Fletcher's Woman (40 page)

Griffin hoped that he had and then, conversely, hoped that he hadn't. Athena was there, and he felt certain that she'd been responsible for the frightening, almost catatonic state Rachel had been in.

He stepped up his pace.

There were whole families camped on street corners, their possessions stacked around them. Every lawn harbored a share of the homeless, and Griffin saw lean-tos built against blackened buildings and the trunks of trees.

Those most fortunate slept in tents, the others had taken refuge in crops of fern alongside the roads.

Feeling a compelling need for haste, despite his weariness, Griffin stepped over sleeping bodies to cut across a cow pasture. The field was a ragtag version of Tent Town, though here the tents were assembled from blankets or branches or even clothing.

Griffin zigzagged between the makeshift structures and took care not to walk on those who had no shelter at all.

At last, the brick house came into sight. Griffin broke into a stumbling run, drawn by the lights shining from the first-floor windows, drawn by Rachel.

The front door swung open just as Griffin reached it, and Joanna O'Riley was standing there, fully dressed, her face pale with weariness and worry. “Thank God,” she sobbed, and then she flung both arms around his neck and held on as though she feared he would disappear.

Behind her loomed Field Hollister, towering like a soot-covered specter in the half-light of the entry hall. He nodded in greeting, but Griffin could see a muscle work spasmodically in his jaw.

“Is Rachel here?” he croaked, realizing for the first time that his voice was nearly gone.

Joanna released him and stepped back, nodding, but she wouldn't meet his eyes now.

Field had no such difficulty; his gaze flared like blue fire, scoring Griffin soul-deep. “She's in her room.”

“I want to see her,” whispered Griffin, starting around the soft, trembling barrier of Joanna's body.

It was Field who stopped him, pressing one hand to his chest. “You've done enough, Griffin,” he said, in a terse whisper.

“But—”

Field's hand did not move, yet the pressure of it increased. “No, Griff. Fawn is with her—leave her alone.”

Griffin lowered his head. Whether the ragged sobs that tore themselves from his throat, one after another, were related to Rachel or to the pounding exhaustion he felt, he never knew.

Field and Joanna clasped his arms, one on each side, and, by some unspoken agreement, led him toward the back of the house. The floors of the parlor and dining room were lined with sleeping refugees wrapped in blankets.

By the time they reached the kitchen, Griffin had recovered his composure. He drank the hot coffee Joanna provided in stony silence, then consumed two mountainous ham sandwiches.

His voice was still raw when he spoke. “Tell me, Field. Tell me why you don't want me to see Rachel.”

A look passed between Field and Joanna, and Joanna left the kitchen silently.

For almost a minute, the only sound in the room was the steady
tick-tock
of the ancient clock on the mantelpiece.

“Well?” Griffin rasped finally, helping himself to another cup of coffee at the stove and then sitting down at the table again.

Field folded his arms across his chest. The fabric of his shirt was torn and stained with soot, even though his hands and face had been scrubbed to their usual wholesome shine. “Remember the night you told Jonas you'd slept with Rachel? Well, it seems that Jonas told Athena, who, of course, couldn't resist passing the word along. To say Rachel didn't take the thing well would be the understatement of this century.”

Griffin groaned. “My God, she doesn't think—”

“What do you think she thinks?” Field interrupted, his whisper echoing in the large room like a pistol shot.

Griffin rolled to his feet, staggered slightly, and grasped the back of his chair. “I'll tell her—I'll explain—”

Field had not moved from his chair, but his blue eyes snapped with warning. “You'll leave her alone, Griffin. She's in shock.”

“No.”

“Yes,” corrected Field. “Sit down before you fall on your stupid face.”

Griffin sank into his chair. “If you want to fight, Field, that can be arranged.”

“Right now, you couldn't best an old lady. Drink your coffee, and we'll find a place for you to sleep.”

The grief, the weariness—it was all tangled within Griffin, producing a state remarkably like drunkenness. “Remember the last time we fought, Field? We were kids, rolling around in that big mud puddle in front of your father's church. Your pa and mine just stood by watching, 'til it was over. Then they dragged us out into the woods and beat the hell out of us.”

