She was mumbling to herself, wringing her hands and compulsively scrubbing at the countertops with a damp sponge. What was she to do?
“Lena,” she muttered suddenly. She had to speak to Elena. She glanced out the kitchen window. Dawn was still rising over the quiet streets of Silverpines. A fine, glowing mist was hanging over the undulating hills of pine trees in the distance. She could just see the peak of Saddle Mountain rising over the rooftops, but the glorious view was lost on her.
There was a lawyer coming. This thought slid through Victoria like a balm on her frayed senses. The lawyer that she was to marry was already on his way. Surely—she padded across the kitchen and retrieved a tomato from the larder— he could help her. She could not possibly be held responsible for this.
But who had taken the money? Her very first thought was of Jaxsom, and her chest throbbed once more with the sting of his betrayal. Oh, how she had loved him… But Jaxsom was dead. He was gone now. There were witnesses who saw him die. The strangest thing was, that even though Victoria knew that her husband had betrayed her, her heart had leapt at the thought that the man she had loved might, somehow, impossibly, have managed to return to her. Did that make her as much of a thief as he was? That she loved him still, despite what he had done to her?
Victoria turned sharply at the sound of a throat clearing in the doorway. She had nearly forgotten that she had a guest.
“Breakfast will be ready in just a moment,” she stated calmly, turning back to the stove with her expression carefully composed above the high neckline of her gown. She had tied an apron about her waist. “You should not be on your feet at all, sir. Sit back down at once. How are you feeling?”
“Lousy,” croaked Mr. Garrison. He gripped the counter in his grubby hands as he slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, leaving a smudge on the clean surface.
“I should very well think so,” Victoria said, reaching forward with her sponge to siphon off his fingerprints. “Do you like bacon and eggs? I have some toast here as well.”
“Anything, Missus,” he mumbled, waving a massive hand.
“Well, you’re certainly more conciliatory this morning,” Victoria noted. “Am I ‘Missus,’ now? Not a mere questionable woman?” She turned her back on him and dropped a spoonful of lard into a frying pan.
“I was… a bit out of my head the night before,” Mr. Garrison admitted grudgingly. “Owe you an apology of sorts, I’d wager.”
Victoria cracked three eggs into the pan without responding.
“I apologize for my callous behavior,” he murmured to her back. “I was tactless, and immoral. I want to thank you for your timely assistance.”
Victoria was rather impressed with his vocabulary, as well as touched. She had not expected him to be much of a conversationalist. “You are most welcome,” she replied. She reached for a plate and piled fried eggs and bacon into the center of it. “Toast?”
“Yes, please.”
Victoria served the man and then sat down at the table across from him, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands.
She regretted this the moment that she looked up into his scraggly face and noticed that his eyes were the most startling shade of blue she had ever seen. They mimicked the morning sky after the storm of the day before. They were bright and curious, and somehow full of a hope that Victoria could not feel. She looked quickly away, examining the large dab of clotted cream swimming atop her mug, but when she glanced up for a second time, he was still looking at her.
“Why did you sing?” he asked suddenly, and Victoria raised an eyebrow at him. “That night. Why did you sing to me?”
Victoria shrugged, feeling a blush creeping up the neck of her blouse. What was it about this man that flooded her skin with so much color? It felt as if he’d struck an ember to life beneath her flesh. “I was praying.”
“It sounded like music…”
“I may have sung a hymn or two,” she admitted grudgingly.
He paused and seemed to consider her. “Think the singing may have helped me through the night, funnily enough,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his beard with his left hand.
“You were dying on my kitchen floor,” Victoria responded icily, wary of the soft melting feeling she experienced when those endless blue eyes found hers again. “The Good Lord must have seen fit to save you, Mr. Garrison. I assure you, my singing had nothing to do with it.” She raised her coffee to her lips and took a shaky sip with her pinky in the air.
