Fletcher's Woman (8 page)

She had only mentioned Rachel McKinnon's departure from Tent Town, in Jonas's company, in passing. For all she knew, Field hadn't even bothered to repeat the conversation to Griffin. And even if he had, there was every chance that Griffin wouldn't make the connection in his harried mind, wouldn't realize that the new resident was Becky McKinnon's kid.

But if he had . . . Oh, Lord, if he had . . . And if he'd told Jonas, in anger, that the warning had come from Fawn . . .

Fawn let her head rest against the polished mahogany framework of the French doors. Not for the first time in her eventful life, she found herself wishing that she had never separated herself from her people, never tried to stay with the Hollisters and go to school, never tried to make a place for herself in the white world.

She laughed, ruefully, under her breath. There was no place
for her in that world, even though she could read and write and figure as well as any of them. She was Jonas Wilkes's woman—and nothing else.

Fawn lifted her head. All right. She was Jonas's woman, and only one of many at that. But there was no point in standing around sniveling about it; she could not go back to her tribe now, and her pride would not allow her to return to Buck Jimson's show to be stared at like a freak.

Somehow, she would have to find a way to live between the two worlds, between the Indian ways and the ways of the whites. And if she could be neither Indian nor white, she would still be Fawn Nighthorse. She could still dream.

She was startled when the parlor doors swung open, and her fears were deepened by the glint of savage annoyance in Jonas's tawny eyes.

“How kind of you to accept my last minute invitation, Miss Nighthorse,” he said.

Fawn suppressed a shudder. Jonas was a good-looking man and more skilled than most as a lover, yet the thought of his hands touching her made her skin crawl. “I dropped everything and rushed right over,” she said, tempering her surrender with as much sarcasm as she dared.

A slight, mocking smile curved Jonas's lips. “Come in,” he said, making a suave gesture of his right hand. In his left, he held a brandy snifter.

Fawn edged past him, into the sumptuous room, much as she would skirt a mountain lion or a bear. Tension twisted her insides into straining coils.

She whirled to face him, her right hand locked over her left, her head bloodless and light—much too light. “Jonas, I didn't mean—” she blurted, “I shouldn't have told—”

The impeccable white of Jonas's shirt collar seemed to seep into his face, pushing all color before it. His eyes were like golden fires, and his grip on the brandy snifter tightened visibly. “You!” he rasped.

Infinite horror settled over Fawn like a weight, crushing her. All her suspicions had been correct; she knew that now. Field had gone straight to Griffin with the news and Griffin had probably stormed out here and collected Rachel McKinnon before Jonas could maneuver her seduction. Too late, she realized that Griffin hadn't betrayed her—she had done that herself.

She retreated a step. “Jonas, I—”

But Jonas crossed the room in just a few strides, the brandy roiling, amber, in the snifter he carried. “I should have known,” he growled, in an undertone more terrifying than any shout could have been. “You saw Rachel leave with me and you went straight to Griffin!”

Fawn's head was shaking back and forth of its own volition. “No—no, Jonas. I-I told Field. I'm sorry.”

Jonas turned from her suddenly, and for one wild moment, she hoped for a reprieve.

But the brandy snifter sailed across the room and shattered against the ivory marble of the fireplace, sending out a shower of tiny, crystal shards. The fire roared as it caught the contents of the splintered glass and consumed them.

Just as Fawn would be consumed.

Jonas's eyes were flat, expressionless, as he turned his gaze back to her. It was going to be bad.

“Take off your clothes,” he said.

Fawn trembled as she reached back to untie the leather strings at the back of her neck, but then a strange calm came over her, a detachment that always carried her through the worst times. The deerskin dress fell to the floor, revealing the nut-brown perfection of Fawn Nighthorse's body.

For a moment, Jonas seemed to be frozen in time and space. She felt his eyes slide over her body, knew that the flickering firelight danced on her cinnamon skin and worked an old and changeless magic, stirring primitive responses in the man before her.

But the spell was soon broken. Jonas thrust her down, roughly, to the massive bearskin rug at her feet. He was upon her in only a moment.