Field rolled his eyes, but a grin twitched at one corner of his mouth. “I could have taken you, if you hadn't flung that muddy water in my face.”

“The hell,” retorted Griffin. “I had you from the first.”

“What were we fighting about, anyway?”

Griffin shrugged. “Who knows?”

In spite of himself, Field laughed. “Drink your coffee,” he ordered.

Calmly, Griffin complied.

It was late when he awakened the next morning; the sun was hot in his face, compelling him to open his eyes. For a moment, Griffin was confused, but then he looked down at his tattered, smoke-blackened clothes and remembered everything—the fire, the verbal round with Field, Rachel.

He sat up on John's couch and shaded his eyes against the sun and the cruel normality of the study itself. His head ached, his throat was raw, and his stomach was roiling inside him.

As if by some demonic conjury, Athena appeared before him, looking fresh and cheerful in her sprigged cambric dress. “Good morning, Griffin,” she drawled.

Griffin hoisted himself to his feet. “Go to hell,” he retorted, and his nausea grew measurably worse.

Athena showed no inclination to go anywhere. “Rachel is getting better,” she said. “She's talking to that Fawn person, and she remembers everything. Absolutely everything. Guess who she's asking for, Griffin?”

When Griffin said nothing, Athena rushed on, savoring her triumph. “Jonas. The only person she wants to see other than that squaw or Mother is Jonas. She definitely, Griffin Fletcher, does not want to see you.”

Griffin staggered to a side table, where some thoughtful soul had left towels and a basin of tepid water. He washed and dried
his face and hands before he answered. “I suppose I have you to thank for that, don't I?”

Athena smiled, like a coy child. “Yes, indeed.”

Griffin draped the soiled towel around his neck. “Why?”

She raised her chin, and the dark blue eyes flashed. “Because I love you.”

The irony of those words sickened Griffin further.
“Because you love me,”
he repeated, in a hoarse, savage whisper. “You are sick, Athena. And your love is an honor I can do without.”

“I have the right to fight for what—or whom—I want!”

Griffin shook his head in slow, purposely cruel denial. “I wouldn't wish your affections on Jonas, Athena. Your ‘love' is a murderous, destructive thing.”

Athena trembled. “Oh, Griffin, don't say that—”

“I haven't finished,” he snarled, as John O'Riley came into the room. “If you've turned Rachel against me, Athena, I'll kill you with my bare hands!”

“Good God!” the old man cried, as his daughter whirled, in stifled hysterics, and fled the room. “Griffin, have you taken leave of your senses!”

Griffin strode past John, insane with rage. “I meant what I said!”

“Griffin!” bellowed John, from the study doorway.

But Griffin didn't stop, didn't turn back. In the middle of the stairway, he came face to face with an impervious Field Hollister.

“You can't go up there, Griffin.”

“Damn it, Field—”

Field folded his arms. “I mean it, Griff. Rachel doesn't want to see you.”

“Well, she's going to!” Griffin yelled, outraged and panic-stricken. “Get out of my way!”

“No, Griffin.” Field's blue eyes flickering with determination, moved to someone or something just behind his friend's head. “I'm sorry.”

Griffin bellowed and lunged into Field's midsection like a demented bull. Instantly, there were hands, inescapable hands, all over him.

“Watch his feet,” said Field, calmly.

Griffin struggled, but even as his mind seemed to be bursting with madness and fury, he could not, would not use his feet. Not against Field. “
Damn
you!” he roared.

Unseen men subdued him, dragged him backward, down the stairs. Before he could see any of their faces, one of them pressed a treated cloth to his face. The smell was unmistakable -—chloroform. He struggled, wildly, but it was too late.

There were tears—he would have sworn it—glistening on Field Hollister's face as he bent over him. “I'm sorry, Griffin.”

Griffin's tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth. He battled the rising darkness in his mind, but it overtook him, crushing him into a nightmare world of nothing.

•   •   •

Rachel could not imagine what all the fuss was about. Now that she'd rested, she felt perfectly all right-—physically, at least. Emotionally, she ached in a way that made her want to writhe.

