Fletcher's Woman (43 page)

The expression in Molly's eyes was unreadable, as was the tone of her voice. “And Jonas? How would you feel if he died, Rachel?”

Rachel searched her heart. “If it's true that Jonas killed my father, like Griffin said, I hope he hangs. But I wouldn't want him, or any other man, to die because of me.”

Molly turned her face away suddenly, but the usual high color was gone from her skin, leaving behind a frightening pallor. “'Tis killing that weasel with my own hands I'd be, if I were strong as a man! His kind don't hang for their murders—they gloat over them and then go on as if nothing had happened!”

There was a long, tense silence before Rachel dared to speak. “Molly, do you really think there have been others?”

A tear trickled down Molly's white, tightly controlled face. “There was my Patrick—rest his fine soul—for one. We'd been living in one of the tents for more than two months when Jonas suddenly decided that we ought to have a cottage instead. Patrick was such a fine, strong worker, he said.

“Well, I didn't know it, nor did Paddy, but moving into one of those pretty little brick houses bore a frightful price. And Jonas made sure I was alone—except for Billy—when he came to collect it.”

Rachel was crying now, too, because Molly was, because she understood only too well. She couldn't have said a word if her life had depended on it, but she reached out and laid her hand gently on the arm of the trembling woman beside her.

Devastatingly calm, Molly went on, and hers was the face of a woman wandering through an endless nightmare. “I tried to get away, but I couldn't. I was different from the others, though—when my Paddy came down from the mountain, I told him. He
went after Jonas—in a killing rage he was—but he never got home again.”

“You didn't go to the constable?” Rachel asked, trembling herself now.

Molly's laugh was bitter and hoarse. “The constable? Henry's really just a storekeeper, Rachel—and he's Jonas's friend in the bargain. I went to him, like a fool, and told him my Patrick was lying murdered somewhere.”

“And he didn't do anything?”

“He did something, all right. He patted my arm and said everything would be fine. And then he went straight to Jonas.”

Rachel closed her eyes, waiting, knowing that the rest of the story would be, somehow, even more terrible than what had gone before.

“I was packing my things and Billy's that night—I meant for us to be aboard the first steamboat to leave Providence, no matter where it was going.”

“And Jonas came. He had two men with him, and they kicked in our door and walked into that cottage like—like the soldiers used to do in Ireland. Jonas took me again, before it was over, but that wasn't the worst part, Rachel. They beat my Billy when he tried to protect me.”

Sickness rose, like acid, in Rachel's throat. “And that's why—”

“That's why his poor mind is what it is.”

“H-How did you get away?”

“There was a lot of noise, and someone went and found Field Hollister. Griffin was with him when he came in, and as you can probably imagine, there was a row this town has never seen the like of. Jonas and his men
crawled
out of that cottage, Rachel, but it was too late for Billy and me, and certainly too late for Patrick.

“Jonas was questioned, but after that, the law just sort of looked the other way. So Billy and I came here to work for the doctor, and glad we were of it, too.”

Rachel was too stricken to speak, and Molly was lost in memories that must have been nearly unbearable to look back upon.

They were still sitting there, shaken and silent, when Griffin came in, grumbling, and lit the kerosene lamps on the mantel.

“Good Lord,” he scowled. “What's gotten into the two of you? This place is dark as a tomb.”

Rachel looked up from her misery, startled to see that night had come. The tears that she had not been able to cry before came then, in a savage torrent. Her father was dead, Molly's Patrick was dead.

The knowledge was too horrible to bear.

Griffin came toward her slowly, drew her to her feet, held her. His mouth was warm at her temple, his arms strong around her, but Rachel did not feel safe. She doubted now that she ever would again.

Molly's voice was crisp, if resigned. “The fault is mine, then,” she said. “May the Blessed Virgin forgive me, I've told her the truth of Jonas Wilkes.”

He was angry; Rachel could feel his fury snapping between his body and her own. Still, his words sounded gentle as they passed her ear. “Please, Molly—will you get supper?”

As Molly went out, Rachel lifted her face to Griffin's. “He'll come for me, won't he? Jonas will come for me.”

