Fletcher's Woman (7 page)

Rachel scrambled to close the distance between herself and this arrogant, confusing man. As she fell into step beside him, she was reminded of the castles she'd read about in books. He was like one of those grim, forbidding structures, this man—cold and aloof and surrounded by a moat as real and impassable as any made up of crocodiles and water. She wondered if he had ever allowed anyone—man, woman, or child—to climb the high, thick walls of his fortress and venture into the passageways of his heart.

Rachel realized that she was being fanciful, but she didn't care. It was her affinity with the world of whimsy that made the real one bearable.

The inside of the cottage was clean and warm, but very dimly lit. The specter of death was lurking in that pleasant house; Rachel sensed its presence and drew the doctor's coat closer to her body.

A thin, exhausted man stood near the crackling fire on the hearth, his shoulders stooped, his features hidden in shadow. Rachel's lower lip trembled as she realized that he was weeping; the soft, ragged sound said too much about life in and around the lumber camps.

Dr. Fletcher moved across the room silently, disappearing through a doorway and leaving the shattered man and Rachel alone.

After just a moment, though, another man, tall and pleasant-looking, came out of the room Dr. Fletcher had entered. His smile was sad as it touched Rachel. “Hello,” he said, walking toward her. He extended a hand, and she found that it was hard and calloused.

She took in his worn, clerical collar with confusion. In her experience, preachers talked a lot, and they talked loud; but they seldom did real work. Yet the skin on his hands belied that idea. Here was a man who had swung an ax times without
number and probably had strained on one side of a crosscut saw, too.

The gentle eyes smiled at Rachel, even though the mouth was sad. “I'm Reverend Hollister,” he said. And then, without waiting for Rachel's name, he left the room, only to return a moment later with a warm blanket and a hairbrush.

Rachel remembered her tangled, still-wet hair and blushed, but she accepted the items gratefully, with a whispered, “Thank you.”

The man beside the fireplace stopped weeping, braced himself with visible determination, and went out of the house, leaving the door open behind him. He seemed heedless of the rain as Rachel watched him hurry down the walk and bolt over the gate.

Reverend Hollister explained softly as he closed the door. “Sam's baby was stillborn,” he said, his kind face contorted with shared pain. “A few minutes ago, we lost his wife, too.”

Rachel felt stricken tears gather in her eyes. “Oh, no,” she said, feeling the loss of this strange woman and her child as keenly as if she'd known them.

There was a short, dismal silence. Then Rachel turned away, hung the doctor's suit coat on a wooden peg near the fireplace, and wrapped herself in the woolen blanket Reverend Hollister had provided. Standing beside the fire, she began to brush her hair with fierce, determined strokes choreographed by her grief.

It seemed like a very long time before Dr. Fletcher came out of the death room and stood close beside her, before the fire. In a sidelong glance, Rachel saw that his shoulders were taut under his sodden white shirt and that his magnificent, ferocious eyes were haunted.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

For just a moment, she thought she saw a weakening in the immense walls that enclosed him; but he seemed to feel her scrutiny, and he stiffened. There was no emotion whatsoever in the look Griffin Fletcher gave her, and though his throat worked, no words passed his lips.

A horrible thought swept over Rachel, weakening her knees. “W-Was it because you had to leave? D-did they die because of me?”

The doctor allowed himself a look of exasperation. “You exaggerate your own importance, Miss McKinnon. There was nothing that could have been done, whether I'd been here or not.”

Rachel was too stung to respond, but the Reverend Hollister rasped, “Griffin!”

Some of the awesome tension seemed to drain from Dr. Fletcher's taut body, but he said nothing. The crimson and orange light of the fire danced on his stony features as he turned his attention to the flames.

Rachel drew a deep, shaky breath and managed. “I think I'd better go now. I-I don't want to get in anybody's way. . . .”

She'd thought that this man couldn't surprise her any more than he already had, but now he grabbed her arm and wrenched her close, so close that she could feel the hard, lean length of his thigh through her skirts.

