Fletcher's Woman

by Linda Lael Miller

  Rachel trembled, tried to think what she should do. Before anything workable occurred to her, the dressing room door burst open with a force that threatened to rip it from its hinges and a glowering, dark-haired man appeared in the doorway.

  “Get dressed!” he snapped.

  Horrified, Rachel covered her breasts with her arms and sank deeper into the water.

  “Now!” the man yelled.

  Speech failed Rachel; she could only nod frantically.

  But the man was apparently satisfied. He gave Rachel an impatient look that scraped the edges of her soul, and then closed the door.

  Rachel scrambled out of the bathtub and huddled behind the silk screen, wrenching the towel from her head and drying herself in quick, desperate motions. Her heart jammed in her throat when she heard the door open again.

  But it was Mrs. Hammond who peered around the edge of the screen and extended a tangle of clothing: silken underthings, stockings, a lavender dress made of some soft, rustling fabric.

  Mrs. Hammond volunteered no information whatsoever, and Rachel was fully dressed before she could manage to say anything at all. “Who is that man?” she whispered. “What does he want?”

  The housekeeper sighed, but her eyes were kind. “That, my dear, is Dr. Griffin Fletcher. And I’m afraid he wants you.”

  Rachel was terrified. “Why?”

  Mrs. Hammond shrugged. “Lord knows. He’s a gruff sort, Child, but he won’t hurt you.”

  “H-He has no right—”

  “Right or no right, we’ll all have hell to pay if you don’t do as he says,” Mrs. Hammond said. And then she was striding out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Rachel bit her lower lip, scanning the room. There was only one window, and it was firmly shut.

  She wrenched at it hopelessly until she realized that someone had painted over the lock, sealing the one avenue of escape available.

  Hot tears brimmed in her eyes as she pulled at the window twice more, out of sheer terror.

  Again, the door opened. And the man with the dark, stormy eyes was standing there, watching her. He held out her battered, mud-caked shoes. “Put these on.”

  Rachel lifted her chin and walked toward him.

  • • •

  Jonas’s wrath was bitter and vicious, but he had held it in check as his old enemy thrust Rachel through the kitchen and the dining room and out through the front doors.

  He’d been afraid to challenge Griffin, and that fear lingered, further souring the defeat.

  Mrs. Hammond stood in stubborn silence, at the stove, stirring something into the soup.

  “Send McKay for the Indian,” Jonas said, after several seconds of charged silence.

  “But, Jonas—”

  “The Indian,” Jonas breathed. “Fawn Nighthorse.”

  Disapproval flashed in Mrs. Hammond’s eyes as she dared, at last, to meet his gaze. “But it’s the middle of the day. What’s Tom supposed to tell her?”

  Jonas whirled, pushed open the swinging door with a crash of his right palm. “That her rent is due,” he answered.

  Chapter Four

  When she felt it was safe, Rachel risked a fleeting glance at the man sitting in the buggy seat beside her. The muscles in his jawline were tight with disapproval, as were his firm, aristocratic lips.

  Dr. Griffin Fletcher. Rachel was grateful that Mrs. Hammond had volunteered his name: he certainly hadn’t had the good manners to do so.

  “Why are you doing this?” she ventured, painfully conscious of her wet, unbrushed hair and borrowed clothes.

  Dr. Fletcher turned dark, intolerant eyes to her face. His voice was a low rumble, a sound like two thunder clouds colliding in a distant sky. “What did Jonas offer you?” he countered coldly.

  Rachel felt crimson blood flaming in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?” she gasped, nearly choking on the words.

  “Never mind,” the doctor growled, turning his attention back to the buggy reins and the horse and the rutted, muddy road at the base of Mr. Wilkes’s stone driveway.

  Rachel sat back on the cushioned seat, her heart in her throat, and prayed silently for a speedy and miraculous rescue.

  As if to reflect the storm of emotions raging within her, the rain became a torrent, thumping at the roof of the buggy and flinging itself inside to sting Rachel’s face and drench the pretty amethyst dress.