Griffin's eyes did not waver from hers. “Yes,” he said. “I think he will. Rachel, marry me—now, tonight.”

Rachel searched his face, and in that moment, she knew that Athena had lied, that he loved her, that he had not used her. She also knew that she could not say yes, even though everything within her longed to. If she did, Jonas would surely kill him.

She turned away, to hide the telling pain in her eyes. “I can't,” she said.

The silence was thunderous, eternal. Griffin broke it gruffly. “Why not?”

Rachel raised her chin, reminded herself of the brutal, tragic truth. “I don't love you,” she lied, praying that he would accept what she'd said without question.

But Griffin wrenched her around to face him, his dark eyes glittering, his jawline flexed. He caught her chin, hard, in his hand. “Say that again, Sprite,” he commanded.

She wouldn't have been able to, had she not had a sudden vision of Griffin lying dead. Anything would be better—marrying Jonas, even being sold by Captain Frazier. “I don't love you,” she repeated, in flat, steady tones.

Pain contorted his face; he closed his eyes for a moment. Rachel used that fleeting time to fight down the grief that was rising from her heart to her eyes.

He looked down at her again, as though he sensed something,
but then he released his hold on her shoulders and strode out of the study. The slamming of the front door signaled an end to the deception, and Rachel sank into a chair, covering her face with both hands, and, once again, wept.

She wanted to cry forever, but there was something strong within her, something that would not give up even when that seemed to be the only sensible thing to do. Aware of a need for haste, Rachel McKinnon swallowed her grief and, once again, fled Griffin Fletcher's house.

As she stumbled through the woods, and then through Tent Town, she tried to deal with the certainty that this time, Griffin would not follow.

•   •   •

It was late when the front door opened, but Molly Brady heard the knob turn, then the soft click of the lock. She sat straight up in her chair, facing the study fireplace, and breathed a frantic prayer that there would be no rage this time.

Griffin came into the dimly lit room, his face haggard in the soft, flickering light. There was something broken about him, as though his spirit had been dragged out of him and beaten. His dark eyes were vacant.

Silently, Molly retracted her prayer. Even one of his uncontrollable rampages would have been preferable to this odd, animated death she saw in him now.

“Where is Rachel?” she dared.

He went to the mantel, braced himself against it with both hands, lowered his head. “Becky's.”

Molly stood up. She could not risk touching him, though she longed to offer him the same comfort she would have given to Billy, had he been in need of it. “I heard it all from the hallway, Griffin,” she confessed.

Griffin flinched slightly, but he made no answer.

There were tears in Molly's eyes now and in her voice, and she wasn't ashamed. “Oh, Griffin, you fool—don't you know that she was lying to you? Don't you understand what she's trying to do?”

He made a hoarse, contemptuous sound. “Oh, I think I understand that, all right.”

All desire to comfort was gone now; Molly felt, in its stead, a need to hammer at that taut, impervious back with her fists. “Rachel is protecting you!”

Griffin's face was terrible when he whirled away from the
mantel, so terrible that Molly retreated a step or two, out of his reach.

“Rachel is taking up where her mother left off!” he spat And then he brushed past his outraged, incredulous housekeeper and strode out of the study.

The heels of his boots made a hammering sound on the stairs.

Rachel was a little startled when she awakened in her mother's bed that glowering Monday morning, but she recovered quickly. Today, she would dismiss the girls, the barkeeper, everyone except Mamie, the cook.

As she washed and then dressed in the worn cotton dress Molly had loaned her the day before, she made up her mind to ask for whatever profits the business might have generated in her absence. There might, with luck, be enough money to buy a few lengths of calico and poplin for dresses.

The saloon had been closed on Sunday, of course, but it was already coming to life as Rachel descended the
steep
wooden stairs to make her announcement.

It was more difficult than she'd expected, telling these hardened, sharp-eyed women that they would have to find employment elsewhere, but Rachel managed it with quiet dignity.

Tom Rawlins, the barkeep, burst out laughing. “Becky's kid, running a boardinghouse! If that don't tickle my whiskers!”

