"I'm sorry; but Shellie Burl slipped and sprained her ankle and can't come today. You'll have to make do with me," Logan said in a deep, gruff voice, his expression solemn.
Appalled, I could only stare at him. "But I need to go to the bathroom," I whispered, embarrassment flushing my face. "Please get Grandpa so I can lean on him."
"Your grandfather can't climb the stairs without wheezing, and he has all he can do to stay upright himself." And without further ado, Logan tenderly helped me from the bed. My head reeled so I would have fallen without his arms about me, and step by slow step, supporting me as if I were a small child, he assisted me into the bathroom. I clung to a towel bar until he closed the door, and then I fell upon the commode almost in a dead faint.
I learned all about humility during the next few days when Logan had to assist me to and from the bathroom. I learned how to swallow my pride and tolerate the way he had to give me a sponge bath as modestly as possible, keeping all but the skin he was cleansing under a flannel sheet. Sometimes 1
childishly whimpered and cried and tried to fight him off again, but the effort of doing that would cause me such fatigue I could only submit. Then I realized the fruitlessness of my resistance. I needed his caring and nursing. And from that time on, I lay without moaning and complaining.
In my fevered delirium I knew I'd called for Troy. I pleaded time and again with Logan to telephone him and explain why I hadn't returned to keep our wedding plans. I'd see Logan nod, hear him say something to assure me he was trying to contact Troy. But I didn't believe him. I never believed him.
When I could find the strength I slapped at his hands when he tried to spoon medicine into my mouth.
Twice I crawled out of the bed in frail, failing efforts to telephone Troy myself—only to stand and find myself so weak I crumpled almost immediately to the floor, forcing Logan to spring up from his pallet near the foot of my bed so he could pick me up and carry me back to my bed.
"Why can't you trust me?" he asked when he thought me asleep, his voice tender, his hands gentle as he smoothed back the damp fringe of hair from my forehead. "I saw you with that Cal Dennison and wanted to shove him through the wall. I saw you once with that Troy you keep calling for, and I hated him.
I've been a fool, Heaven, a damned fool, and now I've lost you. But why is it you always have to go elsewhere to find what I was so willing to give? You never gave me the chance to be more than a friend.
You held me off, resisted my kisses, and my efforts to be your lover."
My lids parted to see him sitting on the side of my bed, his head bowed wearily. "I know now I was a fool to have been so considerate—for you love me. I know you love me!"
"Troy," I moaned softly, seeing Logan hazily, with Troy standing in the shadows behind him, his face in darkness. "I have to save Troy . . ."
He turned from me then, his head lifting before he murmured, "Go back to sleep and stop fretting over that man. He'll be all right. You've talked a lot about him, and I know this, people in real life don't die from love."
"But . . . but you don't know Troy . . . don't know him . . not as I do."
Logan whipped around, his patience on a leash.
"Heaven, please! You can't recover if you don't stop resisting what I try to do for you. I'm not a doctor, but I do know a considerable amount about medications. I am trying to do my best for you. A few weeks ago I brought your grandpa a good supply of cold medicine, never suspecting it would be you who'd be the one most needing. All the roads to town are flooded. It's been raining for five solid days. I can't drive out of the yard because the dirt roads are so rutted and flooded.
Three times I've had to dig my car out of mud up to the hubcaps."
I submitted to his ministrations, not knowing what else to do. Nightmarish dreams took me to Troy.
He was always riding on a horse away from me, and when I called, he rode even faster. Into the night, into the dark, I chased after him.
Into my hazy vision Grandpa drifted several times, his breath coming in short gasps and wheezes, his wizened old face hovering anxiously over me, his hands reaching to brush back my long damp hair with weak fingers. "Yer lookin peaked, Heaven chile. Real peaked. Annie's gonna fix ya up somethin' healin' . . .
her herbal tea. An she's made ya some soup. Ya eat it now . . ."
Finally the day came when my fever stopped.
My thoughts cleared. For the first time I fully realized the horror of my situation. I was in the Willies again, back where the cabin used to stand. Far from Troy who had to be frantic with worry.
