Читать книгу Season of The Shadow - Bobbi Ph.D. Groover - Страница 5

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He sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and hung his head in his hands. While having given him a warm feeling in the dining room, the wine was now causing Fletcher to wallow in pools of doubt. It had taken away the razor edge of control, his protection against the images that still had the power to strangle and confuse him. Even his pent up anger was not enough to seal the wound.

"Why, Kyndee? Why did you want me gone? What did Buck tell you that you would have wanted to hurt me so?" he wailed, hoping yet again that uttering the questions aloud might sometime provide the answers he had yet to find.

He groaned as he scanned the sparsely furnished room. Everything was sturdy and practical. There was no warmth, no color, only an impersonal coldness. He shivered and closed his eyes, staying that way until his head grew heavy in his hands and tilted sideways as his muscles relaxed toward sleep.

Rising, he undressed where he stood, his clothes falling in a disheveled heap beside the bed. Sliding under the cover, he pulled the pillow under his head and hoped tonight would be different—that the wine had sufficiently dulled his brain to hold the nightmares at bay. His last thought was that he had forgotten to lock his door.

The hell with it. No one wants me anyway.

The nightmare torment always seemed to wait until he was the most vulnerable. This time Fletcher was drifting, floating on a sea of searing pain, the waves of it lapping at him from all sides. A monotonous jostling motion jarred his agonized limbs. A hot glare burned through his closed eyelids.

Thirsty! So thirsty!

He felt material binding his head and neck, choking him.

It’s tight! Too tight!

His confused beleaguered brain told his hand to remove the binding, but the throbbing appendage wouldn't obey the command. Every movement brought a fresh wave of pain, causing him to cry out but only guttural sounds surfaced. To move his head brought on such dizziness that he was attacked by dry heaves which forced his muscles to convulse, making the torture a vicious excruciating circle.

Fletcher knew he had died and gone to hell. At church, the minister had always talked of a place for wicked people. Now he was there, in that dreaded underground, waiting for the master of sin to tell him what his sins were. His mind faded into blackness and when the blackness cleared the air was cool, yet the jostling motion continued endlessly...endlessly, until the hot glare returned to scorch his skin. How long he drifted—how many minutes, hours or days he'd been there, he had no way of knowing or caring. He only knew the jocular voices droned in his ears oblivious to his moaning. Finally, the excruciating movement stopped.

"Here's your man," he heard someone say. "Talk to whoever's in charge. Everything's been arranged. He's to stay here until he's well. It's supposed to take a long time—a very long time if you get my meaning."

"The way he looks, he ain't goin' t' be here long; he'll be dead. He's bleedin' like a pig," someone else said. "Come on. Let's bring him in."

They were lifting him.

No! Please, God, no!

Stakes of burning agony shot through him. His back arched, and his eyes flew open with the shock of it. Faces were spinning; the world was careening. Of their own accord his arms flailed, his fingers splayed wide, grasping for any steady object to give him a base. Other hands gripped him and held him down hard.

No—stop—don't move me.

He vomited, but he had nothing to expel. The heaves tore through him again and again. The agony was exacerbated by their rough handling as he felt them strip him, bandage him, splint him without regard to his intense suffering. They pushed, turned and prodded him—the whole time talking and joking as if he were a slab of meat. While they pulled and set his broken bones, his writhing and hoarse gasping seemed nothing more than an inconvenience.

Fletcher drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Y' know, they never told us his name." The voice came blurred to him as if from under water.

"It says 'Zachary Brown' on the door," someone answered.

"Is that him or the fella what was in the cell before?"

The first voice sounded irritated. "I don't know an' I don't care. Zachary Brown it says, so Zachary Brown he is!"

Who's Zachary Brown? I'm not Zachary Brown, am I? No, I'm—who? Think! Can't...too hard. Head hurts...cracked...broken. Hurts to think.

"I'm layin' claim t' his boots," another voice said. "He ain't goin' t' be needin' anythin' that good where he's stayin'."

