Fletcher's Woman (41 page)

Rachel was no more gregarious herself; it seemed to her that some kind of thick batting had wrapped itself around her mind and heart, insulating her from realities with which she could not yet deal. She made no attempt to shake off this peculiar numbness, knowing that it would, all too soon, give way to the pain lying in wait.

Taking an afternoon carriage ride was Joanna's idea, and while the prospect generated neither resistance nor enthusiasm in Rachel, she agreed to go.

The weather was mild and burnished by a muted brass sun. Feathery clouds made an eiderdown tracery against the azure sky, and the bay sparkled, dappled with silver and gold. There was still a tinge of smoke in the air, mingled with the odor of charred wood.

As the carriage rattled down the hill, the full scope of the city's destruction came home to Rachel with crushing clarity. The wharfs were gnarled and blackened, or gone entirely; while the business district itself, except for a few pathetically naked brick ruins, was completely destroyed. Was it possible that she
had been right in the middle of the holocaust, as Joanna said she had, and remembered nothing?

Rachel drew in her breath, and tears of shock trembled in her voice when she spoke. “Oh, Joanna—it's as though the world had ended. . . .”

Joanna's voice was gentle, wise. “Look again, Rachel.”

Brow furrowed, Rachel stared out at the grim waste once more. Now, she saw what Joanna wished her to see—the tents rising from the rubble and somehow defying it, the federal and territorial flags waving beside a sooty but triumphant courthouse; the smiles of merchants who sold their goods and services from the backs of wagons and beneath canvas canopies.

“Look at Seattle,” Joanna urged softly. “Look at her, scrambling back to her feet!”

Rachel's throat was unaccountably tight; and one tear slid, trickling, down her face. She dashed it away.

“Are you beaten, Rachel?” Joanna went on, a quiet challenge ringing in her words. “Or will you fight back, like Seattle?”

A ragged sob wrenched itself from her throat, but the challenge could not be ignored. All right. Her money was gone, the dress shop where she'd ordered new clothes was gone, Miss Cunningham's boardinghouse was probably gone, too, with the things she had left there. But she still had her building, and she was still a tough timber brat, bred to roll with the punches.

She raised her chin and met Joanna's gaze directly. “I'll fight,” she said.

“Good,” replied Joanna, her blue eyes warm on Rachel's face.

“I'm going back to Providence,” Rachel announced, even though she hadn't been asked. “Yes,” she added, after a short interval, for her own benefit more than Joanna's, “Yes, I'm going back.”

Joanna said nothing, and she seemed to be intent on the rollicking resurrection going on all over the city. A small smile tilted the corner of her mouth upward, however, and her blue eyes were very bright.

Rachel turned her attention inward, facing facts.

As her money was gone, so was the dream of being Griffin Fletcher's wife. However, the sturdy building in Providence remained to her, as did the tiny, troublesome, and infinitely precious life nestled within her.

Life would be hard, for her and for her child, but it would be good, too. Rachel McKinnon meant to see to that, thank you very much.

A hundred misgivings sprang, tangled, into her mind. In a matter of months, her pregnancy would be visible to all and sundry, and in a town like Providence especially, that meant scandal. She would doubtlessly encounter Griffin time and time again. Wouldn't he guess that the child swelling her middle was his own?

Rachel determined to deal with that problem when she came to it. In all likelihood, by the time her condition became noticeable, Griffin would be married to Athena and totally oblivious to the proprietress of McKinnon's Rooming House.

Because all these things were churning in her mind, even after the carriage had shuddered to a stop in front of the O'Riley house and Rachel had gone into the garden to think, Jonas's appearance took her completely by surprise.

She started when she saw him, felt color surge into her face. What must he think of her, now that Griffin had boasted of possessing her so fully? “Jonas,” she breathed, stricken.

He smiled, his hands resting comfortably in the pockets of his trousers, his white shirt open at the throat. His tone, when he spoke, was light, but startlingly blunt. “I trust your romance with Griffin is over?”

Rachel's color deepened, and she folded her hands in her lap, lowered her head. “Yes,” she said miserably.

