Читать книгу Season of The Shadow - Bobbi Ph.D. Groover - Страница 7

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Fletcher finished writing and leaned back in his chair. He couldn't make the decision. He clasped his fingers behind his head, bent his head backward into them and arched his back, pulling and stretching his cramped muscles. The horse was ready and his possessions packed; he had only to walk downstairs, say good-bye, and he would be gone from this place.

The small room had been comforting in the last weeks. His eyes fell on the bed he had shared with Sage, and he sighed. She said that she would be all right after he left, and he believed her. She was strong minded as well as beautiful. Why then did he have an overwhelming urge to leave her something, some protection after he was gone? She didn't need his protection; her uncle was her guardian.

He glanced at the scrap of paper in front of him. The words hadn't come out the way he wanted. Leaning an elbow on the desk, he reread the last attempt.

Sweet Sage,

Always know that the slice of my heart which you found unscathed, will hold your memory precious. If you should ever have need of me, please send word to Caleb Jenkins in Crisfield, Virginia. If I still live, he will know where to reach me.

With fondest regards, Z.

Fletcher wasn't certain he wanted her to be able to find him. He didn't want her involved in the other destructive portion of his life. He wanted to remember her here, behind the front desk of her hotel, lovely and flushed as when she first wrote his name in the register. But without the note, if she ever needed him, he would never know it. After everything she had done for him, after the difference she had made in his life by showing him that a small vestige of Fletcher Stedman's honor still existed, surely he owed her that much.

A commotion from below distracted him. He could hear Sage shrieking. There was fear in her voice and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. He rushed from the room.

"How dare you!" came Sage's screaming voice.

"Come on now, you luscious thing. I just want a little taste of you before I taste your cooking. You're not going to deny me that, now are you, little lady?" came a gravelly male voice.

"Take your hands off of me. Let go! Let go!"

"You're damned uppity for a little cook, wench. I think I'll just have to teach you a thing or two so you learn to respect your betters." He slapped her with a resounding crack.

Hearing the threats as he neared them, Fletcher saw the slap and was filled with a venomous rage. He bounded toward Sage and her attacker.

"Get your hands off her or by God you'll be eating your breakfast with the devil himself," he spewed in a savage growl before he pounced.

The man glanced over his shoulder and must have thought he was looking at the devil himself. His face turned white seconds before Fletcher seized him by the arm. Fletcher yanked hard and his fist hit the man squarely in the upper cheek and eyebrow, ripping the skin below his eye.

Stunned, teetering backwards and blinking, the man gingerly touched his face and stared at the mass of skin and blood as he pulled his hand away.

"Why you—" the villain uttered and swung a blow which crashed into the side of Fletcher's jaw, sending pain rippling through his skull, through the crippled ear where the delicate inner chambers refused to heal.

For an instant, the hit renewed his dizziness, and Fletcher was off balance, off guard. Another more powerful impact followed, forcing him to step backwards and bank off the wall to prevent himself from falling.

The blow dazed him. Whirling faceless demons, nameless evils and grabbing hands all coalesced into the form of the man in front of him. He was back on that road—with Buck. The beating—it was happening again!

"No!" Fletcher bellowed. With a gruesome, vicious howl he lunged at the attacker with the force of a madman. He pounded him, swung at him again and again, harder and harder. Matching Fletcher in size and strength, the attacker returned blow for bone-cracking blow, plainly skilled and well practiced in finer forms of brawling. Twice he staggered to his knees but ducked away and regained his footing before Fletcher could deal a finishing blow. Fletcher snarled and dove for the man who delivered a fist to Fletcher's mouth. The blow snapped his head back into the wall. He spit blood and his mind twisted with virulence. Every ounce of force he possessed centered into a punishing smash to the attacker's belly, with a second double fisted slam to the head. The man fell but Fletcher dropped to his knees and continued to pummel him in a rage.

"Don't—" He hit him. "—you ever—" He hit the man again. "—touch her—" He rammed the intruder's jaw. "—again." Fletcher was panting, his knuckles bleeding. He waited for the man to rise and swing again. But the man simply lay there moaning, rocking slightly from side to side with his hand over his face. In his movement, the miniature frigate tattooed on the back of his hand seemed to sail of its own accord.