Her bedraggled companion leaned back in his chair. It squeaked as he shifted his weight, and Victoria saw him wince with the movement. “You’ve a very nice voice,” he said after a moment.
Was he attempting to charm her? Well, she wouldn’t fall for such nonsense. No, she would not.
She glanced back at his storm-cloud eyes, and something in his expression seemed to shift. He opened his mouth— to impart some further assault upon her womanhood, she presumed— but without another word, Victoria stood up and exited the room, feeling his eyes on her back as she went.
She caught her breath in the sitting room, flustered by the high color in her cheeks. What was the matter with her? A pair of blue eyes on a dirt-smattered face and her insides had turned to jelly? Heaven help her when the man finally cleaned himself up. Her thoughts swam as she pictured him in the washroom upstairs. Her blush deepened.
She darted up the stairs and into the second bedroom, closing the door tightly behind her. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror above the dressing table she cast a narrow-eyed glare at her reflection. “What on Earth is the matter with you?” she growled. “You really must get out of the house more often.”
∞∞∞
Elena did not visit until the following day. Victoria had spent the remainder of her Tuesday locked in her bedroom, leaving it only for meals. Mr. Garrison did not attempt to press his company upon her, but he did smile and thank her when she brought him his lunch on the silver tea tray. His rough fingers brushed hers when she handed it to him, and she’d had to repress a strange shiver.
Elena entered the house with a wrinkled nose on Wednesday afternoon.
“Good heavens, what is that wretched smell, Victoria, darling? Are you cooking again?” Elena’s eyes widened as she rounded the door and caught sight of Mr. Garrison reclined on the settee, snoring softly.
“Oh Lordy,” she said, clutching her heart. “What is this?” Her eyes danced from Victoria to the settee and back again, and when Victoria seized her hand and dragged her friend down the hall into the kitchen, the woman was still craning her neck to get a better look at the man in the sitting room.
“Victoria Elaine, you tell me what is going on this instant,” Elena instructed, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Why on Earth do you have a man on your settee?”
“Shh!” Victoria held a finger to her lips. “He is injured,” she explained hurriedly. “But never mind that now. Elena, Mr. Foswick was here yesterday morning.”
The story was told in a matter of moments.
“The accounts are empty?” Elena hissed.
“Yes, he showed me copies of the statements!” Victoria could see the confusion in Elena’s eyes.
“But how? You haven’t been to the bank in months, have you?”
Victoria rolled her eyes. She was tired of beating around the bush. “You know as well as anyone else that I haven’t left this house since Jaxsom’s death,” she murmured. “Elena, what am I going to do?”
“We have to tell someone!”
“But who? Who, Lena? If anyone from Silverpines finds out what has happened…” she couldn’t continue. The prospect was too horrible to consider.
Elena’s dark brow was furrowed. “Someone must have gone to the bank in your stead.” She whispered. “Someone with papers that could identify them as you…?”
“Yes,” murmured Victoria, losing track of what she was agreeing to. She sighed and ran her fingers distractedly through her hair. “I cannot believe this.”
“Nor can I,” Elena breathed. She took a step backward and glanced through the second doorway in the kitchen, the one that led into the sitting room. “Why isn’t he with Dr. Richards? He looks as though he is in dreadful shape.”
Victoria shrugged. “I’ve no idea. He refuses to say. He’s only asked me to keep it quiet that he’s here.”
Elena raised a suspicious eyebrow at her. “Who is he?”
Victoria tugged out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down. “He says his name is Garrison.”
“Aren’t you worried? What if you’re harboring an outlaw? Victoria… with everything else that is going on, why on Earth would you take in this stranger?”
Victoria shrugged. “He was dying. I patched him up.”
Her friend shook her head and gave her a knowing smile. “You’re much too kind-hearted for your own good, my dear,” she said.
Wishing to change the subject, Victoria asked, “Have you had any responses to your advert yet?”