  Dr. Fletcher seemed to have forgotten that she existed at all, and she found that idea oddly disturbing. She disliked the man intensely—had on sight—and yet something within her craved his notice.

  “I demand to know where you are taking me,” she said firmly, over the din of the worsening rain.

  Now, he looked at her. The dark light in his eyes was scathing as his glance passed over the half-sodden dress and then returned to her face. “You’re cold,” he said almost accusingly. And then, deftly, he removed his dark suit coat and thrust it at her.

  Rachel draped the coat around her shoulders and glared at him. “I insist that you tell me—”

  The stern lips curled in a humorless grin. “You insist, do you?” He laughed, and the sound made Rachel ache to the marrow of her frozen bones. “That is interesting.”

  “Are you always nasty and impossible, Dr. Fletcher?”

  “Only on my good days,” he retorted. “Do you always go home with men like Jonas Wilkes?”

  Shattering humiliation closed Rachel’s throat for a long moment. When words were possible, she forced herself to speak in the measured, dignified tones of a lady. “Mr. Wilkes was very kind to me.”

  Grim amusement danced in the dark depths of his gaze. “Oh, he’s a fine fellow,” Dr. Fletcher drawled, with sardonic relish. Again, his eyes moved to the now nearly transparent fabric of her dress. The bitter mirth in his look faded away suddenly, and another emotion flared up, savage and unreadable, in its place. “Nice dress,” he said.

  Rachel was not naive enough to believe that she had been complimented, and she swallowed the automatic “thank you” that rose in her throat.

  The pitiable horse trudged on, its hooves sticking now and then in the deep mud, its breath forming little clouds even in the driving rain. Rachel pretended a compelling interest in the lush foliage choking the roadside.

  Presently, they reached Providence again, but the beleaguered buggy did not stop at any one of the snug, neatly painted houses Rachel so admired. It labored on and finally came to a halt in front of the very cottage where she had encountered Mr. Wilkes such a short time before.

  “You might as well come inside and dry off,” Dr. Fletcher allowed tersely, springing from the buggy seat and taking an ancient black medical bag from the floor.

  Rachel glanced warily in the direction of Tent Town. It was vaguely visible in the downpour, and still singularly uninviting.

  She suppressed the instinct urging her to flee this officious man while she had the opportunity, and to cower, shivering, inside the questionable sanction of her own tent.

  Dr. Fletcher didn’t seem particularly concerned, one way or the other. He was already striding up the neat little walk leading to the cottage door.

  Rachel scrambled to close the distance between herself and this arrogant, confusing man. As she fell into step beside him, she was reminded of the castles she’d read about in books. He was like one of those grim, forbidding structures, this man—cold and aloof and surrounded by a moat as real and impassable as any made up of crocodiles and water. She wondered if he had ever allowed anyone—man, woman, or child—to climb the high, thick walls of his fortress and venture into the passageways of his heart.

  Rachel realized that she was being fanciful, but she didn’t care. It was her affinity with the world of whimsy that made the real one bearable.

  The inside of the cottage was clean and warm, but very dimly lit. The specter of death was lurking in that pleasant house; Rachel sensed its presence and drew the doctor’s coat closer to her body.

  A thin, exhausted man stood n
ear the crackling fire on the hearth, his shoulders stooped, his features hidden in shadow. Rachel’s lower lip trembled as she realized that he was weeping; the soft, ragged sound said too much about life in and around the lumber camps.

  Dr. Fletcher moved across the room silently, disappearing through a doorway and leaving the shattered man and Rachel alone.

  After just a moment, though, another man, tall and pleasant-looking, came out of the room Dr. Fletcher had entered. His smile was sad as it touched Rachel. “Hello,” he said, walking toward her. He extended a hand, and she found that it was hard and calloused.

  She took in his worn, clerical collar with confusion. In her experience, preachers talked a lot, and they talked loud; but they seldom did real work. Yet the skin on his hands belied that idea. Here was a man who had swung an ax times without number and probably had strained on one side of a crosscut saw, too.

  The gentle eyes smiled at Rachel, even though the mouth was sad. “I’m Reverend Hollister,” he said. And then, without waiting for Rachel’s name, he left the room, only to return a moment later with a warm blanket and a hairbrush.

