Читать книгу Legacy of Secrets - Sara Mitchell - Страница 15

After completing morning chores, Neala grabbed her old corduroy jacket, a small writing tablet and a freshly sharpened pencil. As an afterthought, on the way out she retrieved a small magnifying glass from her desk. It was Saturday, and a brisk southwest wind carried the scent of rain and lilac through the windows. On her way downstairs, she debated whether or not to fetch an umbrella, decided the contraption would only be in the way and darted toward the back entrance off the kitchen, hoping nobody would stop her for a chat.

Grayson Faulkner’s scowling image intruded into her mind as she scurried past the entrance to one of the school’s informal parlors. What an infuriating man! Rude, unpleasant—a bully, he was. And he had hurt her feelings, which infuriated her even more. How could a saintly soul like Miss Isabella be kin to Mr. Faulkner?

Well, by the end of the day the rude bully of a man would be the recipient of a much-needed lesson. When Neala returned from her outing, she planned to be armed with enough proof of the hunter’s presence in the woods yesterday to satisfy an entire room of Pinkerton detectives, much less Miss Isabella’s nephew, who thought entirely too much of himself.

A small voice tweaked her conscience. All right, Neala conceded the point. Grayson Faulkner might be rude, unpleasant and arrogant, but last night, in the parlor, she’d sensed an undercurrent of emotion that, for the flicker of an eyelash, had almost prompted her to…feel sorry for him?

“Neala!” Judith Smithfield, her arms full of quilt scraps, interrupted the discomforting revelation. “We’re quilting in an hour. Join us this time?”

“Not today, Judith.” She waved an arm and grinned. “I’m off on a mission. I’ll try to join the fun next Saturday.” She ducked into the kitchen, almost tripping over a half-full pail of sudsy water.

“Oops, sorry, Neala!” Deborah McGarey sang out from beneath the huge island in the center of the kitchen. “I’m making pound cakes, but decided to break the eggs on the floor instead of the bowl.”

Both of them laughed as Neala carried the pail closer. “Need help?” she asked reluctantly, relieved and guilty when Deborah shooed her on with a wry remark that only the guilty party should clean up smashed eggs.

Now there was the manner in which congenial people engaged in conversation, Neala thought, tossing her head. Stride determined, she crossed the grounds toward the forest. Civil people did not assume the worst about perfect strangers. Civil people did not act as though you had just perpetrated a crime of Machiavellian proportions, or accuse you of lying. And certainly a man who rushed to the rescue of a damsel in distress did not react like a churl.

The damp breeze swooped down, tugging several pins from Neala’s hastily bundled hair. When a handful of curls blew over her eyes, she glared upward, then stopped long enough to untie a large kerchief from around her neck. In a few ruthless movements she covered her hair and retied the ends beneath her chin. She looked like a gypsy washerwoman—but since there was nobody to see her but birds and other woodland critters, what did it matter how she looked?

What mattered was unearthing evidence of the wayward hunter.

Over an hour later, Neala was ready to concede that the general populace afforded scant appreciation to detectives and officers of the law. Not only could she not find the exact spot where she’d been when the first shot rang out, she could not find the tree she’d ducked behind, from which she’d hoped to extract a bullet, or at least mark as evidence of being struck by a bullet. Thoroughly out of sorts, she finally collapsed beneath a stumpy pine tree, yanked off the kerchief, and rubbed her face with it. The wind had blown the clouds away, leaving behind sunshine and a watery, pale blue sky. Much preferable to a rainstorm when one was playing detective.

And playing detective was all she had accomplished, besides collecting dirt in her shoes and the remains of a spiderweb in her hair. On the other hand, the day had turned pleasantly warm, she was alone in one of God’s forest cathedrals, and nobody was clamoring for her attention. All in all, perhaps ’twas best to send both hunter and Mr. Grayson Faulkner the way of the clouds. Neala lifted her sturdy nickel brooch-style watch to check the time, made sure the whistle around her neck was still within instant reach, then with a contented sigh opened her notebook and began to write.

Some time later, a flying pinecone landed smack on top of the notebook in her lap. Neala yelped in surprise and dropped her pencil. The pinecone scattered detritus along with her concentration as it rolled to a stop in the crease of her notebook. Neala gawked at the missile for a bemused moment, then leaned forward to retrieve her pencil. When she straightened, her eyes almost popped out of her head. Mr. Faulkner had materialized between the trees some twenty paces away. He strolled toward her, grinning like a mischievous boy while he tossed a second pinecone in his hand.

“You were so lost in your girlish scribblings I probably could have jumped from behind the tree instead of lobbing a missile before you noticed.”

Neala ignored the crack about girlish scribblings. Based on her scant acquaintance with the man, it was not an unexpected remark. “You’re fortunate I didn’t scream louder than this whistle—” she glanced at his holstered gun “—which I might have if you’d decided to gain my attention by firing a bullet over my head.”

The smug look on his face deepened. “But you’re already accustomed to dodging bullets, aren’t you?” He extended a hand.

Neala allowed him to help her up, but stepped back the instant she gained her feet. She ignored the strange squiggle that shivered through her from the firm warmth of his bare palm, focusing instead on irritation. “Mr. Faulkner, did you follow me just to bait me like you did yesterday?”

