Читать книгу Season of The Shadow - Bobbi Ph.D. Groover - Страница 4

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Leading his horse, Fletcher came into town on foot as the daylight was fading. The horse had thrown a shoe, and he didn't want to chance buggering the leg—Whiz was too precious to him. Like Fletcher himself, the giant sorrel had been abused and discarded. He had spent weeks gentling the animal and winning its trust and respect.

The equine was striking in appearance with a wide blaze and three tall socks. The left front leg had a white marking in the jagged zigzag shape of a lightning bolt, and it extended the length of the cannon bone. Because of the uniqueness, Fletcher had named him Wizard. The horse also had a propensity for anticipating commands before they were given. The two were kindred spirits traveling together.

Within minutes, he found the livery. The farrier looked up as Fletcher entered. "What can I do for you?" he asked in a brusque tone, sweat beaded on his brow.

"My horse threw a shoe a couple of miles back. I need him ready to travel as soon as possible."

The stocky farrier wiped his hands on a blackened cloth and inspected the horse's hoof. "I've a lot of work ahead of you. But I can possibly get to him today or tomorrow. Put him in the stall over there, and I'll get to him when I can." He turned back to his forge and pumped the bellows, causing the fire and shoe placed within it to glow red-hot.

Fletcher ran his hand over his horse's neck, and Whiz nickered. "Will my horse be well fed and watered while he's here?"

"Look, mister," the farrier grumbled as he glanced back. "I'm not running a fancy hotel for horses—" He obviously saw Fletcher's face darken with quick anger, and the six feet two inch frame stiffen, because he clamped his mouth shut and looked away. "Yes, sir." he muttered. "The horse'll be bedded down fine."

After leading his exhausted horse into a stall, Fletcher inquired with a caustic edge to his voice, "Do you know of a fancy hotel for people?"

The farrier answered while bent over and holding a horse's hoof between his leather covered legs. "Down the street and turn to your left." Without looking up, he hammered home a nail with three accurate pounding strokes.

* * *

Fletcher strode along the street of the nameless town. It must have had a name; he just didn't know it and didn't want to know it. There had been so many towns on this journey, he had given up keeping track. This town appeared to be the same as the others had been, small and dismal. It was most likely populated by similar kinds of people—getting nowhere, going nowhere, a collection of nameless souls in a nameless town.

He found the hotel—The Palace Hotel—and stood at the front door chuckling wryly to himself. A strange name for such a diminutive building. But, he thought with a wearisome sigh, to the people of this town maybe it was a palace. Far be it from him to deprive anyone else of their dreams. Hell, he had even had his own once upon a time.

Kyndee.

Her name flew unbidden into his mind, and his brows furrowed in momentary torment.

Not here—not now.

He forced the thought away as he opened the door, stepped up to the front desk and hit the bell.

"I'll be with you in a moment." A lilting voice drifted from the floor behind the counter.

He heard material rustling, and then a grunt followed by a scraping sound.

"The devil take this confounded thing!"

Not so much annoyed as intrigued, Fletcher leaned over the counter to better view the enticing scene behind. "May I be of assistance?" he asked of the heaping mass of material sprawled on the floor.

"What?"

The tantalizing flurry of green fabric jumped at the sudden intrusion, and Fletcher came nose to nose with the loveliest creature he had beheld in some time. Her chestnut hair, pulled back in unassuming demureness, had lost a few stray curls in her efforts, and they hung softly by the sides of her face. Fletcher had to strongly resist an urge to reach out and touch them. She blushed and with a swift move, the lovely woman pulled the locks back into place, smiled and stood up.