  Rachel remembered her tangled, still-wet hair and blushed, but she accepted the items gratefully, with a whispered, “Thank you.”

  The man beside the fireplace stopped weeping, braced himself with visible determination, and went out of the house, leaving the door open behind him. He seemed heedless of the rain as Rachel watched him hurry down the walk and bolt over the gate.

  Reverend Hollister explained softly as he closed the door. “Sam’s baby was stillborn,” he said, his kind face contorted with shared pain. “A few minutes ago, we lost his wife, too.”

  Rachel felt stricken tears gather in her eyes. “Oh, no,” she said, feeling the loss of this strange woman and her child as keenly as if she’d known them.

  There was a short, dismal silence. Then Rachel turned away, hung the doctor’s suit coat on a wooden peg near the fireplace, and wrapped herself in the woolen blanket Reverend Hollister had provided. Standing beside the fire, she began to brush her hair with fierce, determined strokes choreographed by her grief.

  It seemed like a very long time before Dr. Fletcher came out of the death room and stood close beside her, before the fire. In a sidelong glance, Rachel saw that his shoulders were taut under his sodden white shirt and that his magnificent, ferocious eyes were haunted.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  For just a moment, she thought she saw a weakening in the immense walls that enclosed him; but he seemed to feel her scrutiny, and he stiffened. There was no emotion whatsoever in the look Griffin Fletcher gave her, and though his throat worked, no words passed his lips.

  A horrible thought swept over Rachel, weakening her knees. “W-Was it because you had to leave? D-did they die because of me?”

  The doctor allowed himself a look of exasperation. “You exaggerate your own importance, Miss McKinnon. There was nothing that could have been done, whether I’d been here or not.”

  Rachel was too stung to respond, but the Reverend Hollister rasped, “Griffin!”

  Some of the awesome tension seemed to drain from Dr. Fletcher’s taut body, but he said nothing. The crimson and orange light of the fire danced on his stony features as he turned his attention to the flames.

  Rachel drew a deep, shaky breath and managed. “I think I’d better go now. I-I don’t want to get in anybody’s way… .”

  She’d thought that this man couldn’t surprise her any more than he already had, but now he grabbed her arm and wrenched her close, so close that she could feel the hard, lean length of his thigh through her skirts.

  “Don’t you want to explore your new home, Rachel?” he asked, in a voice that at once terrified and enraged her. “There is a vacancy now, you know. One word to your good friend Jonas, and you, too, can live in splendor!”

  Having no idea what he was talking about, Rachel tried to draw back and found herself hopelessly imprisoned in his grasp. Her heart sprouted wings and flew into her throat, struggling there, cutting off her breath. Had Reverend Hollister not broken Dr. Fletcher’s hold so swiftly, she was certain she would have fainted.

  “Griffin,” the minister bit out, restraining his friend with a glower. “That is enough!”

  For a moment, the two men glared at each other, and the already intolerable tension in the room grew to alarming proportions. A small, strangled sob escaped Rachel’s aching throat, and she whirled, frantic, to run out of the house and down the slippery stone walk.

  The gate resisted her quick, feverish tugs, and she wrenched at it, half hysterical in her need to escape the tangible hatred throbbing in the little house behind her.

  But a strong hand closed over hers, forestalling the battle with the rusted gate latch. She looked up into the tempestuous, condemning eyes of Dr. Griffin Fletcher.

  He was drenched to the skin. Rainwater poured down his face, plastering his thick, ebony-colored hair to his head in dripping tendrils. Through his now-translucent shirt, Rachel could see the dark tracery of hair matting his chest, and the sensations the sight aroused within her were more terrifying than any she’d experienced that day.

  She was too stricken to move or speak. She could only stare at him, and wonder about all the mad, conflicting emotions that were raging inside her, more violent than any storm the sea and sky could produce.

  Dr. Fletcher didn’t seem to notice the rain; he simply stood there, watching Rachel’s face for a long time. Then, incredibly, he brought his hands to rest on her shoulders.