Other times, there had been a degree of gentleness in Jonas's insatiable need; it had allowed her to survive by pretending that he was the one her spirit cried out for. But this time was different.

Jonas's teeth were sharp on the edges of her nipples, his hands harsh where they ventured. Fawn closed her eyes and her mind against the inevitable entry.

It did not happen. Jonas's member, so insistent only seconds before, faded to nothing, resting soft against the cool, dry skin of her thigh.

And Fawn Nighthorse made her third disastrous mistake of the day. “The white warrior has no spear to throw,” she said.

Instantly she regretted the foolish, impulsive words, but it was too late.

With both hands, Jonas grabbed her hair, wrenched her head upward, and then thrust it down again, hard, against the floor. His left fist, always the most dangerous, pummeled into the middle of her face. She felt staggering pain, and tasted blood in her mouth.

There was another blow, and then another. The pain was hideous, blinding. But Fawn Nighthorse did not utter a single sound, not even as her consciousness slipped away.

•   •   •

Before she opened her eyes, Rachel sensed that she wasn't alone in the tent. Someone was there, watching her.

Primitive terror surged into her throat, cutting off her wind, blocking any sound she might have made. Instinct caused her to lie very still.

There was exasperation in the voice that shattered the eerie silence. “It's all right, Miss McKinnon; I'm not here to ravage you.”

It couldn't be! Drained of that first instinctive rush of fear, Rachel turned her head, squinted at the man sitting casually on the cot across from hers. “Griffin Fletcher!” she gasped, remembering all the secret things she'd imagined doing with him and blushing in response.

He didn't seem to notice her embarassment; he simply stood up and turned his muscular back. “Get dressed. You can't stay here any longer.”

Outrage roared through Rachel's being like a forest fire consuming trees and bushes. “I beg your pardon!” she snapped, sitting up on the cot and puffing the inadequate blanket closer to her tingling skin.

“You heard me,” Griffin Fletcher intoned without turning around. “Put your clothes on, or I'll do it for you.”

Having no doubt that he would do just that, if challenged, Rachel scrambled off the cot, still cowering in her blanket, and pulled the hated brown woolen dress—the only dry garment she possessed—from her wicker satchel.

The dress was rumpled and musty, but Rachel put it on anyway, and in record time. “Who do you think you are?” she raged, as she frantically brushed her hair and pinned it into place. “My father is going to hear about this, I assure you! He is a very strong man and he is not going to be pleased when I tell him how you've been harassing me! Why, he'll—”

Rachel's tirade was interrupted by a low, intrepid laugh. Color rushed into her cheeks as Dr. Fletcher turned, at last, to face her.

“He'll what?” he asked, grinning.

“He'll—he'll—” Rachel wasn't quite sure what he'd do, so she made something up. “He'll skin you alive and throw your insides to the gulls!”

The irritating grin broadened. “I'm terrified, Miss McKinnon,” he said.

Rachel was deflated now, and frightened. “If I'm not to stay here, where am I going?” she asked, raising her chin and forcing herself to meet the dark, amused gaze of her tormentor.

“That, my dear, is your mother's problem, not mine. And you will never know how grateful I am for that one, shining fact.”

All of Rachel's conflicting emotions were displaced by her curious feelings toward her mother. On the one hand, she hated the woman, wished never to see her, never to speak to her or hear her voice. On the other, she wondered about so many things, harbored so many searching questions that only Rebecca McKinnon could answer.

“You'll take me to her?” she asked evenly.

“With pleasure and relief,” said Dr. Fletcher, executing a mocking half-bow and gesturing grandly toward the door of the tent.

Rachel preceded him outside with dignity.

In a gentlemanly manner, Dr. Fletcher helped her into the rain-dampened seat of his buggy. The storm had passed, though only temporarily if the angry, sullen afternoon sky meant anything.

The air was cool, but somehow oppressive, too, and Rachel mourned her lost shawl. After the embarrassing events of the morning, she couldn't very well present herself at Mr. Jonas Wilkes's door and request its return.