Fawn sat on the edge of the bed, laying a cool cloth across Rachel's forehead. In the distance, there was shouting, and the sound of a violent scuffle.

Rachel noticed that Fawn closed her eyes until the disturbance passed.

“What is happening?”

Fawn frowned. “Nothing, Rachel. There are a lot of people in the house, that's all. The O'Rileys must have put up half of Seattle last night.”

Rachel sat bolt upright. “Griffin—that was Griffin.”

Field Hollister's bride pressed her back onto the pillows with strong brown hands. “Maybe it is Griffin, Rachel. But they won't hurt him.”

Rachel turned her head away, tears brimming in her eyes. Why should she care whether they hurt Griffin or not, after the way he'd used her? But she did—she did care, and it was anguish.

“I hate him,” she whispered.

Fawn's hand enclosed one of hers. “You know that isn't true, Rachel. Later, there will be time to talk, to straighten it all out. For now, you must rest.”

Rachel's throat ached over a suppressed sob. “H—He bragged about me, Fawn—”

“Nonsense. I've known Griffin Fletcher most of my life; he would never do that.”

“He did,” Rachel insisted miserably.

Fawn was adamant. “There is some misunderstanding.”

How Rachel longed to believe that there was, but she couldn't quite manage it. She'd let wishful thinking rule her life
for too long as it was, and now she was in hopeless trouble. “I think there is a baby,” she whispered.

“Hush,” said Fawn. And then she began to sing softly, hauntingly, in a language Rachel did not understand.

Sleep came, and when Rachel awakened, the room was very dark. She thought she saw Griffin standing beside her bed, thought she heard his hoarse, gentle voice speaking to her. “I love you, Rachel McKinnon. I need you.”

The dream took on further reality as he bent and kissed her cheek, his face rough against hers. Rachel felt tears gathering in her eyes, but she could not speak for fear of breaking the spell, bringing on a wakefulness that would not contain Griffin Fletcher.

It did not surprise her that he was gone again, as quickly as he'd come. Dream people did those things.

•   •   •

Agile in the darkness, Griffin walked back into John's study and resumed the role of prisoner. “You make one hell of a guard, Jonas,” he said, stretching out on the sofa again and folding his arms.

Jonas stiffened in his chair, awakened with a start. “What—”

“Nothing,” said Griffin.

But Jonas was awake now, and bent on talking. He fumbled for matches, muttered as he lit the kerosene lamp on John's desk. “How long have you been awake?” he demanded.

Griffin grinned wanly. “Long enough.”

Jonas cursed roundly, then helped himself to a dose of John's best brandy. “I kept my word, Griffin,” he said, after a long silence.

Griffin applauded, smiling sardonically. “A small thing, considering that you knew I'd cut your gizzard out if you didn't. Come to think of it, I might anyway.”

Jonas turned his back, stared out at the darkness beyond the windows. “Will you back off for five minutes, you bastard? Sometimes I get so damned tired of this constant wrangling.”

Griffin crossed his booted feet at the ankles and pretended to relax. “You're a snake, Jonas. Snakes don't get tired—they just warm their cold blood in the sun.”

“We're cousins, Griffin,” Jonas insisted, without turning from his post at the window. “Our mothers were the closest of sisters. What happened between us?”

“Bad blood,” observed Griffin, sitting up now. “Or maybe it was that you slept with a woman you knew I loved.”

Jonas turned slowly to face his cousin. “And now you've returned the favor, haven't you?”

Griffin remembered the earlier betrayal, the foolish boast that had very possibly cost him Rachel's love. “No,” he said.

The need to believe him shone clear in Jonas's tortured face. Griffin saw his cousin embrace the lie, and hold it for a truth.

By Saturday morning, things had calmed down considerably in the O'Riley household. Though Jonas and Griffin were still in evidence—Rachel avoided them both conscientiously—the refugees had gone back to whatever charred remains they could claim as their own, and the Hollisters had returned to Providence to face their flock. Athena was so subdued that she seemed absent, even when she sat across the dining-room table from Rachel or brushed past her in a corridor.