"I'm sorry," she said in a soft voice. "I didn't mean to make you wait, but this box has fallen in my way, and I don't seem to have the strength to move it. I should have called one of the men, but I positively hate looking like a helpless female. It's been hard enough trying to run this place by myself since my father died. Everyone tells me it's no job for a woman, that I should find myself a man, settle down and raise a passel of kids. Well, that's not what I want to do, and I'll be horse-whipped before I let someone railroad me into—"

Her hand flew to her mouth. She chuckled and the red in her cheeks darkened. "My goodness, I don't normally chatter to perfect strangers about my problems. I haven't even asked you what you wanted. As you can see, I'm still learning about running a hotel. Let's start over." She extended her hand. "I'm Sage Jurrell, owner and manager. Welcome to The Palace Hotel. What can I do for you?"

For an instant, Fletcher was so taken aback by her openness he did nothing. Lone females telling him their life's story before they had been formally introduced was not something he'd been used to. He imagined she was about his age or a few years younger; but judging from the way he felt, that aged her somewhere between twenty and a hundred fifty. Unable to decide whether to shake her hand, or kiss the perky mouth that held a captivating smile, he settled for a combination of the two. He took her hand in his and lightly brushed his lips to her knuckles.

"Never in all my life have I had a warmer welcome," he said. "I am honored to make your acquaintance. My name is—" No, his brain told him, not your real name. Better to continue being who you've been, as loathsome as it is. "My name is Zachary, Zachary Brown. And I'm at your service, moving heavy boxes for helpless females being my specialty." When she smiled again, he saw how deep were the dimples in the cheeks of her angular face.

With a wave of her hand, the beautiful owner and manager of The Palace Hotel indicated her willingness for him to rescue her from her manual labor, a rescue he happily undertook.

He circled the desk and put his shoulder to the task. "There," he said when the job was finished. "That should teach this insolent box who's boss!"

He found her watching him with interest. Her intense yet strangely innocent gaze warmed a place deep within him that had been without warmth for a long time, a very long time. The rush of feeling startled him, and he looked away. In the mirror behind the counter he could see that her lovely smile had faded. He realized the reason when he glanced at his own face. He wore a scowl that would surely have caused little children to run to their mothers in fright.

Suddenly self-conscious, he swallowed, cleared his throat and studied the papers that cluttered the counter. "Yes...well...I've come to see about a room."

"Will you be here for one night or more?" she asked, her voice as flirtatious as the glance that peeked out from under her feathery lashes. An even script recorded his name in the book.

The invitation was familiar, and he responded with practiced ease. He leaned on the counter and, resting on his elbows, brought his face close to hers. "That depends..."

"On what?" Her voice was sweet and gentle.

He inclined his head slightly and lifted one eyebrow. "On...my...horse!"

She laughed at that, a wonderful unabashed laugh. Her eyes twinkled. They were large, round and green.

Like Kyndee's.

The thought hit him like a physical blow, causing him to shudder. He snatched his pack. "If you'll tell me which room is mine, I'll be heading up."

Her face fell and looked as if he had struck her. Fletcher was strangely sorry, but there was nothing he could do about it. At that moment he hadn't meant to be rude or nasty. Sometimes the pain hit him when he wasn't ready for it, when he was unaware, and he had to hide himself before he lost control. The pounding in his head would start, and the dizziness soon follow. She handed him a key and he raced to the stairs, taking them two at a time, never glancing back.

* * *

Throwing down his few possessions, Fletcher paced the room. The bed looked inviting—so inviting—and he was bone-weary and dog-tired. "I'll lie down and rest," he said as if giving voice to the words would make them true. "Right. I won't fall asleep, just rest."

Although hesitant, he finally crawled onto the bed. He didn't even take off his boots, merely hung his legs over the edge. That way, he would be sure not to sleep.

God, he was tired. He willed his mind to be still, to go blank, to think of something bland...empty...colorless...white...white... He felt his control slipping. White...white...like the color of her dress on one of the last days he saw her.

He remembered—God help him—he remembered...

* * *

The dream always started the same way. Her hair was the color of pure yellow gold, soft and silky. He could still recall the feeling of it as it fell through his fingers. Her eyes were emerald jewels fringed with thick, sooty lashes.