“Don't you want to explore your new home, Rachel?” he asked, in a voice that at once terrified and enraged her. “There is a vacancy now, you know. One word to your good friend Jonas, and you, too, can live in splendor!”

Having no idea what he was talking about, Rachel tried to draw back and found herself hopelessly imprisoned in his grasp. Her heart sprouted wings and flew into her throat, struggling there, cutting off her breath. Had Reverend Hollister not broken Dr. Fletcher's hold so swiftly, she was certain she would have fainted.

“Griffin,” the minister bit out, restraining his friend with a glower.
“That
is
enough!”

For a moment, the two men glared at each other, and the already intolerable tension in the room grew to alarming proportions. A small, strangled sob escaped Rachel's aching throat, and she whirled, frantic, to run out of the house and down the slippery stone walk.

The gate resisted her quick, feverish tugs, and she wrenched at it, half hysterical in her need to escape the tangible hatred throbbing in the little house behind her.

But a strong hand closed over hers, forestalling the battle with the rusted gate latch. She looked up into the tempestuous, condemning eyes of Dr. Griffin Fletcher.

He was drenched to the skin. Rainwater poured down his face, plastering his thick, ebony-colored hair to his head in dripping tendrils. Through his now-translucent shirt, Rachel could see the dark tracery of hair matting his chest, and the sensations the sight aroused within her were more terrifying than any she'd experienced that day.

She was too stricken to move or speak. She could only stare at him, and wonder about all the mad, conflicting emotions that
were raging inside her, more violent than any storm the sea and sky could produce.

Dr. Fletcher didn't seem to notice the rain; he simply stood there, watching Rachel's face for a long time. Then, incredibly, he brought his hands to rest on her shoulders.

I want him,
Rachel thought with horror and conviction.
Dear Heaven, after the way he's treated me, I want him.

In desperation, she raised her chin and shouted over the incessant patter of the rain. “I'm going home!”

Without a word, Griffin Fletcher released her.

Wanting more than anything to stay near him, Rachel turned on her heel and strode away, toward the grassy embankment sloping down to the boundaries of Tent Town. She looked back only once, and involuntarily at that. When she did, she saw him standing at the end of the walk, watching her.

•   •   •

Fawn Nighthorse trembled inwardly when the summons came, but she was careful not to reveal her reluctance. If McKay thought she was scared, he'd be pleased—and there was no way she was going to let the slug have the satisfaction.

She followed Jonas's coachman and right-hand man down the cottage walk and through the gate, raising her face, once or twice, to the cleansing rain. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Griffin Fletcher's horse and buggy at Fanny's gate.

For a second, she considered running to him. He would defend her—she knew that—but in the end, she decided against seeking his help. Griffin had enough trouble as it was, and Fawn had other, deeper reasons for not wanting to call attention to the situation.

McKay had brought an extra horse, and Fawn swung deftly up onto its broad back, clinging to the reins with white-knuckled hands. McKay's saddle creaked as he turned to grin at her.

Fawn grinned back.
Bastard,
she thought.

They rode swiftly, avoiding the main road and galloping along the path leading through the dense woods to the east of Tent Town. After about fifteen minutes, the two riders emerged from a stand of silvery-leaved cottonwood trees and cut across the narrow dirt road.

Fawn allowed herself one glance back, over her shoulder, at the large, gray stone house where Griffin Fletcher lived. If she reined in the mare she was riding sharply enough and rode hard, she might be able to reach Griffin's front door, the sanctuary within his house, before McKay caught up with her.

She swallowed hard. What about tomorrow and the day after that? She couldn't hide from Jonas forever, and Griffin, the magnificent fool, wouldn't even try.

The rain was easing up; Fawn lamented that. Just then, she wished that the skies would open and drown Jonas Wilkes in a torrential downpour.

He can probably swim,
she thought, bitterly.

McKay rode up a steep, rocky sidehill, and Fawn followed. When they reached the crest, they both paused, their mounts dancing impatiently, to survey Jonas's kingdom.

McKay took in the palatial brick house and surrounding land with an obvious, vicarious sort of pride, while Fawn viewed it with dread.