Fletcher rose, blowing hard, and stood over the fallen intruder. "You lousy bastard. Only a lowlife would strike a woman. If you ever bother Miss Jurrell again, you'll answer to me, understand?"

The attacker groaned through his bloodied jaw as he slowly moved his head up and down.

Fletcher hiked the man to his feet and shoved him toward the door. "Get out! And don't ever set foot in this hotel again. Your kind is not wanted here!"

The man stumbled and shouldered the doorframe, doubled over and spitting blood. Finally, grabbing a passerby for support, he dragged himself out the door.

Fletcher leaned his forearms on the wall and squeezed his head hard between his hands. I can't fall—not now. But the dizziness was increasing. He sealed his eyes shut, hoping to stop the room from spinning. Nauseating bile rose in his throat.

"Zack?" Sage's voice sounded thin and distant.

"Wait," he whispered through his tight jaw. His head hurt. He could actually see the blackness coming—tiny starbursts of black amalgamating into a miasmic hood, blinding and enfolding his mind.

Damn.

He fought it. He struggled for control by taking deep, slow breaths. His brain told him to concentrate on something else. He could hear the movement of the clock in the front hall. The ticking was oddly soothing as he tried to breathe on every fourth beat. When he reached fifteen he knew he had won. It was receding; he could feel it. The blackness began to fade, as in the first moments of dawn, and the room settled into one place. Opening his eyes, Sage's worried face was the first thing he saw in focus.

"Better?" she whispered.

Fletcher nodded and closed his eyes again. He was afraid to speak with the wretched lump in his throat. He gagged and swallowed. Finally the sick feeling receded as well.

Taking deep breaths and careful to keep his head balanced, he turned his shoulder to the wall and wrapped his bleeding knuckles with a handkerchief. He looked into Sage's face. There was an angry red mark where the brute had slapped her. Fletcher touched his hand to the spot, and she leaned her head into his palm.

"I wanted to kill him," he said. The rasp made his voice sound murderous.

"You almost did." Their faces were close enough for him to feel her breath as she spoke. "Thanks for coming to my rescue. I don't know what would have happened if—"

Fletcher cut her off with a kiss—deep and hungry—as if he wanted a lifetime of her in that one kiss. Taking her face in his hands and caressing her jaw with his thumbs he murmured, "Take care of yourself, Miss Sage Jurrell." He curved a lop-sided grin. "Just do what I do, and you'll be fine."

She smiled that same perky smile she'd had the first day they met. "Get out of here before I turn into a helpless female and make a fool of myself by begging you to stay."

"Good-bye, Sage," he cooed.

"Good-bye, Zack," she responded, her eyes welled with glistening tears.

He turned from her and loped out, moving with long strides to the door. As he pushed it open, he couldn't resist the urge for one last look at her, but he saw only the back of her skirt as she fled up the stairs.

Fletcher rode out of town as unobtrusively as he had entered. In the next few days as he slept under the sky, he was surprised at how lonely he was. Nearly ten years of enforced solitude seemed to have been wiped out in a few short weeks with her. "I was fine before I met her, and I'll be fine now that I'm gone,” he said with a chuckle. It brought a smile to his face to think of her. But as the days wore on, the smile faded because the loneliness deepened. Sage had opened a door he thought closed forever. Yet the further he rode from her and the closer he came to them, the more he wasn't certain whether he loved or hated her for it.

* * *

It was six months and many weary miles later, within a four days' ride from Crisfield that Fletcher Stedman slid deeper under the steaming waterline of a hot bath. He had taken a room at the inn to wash off the trail dirt, have his hair and beard trimmed, and find a tailor to outfit him in suitable clothes.

He held the sponge above his head and squeezed. The steaming water dripped through his hair and down his face. "Ahhh," he moaned, and leaned back against the rim of the tub.

Letting his big toe stick out of the water, he made a pistol of his hand and fired.