Kyndee was the most beautiful alluring thing he could name. She had understood him as did no one else. She laughed at his jokes, cheered at his inventions and encouraged his new ideas. She was the other half of himself, the part that kept him in check against his own reckless nature. Kyndee could find the best part of anything. He recalled the time his father had jeered at one of his inventions and called him a dimwit.

"You are a dimwit," she chided him when he recounted the incident to her. "You're dimwitted if you let him stop you from exploring everything you can be." She leaned back against the trunk of their favorite tree and crossed her ankles. "But you're my dimwit, Fletcher, and I won't allow anyone else but me to call you that." Gracing him with one of her glowing smiles, she reached to caress the hair at the nape of his neck. "You're my Mister Dimwitty." She threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, but you must have a name." Her eyes squinted, her lips puckered and her finger tapped her chin as she struggled in her search. "Mister—uh—Carmack Dimwitty. That will do nicely." She shook her head and pointed with her forefinger. "No, you're my Sir Carmack Dimwitty, because you're my knight in shining armor."

He touched a wildflower against her temple. "And I shall call thee my lovely Lady Bonbon because thou art the sweetest thing in my life." Rising, he swept a low bow. "My lady, always remember that Sir Carmack Dimwitty shall be at thy service until the last breath of his life."

How they had laughed and giggled at their fairy tale. He tickled her, and they rolled over and over on the ground. Fletcher landed on top of her and, without asking, kissed her soundly on the lips.

The sweet kiss tantalized both of them. There were always sparks between them when they touched. While Kyndee gazed up at him, Fletcher ran his finger down the side of her cheekbones and slowly lifted her chin, pulling her mouth to his. When they were but a breath apart, he whispered, "Always, Kyndee, my luscious little bonbon, always at thy service." And he devoured her mouth again, delighting in the velvet feel of her lips and the floral scent of her hair. His hands slid down her sides to her narrow waist, pressing against her rib cage. She felt unbelievably small and delicate next to his own chest, but her size didn't prevent her from being a true spitfire when riled. Kyndee was not easily daunted and gave as good as she got with increasing frequency. Her wide eyes studied him as he traced the line of her jaw, the hollow in her neck and dared to touch the fully blossomed roundness promised under the lacework of her bodice.

God, she was beautiful, intelligent, soft and—he smiled to himself—stubborn, courageous, exasperating and positively wonderful. She was the epitome of feminine propriety on one hand, but in the blink of an eye, she was a hellcat of fiery independence. With a simple swing of her mood, she made him roll with the giggles of a little boy or ache with the smoldering passions of a virile man. It was that tantalizing combination of genteelness, individuality and unpredictability that had branded her on his thoughts—awake and asleep—and scorched a path from his conscious mind to deep within his very soul. He cherished and loved her above all else.

Kyndee was his friend, his confidant and his love. There was nothing they couldn't talk about, didn't talk about. She was everything he needed and wanted—and, oh Lord, he wanted her every day, every night. Fletcher managed to restrain himself because he wanted her first experience to be as passionate and sweet as he could make it, not a stolen moment which she might later regret and remember with shame, possibly even doubting his love for her. No, he would not savor her innocence until he took her to wife legally which, to his own anguished impatience, was years away. To strengthen his noble intentions and temper his overgrown unbridled passions—lest he gush like a hot spring—he sated his desires by coercing his way into Madam Louisa's, allowing her nymphs to hone their skills and teach them a few of his own. The visits afforded him relief but did not achieve the release he sought. Deep within him he knew only with Kyndee would he find that ultimate pleasure.

Kyndee sighed contentedly and cupped his face with her hands, her thumbs gently toying with the corners of his lips. The mere touch of her fingers against his skin kindled a slow burn and his own desire was hot and hard between them. He claimed her mouth again, deeply this time, and shuddered when she responded in kind. Her tongue darted against his, hesitant at first then with clear impudence explored the recesses of his mouth, gliding along his teeth, answering his silent summons to join his with no fear, no indignation and more than a slight clinical curiosity. It was the curiosity which caused him to chuckle and pull away.