Elena flopped down into the chair beside Victoria, her eyes downcast. “No, I haven’t. Victoria, I can’t do this. How can I be married to Mace Thorne after everything that he has done?”
Victoria reached out and patted Elena’s hand. “A response will come,” she said, “And if it does not, we shall think of something.”
∞∞∞
Luther shifted his head against the couch cushion, his eyes flying open in shock. Had he heard that right? Mace’s wife? Here? In Silverpines?
He inserted a finger into his ear and rotated it, listening hard, but the woman did not mention Mace’s name for a second time. He’d known all along that Mace had said he had a wife. His cousin had bragged about her often enough. He’d talked about her raven-black hair and soft skin. Frankly, Luther couldn’t image any woman that would be willing to marry the likes of Mace Thorne. He had supposed she had been a figment of his cousin’s twisted mind… but now she was a real flesh and blood person! And what was more… she knew he was here. How long would it take for her to tell her husband? When would she see him again?
His head was throbbing. He couldn’t think anymore. All he knew was that his pretty host was in danger. Once Mace Thorne found out that Luther had stayed with Missus Victoria Rhyan, he was quite sure that his cousin would hunt her down. If he found her…
Luther’s breath caught in his chest as a particularly painful jab from his injury set his nerves on fire. Mace Thorne would murder Victoria. Luther had to protect her, but how? If only his head was not so fogged with pain. If only he could just think what to do.
He lay there for the better part of an hour, feigning sleep. At last, he heard the sounds of two chairs scraping back from the table. He hurriedly closed his eyes as the women moved down the hall. They stood whispering at the front door for another couple of moments, then it opened, and his cousin’s wife stepped out of the house. Luther’s mind drifted.
His host poked him awake a few hours later.
“You smell rather wretched,” she said simply. “I am going to draw you some water for a bath.”
“That’s a load of trouble,” Luther grouched. “How far is the well?”
Missus Rhyan looked rather puzzled, and then she smiled. “I’ll help you up the stairs. You are quite on your own after that. Be careful not to open that wound while you wash. It needs cleaned, or it will fester.”
He glared after her as she slid out of the room and a moment later, he heard the sound of pipes gurgling. Running water in the house? He rolled his eyes to the heavens. The frivolity of some people astounded him.
Climbing the stairs was a sort of torture he had not anticipated. The woman shoved herself beneath his good arm and he leaned heavily on her, panting as they mounted each step.
“Absolutely… ridiculous,” he hissed through his teeth as they drew to a halt four steps from the landing. “You are… quite… mad… woman.”
“Do you lack a sense of smell?” she grunted, her nose wrinkled in disgust as she leaned against the banister for support.
He did not. She had a point. He smelled like something akin to rancid manure.
When they finally reached the landing, Luther retched from the pain.
“Nearly there,” she gasped, pointing to the middle door on their left. “The washroom is just through here.”
Steam was issuing in great dollops from the room she had indicated. It swirled in the dim light filtering beneath the door at the end of the hall. He’d caught sight of a bedroom on the right side of the washroom, so what did she use this other room for?
“What is that room there?” he asked, indicating it with a nod of his head.
“Nothing,” she responded sharply. Her tone piqued his curiosity at once, but he was far too distracted by the room she was now carrying him into.
If Luther could have drawn a full breath, he would have let out a low whistle. A large porcelain tub with gold fixtures sat against the right-hand wall. Gold pipes led from the tub down into the floor, and the walls were all covered in blue, floral wall paper that looked quite like it had been plucked from a ridiculous children’s book and plastered over the paneling.
The woman helped him hobble to a small wooden stool she had placed beside the tub.
“Right,” she said breathlessly, swiping a damp strand of brown hair away from her forehead. “Get cleaned up. There has never been a single thing in this house that was nearly as filthy as you, and I aim to remedy the situation before it reaches a level of foulness that even I cannot scrub away.”
Luther sat there, breathing deeply through his nose, willing himself not to vomit.