"Pitchoo," he sounded. The obstinate toe stayed where it was. "Hmmm...missed...reload." This time he laid his cheek on his finger barrel and took careful aim. "Pitchoo," he sounded again. The toe flew up and sank, causing water to spray on the floor. Fletcher blew the imaginary smoke from his fingertip and tipped his imaginary hat. "Yes, sir, still the best shot around." His smirk changed to a grimace when he gripped the rim of the tub and the ugly scars glared at him. The disfigured skin stretched over his arm and matched many other areas of his torso. The guards and the fire had given him a permanent disguise.

He had been terrified during the first days of his flight. Ill and severely burned, he wept and shivered. But a merciful God had intervened, and he had lived.

Fletcher chased the soap and scrubbed his arms, chest and shoulders. God, the water felt good. He could still remember the feeling when, after escaping, he had taken his first hot bath in six years. He’d wanted to giggle like a small child, blow bubbles, and make fountains with his fists, but fearing the luxury might be snatched away at any moment, he lay still and savored the gift charitably offered to him by a generous stranger.

Wandering from town to town, he had discovered that not only was he not dimwitted, but unclouded by potions, he had a quick mind for numbers. He used that advantage at many card tables, collecting a tidy sum and gaining quite a reputation. He found himself invited to private games where the players were wealthy and the stakes high. His losses were few, and using the advice of influential gentlemen and his own financial acumen, he invested his winnings wisely, bringing him even greater wealth.

Frowning, he wondered what time it was. He reached for his pocket watch. "Oh blast it!" He had best hurry. There were two elderly ladies waiting for the pleasure of his company at supper. He ruminated on what a strange day it had been...

He'd been riding back to the inn, enjoying the cloudless afternoon, when he'd heard a scream. Searching for the source, he saw a carriage out of control—the horses galloping and lathered. There was no driver in sight. Fletcher set Whiz into a run and dashed in pursuit. Within minutes he caught up to them.

It was a struggle but the team eventually slowed and came to a halt. What a surprise he'd had upon looking into the carriage. In a heap on the floor, amid layers of silk and satin, were two ladies struggling to right themselves.

"Oh, my...oh my dear...Flora, are you all right?" exclaimed one of the ladies in a flurry near to hysteria.

"Yes, yes. I think so, Laura," said the other one from beneath her.

"How...how did we ever stop?" asked the first woman, scrambling to extricate herself from the woman beneath her.

Neither one of them had so far noticed Fletcher sitting atop his horse, now amused by their conversation after his initial concern that they were in one piece.

"May I be of service to you, ladies?" he asked as he dismounted. "I hope you've not suffered anything worse than a frightful scare."

The two women, their eyes large as melons, stared at Fletcher as if he had appeared from thin air.

Fletcher stared at them. He blinked hard, thinking he was seeing double. They were twins.

"Oh my. Was it you who stopped our carriage?" asked one of them.

"Quite." He removed his hat and offered a courteous bow. "Zachary Brown at your service. I heard your distress and as a gentleman I was obliged to come to your rescue. I'm only too happy that I was able to help." He drew his eyebrows together and folded his arms. "Whatever became of your driver?"

The one who had spoken first was sitting in the seat and smoothing her skirt. "I'm not really sure. The horses were spooked by something, and we heard him shouting. We were thrown to the floor in a sharp turn and the next thing we knew, we were here. Perhaps he fell off in the turn?"

Fletcher thought a moment about the situation. He couldn't very well leave them here stranded, alone and unprotected.

"In that case, there's an inn nearby, and I insist on driving you there to rest. I can send for a doctor if you wish. Then someone will ride back to search for your driver."

He had driven them back to the inn, Whiz prancing with obvious indignation at having to be tied to the back of the carriage, and had them settled into a room. Having found their driver with a goodly sized egg on his head, Fletcher advised Miss Laura and Miss Flora Mathews to spend the night at the inn and proceed on their journey early the next morning. They giggled and thanked him over and over again for his help and his concern. He tried graciously to take his leave, but they insisted that he join them for supper, saying it was the very least they could do to thank him for saving their lives. They exasperated him with their insistence. Obviously Miss Laura and Miss Flora Mathews were accustomed to having their own way.