Kyndee pursed her lips. "You're laughing at me!"

"No, never, Bonbon," he moaned in excuse against the silky hollow beneath her earlobe. Rising on his forearms, he grinned at her and touched the tip of his nose to hers. "Have you any idea what it is you do to me?"

"What does it feel like? What I do to you?"

A groan rumbled in his chest. "Little minx, you ask me to describe that which defies description." He cast his eyes heavenward. "Ah, Bonbon, for me you are like...a tidal wave...fire and ice...a sweet crescendo of passion's hunger and a promise of wondrous perfection. You are sweet agony that sets me to trembling as with cold while a warmth radiates from wherever you touch to forge an ache coiling deep within me. You shatter my soul and my sanity and become them at the same time. I burn for you in places I dare not mention and—" He chuckled. "—I'm surprised you haven't slapped my face and taken me to task for braving such indecent liberties with you."

She hiked herself up to her elbows and wriggled free of him. "Why should I do that? I wanted to know how you felt and…and how you tasted." A warm wine color rose in her cheeks as she nuzzled his cheek. "You tasted quite delicious—like sun-ripened wild strawberries—and I fear I may be developing this hunger you speak of." Her hand caressed his face as her whisper caressed his heart. "How could this hand be anything but tender when I know you'd never do anything to hurt me. You know I feel the same way about you. To hurt you would be the same as hurting myself."

Liar! Traitor! Then why did you insist I go with Buck that day?

Like all dreams, the scene changed swiftly. Fletcher was there again—on the road. It struck without warning—the searing pain in the back of his head. Again and again it came, unrelenting, from everywhere, from nowhere, not giving him a chance to breathe, to find his own limbs and fight. Fight what? Fight whom? Brutal hands holding him; something hard beating him, crushing and breaking him, not allowing him a second to think, to react. He reached out to grasp something, anything, but as he did the pain struck his back and his sides, tearing sinew, splintering bone.

Merciful blackness was descending on him as he fell, yet he could still hear the panting of the attackers as they kept on with their torture. The glint of a metal blade shimmered in the sunlight a millisecond before it slashed his face and jabbed in his neck. He tried to cry out but couldn't; something was choking him. His brain struggled for an answer.

Liquid? Blood! Then Fletcher heard a voice.

"Enough! Enough!. I told you I didn't want him killed—just subdued sufficiently for you to take him. However, from what Kyndee said, I did think he'd put up more of a fight."

He knew that voice. It was Buck's voice! Buck had done this to him! The rage in him coursed the blood faster through his veins, choking him even as he struggled and tried to scream. No human sound came. He heard only the terrorized scream in his skull as another agonizing pain cracked the side of his head. Mercifully, the blackness became complete...

* * *

His own cries woke him with a scream and a shudder. Panicked, Fletcher shot up and looked around the room. Moonlight, streaming through the hotel window, assured him he was alone and, wiping his hand over his eyes, he fell back into the mattress. The pillow and bedclothes were damp.

As he lay there trembling, his chest heaving, he covered his face with his arm. He wanted to rise and read, to do something, anything to chase away the nightmares, but he was too tired. He bit his fist and willed himself to take deep breaths. Finally, as in his nightmare, the blackness reached out and took him.

* * *

"Mr. Brown? Mr. Brown? Are you in there?" The knocking at the door was insistent.

"Yes, yes, go away!" he growled with a vengeance. His mouth was dry; his eyes burned and his head ached. Hell and damnation, even a good hangover was preferable to the way he felt now.

The knocking resumed. "Mr. Brown, the farrier left a message that your horse is ready. He said you'd want to know immediately. Will you be wanting supper before you go? Mr. Brown?"

Supper? What the devil time was it? Had he slept away the whole blasted day? Damn! A waste of the good weather.