I stared weakly at Logan as he took clean sheets from the small linen closet in the dressing area, and striding my way, he smiled. His beard made him seem older, and he looked exceedingly tired.
As a young child I'd often hoped to be sick just to test Pa and find out if he'd care for me as lovingly as once I'd seen him care for Fanny. But of course he wouldn't have bothered himself even to hand me a glass of water.
"Go away!" I sobbed, when Logan handed me another capsule, another glass of water. "It's embarrassing what you've done!" I cringed from the touch of his hands. "Why didn't you telephone for a nurse after Mrs. Burl hurt her ankle? You had no right to do what you did!"
Like a deaf and mute man he was heedless of what I said. He rolled me over, draped the mattress under me with a flannel sheet before he disappeared to come back with a basin of warm water, and several towels, plus a washcloth and a dish with soap. I clutched the covers, bringing them high under my chin. "No!"
He dipped the washcloth into the water, soaped it, then handed it to me. "Wash your own face then.
The phone lines were the first thing to go. That was the evening we arrived. I just heard the weather report on a battery radio. The rain is due to let up tonight. It will take a few days for the roads to drain of water, and by that time you should be well enough to travel."
I seized the washcloth from his hands, then glared at him until he left the room. He slammed the door shut behind him, and with ruthless
determination, I scrubbed at my skin. I put on a fresh sleep shirt, one of the many that I had mailed to Grandpa, this time without Logan's help.
On this day I made myself eat when Logan carried in a tray with soup and sandwiches. He would not meet my eyes, nor would I meet his.
"The roads . . . ?" I managed to ask, just as he was carrying the tray out of the door.
"Clearing. The sun is out. The linemen will soon be restoring electricity and telephone service.
Once I can bring in a nurse for you, I'll leave. I'm sure that will make you very happy. You'll never have to see me again."
"You're pitying me now, aren't you?" I shouted with what frail strength I had. "You can like me now that I'm sick and needing, but you can't like me at all when I'm not needing. I don't need your kind of compassion and pity, Logan Stonewall! I'm engaged to one of the most wonderful men in the world.
I’ll never be poor again! And I love him, love him so much I'm hurting inside because I'm not with him instead of you!"
There, I'd said it, in the cruelest way possible.
He stood, caught in a random beam of weak sunlight, his face gone very pale before he whirled around to stalk out of the door.
I cried when he was gone. Cried for the longest time. Cried for all that used to be, and all the dreams left unfulfilled. But it was all right. I had Troy. He didn't pity me. He loved me, needed me, would die without me.
That afternoon I forced myself to walk to the bathroom alone. I took a bath in the tub. I shampooed my hair. In a day or two I'd leave this place and never return.
My strength took longer to return than I'd expected. Just as it took the roads longer to clear of flood water than Logan predicted, and he didn't leave the minute the mud began to dry. He patiently waited downstairs, until one day the mailman appeared and told him that all the roads down to Winnerrow were passable now, if he didn't mind digging in the mud now and then. Around four that day, while Loga
n sprawled on the living room sofa and dozed, I was able to negotiate the stairs alone, and in the kitchen I helped prepare a simple meal. Grandpa seemed very contented. Logan said nothing at all when I called him to the kitchen table, though I felt his eyes following my every movement.
I was still weak, pale, and trembling when Logan let me out in front of Winnerrow's only hotel, and in another rented room I changed into fresh clothes before I made my long-distance call to Troy.
Troy didn't answer the telephone in his cottage. I grew nervous and faint waiting for him to respond. I hung up and dialed another number. This time one of the servants at Farthinggale Manor answered.
"Yes, Miss Casteel, I'll tell Mr. Troy that you called. He's out for the day."
Unsettled and disconcerted to think Troy wasn't where he should be, I used the elevator again, to find Logan waiting in the hotel lobby for me. He rose politely when I advanced, but didn't smile. "What can I do for you now?"
My hands rose to my forehead. I had four hours before my flight left for Boston.