  I want him, Rachel thought with horror and conviction. Dear Heaven, after the way he’s treated me, I want him.

  In desperation, she raised her chin and shouted over the incessant patter of the rain. “I’m going home!”

  Without a word, Griffin Fletcher released her.

  Wanting more than anything to stay near him, Rachel turned on her heel and strode away, toward the grassy embankment sloping down to the boundaries of Tent Town. She looked back only once, and involuntarily at that. When she did, she saw him standing at the end of the walk, watching her.

  • • •

  Fawn Nighthorse trembled inwardly when the summons came, but she was careful not to reveal her reluctance. If McKay thought she was scared, he’d be pleased—and there was no way she was going to let the slug have the satisfaction.

  She followed Jonas’s coachman and right-hand man down the cottage walk and through the gate, raising her face, once or twice, to the cleansing rain. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Griffin Fletcher’s horse and buggy at Fanny’s gate.

  For a second, she considered running to him. He would defend her—she knew that—but in the end, she decided against seeking his help. Griffin had enough trouble as it was, and Fawn had other, deeper reasons for not wanting to call attention to the situation.

  McKay had brought an extra horse, and Fawn swung deftly up onto its broad back, clinging to the reins with white-knuckled hands. McKay’s saddle creaked as he turned to grin at her.

  Fawn grinned back. Bastard, she thought.

  They rode swiftly, avoiding the main road and galloping along the path leading through the dense woods to the east of Tent Town. After about fifteen minutes, the two riders emerged from a stand of silvery-leaved cottonwood trees and cut across the narrow dirt road.

  Fawn allowed herself one glance back, over her shoulder, at the large, gray stone house where Griffin Fletcher lived. If she reined in the mare she was riding sharply enough and rode hard, she might be able to reach Griffin’s front door, the sanctuary within his house, before McKay caught up with her.

  She swallowed hard. What about tomorrow and the day after that? She couldn’t hide from Jonas forever, and Griffin, the magnificent fool, wouldn’t even try.

  The rain was easing up; Fawn lamented that. Just then, she wished that the skies would open and drown Jonas Wilkes in a torrential downpour.

  He can probably swim, she thought, bitterly.

  McKa
y rode up a steep, rocky sidehill, and Fawn followed. When they reached the crest, they both paused, their mounts dancing impatiently, to survey Jonas’s kingdom.

  McKay took in the palatial brick house and surrounding land with an obvious, vicarious sort of pride, while Fawn viewed it with dread.

  I shouldn’t have told Field Hollister that I saw Jonas carrying off the Fair Maiden, she reflected wryly. Damn it! Ten to one, Field told Griffin and Griffin went busting in there to save Becky’s kid from shame and degradation!

  Fawn stiffened in the saddle, stood up in the stirrups to stretch her legs. Before this day’s out, I’m going to wish I’d never been born.

  McKay tossed a smug look over his shoulder; it was almost as though he’d read Fawn’s thoughts and found them profoundly amusing. “Come on, Injun. The boss has plans for you.”

  “Did I ever tell you what my people do with snakes like you, McKay?” Fawn shot back.

  McKay paled. “Shut up.”

  Fawn raised her voice as the horses started down the other side of the hill. “First, we let the old ladies peel your hide off—”

  McKay spurred his mangy stallion to a run, and Fawn’s laughter rang to the mountain and back again.

  • • •

  In the privacy of her tent, Rachel removed her wet clothes and wrapped herself in a blanket. Tears gathered behind her eyes, burning, but she would not let them fall.

  She lay down on her cot, a torrent of confusion storming inside her. Because the anger kept her warm, she tried to stir it into full flame by remembering the rude things Dr. Fletcher had said and implied.

  But the anger kept ebbing away. Instead, she found herself wondering what it would be like to surrender herself to him.

  Where the rites of men and women were concerned, she had a firm grasp of the basics, though she had never experienced them. Her father had warned her repeatedly that if she laid down with a man, she would be sullied.

  Rachel had known a girl in Oregon who had been sullied by a storekeeper’s son. Wilma had ended up with a very big stomach, good food to eat, and a sturdy roof over her head.