"All right. All right. Don't break the goddamned door! I'll be there directly."

He glanced down at himself—fully clothed right to his boots. Disgusting. He'd have to have a bath and clean clothes before he started out. He chuckled wryly; Whiz was fastidious about his riders.

Groaning with a heavy sigh, Fletcher rose, crossed to the window and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Pulling aside the lace curtain, he leaned his forearm on the casement and peered out. His impression from the evening before hadn't changed. This was another nameless town like the rest. He wasn't about to tarry here long.

As he turned, he caught his reflection in the mirror. He didn't like what he saw. Always having been clean-shaven, he hated his new furry look. But his full beard hid the lower half of his face. It also hid the thick scar that ran the entire length of his right cheek and under his jaw.

"Damn, do you look abominable," he said to the reflection. His voice was raspy and harsh. It had sounded that way since the assault nearly ten years ago. The attackers had apparently severed something in his neck when his face and throat had been sliced open. It had taken weeks for him to be able to speak at all. The deep shadows under his eyes made their color appear black and sinister.

No, they wouldn't recognize him at home. He barely recognized himself. Besides, what dead man returns from the grave? That is, if the asylum had informed Buck of his supposed death over three years ago. Perhaps they hadn't cared to relinquish the payments and had kept his death a secret. Fletcher wouldn't know the answer to that and many other questions until he came face to face with Mr. Buck Bannistre, himself.

Pouring water into the basin, he splashed water on his face, finger-brushed his hair and left the room.

* * *

"Hello there." Fletcher recognized the lilting voice as Sage Jurrell came up behind him. "I'm sorry about Jimmy," she continued, coming around to face him. "When I sent him up, I never dreamed he'd make such a ruckus. I thought he was going to slip a note under your door. He doesn't have as much sense as he ought to, but he's a big help around here so I keep him on."

Lovely and generous, too.

Fletcher leaned his arm on the counter. "It was a bit of a shock, but I did need to awaken. I wanted to ride out today, but now I believe I'll have to stay until tomorrow."

He ran his fingers through his hair again, embarrassed by his unkempt appearance. "At least, it'll give me a chance to clean up. After that, know any place a fellow can get a square meal around here?" He looked at her sideways, tilted his head and winked.

Miss Jurrell reddened. "You come back when you're finished, and we'll talk about it." She flashed him a smile that could have melted a glacier.

* * *

An hour later Fletcher walked into the dining room of The Palace Hotel. It wasn't exactly what he would have called a palace, at least not what he would have imagined a palace to look like. It was not elegant by any means, but there were lace cloths on the tables, the chairs were padded, and in the center of the ceiling hung a huge crystal chandelier. No doubt its presence was the reason for the hotel's lofty name.

He was feeling almost human again in clean clothes. The long hot steaming bath had done wonders for his mood as well as his muscles. The weeks of riding alone, sleeping on the ground, avoiding towns except for supplies, had a tendency to make him forget how luxurious a hot bath could be.

"Are you starving yet?"

Sage Jurrell seemed to have an oddly irritating habit of popping up behind him. Before he turned, he struggled to think of a way to kindly ask her to cease the habit when someone laid a hand on his shoulder. He swiveled, startled, slapping at the taction.

His drilling eyes must have flashed fire because Miss Jurrell stammered quickly, "Please forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you knew I was here." She clasped and worked her hands as if she didn't know what to do with the offending appendage.

Seeing her face genuinely upset, Fletcher suddenly felt awkward for having embarrassed her without cause. It was just that it had been so long since there had been reason to act the gentleman inbred in him. The time alone caused him to be wary of contact. And the women he'd been with in the last years had been less than ladylike. He had taken what pleasures he wanted from them and moved on, never going out of his way to be overly kind. At times Zachary Brown had even been intentionally cruel. Many females had tried to work their charms but found he had no heart beating within him, only a driving force which relished crushing others and leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

Those eager vixens had never complained about his manners or about his performance either, for that matter. When he had paid for a tub and a rub, that's exactly what he'd received: service—bought and paid for. In the past years, women had fallen into his bed with no more coercion than his wayward glance. But somehow they had not had the innocence in their gestures as did the woman standing before him. And it was precisely that innocence that caused him to feel as chagrined and awkward as Sage Jurrell clearly did.

