Mr. Wilkes had spoken it with a peculiar note of affection in his voice. She was proud, and this obvious reference to her tattered clothing rankled. She turned her head, pulling free of his touch. “I'm very sorry that you don't find me presentable, Mr. Wilkes.”

Jonas Wilkes laughed softly. “Oh, Urchin, you are more than presentable. Why, with a hot bath and some decent clothing—”

She reacted without thinking, without considering the possible consequences, without considering anything beyond the fact that she had been gravely insulted. She raised her hand and slapped Mr. Jonas Wilkes with such force that the mark of her fingers blazed, crimson, on his face.

The tense silence in the tent seemed to vibrate.

There was a frightening expression in Jonas Wilkes's eyes as he surveyed the trembling, furious girl before him. A thin, white line encircled his lips, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Miss McKinnon, if you ever do that again, you will bitterly regret it.”

Rachel was terrified, but she was too proud and too stubborn to let anyone, especially this man, know that. She stood her ground. “Mr. Wilkes, if you ever demean my garments again, or imply that I am unclean,
you
will bitterly regret it.”

Some intrepid soul laughed aloud just then, but if Mr. Wilkes heard the sound, he dismissed it. His eyes moved over Rachel's body with dispatch, then returned to her face. “Your father would be Ezra McKinnon—the sawyer I hired last week in Seattle. Am I correct?”

A lump throbbed, raw, in Rachel's throat as she remembered that she and her father depended upon this man for their livelihood. “Yes,” she admitted.

He took a small, leather book from the inside pocket of his suit coat and made a flourishing notation on the first page.

It was all Rachel could do to keep from craning her neck to read what he'd written. She swallowed miserably. “Are you going to dismiss my father?” she asked, after an awkward, painful pause.

Mr. Wilkes smiled generously. “Of course not, Miss McKinnon. That would be a spiteful thing to do, wouldn't it?”

Rachel searched her mind for a diplomatic, dignified reply and found nothing she dared say beyond, “Thank you.”

Once more, the impudent gaze swept over her. “Think nothing of it, Urchin,” he said. And then, abruptly, Mr. Jonas Wilkes was striding across the sawdust floor and out of the tent.

The moment he was gone, the stunned populace of Tent Town dared to breathe again.

A thin woman with wide, fearful blue eyes approached Rachel first. There was surprise in the narrow, careworn face, but there was respect, too, and no small measure of admiration. “You
slapped
Jonas Wilkes!” she breathed.

Rachel stiffened, though she secretly enjoyed being the center of attention. “He brought it on himself,” she said, with bravado.

The splendid, defiant giggle Rachel had heard before rose above the excited chatter, and she saw that it came from a slender Indian girl standing nearby. She had beautiful, nut-brown skin and wore a slim, beaded headband and a buckskin shift trimmed with twisted fringe. “I hope the gods are fond of you, Purple Eyes,” she said, tossing her long, glossy black hair back over one shoulder. “You're going to need all the help you can get.”

The woman who had spoken first shot an impatient glance in the girl's direction and frowned. “Don't pay Fawn any mind, Rachel. She's been traipsing all over the territory with Buck Jimson's Wild West Show these past few months, and she got into the habit of carrying on like an Indian.”

“I
am
an Indian!” cried Fawn, with spirit. “You'd better remember it, too, Mary Louisa Clifford, or I'll creep into your tent some dark, rainy night and scalp you bald!”

Mary Louisa shook her head and smiled at Rachel. “It is wise to be careful, where Mr. Wilkes is concerned. He can be vindictive.”

Rachel shivered. “My father—will he lose his job?”

Mary Louisa patted Rachel's hands in reassurance. “If he's a good, hard worker, he won't be discharged.”

Fawn pressed closer, her dark, sparkling eyes wide with
foreboding. “No woman strikes Jonas Wilkes like that and gets away with it. Mark my words, Rachel McKinnon. He's making plans for some kind of revenge right now.”

Small, sharp needles of dread prickled Rachel's spine. Should she run after Mr. Wilkes, beg him to forgive her for slapping him? She knew that the Indian girl was probably right; a man with that kind of power at his command would not tolerate such an affront without reprisal.

For herself, Rachel felt no fear. But suppose the retribution, which could be harsh indeed, was dealt to her father who had done nothing to deserve it? Nothing beyond siring a hot-tempered and unladylike daughter, she thought, with bitter resignation.

•   •   •

Jonas Wilkes frowned and, in a vain effort to shut out some of the rain, pulled his collar up around his neck. This was no day to be out and about; a man should be in his own house on such a day, sleeping late. Reading a fine book. Sipping brandy.

Or bedding a woman.

Jonas smiled as the girl, Rachel McKinnon, filled his mind, flowing into it like water into a tide pool. He felt an odd mixture of rage and desire as he relived the indignity of being slapped, and his face still smarted where her hand had made contact.

He strode on, sidestepping the worst of the mud, zigzagging between the tattered tents that housed his workers' wives and children. The stench came at him, a pungent reminder of all his sins, on the changing wind.

Damn Tent Town, he thought, pressing a clean, white handkerchief to his mouth and nose and holding it there. Damn Griffin Fletcher for practically ordering him to come here to talk to him, and damn that orchid-eyed urchin and her ridiculous calico dress and her impossible high-button shoes.

Suddenly, he stopped cold. The suspicion he'd harbored became a certainty.

Rachel McKinnon. She had to be Becky's daughter! Oh, the last name could have been coincidental, but not those purple eyes, that rich, sable hair, that proud, almost arrogant, carriage.

Jonas laughed aloud, and then walked on.

He crossed one mucky, rutted road, climbed an embankment verdant with quack grass to another road. He was approaching the cottages now, and the sight of Griffin Fletcher's buggy did nothing to spoil his good spirits.

Imagine it. Rebecca McKinnon's daughter living in Tent Town, with those dreary, slothful wretches and their brats.

Once again, Jonas laughed.

But other thoughts dogged him as he opened the gate in Fanny Harper's whitewashed picket fence and started up the walk. Rachel had slapped him, after all, and in front of the workers' wives.

That was a transgression he could not overlook. He would make it painfully, unforgettably clear that no one treated Jonas Wilkes in that manner without suffering for it. No one.

But it was odd, the way she made him feel. Helpless. By God, she made him feel helpless, like a climber sliding down the face of a cliff, unable to catch hold and break the fall.

The pit of Jonas's stomach convulsed suddenly; he saw again the wide, amethyst eyes darkening with fury, remembered the lustrous, raven hair held precariously in place by small, simple combs.

And he wanted her.

His fingers flexed as he recalled the delightful, delicious promise of her breasts.

Jonas sighed, adjusted his collar again, and tapped at the door of Fanny's cottage. All in good time, he promised himself. All in good time.

He would answer Griffin's summons first, and then he would send word up the mountain that Ezra McKinnon was to be promoted to a position of responsibility.

The rain had slackened to a chilly mist by the time Rachel left the dining tent and paused, in the first grim, faltering light of day, to peer in one direction and then the other. Ragged children scuffled and played between the canvas houses, their tentative laughter blending with the cries of quarrelsome birds and the shrill whistle of a steamboat passing on the Sound.