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, they stopped torturing him.

"That's it. We'll finish him in the mornin'," a voice muttered. "It's no matter if he don't heal right. He ain't never leavin'. I don't think we even need t' bother puttin' the shackles on him."

"But—" the other voice protested.

"Don't think he's in any condition t' go anywhere tonight. 'Cept maybe t' hell." They had laughed at that.

They left him there in the dark—heaving, helpless, and alone. The sea of nausea and pain was a raging storm. He was tossed upon it like a piece of driftwood totally at its mercy.

While he lay shivering, too sick to even beg for clemency from whatever god might listen, he knew with absolute certainty that that minister hadn't the slightest idea what hell was really like.

In his weakness he wanted to weep but his body wouldn't release its precious fluid. Help me. I'm thirsty. Oh God—I hurt.

Out of the dark, hands gripped him again. No, don't touch me! I'll do whatever you want...no more...no more... With the last of his strength, he struggled to be free of them...

"Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown! Wake up!" the voice said.

Coolness touched his brow. It was heavenly against his hot face. He turned his head toward it and dizziness enveloped him.

"Lie still. There now. Shhhh," the soft voice soothed again.

Fletcher came awake bit by bit. His heart was hammering against his ribs sounding like a barrage of cannon-fire in his ears. His lungs were desperately sucking in air. Something touched his face. It startled him, and he jerked away with a gasp.

"It's all right. It's only me—Miss Jurrell."

Fletcher rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, willed them to focus while he tried to control himself. Sweat poured from him, and he knew Miss Jurrell could see the tremors that wracked him.

Her cool hands touched him again but this time he didn't flinch. He lay back and puerilely gave in to the trembling.

"That's it. Shhhh. That's right," she repeated. She continued stroking his forehead and blotting the droplets that had formed at his temple. He opened and closed his eyes again and again in an effort to breathe deeper.

Moments later, as the quivering subsided, he found his voice. "I don't mean to s-seem ungrateful, but why are you here?" he whispered. He was tired and weak.

"I was walking down the hall," she said, "and I heard your call for help. I knocked but you only groaned louder. Your door was unlocked and being the independent wench I am, I came to see if I could help. It wasn't easy. You struggled with me brutally, and I fear tomorrow I shall have bruises that will give the gossip mongers around here no end of enjoyment."

The moonlight lit her face with a soft glow. Her expression was full of concern. "Are you all right now?"

He closed his burning eyes and nodded, felt her smooth the hair from his damp forehead. He wanted her to leave. He was self-conscious that she should see him helpless. But he hadn't the will to ask because he wanted her beside him to ward off the nightmare's return. Pressing his fingers to his forehead, he opened his eyes. She was still there, gazing at him with intensity.

"Does your head hurt?" she queried in a soft tone.

"It's pounding unmercifully."

He saw her start to rise, hiked himself to one elbow and caught her hand to stop her. "Might you stay with me—just for a while?” He chuckled and stared at the floor, feeling as sheepish as a schoolboy. "I could use the company right now."

She retrieved her hand, seemed to hesitate a moment then smiled. "I guess it is a way of insuring you won't wake up the rest of my guests with any more outbursts."

"Indeed. That's one way of looking at it," Fletcher said wryly.

Miss Jurrell bit her lip. "Do you have these nightmares often? Wherever you were seemed a frightful place."

With his finger, Fletcher drew a desultory pattern on the cover, hesitant to divulge any information. "It's something from my youth—of no consequence really. It comes on me mostly when I'm overtired and apparently when I indulge myself with wine as I did tonight." He looked up at her and was immediately warmed by her presence. "However, the evening with you was well worth the loss of a good night's sleep."

She mulled over his statement, her eyes serious and searching his as if for some hidden truth. "I'll take the compliment, Mr. Brown, but not the excuse. Your face belies your words. You seem to forget I was here. I saw and heard you." She ran the back of her cool fingers along his forehead, touched the jagged scar under his eye and her face softened. "Whatever it was you struggled with, it was no child's dragon in the dark. But I'll not press you further as you seem to be still shaken."