Fletcher took her clasped fists between his palms and smiled. "The fault is entirely mine," he said as sincerely as he could. "Having lived on the trail for weeks, I have become as boorish as any of the animals I've passed. I seem to have forgotten how to act in civilized society. Please accept my humblest apologies."

"I wouldn't say you're that odious," she replied with a relieved beguiling curve to her lips, "but apology accepted." She stepped past him to an elegantly prepared table and glanced back. "Are you hungry?"

"Starved—for food, and the pleasure of a lovely woman to share it with. Would you honor me with your company?"

"I'd be delighted," she said as she took his proffered arm. And if the soft glow in her eyes was to be believed, he thought she meant it.

* * *

Fletcher stretched his long legs in front of him and shifted his position. He was feeling deliciously sated. The meal had been unexpectedly good, and the company even more so. Leaning his chair on its two back legs, he aimlessly ran his finger around the rim of the wineglass he held.

Contrary to what she claimed, Sage Jurrell did seem to have a habit of telling her life story to total strangers. Captivated by her, Fletcher found himself listening more to the timbre of her voice than to what she was saying.

I guess she thinks that because she knows my name, I'm no longer a total stranger. At least she thinks she knows my name.

He had a moment of concern wondering how she would fare as a manager if she was this friendly to all the male clientele. While she chattered, he put the goblet to his eye and peered at her through it.

"Thank goodness you haven't heard a word I've said," she chided him, "because I fear I've told you more than any decent girl ought to tell a gentleman." She leaned toward him and flashed an enticing smile.

He put down his glass and took her hand, gliding his thumb across the inside of her palm. "On the contrary, sweet, I've heard every word. I shall prove it should you care to test me and, on my word as a gentleman, none of your skeletons shall ever pass my lips without your prior consent. Does that meet with your approval?"

She put her other hand on top of Fletcher's and broke into a hearty laugh as if she had never been so amused in her life. Her hand squeezed his; it was warm and soft.

While he couldn't for the life of him see what she'd found amusing, her laughter was easy and infectious and he found himself laughing with her, laughing being something else he had not done in a long time; beasts never laugh. For an instant he feared he wouldn't remember how—it had been that long. But the moment was genuine and sweet and awakened in him a feeling from another time when things had been different, he had been different.

Turning his head for the moment, an acute melancholy swept over him. He had sat long ago with another young woman and delighted in her laughter...

Pressure on his hand brought his mind back from its wandering. He looked at the petite fingers that had squeezed his, the gaze traveling up her arm, coming to rest on the face above.

"I didn't realize I had such power to entertain," he said with a wry grin.

Sage Jurrell tossed her head and the mountain of sandy curls piled atop danced with the movement. "Well I didn't know there were still men in the world who could be gallant and charming and who, for once, could make an obstinate woman like me feel that it might be fun to try being a damsel in distress. Who knows what white knight in shining armor might appear?"

He wrinkled his brow. A knight in shining armor! Kyndee. A different time. A different place.

"Who knows indeed?" he said, hoping his rueful cringe wasn’t obvious. The feeling of melancholy deepened, and he hurried to take his leave. "I should retire as I'm planning to leave early tomorrow. The meal and the company were most enjoyable, and I thank you for a truly delightful evening." He lifted his glass to her. "Good luck with your hotel, Miss Jurrell. I give it my highest rating."

As they stood, he lifted her hand and kissed it. Holding it a moment longer than was proper, he then pressed it to his cheek. "Thank you again," he whispered and left her.