Fletcher brushed his hair and finished tying his neckcloth. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. It stunned him, this new look, every time he saw himself. Who was that person behind the bushy beard and the dark haunted eyes? When had the white hair over his right ear made him look so ancient? He wasn't sure whether the white hair was due to the vicious blows to his head or the hardship of his incarceration but the small area had never grown in black again. Luckily the head wounds had not affected his hearing, merely his balance and only with specific movements—movements he tried desperately to avoid.

The soothing feeling of the bath had left him. He sighed and tried to rid himself of the melancholy. How could he have let himself in for an evening of two plump spinsters and idle chatter? Mindless sewing circle conversation was not his best forte.

Time to go. He was supposed to wait on the ladies, not the other way around. He gritted his teeth, straightened his back, gave a wink and an abrupt nod to the face in the mirror, and opened the door.

* * *

The meal had gone as expected. Miss Laura and Miss Flora talked about everything that was mundane and dull. Fletcher was exhausted, laboring over the appropriate responses at the appropriate times—that is, when he could get a word in between their prattle. His answers were calculated, vague and misleading; no need to have his business bruited about.

Upon hearing Fletcher's destination, the sisters were in a flurry of excitement. "You know, Mr. Brown, we're making the trip to Crisfield again soon to attend the ball that my cousin is giving," said one of the sisters. Fletcher was having trouble remembering which sister was which.

"Indeed? I do hope you have an easier trip next time around. Perhaps you should bring two drivers instead of one in case you lose one of them again," he answered, wondering how he would be able to excuse himself and seek the refuge of his room.

The sisters laughed a merry, silly laugh.

"Yes, Laura, don't you think it would be splendid if our Mr. Brown here could attend the ball? I will write to my cousin and tell her that she must extend an invitation. Isn't it a coincidence that your parents know the Stedmans. Will you be staying with them? I do need to know because I will have to inform my cousin to include your name on the guest list."

These two peahens chatter faster than any female I've ever heard.

"Well, actually no. I'm staying at—" he started to say.

"No bother. My cousin will find you. She keeps an eye on every eligible bachelor to come into town. She's desperate to find a husband for that daughter of hers. Oh dear—you aren't married, are you?"

"Well, no. I've—" Fletcher was developing a throbbing headache.

"No, no of course you're not. I'm sure you've been too busy squiring the ladies around and breaking hearts with your dashing good looks and pretty wit. Don't you agree, Flora?" asked Miss Laura. Fletcher finally was able to pin down which side of him held Miss Laura and which chair held Miss Flora.

"I most certainly do, Laura dear. Oh, Mr. Brown, do say you'll attend the ball. We know you'll make such a stir and it will be fun telling everyone that we were the ones who discovered you." Miss Flora giggled again.

"I'm sure the Stedmans will be there so it's not as if you won't know anyone. Mr. Stedman will surely want to show off his new bride."

That statement caught Fletcher's attention. Father's remarried? Where was his mother? He felt himself starting to breathe faster.

"Mr. Stedman is recently married?" he inquired. "Samuel Stedman?"

"Oh no, Samuel died some years ago. It's his son who's recently married. That's where we've been. We were on our way back from their wedding. It was so lovely..."

Her voice faded from his hearing as he tried to digest what he'd heard. Oh God—father dead? Samuel's son? But that's impossible; I'm Samuel Stedman's son. Fletcher tuned back into the conversation.

"...she was dressed in her great grandmother's dress and looked like a princess—yes, a veritable princess—"

Fletcher felt his chest muscles tighten. He pulled at the knot of his neck cloth, felt it was choking him. "Who?" The word burst from him.

Miss Laura seemed stunned by his interruption. "Who—what, Mr. Brown?"

Fletcher summoned every ounce of his control. He wet his lips and swallowed. His fingers were turning numb where they gripped the chair. "Pardon my rude intrusion, Miss Laura. I was wondering who looked like a princess in her great grandmother's dress?"

"Why Kyndee Brock, dear. Didn't I mention whom he took for his bride?" She put her hand to her mouth and tittered. "How very silly of me. Of course you would wonder, not having been there. I guess my little old brain was shaken today more than I realized."