"I most humbly thank you for your kindness." He shuddered and tried to stop the trembling with a deep breath. "And as long as you're in my bedroom, sitting on my bed in the middle of the night, with me in a state of total undress—" He eased his face into a lop-sided grin. "—perhaps it would be best if we were on a first name basis?"

She giggled and put her hand over her eyes as if chagrined at the truth of his statement. "I do see your point, sir. Well, mister.—" She rose quickly from the side of the bed.

"First names, remember? Call me Zachary."

"As you wish...Zachary. Is there anything I can get for you? Perhaps some frothy milk? Or might I entice you to take an infusion of special plants that might relieve your anxiety and help you sleep?" She clasped her hands in front of her.

"Are you an herbalist?"

"My father taught me much of it when he was alive."

Fletcher pulled himself to a sitting position at the head of the bed and propped against the pillows, careful to draw the covers with him. He was glad he was hidden in the shadows, the moonlight falling on Miss Jurrell—Sage—instead. He was afraid his numerous scars would offend the vision who had rescued him.

She was lovely, standing there waiting for his answer. Her hair was braided demurely, distinctly different from the array of curls it had been at supper. The rose of her dressing gown complemented the color in her cheeks, and the way she stood there expectantly, created a picture of a young girl waiting for direction.

"If you must know the truth, I'd prefer a swig of whiskey."

"But you just finished explaining how your nightmare returns when you indulge," she chided him. "How about a simple glass of water? It would seem safe enough under the circumstances."

"If that is the strongest brew you'll consider, I gratefully accept."

Sage brought it for him. "Anything else before I go?"

Please don't go, Sage, he wanted to shout out loud. "No...thanks."

"Well then, if you're sure you're going to be all right."

I'm not all right. Stay with me. "Yes...thanks. Sleep well."

His chest tightened as he saw her hand on the doorknob. He drew a sharp breath. "Sage?"

She turned back to him. "Yes?"

"I...I know it's improper to ask. I've no right to even think you'd consider it, but could you...would you stay?"

Sage approached his bed without smiling. Fletcher couldn't read her expression.

"Mr. Brown...Zachary...I'm not in the habit of spending the night in the rooms with my guests."

Fletcher reached for her, oddly fearful that he had insulted her without measure, and without meaning to. "Sage, wait—"

She sat on the edge of the bed and put her finger to his lips. "Shhh. Let me finish. To wander these rooms would be highly improper. But if someone I know on a first name basis is sick or hurting, could I be so cruel as to ignore their cry for comfort? Yes, Zachary. I'll stay."

* * *

Sage Jurrell comforted him that night and every night afterward because Fletcher didn't leave as he had planned. A part of him was desperate to stay with her, delight in her, and for now, he gave in to it. For a brief time he would allow himself this small luxury.

When he slept cradled in her arms, the nightmares eased, and he awoke without a throbbing head and swollen eyes. Any anxiety in the night was quickly dispelled by her tender touch and reassuring voice. He found himself smiling, teasing and laughing more.

* * *

He came down one morning and looked for her. She had left his bed early, as usual, escaping before the other guests were awake. It was her custom to oversee the preparations for the morning meal. Fletcher awoke when he reached out for her and missed her warmth beside him. He found her in the kitchen enveloped in a huge apron with traces of flour smeared on her face. He shook his head and chuckled.

"I love your new face powder," he said, grinning.

Her hands full of dough, Sage wiped her face with her arm. "There were a few disasters this morning so I had to lend a hand. Don't tease me or you'll not have the surprise I've planned."

"Surprise? For me? How wonderful; I love surprises." He shot her a rakishly wicked glance and saw a pink blush rise from her neck.

"Shoo—out of my kitchen. I've work to do. I'll find you when the time comes for your special surprise—" Fletcher received Sage’s wicked glance in return. "—and then I'll decide if you should have it."

