Tapestries 05 - Embroidered Fantasies (2 page)

The only other room in the place was the bathroom. It was big enough for a bathtub, sink and toilet, with barely enough room to turn around. It was snuggled between the kitchen and the front door.

Roxanne kicked off her shoes and went straight to the kitchen table, carefully setting down her shopping bag. She drew out the newspaper-wrapped glassware first, unwrapping the purple vase and the Depression glass bowl, admiring the way the light caught the colors.

“Gorgeous.” She set the glassware next to the sink. She’d wash them later. Taking a deep breath, she pulled out the tapestry, almost afraid to look at it. She’d been so drawn to it at the flea market. She hoped it was as good as she remembered and she didn’t end up with buyer’s remorse.

She unrolled the fabric slowly and the picture came into view. The warriors were still there, standing stoically in front of their castle. The colors were muted and she nibbled her bottom lip as she examined the tapestry. The edges were strong. The threads weren’t frayed or unraveling. Should she take the risk and try to clean it?

9

She really didn’t have a choice. There was no way she could hang it on her wall like it was. Decided, she ran some water into the sink and added a dash of laundry detergent. It was mild and she prayed it wouldn’t damage the fabric. She dipped the bottom corner into the soapy water and rubbed the cloth lightly.

“Yes!” Pleasure filled her as the dirt flowed away, leaving several shades of green in its place instead of muddy brown.

Excited, she continued to clean the tapestry, taking her time so as not to damage it.

There was no telling how fragile it was and the last thing she wanted to do was ruin it.

She changed the water several times, letting the dirt and grime flow down the drain.

Her thumbs rubbed over the design. She paused when she realized her thumbs were caressing the chests of the two warriors. Her cheeks got hot and she released the tapestry. It fell into the water with a heavy plop, sending a splash of soapy water over her shirt. “Damn.” She ignored the spatters down her front and plucked the fabric out of the sink. She squeezed out most of the water before holding it up to the light.

The colors were vivid, the scene almost alive. Birds and several animals were visibly cavorting in the forest where previously they’d been hidden by dirt and grime.

The stones of the castle were still gray, but a shade lighter than she’d originally thought.

The mountains were still tall and forbidding.

An icy shiver raced down her spine as a sense of foreboding swamped her. A second later, the phone rang. Roxanne gave a small shriek, slapping her wet hand against her chest. Her heart jumped and began to beat faster. She took a deep, calming breath as the phone rang again.

She set the tapestry on the counter and rubbed her right hand over her jeans to dry it before reaching for the ringing phone. It was probably just her boss wondering if she could come in early. She told herself that even as a sense of dread washed over her. She picked up the phone and tentatively spoke. “Hello.”

“Roxanne, it’s Stacy Emerson. I was hoping you were home. I didn’t want to leave a message.”

Her heart stopped. When it resumed beating it was a heavy throbbing in her chest.

She hadn’t heard this voice in almost six months. Stacy had been the prosecuting attorney in the trial that had landed her ex-husband behind bars. They’d kept in touch for a few months after the trial ended, their calls dwindling as they both went on with their busy lives. Roxanne’s fingers tightened around the receiver and her throat got tight, making it almost impossible to talk.

“Are you there, Roxanne?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m here, Stacy.” Maybe it wasn’t bad news. Maybe it had nothing to do with her ex. Yeah, and maybe she’d win the lottery tomorrow too.

Stacy sighed. “I just got some news and I thought you should know.” She paused and Roxanne’s stomach tightened, the pretzel she’d eaten earlier threatening to come back up. “Michael Talbot was released from prison today. Overcrowding in the facility 10

and good behavior on his part. This was his first offense and that went in his favor as well.”

Bitterness swamped Roxanne. His first convicted offense, but not the first offense.

Michael Talbot was used to getting his own way and didn’t mind using his fists to get it. It had taken her two long years to get the courage to leave him. It had taken him half killing her to finally get her to press charges. In spite of all her pain and suffering, here he was, a free man after only a year behind bars.