Kyndee—married? Can't be true. But...

"Miss Laura, I'm heartily confused. You told me that it was Samuel Stedman's son who recently married. I...uh...I heard...at least there was a rumor that his son was kidnapped years ago. I'm happy to hear that he obviously was found unharmed." Fletcher shifted his position in his seat.

"Oh no, dear, more's the pity. The dear boy was never found. His mother, Adeline, pined for him until she made herself ill. She rarely stepped out of the house again. It nearly killed poor Samuel. He paid investigators and even offered a reward, but there was never any news. The poor man nearly lost his mind. Thank heavens for their nephew—"

Buck!

"—he did his best to keep the plantation running, and be a comfort to his aunt and uncle. What a blessing he was to them..."

I'll kill the miserable bastard. Fletcher felt his heart pounding, could hear it in his ears until it was almost deafening. Under the table his fists were clenched tight. His mood darkened, and he sank deeper into the chair. Knowing what Buck had done to him years ago, this added injury caused him to shudder with pent up malice.

"Mr. Brown, are you all right? Your face has gone rather pale. Possibly you strained yourself unduly during our rescue today?" asked Miss Flora with a look of genuine concern on her face.

Fletcher forced a smile and waved his hand in casual nonchalance.

"On the contrary, Miss Laura, I'm finding the conversation most enlightening. Please go on."

"Where was I?" she asked with a charming frown.

"Laura, you were telling Mr. Brown about the nephew."

"Yes, that's right. Anyway, their nephew was such a comfort that Samuel wanted to adopt him so the Stedman name would carry on. Samuel died not long after that, and Seabrook passed to Buck. Adeline still lives there, of course, but she never goes out. She's been ill for years and now that her sight has left, it's rare for her even to have visitors. I'm glad the dear woman will have Kyndee in her old age as a help for her. I'm sure she'll be glad of the company."

"This Buck fellow seems as if he was their salvation," Fletcher said with scarcely veiled bitterness. It seemed Miss Laura and Miss Flora did not catch the contempt in his voice.

Father gone—mother blind—Kyndee married to that...that arrogant son of a bitch. Seabrook...everything. Fletcher felt dizzy. He had to close his eyes for a moment to keep control.

"Mr. Brown, I truly do think you should retire. You've gone quite queer in the face. This afternoon you graciously offered to summon the doctor for us, but I think it is you who are in need of medical attention. Mr. Brown, can you hear me?"

Fletcher dragged open his eyes by force of will. "No, no—I'm quite all right; please don't concern yourselves. I had an—accident years ago, and I've been plagued by dizzy spells ever since. Perhaps, though, it would be best if I take my leave. It's been a delightful evening, and I thank you. I hope the remainder of your journey is a pleasant one. If I do happen to attend the ball, I will look forward to meeting with you again. Goodnight Miss Flora; goodnight Miss Laura."

With a deep sweeping low bow, Fletcher headed for the stairs, struggling to resist the urge to run.

In the shelter of his room, he threw himself into the chair and gave in to the trembling and dizziness that had begun in the dining room. The room was swirling from the swift change in position but Fletcher didn't notice. He was trying to force air into his lungs. His chest was crushing, hurting for want of air. He put his elbows on the table, his arms pulled close, fists clenched and pushing hard into his eyes. His lungs began to burn; his mouth opened and still the air would not come.

Breathe, damn it. Breathe.

The pain was crushing him, as physical a blow as any he had received. Finally, the air came. With it came a sound from deep within his soul that words could never have expressed. It was a sorrow, an anguish, a rending of his heart at the irrevocable loss: his beloved father gone; his beautiful mother, her sparkling eyes clouded forever. The dizziness was increasing, but this time Fletcher didn't fight it. He buried his face in his hands, exhausted from his constant battle.

Dear God, would the nightmare never end? It now invaded his waking hours as well as his sleep. Buck and his bride still had the power to crush him, to beat him as they had on the road ten years ago. He was so tired. Leaning his head back in the chair, he let the blackness have him.