The smugness on his face darkened to disapproval. “Absolutely. And for the last ninety-six minutes I followed, you never so much as glanced behind you.” One eyebrow lifted in a sardonic arch. “Too busy trying to scout out a likely spot to plant some evidence, I daresay.” The forest stilled—no rustling leaves or twittering birds or even a stray breeze, as though nature held its collective breath while Mr. Faulkner scratched his chin and contemplated Neala. “If I wanted to shoot you dead, you’d be stretched out on the ground, with nobody the wiser. Tell me, Miss Shaw, do you enjoy tempting fate, or do you merely have a wish to expire in the woods, like some fairy-tale maiden?”

His phrasing replicated her accusation of the previous day, and the gleam in his eye told her he’d done so deliberately. All right, enough was enough. Neala returned his bold appraisal, though the weapon strapped to his side intimidated by its sheer presence. On the other hand, the bizarre prescience she’d experienced in Miss Isabella’s parlor returned in greater force, the one where Mr. Faulkner very much reminded her of Adrian. Her brother also used to cover his unhappy restlessness with hurtful words and a facade of hatefulness. “Mr. Faulkner, it’s plain that for some reason you don’t like me very much. It’s not necessary for me to understand why, but I’d like to. Miss Isabella’s fond of saying that a few bruises on an apple don’t mean the entire fruit’s gone completely bad. It just means that—”

“I’m well acquainted with the concept, and its application.” He ran a hand through his hair, took a long breath. A faint glimmer of humor washed through his eyes. “Miss Shaw, you look like a squirrel’s nest.”

Neala self-consciously lifted a hand to the unruly locks of hair dangling around her face and neck. “My hair has a mind of its own, especially when the humidity is high. But it’s rude of you to remark on it, Mr. Faulkner. Didn’t your mother teach you better manners?”

“My mother taught me many things, including manners. I’ve spent the past fifteen years trying to forget every one of her…lessons.”

The rancor in his voice sent a chill along Neala’s spine. “I better return to the school,” she began with forced cheeriness. “Three hours is the limit for Saturday free time on your own, unless you’re on the school grounds within sight of the house.” She lifted her hand to cup the whistle and took a steadying breath. “I have no idea why you’ve chosen to think the worst about me, nor do I particularly care to defend myself against someone whose mind is closed to reasoning. But for your information, Mr. Faulkner, I came out here in order to find evidence of that hunter—not to ‘plant’ it, as you accused me of.”

“Didn’t find any, did you? I wondered how long you planned to wander around.”

“In a war, spying is a hanging offense.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not at war, Miss Shaw.”

“Aren’t we?” Neala retorted quietly. She turned her back and retrieved her notebook and pencil. “I’m going now, Mr. Faulkner. You can either follow along or choose your own path. Either way, you’ve made your feelings toward me obvious. I’d appreciate it if you’d ignore me in the same manner I plan to ignore you.”

He frowned, then abruptly swiveled on his heel and hurled the second pinecone into the trees. “You understand nothing about my feelings, Miss Shaw. Toward you or anything else. If I’m wrong about you, I apologize. If I’m not—” the pause was loaded with thinly veiled threat “—and you cause my aunt or her school any suffering at all, even a moment’s concern, you’ll not be able to run far enough or long enough. I’ll find you, and you’ll think my behavior today saintlike by comparison.”

“I…see.” Neala tapped her pencil against her lips in a vain attempt to hide the smile threatening to burst free. Oh, but the relief flooding her insides was a heady sensation, the urge to reassure Miss Isabella’s thunderous nephew impossible to ignore. “Mr. Faulkner, I think you’re a lion with the heart of a kitten. Bless you for trying to protect Miss Isabella and the Academy.”

She lost the battle with her smile. “At least I finally understand the source of your anger, misguided though it was. After all, yesterday I did try to wallop you with a tree branch. I know you don’t believe me, but someone really was shooting out here in the woods yesterday. And when the bullet hits the tree trunk inches from my nose, I have to conclude that—albeit by mistake—they were shooting at me. I’ll let the matter drop, however, since it’s obvious I’ve been unable to produce any tangible proof.” She shrugged. “You’ve also helped me realize that my actions might cause Miss Isabella more concern—of course, you know she doesn’t ‘worry!’ I…Well, I’ve grown very fond of your aunt. Ever since my parents’ deaths, I suppose I’ve come to regard her as—”

She stopped, belatedly aware that the hue of Mr. Faulkner’s tanned face had turned a deep shade of red, and a muscle twitched the corner of his mouth. Ninny, she scolded herself. Few men were comfortable with sentimentality. “I’ll hush,” she murmured, then impulsively reached across to lay her hand on his forearm. “Don’t worry, Mr. Faulkner. I know God is watching over Miss Isabella every breath of every day.”

Mr. Faulkner snarled an ill-tempered curse. Then, without another word, he turned his back and strode rapidly into the woods, disappearing within seconds beneath the trees.

Neala remained a few moments longer, watching until she realized she must look like a moon-eyed girl gazing after her sweetheart. Rubbish, she thought. Idiotic, as well, gazing after a man who had just blistered the air with invectives. By the time she found her path back to the school moments later, however, she was forced to admit that loneliness was even harder to bear, after meeting a man like Grayson Faulkner.