Boldly, Jonas sat down on the stone bench beside her. He was so close that she could smell the scent of his cologne and feel the frightening tension within him. “Rachel, perhaps it's too soon to speak, but the plain truth is, if I don't I'm going to go insane. I love you—I want you to be my wife.”

The garden bench seemed to be buckling beneath them; Rachel's head spun, and her stomach knotted itself up tight. “What?” she managed, finally.

The sleeves of Jonas's shirt were rolled up nearly to his elbows; when he reached out, suddenly, and took Rachel's hand, she could see the tiny golden hairs glistening on his forearm.

“Urchin, will you look at me, please? I'm trying to declare myself here, you know, and you're not making it any easier.”

There was no choice; in another moment, he would reach out, lift her chin, force her to face him. She met his eyes
knowing that her own were brimming with tears. “Oh, Jonas, don't—please—don't.”

The briefest pain flashed in the depths of his golden eyes. “I have to, Urchin. My options are limited, you see—either I make you mine, or I lose my mind.”

Mutely, Rachel shook her head.

But Jonas stayed the motion with a grasp that bordered on pain, his fingers tight and cod on her chin. “God help me, Rachel, I know you love Griffin—I know you want him. But you must realize by now that he still belongs to Athena.”

Misery swept through Rachel, just as the fire had swept through Seattle. She swallowed an involuntary cry of grief and nodded.

Jonas's hand fell away from her face, and she thought she saw her own desolation mirrored in his handsome, even features. “In spite of the things you've probably heard about me, I would be the most devoted of husbands, Rachel. I would love you, shelter you—”

A third voice broke in unexpectedly, harsh with malice. “Betray you, murder everyone and everything you hold dear.”

Griffin
. Rachel's heart struggled within her, like something wild caught in an inescapable trap, but she could not bring herself to look at him.

Jonas shot to his feet; out of the corner of one eye, Rachel saw his fists clench at his sides.

Griffin's voice was low, contemptuous. “Marry him, Rachel, and you marry the man who murdered your father in cold blood.”

The world was reeling and tumbling around Rachel, and bile rushed, scalding, into her throat. “No!” she screamed, even as some primitive instinct hidden in the deepest recesses of her heart accepted the words as truth. She was on her feet, flailing her arms wildly, feeling her fists make contact with the hard width of a man's chest.

And Jonas's grasp was fierce on her wrists as he stayed the blows. When his face came into focus again, Rachel shuddered.

Jonas's voice rumbled, like dark, distant clouds colliding in a night sky. “He is lying, Rachel! Would I be walking around free if I'd killed a man?”

Rachel stumbled back from him, shaking her head, struggling in his grip. She felt Griffin's approach, felt the pull of him in all her senses.

He broke Jonas's hold easily, swung her up into his arms, held her close against him. He turned back toward the garden gate, still carrying Rachel, wordless with fury.

There was a soft thud; Rachel watched in horror as Griffin's features went blank, fell helplessly as he fell. She was unhurt, but Griffin lay motionless on the stone floor of that part of the garden, the back of his head bleeding slightly. Screams clustered, unuttered, in her throat, tears poured down her face.

She dropped her forehead to the dark tangle of Griffin's hair, certain that he was dead.

It was then that Jonas wrested her cruelly to her feet, one of his hands clamping over her mouth. She heard something hard fall from his other hand and clatter on the fieldstones beneath their feet. His voice was a madman's voice, rasping savagely from his throat. “Remember what I told you, Rachel? The night we went to the Opera House and then my hotel? I said that when I took you, you would be ready. Now, Urchin, whether you know it or not, you're ready!”

Terror and grief made Rachel strong; she twisted in Jonas's grasp, bit the fingers of his constricting hand until she tasted blood.

He swore hoarsely and slapped her so hard that she would have fallen if he hadn't caught her.

I must scream
, she thought stupidly, but she could not make a sound; if her mind was given to calm reason, her body was stunned into a sort of hopeless paralysis.

Rachel could make no protest of any kind as Jonas dragged her out of the garden, across the lawn, and up to the door of his carriage. When he thrust her savagely inside, she fainted.