* * *

Kyndee sat in the middle of the huge four-poster bed in Seabrook's master bedroom. The bed was topped by a carved wooden canopy and surrounded in silk. The Stedman family crest, framed in a foliate cartouche, emblazoned the large mahogany headboard. She drew up her knees and hugged them as she scanned the space around her. The room was decorated with soft velvets and rich brocades. The mahogany furniture exuded a warm feeling as did Adeline Stedman herself.

This had been Adeline's bedroom, hers and Samuel's. They had been married for decades, had slept and loved in this bedroom, in this very bed. For the first five years Adeline had not conceived, and they despaired of ever having children. Then the miracle happened, and Fletcher was born. There were three more sons to follow but none survived infancy. They were buried in the family plot under tiny headstones, lovingly and constantly adorned with flowers.

Fletcher had been their miracle baby, and they had treated him as one. He'd been willful and spoiled, but he had a certain look about him that won everyone to his side. Despite the endless times he checkmated their attempts to settle him, it was a relationship between parents and child that was the envy of everyone who knew them. There had been a warmth in the house, a warmth that had extended throughout the plantation, a slow graceful feeling of contentment. The plantation had prospered.

How many times had she entered this house with Fletcher? Kyndee couldn't count. He'd shown her all the secret passageways of the house—he had even explained to her the reasons why they were put there, but over the years Kyndee had forgotten most of them. How many times had she and Fletcher enjoyed hiding in there when they were being summoned? How many times did they have to sit with their faces to the wall, looking contrite for their insolence? How many times had she dreamed of marrying Fletcher and being mistress here?

Yes. She was mistress of Seabrook now but it was not the joyous life she planned. Since Fletcher's disappearance, the house had been quiet—no fancy balls nor happy, holiday feasts. The loss of their son had taken the life from the Stedmans. Even the adoption of Buck could not put back into their lives, the lusty zest, the spontaneity, the bright charm that Fletcher had radiated simply by being himself. Samuel Stedman had now been in his grave for five years, and Kyndee barely knew Adeline was alive. As mistress here now, Kyndee decided she would make sure her mother-in-law had more companionship.

She leaned back into the pillows, drew one to her and hugged it. Married—maiden Aunt Kyndee was married! She still wasn't used to it. She had a flashback to her wedding nearly two weeks previous and could scarcely remember any of the details.

During the six-month interval between her acceptance and her wedding, Kyndee had wanted to retract her promise. She wanted to be plain, sullen maiden Aunt Kyndee forever. But her mother's happiness and her father's pride kept her from backing away from her vow.

The wedding itself had been a blur. There had been candles, she remembered that; it seemed thousands of them. She was dressed in her great grandmother Elizabeth's wedding dress with yards and yards of tulle, silk and lace. She came down the long staircase on her father's arm to a house filled with guests. She remembered her father's face as he kissed her and told her how proud he was of her. Her mother had cried, but Kyndee was sure that secretly her mother was glad of no longer having to listen to comments about poor Kyndee, not wanted and not wed.

Her vows she had repeated without listening to the words. Of course she knew what they were. I, Katharine Diana, take thee, Brandon Richard to my wedded husband. To love—hopefully, in time—to honor—yes, honor had everything to do with it—and obey—as much as I am able.

Courage, Kyndee, she had said to herself throughout the ceremony. But her last thought, before Buck slid the ring on her finger, was of Fletcher's smile, his devilish smile.

Good-bye, Fletcher. They were pronounced husband and wife, and Buck kissed her for the first time.

Somehow she had survived all the congratulations, the kissing, the toasting and the dancing. But she remembered it now as though it had been a dream and not real at all. She was sleeping in the large imposing bed, but her husband had not come to her.

The first night he was well into his cups and had fallen asleep in the dressing room, having not even undressed. The next morning he had awakened in a foul mood, summarily dismissed her and strode out. The next days followed the same pattern. While playing the loving devoted smitten new husband during the day, he had come home drunk in the early hours of the morning and slept in the dressing room. Kyndee wondered if this was to be her fate. Now she would be Kyndee wed but not wanted. It was most perplexing.