Rachel stood her ground, but her voice trembled a little when she spoke. “I'm glad you find it amusing, Mr. Rawlins. But the fact remains that this building and everything in it is mine now, and I have no intention of selling spirits or—or—”

One of the women, a tall, slender blonde with the face of a schoolmarm, turned a steaming coffee mug slowly between her palms and smiled. “You'd better look over the ledgers before you make too many assumptions, Miss McKinnon. Wouldn't
surprise me none if you found yourself business partners with Mr. Jonas Wilkes.”

Rachel squared her shoulders, even though the prospect of having anything to do with that heinous man made her quake inside, and walked across the saloon floor to take the stack of black books Tom Rawlins had brought from behind the bar.

In the relative privacy of the kitchen, where Mamie was working at the stove, Rachel read the ledgers and learned the dismal truth. While the actual partnership had been dissolved, long ago, there were still outstanding debts. Sizable ones.

Mamie set a plate of scrambled eggs before her new employer, along with a cup of hot, fragrant coffee. “You owe that man plenty, from the look on your face.”

Glumly, Rachel nodded. She should have been prepared for this—Jonas had mentioned a business affiliation with her mother the very day she met him—but the situation still came as a brutal shock. “I don't know much about the law, Mamie, but I think he could take the place away from me.”

Mamie sat down heavily, ignoring the prostitutes as they came in and out of the kitchen, dishing up their own breakfasts, returning empty coffee mugs, plundering the pantry shelves for foods they found preferable to scrambled eggs. A long time had passed before she ventured an opinion.

“Mr. Wilkes won't stand for no boardinghouse, Rachel. Not when there isn't another saloon for miles around. His men would be unhappy about that and start looking for work elsewhere.”

Rachel swallowed hard, knowing that Mamie was probably right. “My mother didn't manage her money very wisely, did she, Mamie?”

Mamie smiled, and her round, brown eyes had a faraway look to them. “I guess not. She meant to pay Mr. Wilkes off, and she gave him whatever money she could. Trouble was that one of the girls always seemed to have sick folks at home. Too, Becky was all the time giving credit to the wrong people—I don't know how many of those lumberjacks moved on without paying their bar bills.”

Rachel thought of the child within her and vowed that she would solve this problem. She couldn't continue running a brothel; not even for a day could she countenance the sale of human flesh. But it appeared that she wouldn't be able to close Becky's Place without a fight.

Unexpectedly, Mamie's shiny brown hand closed, warm, over her own. “Go to Dr. Fletcher, Child. He has money, and he'd help you now—I know he would.”

Hot color surged into Rachel's face and pounded at her cheekbones. “I would die first.”

“Then what are you going to do? Nobody else, besides Jonas Wilkes himself, has what to loan you.”

Rachel stood up slowly, wearily. She was tired—so mercilessly tired—but she was through running away. “I'm going to go to Mr. Wilkes, right now, and try to reason with him.”

Incredible as it seemed, Mamie's black skin paled a little. “No! Why Becky McKinnon would haunt my nights from here on if I let you face that man alone!”

“I'm going, Mamie,” Rachel said staunchly. “Don't you see? I have to!”

“Now you listen here, Child!” Mamie cried, raising her great bulk from her chair at the table and pointing one stern, black finger. “It's no secret what happened at Judge Sheridan's the other night—everybody's been talking about it since. Now, I figure that Jonas Wilkes must be madder than sin over that, and when he's mad, he's mean!”

“If he's angry with anyone, Mamie, he's angry with Griffin. Even if I'd wanted to stay and be married, which I most certainly didn't, I wouldn't have been allowed to. Blaming me makes no sense.”

“Not much of what Jonas Wilkes does make sense, Rachel. Don't you go near him!”

Before Rachel could respond to that, there was a stir beyond the kitchen door, in the saloon itself. And then she knew, instinctively, that the choice had been made for her—Jonas Wilkes had spared her the journey to his house.

He roared her name.

Rachel trembled, met Mamie's startled gaze only briefly, and then turned to march into the saloon and face the dragon.