* * *

Fletcher was outside, inspecting the building when she found him. She was carrying a basket, and he hurried to take it from her.

"It's heavy," he said as she handed it to him. "What's in here?"

"Kiss me first and maybe I'll tell you."

"Here? Outside? At high noon?" he countered, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm quite aware of where we are and the time of day," she said, setting her hands on her hips. "I'm also aware that there is not a soul in sight. If you wish to eat, sir, I suggest you do as you are told."

Fletcher bowed his head to look properly chastised. "Be it far from me to disobey the house rules. I hasten to do thy bidding." He leaned over the basket and kissed her with unabashed craving.

"Mmmm," she cooed. "I fear what's in the basket will not be half as delicious."

"It's to be a picnic then?" he asked, delighting in the idea of spending the afternoon with her.

She peeked at him and winked. A beguiling smile curved the corners of her mouth. "We'll ride out to a wonderful lake I know."

"Now it's my turn to say, 'Mmmm.’ Sounds promising. I can scarcely contain myself."

Whiz was not cooperative about the basket thumping on his back. He flicked his tail, pranced sideways and jigged, attempting to rid himself of the cumbersome burden. However, at Fletcher's insistent firm and steady urging he calmed, and they reached the lake. The afternoon stretched before them with splendid anticipation.

Settled under a large shade tree, Fletcher lay with his fingers locked across his chest as Sage fed him their meal of chicken, fruit and sweetmeats piece by piece. He opened his mouth to take each morsel and caressed the skin of her fingers with his tongue. He tasted each digit as he tried to lick the delicious icing from them. He chased her, caught her, rolled and laughed with her. He scooped her slender body into his arms and swung her around until they both cried out with dizziness—small rituals he had not done with a woman since before his abduction.

He goaded her into swimming with him in the frigid water, then abashedly remembered the scars which latticed his chest and back. While her back was turned, he dived into the water as God had made him; Sage insisted on wearing her chemise. Fletcher smiled wickedly, relishing the pulsing of his blood and the tightening in his thighs as he watched the flimsy material cling to her wet figure with tantalizing translucence.

The woman with him was truly a delicate joy and tempting almost beyond control. Despite the icy water, her comely figure awakened in him heightened desires he didn’t know he could still feel. No, more than that. His sheer lust he had sated with many willing females who had given wantonly of their bodies. Sage Jurrell awakened more than rutting desires. Her fascinating, intriguing nature awakened feelings foreign to him now, feelings he thought beaten out of him: tenderness, gentleness, a wish to please and protect. He admitted to himself that their time together lacked the wondrous sparkle he had always felt with Kyndee, but the kind of love he'd felt for that woman had proven him an asinine fool. Yet Sage was warm and sweet and soothed his spirit deadened by years of unending torment.

The response shocked and intimidated him because Zachary Brown wanted absolutely no complications to interfere with his ultimate goal. If others saw him as stone cold, ruthless and selfish, it was because life in the past decade had given no reason to be otherwise. He had left place in his life for no emotion save hate, left room in his heart for naught but vengeance.

Tread cautiously! The restraint cooled his ardor, and he was content to allow her warm gaze to suffuse him.

Sometime later, they nestled against the truck of the tree. They dozed, allowing the warmth of the day to dry her hair and her undergarments.

Dressing the lady was another intriguing event. Fletcher had spent his youth learning how to disarm and undress a woman, and he chuckled at his futile efforts to fasten the many hooks and buttons properly. The gratifying experience required three tries at the very least, and he doubled with laughter as he viewed each of his failures.

Sage giggled like a young girl at his purposely poor attempt to redo her hair. He kept pulling the pins, watching the locks fall around her shoulders, running his fingers through their silkiness, before again twisting each curl and pinning it properly in place. He had never before had the immensely titillating pleasure of assisting a lady with her toilette.

Having proven herself an accomplished rider, Sage challenged him to a race and they galloped back to town, neck and neck, each of them panting and claiming victory.