Dr. Fletcher swung deftly into the seat beside her and took up the reins. In a few moments, the exhausted little horse was drawing them out of Tent Town and onto the main road.

Once again, the saltbox houses along Main Street dipped by, one by one. The lamps behind the polished windows had been extinguished, and well-fed housewives were venturing out into their yards to inspect their infant gardens or just breathe the freshly washed air. Several waved spiritedly at the doctor, who
responded with a slight smile and a nod of his head. Rachel could feel curious stares following her.

At the end of the street, just past the white frame church that must certainly be Field Hollister's domain, Dr. Fletcher forsook the road for a wide path leading down toward the water.

Rachel searched his face, but saw nothing there that could possibly have prepared her.

The establishment stood, tall and brazen, in the midst of a tangle of fir trees, cedars, and adolescent elms. A garish, gilded sign proclaimed it to be Becky's Place, and Rachel did not miss the meaning of the swinging doors or the tinny piano music coming from inside.

“A saloon,” she breathed, stunned.

Something almost like compassion flashed in the doctor's eyes. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. Then he sighed heavily, and the mocking formality was gone from his voice when he went on. “Rachel, your mother is very sick. I want you to remember that.”

Rachel could only nod.

When the doctor lifted her down from the buggy seat and offered his arm, Rachel accepted. She was not accustomed to leaning on anyone, the harsh realities of her life had precluded that almost from the first, but she felt the need of this man's boundless, grudging strength now.

The inside of the saloon was far fancier than any Rachel had ever seen before. It had a real wooden floor, rather than the scattered sawdust of the boisterous establishments from which she'd sometimes dragged her good-natured father; and the walls were embossed with something that resembled red velvet. The bar was elaborately carved and polished to a high shine, and there was a long, glistening mirror affixed to the wall behind it.

Rachel caught sight of her reflection in that bottle-edged mirror and winced. She looked like a waif, lost inside a full-bodied woman's dress.

Just when she thought she was adjusting to the shock of it all, two women burst, laughing, through a fringed doorway to the left of where Rachel stood. Both had brassy, unlikely-looking hair piled on top of their heads in stiff curls, and their dresses were so scant that their robust breasts threatened to burst free.

Rachel blushed to the roots of her hair and turned her eyes, in desperation, to Griffin Fletcher's face. She saw mingled
sympathy and amusement in his gaze and stiffened. “Dancing girls,” she whispered.

“At the very least,” replied the doctor, crisply, tightening his grasp on Rachel's arm and ushering her toward a steep, wooden stairway.

The shattering truth dawned on Rachel midway between the first floor and the second. She froze where she stood and swallowed the aching lump that had risen in her throat. “This place—this place is a—”

“Brothel,” said Dr. Fletcher bluntly. But his eyes were gentle on her face now and calmly insistent.

Tears of stunned confusion gathered in Rachel's thick eyelashes, making them spiky. For one terrible moment, she thought she was going to be violently ill.

“You could have told me!” she croaked.

Griffin Fletcher's impressive shoulders moved in a sigh. “How?” he asked, reasonably.

Rachel had no answer for that, and though she wanted nothing more than to turn and run, she permitted the doctor to lead her up the stairs and into a long, dim hallway.

He tapped lightly at the last door on the left, turning the doorknob with resolution when a thin voice commanded, “Come in.”

Rachel would have remained behind, in the hallway if he hadn't dragged her inside with an effectively disguised show of force.

After a long moment, he released her and moved across the shadowy room to stand beside a disheveled bed. “Hello, Becky.”

Rachel could barely make out the thin frame resting beneath the tangled bedclothes, but she knew that this wraith, with its mussed hair and waxen face, was her mother. She recoiled—from the sickness, from all she had learned in the past few minutes.

The ghost-woman's voice was a vicious rasp, and her eyes were fierce on the doctor's face. “You bastard, Griffin—you brought her here!”

The doctor seemed unruffled by the challenge. “I'm fond of you, too, Becky. And yes—this is Rachel.”

The comforter moved with a rustling sound as the woman raised herself from her prone position and snapped, “Light a lamp, for God's sake! What's done is done. Let's have a look at her.”