Fletcher's Woman (50 page)

“Oh, Jonas—” Rachel whispered, looking down at him. He was hideously burned, but he seemed to be beyond pain.

“Rachel,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

And then he was dead.

Griffin pulled off his coat, laid it gently over his cousin's still, disfigured face. “God,” he said. “Oh, dear God.”

And Rachel was not surprised to see that there were tears glistening on his face. She rose, moved to Griffin's side, let go—for the first time—of the torn bodice of her dress, and drew him into her arms.

“It's over now,” she whispered. “It's over.”

Griffin's ragged sob was almost inaudible over the crackling roar of the fire. “He thought you were inside—”

“Yes,” she said, because there was nothing else to say.

Field appeared, his face, like Griffin's, masked in soot. He gave Rachel his coat, and gently pulled his stricken friend to his feet.

Molly came and led Rachel away, too.

“You were here all the time,” Rachel whispered, seeing
Molly's torn, sooty skirts and disheveled hair. “It was you that made the back door of the barn creak like that—”

“Aye,” replied Molly. “And it was myself that put the figure of Athena into the buggy seat, too. I heard you and Fawn plotting this, and I followed along to do what I could.” At a good distance from the blazing barn, she stopped cold, and her green eyes came, fierce, to Rachel's face. “I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything, Miss Rachel McKinnon, when the Doctor hears the whole of this! An effigy in a white dress!” Molly paused to shake her head in furious wonder.

Rachel lowered her eyes; it was true that the night hadn't gone according to plan. The dummy was supposed to fall, swinging, from the barn rafters, while Fawn called Jonas's name in a ghostly voice. And Jonas was only supposed to confess to the murder, not die.

“He admitted killing my father, Molly. And Patrick.”

Molly was livid. “And it's God's own miracle that he didn't kill you—and Field Hollister's brand new bride in the bargain!”

Rachel looked up, sought Griffin with her eyes, needing the sight of him. He was leaning against a tree, not far away, and his shoulders were moving beneath the smudged fabric of his shirt Field stood, silent and supportive, beside him.

•   •   •

The month to come was a grim one.

There were more funerals, Athena's, and then Jonas's. Intermittently, victims of the raging epidemic of influenza were buried, too.

There was no time to talk, and certainly no time to make lasting plans. Griffin's practice consumed every moment, and Rachel followed him doggedly from one tent to another, ignoring his terse orders that she go home, offering what comfort she could to his patients and to John O'Riley's.

Finally, the sickness ebbed away.

The morning of July twentieth dawned bright and clear, and Rachel knew, without being told, that it would be a momentous day.

There were two sealed jars of cinnamon pears on the kitchen table, along with a small package marked with Rachel's name. She opened the parcel and smiled at the contents; clearly, this gift, like the ruby red pears, was from Joanna.

Griffin was in the back yard, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, industriously digging a hole.

“What are you doing?” demanded Rachel, from the steps.

He grinned and then, with a flourish, set a seedling tree into the pit he'd dug. “Planting my wedding present from Joanna O'Riley. Now why would she give me a pear tree?”

Rachel arched one eyebrow. “Now, why would you get a wedding present?” she countered. “Is there something I don't know, Griffin Fletcher?”

Griffin laughed. “Sprite, there are a lot of things you don't know—like how to handle that mountain full of timber you inherited from my cousin.”

She lifted her chin. “I'll learn,” she said. “And Tent Town is going to be rebuilt, too—with cabins.”

Griffin's eyes were bright with love and humor as he began shoveling dirt onto the roots of the infant tree. “My future wife, the timber baroness and crusading reformer.”

Rachel came to stand before him, looking up into his face. “Just how far in the future am I, Griffin?”

“How does five minutes sound? That's how long it will take to get to Field's church.”

Rachel flung her arms around his neck and held on, laughing up at the sky.

•   •   •

An hour later, as they drove away from the church in Griffin's buggy, he grinned down at her. “Well, Mrs. Fletcher, now we can enjoy something new—making love in a real bed.”

Rachel smiled and, once again, opened the little package Joanna O'Riley had sent. She took two handfuls of the tiny bits of paper inside and flung them into the wind, where they billowed and swirled like snow.

Rachel Fletcher clasped her hands and looked back at the paper-strewn road.
That
would keep the devil busy, and Griffin was turning lots of corners.