"I won," she exclaimed, her eyes wild with excitement. "I told you I would."

Her cheeks were flushed and her poorly pinned hair in total disarray. Leaning close to him, she placed one hand on his chest and smoothed a stray lock of hair from his brow with the other.

"I was burdened with the damned basket. And it spooked my horse," he replied, shaking his head and jutting his chin with feigned indignation.

"Well then, I'd say that calls for a rematch," came a strong voice from behind him.

Sage quickly stepped away, straightened her riding skirt and tried to smooth her hair.

"Uncle William, I didn't hear you come up." She stood on tiptoe and greeted him with a kiss on his cheek. "Uncle William, I'd like you to meet Zachary Brown. He's been staying with us. Zachary, this is my father's brother-in-law, William Barker."

Fletcher noted William Barker's scrutinizing look as they exchanged hands. He wondered wryly if indeed he passed the critical test obvious in William Barker's eyes.

"I've noticed my niece has been spending less time behind the front desk lately," he observed tersely, "and now I see why."

Fletcher wanted to say something in Sage's behalf but stopped himself when her uncle's face broke into a grin.

"Good," the older man said with obvious sincerity. "I'm happy to see her enjoying herself."

William Barker's smile was friendly, and Fletcher liked him straight away. He was pleased to see his fatherly concern for Sage. In one of her many life tales, Sage had told him her uncle had moved into the hotel after her father's death to help run the place and keep up with the never-ending repairs.

"Sir," offered Fletcher, "I noticed several shutters and floorboards are badly in need of repair. I'm somewhat handy with tools. I'd be quite willing to help replace them while I'm here."

William Barker smiled and said, "Thanks, I'd appreciate the assistance."

* * *

Fletcher enjoyed the physical labor working with Sage's cheerful uncle. He even shinned up to repair the roof in order to keep the older man from possibly breaking his neck. While it taxed his muscles, it soothed and eased his anguished and tortured mind.

Enjoying the unexpected relief, he kept finding more and more reasons to delay his leaving. The town was becoming no longer nameless. He met many of Sage's friends, and they were warm and kind. They laughed easily, and he with them.

He hadn't known he had any laughter left in him after the years of frustration and horror in that nightmarish place. The guards at the asylum had taunted him with stories about himself. They'd given him a past that had no reference for him. Because of the pain in his head and occasional flashbacks, he felt somehow the stories weren't truthful. Even after he recovered physically they kept him there, imprisoned, shut away all those years in that horrible pen, haunted by faces and places he couldn't name.

"Yer dimwitted, Brown, and y' haven't any family," the guards repeated on several occasions. "Y' can't be wanderin' around by yerself. Animals like y' have t' be caged."

That statement plagued him constantly. He kept asking himself, If I have no family, who's paying to keep me here? Certainly these brutes are not doing it out of a sense of Christian charity.

Dimwitted! The word itself had induced fits of violence lending truth to their jeers. Maybe it was true, but it was not sufficient cause to strip, chain and beat him for the slightest infraction of the rules and poison him into submission and blackness.

In rare moments of clarity he knew he couldn't endure the brutal humiliating treatment any longer. In a daring move, with the inadvertent help of the guard who started the fire, with more luck than finesse, he had outwitted the guards. They thought him dead, and he had escaped.

For over three years he had lived and worked as Zachary Brown, the only identity he knew. But the grueling headaches and confusing flashbacks continued until the explosion of anger when bits and pieces of his memory finally began to return. With the dizziness still plaguing him, the emotional upheaval had driven him near to true madness.

He became a man possessed. As President Buchanan was trying to hold together a nation dividing against itself, Fletcher was attempting to piece together the fragments of his battered life. He was slow and methodical about it because he, like the nation that bred him, was preparing for war.

Yes. Sage, this town and these people were an unexpected oasis in his desert of revenge. Knowing full well what might become of him when he reached his ultimate goal, he was loath to leave.