"Reverend Wise, I have to see him. But I can make it there on my own." My eyes lowered to study his hands while I began my apology. "I'm sorry I was ugly acting. I thank you for helping me, Logan. I wish you all sorts of happiness. You don't need to do anything else for me. From now on take care of myself."
For the longest time I felt his eyes on my face, as if trying to read my mind. Then, not responding with words, he took my arm and led me to his parked car, and while we were on our slow way, he tried to answer my question.
"Does Pa come often to visit Grandpa?"
"I think he comes when he can."
Logan didn't say another word until he let me out on Main Street, directly in front of the parsonage, where the Reverend Wayland Wise lived with his wife, and infant daughter.
"Thank you again," I said stiffly. "But you don't have to wait."
"Who is going to carry your bags and put them in your rented car . . . if you still have a rented car?"
he asked with irony.
So he waited, insisting on doing that, and I tried not to stumble or wobble as I made my way up the walkway recently swept free of all storm debris. Once I had reached the high porch, I turned to see Logan waiting patiently, his head slightly bowed, as if he'd fallen asleep behind the wheel from the fatigue of waiting on me night and day.
And as I stood there and waited for someone to respond to my knock, a terrible anger washed over me, erasing my weakness and giving me sudden strength.
The Reverend and his wife had no right to steal Fanny's baby! He had seduced Fanny when she was just a child, a minor! Fourteen years old. Statutory rape!
Yes, I was here to bring into the family fold at least one child to replace the two I'd lost. Though I doubted very much that Fanny should be the one to raise the child.
It was Rosalynn Wise herself who came to respond to my sharp raps on her door. She scowled to see me, though surprise didn't show in her eyes. It was as if she knew from my visit to the church eight days ago that sooner or later I'd show up. As usual, she wore a dark, unflattering dress that succeeded admirably in making her look like a stick wearing clothes.
"We have nothing to say to you," she said in greeting. "Kindly take yourself off our porch and don't come back."
And like Fanny had in the past, she prepared to slam the door in my face, but I was ready this time.
Stepping forward I shoved her aside and entered the house. "You have a great deal of explaining to do," I said in my coldest sharpest tone. (I'd learned a great deal in Boston on how to act imperious.) "Take me to your husband."
"He's not here."
She moved to keep me from going farther.
"You get out! You and your sister have caused enough trouble." Her long, lean face took on the pious air of those in contact with filth.
"Oh, so now you admit Fanny is my sister. How interesting. Whatever happened to Louisa Wise?"
"Who was that at the front door?" called the Reverend in the kind of ordinary voice he must reserve for at-home use.
His voice led me to his study, where the door was partially open, and I stepped inside, despite all his wife did to prevent this. Now that I was confronting the most influential man in Winnerrow, I longed for stronger health, for all the words I'd had ready to say before fever came and stole them from my memory.
Half-rising from his chair, "Waysie" Wise smiled in a pleasant way, and that left me at a loss. I'd come expecting to catch them both at a disadvantage.
It wasn't quite ten o'clock. Yet she was dressed, and so was he. The.- only concession he gave to at-home comfort were black velvet house slippers lined with red satin. For some odd reason those exotic, elegant slippers threw me.
"Aha!" he said, rubbing his dry palms together, his full, handsome face taking on a blank, smooth look. "I do believe it's one of my sheep coming to be embraced, at last, into the fold." He couldn't have found better words to restore my fighting ego. As if I'd been born for this day I felt a rising sense of justification and satisfaction to have a good reason for telling him my opinion of what he was. He seated himself again in his high-backed, comfortable chair before the fireplace where fake flowers took the place of the grate. With care he chose a cigar from a brass box lined with red cedar that was near his chair; he snipped off the end, checked it over with scrutinizing eyes, and only then did he light it. All this time I was left standing.
Obviously they weren't going to invite me to sit down. I strode forward and selected the twin to his chair and sat. I crossed my legs and watched his eyes as they traveled over my legs, which Troy had told me many times were very shapely. My shoes were brand new.