She stared at him expectantly.
He held up a finger, his sides heaving. “Give me a moment, you blasted woman.”
Victoria folded her arms, her expression wooden. “There are towels here. Soap there,” she pointed. “Shout when you’ve finished and I’ll assist you back down the stairs once more.”
His stomach churned at the thought, but he nodded and she left, closing the door behind her.
His shoulder throbbed in protest as he shifted on the stool, still breathing rather hard. He bent forward with a grunt and twisted one of the taps beside the tub. Water tumbled from the curved, golden spout and splatted against the porcelain. He gazed at it in fascination for a moment, watching the light from the lamp overhead reflect in each drop as it hit.
In truth, he was not absolutely sure that he would be able to maneuver himself in and out of the tub without assistance. Glancing around, he saw that she had laid a fresh pair of trousers and socks on the tufted rug by his feet. He shook his head dubiously.
Well, if he had to do the thing, it was probably best to get it over with. He raised his good arm and began to strip off his clothes, gritting his teeth against the pain.
There was a large, round mirror hanging against the opposite wall. On catching sight of himself, he immediately understood Missus Rhyan’s insistence that he bathe.
His hair was coated in a layer of crusted mud and dirt, and the dust in his beard made him look as though he had aged thirty years. He frowned at his reflection. It seemed as though it had been a long time since he had seen his own face. He thought that he looked different somehow, since the day he had graduated Carolina State. His jawline was sharper, more defined, and his gaze seemed to have lost some of its boyish cheer. His eyes had hardened beneath the fringe of his unkempt hair.
His cousin had come to his graduation ceremony with a smile plastered over his face that day, and Luther remembered Mace winking at him as he had shaken hands with his professors. Mace was younger then and his face had had fewer scars.
Luther embraced him when the ceremony had ended. “Thank you,” he said. “This was all down to you. My mother and I never could have afforded a college education without you.”
Mace tipped his hat, grinning. “Your Ma was a right fine woman, cousin. You’ve done her proud today.”
Luther’s grin faded. “It was the only thing she ever asked for,” he said. “I
wish she could have been here to see it come to pass.”
Mace clapped him on his shoulder, disregarding Luther’s abrupt melancholy. “Now that you’ve finished here, I have a little job for you,” he smiled, steering Luther away from his peers. “As a matter of… repayment,” his insolent smile widened...
Luther shook away the memory. For years he had lived off the generosity of his cousin, believing the money Mace provided for Luther’s tuition to be evidence of the fabricated oil company in the south of Texas that Mace had claimed to own. It was only after he graduated that Luther discovered Mace’s true source of income, and the real reason he had needed a man educated in law. Luther had spent the following few years aiding his cousin in swindling people out of their property, in stealing inheritance from widows, and finding loopholes in the law that might keep Mace and his gang members out of prison whenever they had been caught. He had a few scruples, of course, he assuaged them with empty words. It would all be repaid once he had satisfied his debt to his cousin. This was temporary. He had no choice. But the truth of the matter was, that a small part of him reveled in the misuse of his newly acquired skills. And the money… the money was real good.
When Mace’s appetites had turned violent, Luther had realized what he had become. He had searched for an escape. Well, you didn’t exactly hand in your resignation to Mace Thorne. It was a lifetime of service, or death, and Luther now found himself facing the latter.
It took him twenty whole minutes to relieve himself of his clothing, and he couldn’t help thinking that the process would have gone much faster if his hostess had consented to aid him. As his trousers dropped to the floor, they crashed against the wood with a disproportionate clatter. Luther stooped down and retrieved the small sack of coins he had placed in the pocket. It was a miracle that he’d managed to hold onto the thing. It wasn’t much, but he thought perhaps he might at least pay his hostess for her troubles.
He wondered if she would accept the money, or if she would throw it back in his face.
He grinned at the thought, and then slid his huge body carefully into the hot water, grimacing as it lapped at his injury.
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