Mystical Warrior (10 page)

When Kenzie had told Fiona he was moving her to her own apartment, he’d also told her that if she ever got scared or felt threatened, she just had to go downstairs, and Trace would protect her. At the time, she’d been horrified that he expected her to approach a complete stranger for help, but
she certainly had been relieved to see her landlord arrive at the grocery store and rescue her from Johnnie Dempster.

And he had let her keep Misneach, and he hadn’t once said anything about her leaving the skunks on his workbench. Nor had he confronted her about rearranging his tools, or the goat, the horse, and the hens he hadn’t given her permission to have.

No, he’d obviously taken his grievances to Kenzie instead.

“Did you find the crutches?” he asked, limping into the kitchen, the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead telling her he was in pain. He pulled a chair out and plopped down with a relieved sigh, absently rubbing his knee. “Were they in the shed?”

Fiona went over to the stove and pulled out the plate of eggs and toast she had warming in the oven. “I looked, but I … I’m not sure what crutches are,” she admitted, setting the plate on the table in front of him.

When he only stared at her, saying nothing, Fiona spun away and headed to the fridge, from which she took out a jug of milk. She grabbed one of the glasses she’d washed earlier, filled it with milk, and set it beside the plate of eggs.

“Crutches,” he said, lifting his hand to the height of his shoulder. “Two tall … canes that I can stick under my arms, to take the weight off my bad knee when I walk.”

“Oh! Yes, I saw something like that!” she said, escaping down the hall and not stopping until she reached the cold shed. She took a steadying breath. How in heaven’s name was she going to spend the next several days taking care of a man who didn’t want her around?

But even worse, how was she going to stop herself from cleaning his house?

“H
ave you seen my boots?” Trace asked when Fiona came back into the kitchen carrying a pair of dusty old crutches.

She stopped by the door, and he saw her eyes widen as she glanced out the window, then back at him. “Your boots?” she repeated, looking out the window again.

Trace stuffed the last of the eggs into his mouth—eggs he couldn’t taste—and drained the last of the milk just before he used the table to push himself to his feet. “My work boots, the ones I was wearing yesterday,” he said, frowning when she glanced out the window again, her face turning as pale as new snow.

“I … um … I burned them with your clothes,” she whispered.

“You what?” he yelped, limping to the door to look out the window. Only he stopped in mid-limp when she flinched and raised the crutches protectively.

He smiled, and slowly reached for the crutches as he blew out an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose that was the only thing to do,” he said, tucking the crutches under his arms and hobbling the rest of the way to the door. “I probably wouldn’t ever have gotten the smell of skunk out of that leather,” he added, masking his consternation when he saw the pile of ash in his driveway.

All that remained of his brand-new work boots were the steel toes.

He looked down at the floor and saw that the space under the coat pegs was empty. “Have you seen my sneakers, then?” he asked. “Or my rubber mud boots?”

“Madeline took all of your shoes and boots with her last night,” she whispered. But after several heartbeats of silence, she took a small step toward him. “And I think you should know that she raised the hood on your truck, pulled something out of the engine, and took whatever it was with her, too.”

Trace couldn’t decide if he wanted to roar that Maddy had left him stranded or hug Fiona for tattling on her. He snorted instead. “Peeps believes that just because she’s married to Killkenny now, I can’t threaten to cut her hair when she pisses me off. But you know what I think?”

Fiona pushed her own thick braid of hair back over her shoulder, presumably out of his reach. “No, what?”

“I think our little stink-bomb buddies would like to spend the winter sleeping under Maddy’s cabin down at Dragon Cove.”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “You want to put the skunks—But that’s William’s cabin, as well. And Gabriella and Sarah also go there during the day.”

“You’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t mind playing a dirty trick on Killkenny for costing me three lobster traps and all their rigging, but I’ve got no quarrel with Gabriella and Sarah.” He grinned. “I know; we’ll put the little stinkers in the back of Maddy’s SUV.”