Lazily, the Reverend's dark, sloe eyes looked me over. Smoldering interest thrived deep in those eyes, and gradually it drifted to the forefront and forced him to smile disarmingly. A smile so sweet it was no wonder someone as naive as Fanny had been taken in. Even up close he was a very good-looking man. He had good features, a clear complexion, and robust good health that made his ruddy skin glow. His extra pounds were just beginning to hint at middle age, though later I suspected he'd go from paunchy immediately to obesity.
"Yesss . . . I do believe I've seen you before,"
he said in a throaty, flattering way, "though forgetting the name of such a lovely girl is simply not my way, absolutely not my way."
When I'd entered this house, I hadn't the foggiest idea of how to approach him, but his very words had given me exactly the impetus I needed. He was afraid. He'd hide behind a guise of innocence.
"You haven't forgotten my name," I said in a pleasant way, swinging my foot and making my high heel a threatening weapon. "No one ever forgets my name. Heaven Leigh has its own distinction, wouldn't you say?"
And all that coughing had done something tor my throat, something that made it different, slightly hoarse, and my time in Boston had given my voice a certain sophisticated sexiness that surprised even me.
"Fanny is very well, thank you for asking, Reverend Wise. Fanny sends her best regards."
I smiled at him, feeling a kind of power growing just because I could tell he was taken with my youth and beauty. I suspected he'd been an easy foil for Fanny's seduction, even though he was a man of the cloth. "Fanny is very appreciative to both you and your wife for taking such good care of her daughter, but now that she has given up a stage career and will soon settle down to married life, she wants her child back."
He didn't blanch or blink an eye, though behind me I heard his wife gasp, then sob.
"Why isn't Louisa here to speak for herself?" he asked in a soft purr.
I tried to find exactly the right words. "Fanny trusts me to say what she cannot say without crying.
She regrets her hasty decision to sell her unborn child.
She knows now that a woman can never be the same after giving birth. Her arms ache to hold her little girl.
And she isn't asking that you take a great loss, for I have come prepared to repay you the ten thou
sand dollars." His smile stayed pasted on. He even managed to talk while still smiling. "I really don't understand what you mean. What ten thousand? What do my wife and I have to do with Fanny's baby? We realize, of course, that dear Louisa was free with her sexual favors, being hill-born and hill-trained, and wild as a bitch in heat, and if she sold her baby and regrets it, indeed we are sorry . . ."
Standing, I strode to his desk and picked up a silver-framed studio portrait of a child about four months old. The baby smiled into the camera lens with Fanny's own dark eyes, true Casteel Indian eyes.
The little girl's mop of hair was not straight and coarse like Fanny's, but soft and curly, as the hair of the Reverend must have been when he was an infant. And oh, she was lovely, this baby that Fanny had so heedlessly sold. Plump, dimpled hands, a tiny little ring on one finger. Sweet little white dress with lace and embroidery. A cherished, pampered, beloved daughter.
Suddenly the portrait was snatched from my hands!
"Get out of here!" screamed Rosalynn Wise.
"Wayland, why do you sit and talk to her! Throw her out!"
"I came prepared to pay for Fanny's child," I stated coldly. "You can accept twenty thousand dollars. Ten thousand for your care of the child. If you don't I will call in the police, and tell them what you did when you drove to our cabin and paid my father five hundred dollars for Fanny. I will tell the city authorities that you used Fanny as your slave to do housework. I will tell them that their good minister molested and sexually abused a fourteen-year-old girl, and forced her to have his child because his wife was barren . . ."
The Reverend stood up.
He towered above me, his eyes turning into cruel, dark river stones. "You have threat in your voice, girl. I don't like that. A hill-scum Casteel can't threaten me, not with your tone, not with your fierce glare and your silly words. I know all about you and your kind." His confident smile came back as he sought to intimidate me. "Louisa has not called or written to us, after all we did to make her happy and comfortable. Yet it's often that way with our Lord's chosen , . . to try and be the good Samaritan, and in turn be given nothing but malice from those who should be grateful."
Dark Angel (Casteel Series #2) Page 29