“Roxanne?”

She realized she hadn’t said anything to Stacy. “Umm, thanks for letting me know.”

“I’m really sorry, Roxanne.” She could hear the other woman’s frustration. “I pushed for a longer sentence, but there were no previous charges or convictions.”

“I understand. It’s okay, Stacy. Really. You did everything you could and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

“You don’t live in Nevada anymore. You’re in California. He doesn’t know where you are.”

But he would find out. Roxanne knew that. She’d seen the promise in his eyes when he was led away from the courtroom that last time. She knew that look and knew what it meant. Michael wouldn’t be happy until she was dead. Maybe a year in prison had made him rethink things. After all, if she died, he’d be the prime suspect and he’d get a lot more than a year in prison.

“Listen, I have to run. I have to be in a meeting in five minutes. You take care and call the cops if you see him. You still have a restraining order against him.” For all the good that would do. Roxanne knew firsthand just how useless a piece of paper was. She’d had the restraining order against him when he found her and beat her that final time, landing her in hospital for more than a week. The irony of the situation was that she was still his wife at the time and his health insurance had paid for her hospital stay.

“Thanks, Stacy.”

She hung up the phone and stared out her tiny window. Rain slashed against the glass. A tear rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the tapestry. She’d been so happy only moments ago. Now her life was a nightmare once again. What would Michael do? Would he come after her? Or would he decide she wasn’t worth the effort?

Only he knew, but she had a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Why?” she cried, burying her face in her hands.

She’d asked that question many times over the past three and a half years. She’d had a normal life once. Had parents who loved her and a fiancé she adored. They’d all been in the car together when they’d been hit head-on by a drunk driver. The other three had died and she’d walked away with a broken arm and a shattered life.

It was less than a year later she’d met Michael Talbot. Charming in a rough sort of way, he was the exact opposite of her slender-built, soft-spoken fiancé, Dan. Michael 11

was six-foot-three, all of it muscle. With his dirty blond hair, blue eyes, tattoos and bad-boy charm, he’d swept her off her feet. He was a mechanic who liked fast cars and motorcycles. He’d breathed life back into her. When he’d asked her to marry him, she’d said yes.

He’d hit her for the first time while they were on their honeymoon. All because she’d spoken to their waiter. Michael had accused her of flirting. She’d been dazed and hurt. Michael had apologized with roses and she’d forgiven him. Life had settled down for a few months after that, but then he’d hit her again, the frequency growing as one year turned into two.

Isolated and alone, it had taken Roxanne a long time to realize it wasn’t her fault that he hit her. It was Michael’s. Furthermore, she didn’t have to put up with it any longer. He’d stripped her of her self-confidence, her sense of self-worth until she was little more than a shade of her former self. The laughing, smiling girl who’d been engaged one moment and left alone the next had turned into a quiet, frightened woman.

She’d looked in the mirror one morning and knew she had two choices. She could leave Michael or she could let him kill her, because that’s what would happen if she stayed long enough. She’d tossed a few belongings into a battered duffle bag and left.

But he’d come after her, finding her in the cheap motel where she’d taken refuge.

Thankfully, the people in the room next to her had called the cops about the noise.

Otherwise, she’d have died that night.

A soft sound, much like a sigh, startled her. She jerked her head up and whirled around. She was alone. “Now you’re hearing things,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands.

She looked down at the tapestry. All her early pleasure in the item gone. She traced her finger over one of the warriors and then the other. “Too bad I didn’t have someone like you to protect me.” But that was nothing more than a fantasy. These warriors were nothing more than the figments of someone’s imagination, nothing more than embroidered threads.

Roxanne didn’t hate men. She knew not all men were like her ex. Her father had been a good man. So had her fiancé who’d died at such a young age. But she no longer found it easy to trust men. Who knew what kind of monster hid behind a charming smile? In the year since her divorce she hadn’t dated. She’d been asked several times, mostly by guys she’d met while working at Joe’s. But she wasn’t ready to date again.

Might never be.