“We? But I don’t have a quarrel with Madeline. She didn’t steal
my
shoes.”

“No, but she did leave you here to take the fall for her.” Trace hobbled toward the living room, the crutches a blessed relief to his knee. “I’m going to watch the morning news while I figure out how to catch those skunks, and then I’ll have to figure out how to get them over to the nursing home where Maddy works, since my truck obviously isn’t running.” He stopped in the doorway and looked at her. “I appreciate your cooking me breakfast. I couldn’t taste any of it, but my belly certainly thanks you.”

“Trace,” she said when he started off again, making him turn to her. “Would you mind if I just … picked up a bit? Just in the kitchen,” she quickly added, her gaze darting to the counter and her body language all but begging to start cleaning.

It must be a woman thing, he decided, this compelling need to clean. He waved a crutch at the room. “Sure, have yourself a field day.”

“Wait,” she said when he turned away again. “I saw a washing machine in the mudroom. If you’d like, I can wash some of your clothes while you’re figuring out how we can catch the skunks and get them to the nursing home.”

He arched a brow. “So you’re going to help me get revenge on my cousin?”

One corner of her mouth lifted, and her eyes actually
took on a bit of a sparkle. “Well, Madeline did leave it to me to tell you about your shoes.”

He couldn’t believe she thought he was serious about putting those skunks in Maddy’s truck. Hell, he couldn’t really do that to the little pissers, despite the fact that his face was still numb and he couldn’t smell a damn thing.

The latter being a blessing, he supposed.

He shrugged. “Sure, you can do a load of laundry. And could you also hunt around for something for me to put on my feet? Old man Peterson was the size of a gnome, but maybe some of his sons’ boots are still kicking around. What did you do with my wallet?”

She walked to the counter, picked up his wallet, and, holding it away from herself, carried it over to him.

“Thank you,” he said, ignoring her gasp when he shoved it into his hind pocket. “You didn’t happen to see my cell phone, did you, when you were burning my clothes? I think I dropped it in the barn, and I need to call Rick.”

“I’ll go look for it.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her own cell phone, and handed it to him. “You’re welcome to use mine until I find yours.”

He slid it into his shirt pocket. “Thanks,” he said, turning away again.

“Trace? How come Mr. Peterson didn’t take all his belongings when he left?”

He kept hobbling toward the living room. “Probably because there wasn’t enough room in his casket.”

“Please tell me you’re not still mad at me,” Gabriella said from the kitchen table, where she was working on matching up Trace’s clean socks.

Fiona stopped using the metal spatula to scrape a glob of something off the floor and looked up at her friend in surprise. “What are you talking about? What makes you think I’m mad at you?”

“Because you haven’t called me since the day I persuaded you to buy Misneach. Was Mr. Huntsman angry that you brought home a puppy without asking his permission?”

Fiona scrambled to her feet and rushed over to her friend. “Oh, Gabriella, I didn’t call you because I was too ashamed for putting you in danger.”

“What are you talking about? How was I in danger?”

“I let Johnnie Dempster take me across the street, which left you all alone with his brother.” She touched Gabriella’s shoulder. “And friends do not abandon friends in a dangerous situation.”

“Neither one of you ladies was in danger,” Trace said, hobbling into the kitchen. “Midnight Bay in broad daylight is about as safe as it gets.”

Feeling her cheeks flush at the realization that he’d overheard them, Fiona wondered how the man could possibly move so silently on crutches.

“Did you happen to find any food that doesn’t have mold growing on it when you cleaned the fridge?” he asked, going to the refrigerator. “Well, hel—heck,” he muttered, leaning back on his crutches. “I didn’t know this thing was white; I honestly thought it was almond.” He pivoted, his gaze moving around the kitchen and his eyes widening with shock. “Holy … heck, the counters are blue. And it looks like I won’t have to replace the floor after all; it just needed a good cleaning. You ladies have done quite a job. The place looks really nice.”