•   •   •

The first sensation Griffin Fletcher recognized was a pounding ache in the back of his head. He groaned, and nausea boiled into his throat.

“Lie still!” pleaded a familiar, feminine voice. “Oh, Griffin, please—don't move.”

Athena.
Griffin cursed and raised himself to his hands and knees, then to his feet. The familiar garden swayed around him, and it was shrouded in darkness.

It was a moment before his eyes focused on the flat, blood-splattered rock lying a yard or so away, before he remembered. When he did, he thrust Athena's hand savagely from his arm and stumbled around her, toward the stables.

The darkness began to clear away. To Griffin's great relief, he realized that it was still daylight.

Athena screamed his name, and the sound was shrill, almost angry. Griffin made his way into the barn, found a horse, saddled it. He had reached the waterfront before he remembered that Jonas had had a carriage.

The sun was high and hot, drawing sweat from the back of his neck and the space between his shoulder blades. Gulls swooped and complained against the fierce blue of the sky, steamers chugged by, their passengers gaping and pointing at the remains of Seattle.

Frantic, unable to think properly, Griffin slid from the horse's back and paced the rubble-strewn dirt that had once been a plank walkway overlooking the wharfs.

A hand caught his arm, stayed him. “Griff? What in the devil—”

Griffin whirled, ready to fight, caught himself just as the face before him came into proper focus. “Malachi,” he breathed, closing his eyes.

“What is it, Griffin?” the
Merrimaker's
captain demanded, his weathered face taut with concern. “You don't look even half right to me.”

The pain in the back of Griffin's head was savage, blinding him, causing his knees to tremble beneath him. He caught himself, forced gruff, terse words of explanation past his lips.

“Where would he take the girl?” Malachi demanded, searching Griffin's face. “If it's somewhere the
Merrimaker
can follow, I swear that she will.”

Mutely, Griffin nodded.

Half an hour later, the
Merrimaker
caught her share of the northbound wind and sailed away from the laboring tugs that had drawn her from the bay into the heart of Puget Sound.

Standing at the bow, his hands tight on the railing, Griffin lost track of time. But he marked the passing of West Point and Shilshole Bay, Kingston and Point No Point. The sun was raging behind the Olympic peaks when the
Merrimaker
rounded Foulweather Bluff and surged into the mouth of the Hood Canal.

The water was deep at Providence harbor, but the tide was out, so the
Merrimaker
dropped anchor almost a quarter of a mile offshore. Griffin would have swam the distance if Malachi Lindsay hadn't pointed out a better way.

After thanking his friend, Griffin climbed down a knotted rope to the twelve-foot skiff that had been lowered over the side. Three crewmen were already there, holding the boat steady.

When Griffin had taken his place beside one of four oarlocks, they pushed away from the
Merrimaker's
creaking port side and rowed toward shore. The straining effort of the task was balm to Griffin's whirling mind.

At the wharf, he climbed the familiar wooden ladder, waved once at the already retreating crew of the skiff, and strode along the dock, toward a bevy of citizens eager for more news of the Great Fire.

Griffin ignored them, and calmly stole the schoolmaster's dapple-gray mare from in front of the general store.

The horse was slow, it seemed to him, and he was swinging from its shuddering back, in front of Jonas's palatial house, before he noticed that the animal was lathered.

He bounded up Jonas's walk, crossed the porch in long strides, kicked open both the doors. They clattered against the inside walls with a satisfying, splintering sound.

“Jonas!” Griffin bellowed, pausing in the marble-floored entry hall. He was about to search the rooms upstairs when Mrs. Hammond appeared, trembling, the hem of her stark white apron twisted in her hands.

“They aren't here, Dr. Fletcher. And that's the God's truth.”

Griffin swayed a little, in his fury and his weariness. “Tell me,” he bit out.

Mrs. Hammond's chins wobbled. “They're gone to be married. You're too late.”

Griffin fought for control, attained it. They wouldn't be at Providence's one and only church, he knew that—Field could never be persuaded to perform the ceremony. That left only one possible place to look—Judge Sheridan's house on Main Street.