I shouldn't have told Field Hollister that I saw Jonas carrying off the Fair Maiden,
she reflected wryly.
Damn it! Ten to one, Field told Griffin and Griffin went busting in there to save Becky's kid from shame and degradation!

Fawn stiffened in the saddle, stood up in the stirrups to stretch her legs.
Before this day's out, I'm going to wish I'd never been born.

McKay tossed a smug look over his shoulder; it was almost as though he'd read Fawn's thoughts and found them profoundly amusing. “Come on, Injun. The boss has plans for you.”

“Did I ever tell you what my people do with snakes like you, McKay?” Fawn shot back.

McKay paled. “Shut up.”

Fawn raised her voice as the horses started down the other side of the hill. “First, we let the old ladies peel your hide off—”

McKay spurred his mangy stallion to a run, and Fawn's laughter rang to the mountain and back again.

•   •   •

In the privacy of her tent, Rachel removed her wet clothes and wrapped herself in a blanket. Tears gathered behind her eyes, burning, but she would not let them fall.

She lay down on her cot, a torrent of confusion storming inside her. Because the anger kept her warm, she tried to stir it into full flame by remembering the rude things Dr. Fletcher had said and implied.

But the anger kept ebbing away. Instead, she found herself wondering what it would be like to surrender herself to him.

Where the rites of men and women were concerned, she had a firm grasp of the basics, though she had never experienced
them. Her father had warned her repeatedly that if she laid down with a man, she would be sullied.

Rachel had known a girl in Oregon who had been sullied by a storekeeper's son. Wilma had ended up with a very big stomach, good food to eat, and a sturdy roof over her head.

Rachel considered getting herself sullied, then set the thought wearily aside.

It had been such a confusing, worrisome day. First, there had been that unfortunate scene with Mr. Wilkes in the dining tent and then that encounter with him at the cottage. On top of that, she'd found out that her mother lived nearby, had ventured into Mr. Wilkes's grand house for tea and a real bath, and been dragged off by that insufferable Griffin Fletcher in the bargain.

He seemed to delight in hurling veiled insults at her, to hate her even. But why?

The burning tears brimmed in her orchid eyes and slid down her cheeks.
I don't like him either,
she mourned, knowing all the while that she did.

Rachel wept, tossing and turning inside the thin blanket until she finally fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep.

•   •   •

Griffin paused at the door of the tent Chang had pointed out to him, drawing one deep breath and running his hand through his damp hair. He was insane to go near the girl at all, considering the effect she'd had on him almost from the first moment he'd seen her.

Still, he couldn't very well leave her in Tent Town—she was too vulnerable to Jonas now. And Becky was counting on him to keep her safe.

Griffin swore. Rachel hadn't exactly been glad to be rescued from Jonas's luxurious den, it seemed to him. For all he knew, she liked the bastard.

“Rachel?” he said, quietly.

There was no answer, and a sudden and boundless fear overtook him. Suppose Jonas had already found her again and taken her back? Suppose, even now, he was caressing those delightful breasts or—

Griffin stepped inside the tent.

Nothing could have prepared him for the impact of seeing her there, asleep on that narrow cot, her thin blanket askew. The curve of one slender thigh glowed in the lamplight, and her left breast was revealed entirely. Beside the rosy nipple, a small, diamond-shaped marking caught the light.

A miniature eternity passed before Griffin could move or even breathe. Never, at any time in his life, had he wanted any woman the way he wanted this purple-eyed, quarrelsome snippet of a girl.

He tried to be impersonal about the matter; after all, there wasn't anything on that delectable little body he hadn't seen before.

I am a doctor,
he reminded himself.

But Rachel was no patient.

He turned away, and inside him, different facets of his complex nature did battle. The part of him that cherished honor prevailed at last, after a struggle, and he bent and gently covered the naked breast, the appealing thigh.

There would be another time; he knew that. And he looked forward to it with both yearning and despair.

Pausing outside the great double doors of Jonas's parlor, Fawn drew a deep breath. Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as she'd thought; perhaps the dramatic scenarios she had imagined had never taken place at all.