“It’s all Fiona’s doing,” Gabriella said. “I’ve been here only a short while.”

“And I see she put you to work organizing my socks,” he drawled. He looked at Fiona, his expression hopeful. “Is there anything for lunch? I won’t really taste it, but the rumbling in my belly must mean I’m hungry. Anything will do—stale bread, leftover pizza,
skunk
stew.” He visibly shuddered. “Only not goat’s milk; just the thought of drinking anything from an animal that eats baling twine and tin cans makes me queasy.”

When Fiona noticed that his smile wasn’t quite reaching his eyes, she decided Trace was putting on a show, appearing overjoyed to have two women in his house.

She beamed him a brilliant smile—hers was sincere—and walked to the fridge. “I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said, taking out the package of meat and the container of cheese she’d brought down from her apartment. Then she grabbed the jug of milk and set everything on the counter. “I’ll bring it to you in the living room. Go on,” she said, shooing him away. “Maddy said you’re supposed to keep your knee elevated, and that means it has to be higher than your heart. Would you like me to find some other place to set the television, so you can use the footstool?” she asked, stifling another smile when she saw him suspiciously eyeing the jug of milk. “Pillows would make the stool high enough that you could sit in your chair instead of having to lie on the couch.”

“I already moved the TV,” he said, a slight edge in his voice as he hobbled back to the living room. “And the chair’s a recliner, which means it has a footstool built in.”

Gabriella walked to the counter. “Fiona, this is too pale
to be cow’s milk,” the girl whispered, picking up the jug. “And Mr. Huntsman said he doesn’t like goat’s milk.”

“He drank it this morning.” Fiona took the jug and filled a tall glass with the milk. “And it certainly hasn’t stopped him from wolfing down the bread I make with it or the cheese spread I put on his eggs this morning. And since I haven’t gotten around to getting a cow yet, he’s just going to have to settle for this.” She slathered a thick slice of bread with some of the delicious goat cheese Eve made and sold in her store and then piled on several slices of meat. “Besides, my nanny does not eat twine or tin cans or any other nasty thing.”

Gabriella looked around the half-cleaned and still cluttered kitchen. “How does anyone live like this?” she whispered, glancing toward the living room. She gave a soft snort. “My mama told me men don’t even see dirt, and that’s why they need wives. She said having someone to wash their clothes and cook their meals is the only reason they get married.” She looked back at Fiona and grinned. “That, and for sex.” But then she frowned. “Only when I asked her why any woman would get married if cooking and cleaning and having sex were all men wanted from us, you know what she said?”

Fiona stopped making the sandwich. “No, what?”

“She said that women are born with a powerful yearning to have children, and for that we need husbands. She claimed women are stronger than men in every way except physical strength, and so we need them to provide us with a safe home. She said that putting up with all their posturing is well worth the security we get in return.”

Gabriella walked back to the table and sat down, and
started hunting for stray socks again. “I remember her showing me a drawing of lions in Africa once, and she explained that they were a perfect example of how marriages work. Apparently, the female lions do all the hunting and raise the cubs while the male lions just lie around all day, basking in the sun. But when the pride—that’s what a family of lions is called—is threatened, it’s the males that do the fighting.”

The young girl suddenly stilled, and her eyes grew distant as she stared down at the sock in her hand. “Just like Papa and all the men did when our keep was attacked.” Gabriella looked up, her face awash with pain. “I guess I still have that powerful yearning my mother spoke of,” she continued shakily, “but now, whenever I think about having babes, I remember my father standing in front of Mama and me, trying to protect us. Papa’s roar of outrage still wakes me up sometimes at night, and the smells and horrible sounds of battle fill the room as if it’s happening all over again. I keep seeing those men slashing at him with their swords, and then I see him lying in his own blood, his eyes filled with a terrible pain as he helplessly watched them dragging Mama and me away.”