There was nothing she could do but continue to live her life on her own terms. If he wanted to find her, he would. No matter where she ran. She would be cautious, but she wouldn’t allow Michael to control her life. Not any more.

Picking up the tapestry, she draped it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs to dry. Then she reached for the purple vase. It was time to clean her other treasures and get them put away before she had to get ready for work. She was filling in a half-shift 12

today for one of the other girls. She didn’t mind and it was extra money. It would also help take her mind off her problems.

Roxanne glanced at the clock and groaned. She had barely enough time to grab a shower and get changed before she had to catch the bus back downtown to work.

Setting the vase aside, she hurried into the bathroom.

The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, the light streaming through the window and catching the colors of the tapestry. It seemed to glow for a split second. By the time Roxanne came back out of the bathroom with her hair wet and a towel wrapped around her, the strange light was gone.

She didn’t give the tapestry a second thought. She quickly tugged on her pink polyester uniform, grabbed her purse and hurried out the door.

13

The razor-sharp edge of the blade slashed downward, slicing straight toward his head. At the last possible second, Radnor Craddock brought up his sword and blocked the deadly blow. The two blades skated against each other, the metallic shriek firing his blood. He would not be defeated.

Muscles bunched in his shoulders and forearms. His biceps bulged. Dust kicked up from the dry ground beneath his boots. The sound of heavy breathing and low grunts filled his ears as he slowly pushed his opponent back. They were equally matched in all ways but one—sheer willpower. Radnor was the more determined of the two. He would never give up. Never stop fighting.

Giving a battle cry, he thrust forward, throwing all his weight behind the move. His opponent stumbled, almost losing his footing. Radnor attacked. Mercilessly, he pounded the other man, driving him back, looking for an opening, some weakness in his defense.

But his opponent wasn’t defeated. Not by a long shot. He renewed his effort, swinging his heavy sword with the ease of long practice. The two men fought as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Sweat rolled down Radnor’s forehead and stung his eyes. He blinked to clear his vision, but didn’t dare try to swipe it away. To do so would give his opponent the opening he was waiting for, watching for. He could see the gleam in the other man’s eyes and knew it matched his own. They’d both been born to fight.

“Enough.” His opponent suddenly stepped back and lowered his blade. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Radnor slowly let his blade fall back to his side. “That’s your problem, Sednar, you’re always worried about your stomach.” He sheathed his sword and reached his arm outward. His older brother grasped it readily. They clasped, hands around biceps, shoulders bumping before they released their grip.

Sednar’s face was flushed from exertion but he smiled and patted his flat stomach.

“What can I say? I don’t want to pine away to nothing.” Radnor snorted. At six-foot-four, of solid muscle, there was little chance of that happening to his brother. Sednar threw his arm around Radnor’s shoulders and the two of them left the training field and headed for the keep.

Craddock Keep wasn’t as large as many castles in the area, but it was strong and well fortified. The tower was built out of thick gray stones and it rose like a beacon in the sky. It was his home and he loved it. And unlike six years ago when his older brothers were still alive, it was in good repair.

14

Radnor rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if memories of those bleak times would ever truly fade. If there had ever been a more brutal man born than his eldest brother Leon, Radnor had never met him. Vicious and cruel, Leon had ruled with an iron fist, warring with surrounding families and stealing whatever he wanted.

Once there had been six Craddock brothers. Now the only ones left were he and Sednar. Bren and Lednar had been killed in a raid, trying to steal a woman. Leon and then Hamid had been slain on the field of combat, after displaying a true lack of honor.

All four of them had met their end at the hands of the Bakra brothers. Once considered the mortal enemies of the Craddocks, they were now related to the Bakra family by his sister’s marriage. The world was indeed a strange place.

Radnor couldn’t say he was sorry that his older brothers were dead. His early years had been hell. As the youngest boy, he’d borne the brunt of much of their brutal ways.

He’d learned not to trust anyone or anything. An act of kindness was usually a trap that led to disappointment at best, to a brutal beating at worst.