by Jane Peart
I shook my head. "No, Randall."
"You're sure?"
"Yes," I said, not admitting that he had been the real reason I could not.
Randall looked relieved. "Then, do you think it is possible our relationship can change, become more?" he asked.
How strange life is, I thought. Months, even weeks ago, I would have given anything to hear Randall declare his love for me. Now the very words I had longed to hear were mired by the mystery that surrounded Alair's death. How could I love without reservations a man that may have been responsible for her death? What other horrible revelations might the unopened letter upstairs reveal? These terrible thoughts clouded my mind, and I withdrew my hands from Randall's.
"I can't answer any of this now. I need time—"
"Of course, I understand that. If your answer is no, we shall go on as before," he said.
But could we? After what had been said tonight, could things ever be the same?
I mounted the broad staircase in a daze. Mechanically, I moved past Vinny, who was on her way down, looking at me curiously as she went by.
Entering the bedroom, I sat down at my dressing table and glanced at my reflection. My eyes were glazed, my face pale in the subdued light of the boudoir lamps. Then my eyes fell on my muff and I reached out and withdrew the letter.
For one frozen minute I vacillated between tearing it up and tearing it open. Then, I knew I had to read it. If I were ever to be free of lingering doubt, free to accept Randall's love, I had to find out the truth—whatever it was.
But would my passion for the truth destroy us all?
chapter
24
A CRUDELY DRAWN HOURGLASS and the words written in a scraggly downhill scrawl—TIME IS RUNNING OUT—staggered across the top of the page.
At the bottom was the date of the proposed rendezvous—TOMORROW AT 3:00 P.M.—AT THE COW-SHELTER ON THE RIDGE WHERE THE TOLLIVER AND MONTROSE PROPERTY ADJOINS. Then, as if in an afterthought—IF YOU ARENT AFRAID OF THE TRUTH.
I don't know how long I sat there, holding the paper, reading it over and over. I do know that time seemed to stand still.
A knock at the door startled me, and I shoved the note under my hand mirror. "Who is it?"
"Randall. May I speak to you for a minute?"
Surprised, I rose and hurried to open the door.
"Dru, I just wanted to say that I hope what I said earlier hasn't upset you. Perhaps, I shouldn't have spoken as I did. But I believe there is great possibility of much happiness for us—for all of us—and I didn't want it to slip away without making an attempt to grasp it."
My heart was too full to speak. Randall was offering me what I'd dreamed of, yearned for, but I wasn't free to take it. Not yet. Not while Alair's death was still shrouded in mystery.
"I hope I haven't offended you. If what I'm asking isn't possible, nothing need change. Certainly, I would not want to disturb your relationship with the girls."
"Nothing could ever change that," I said firmly.
"Good-night then," Randall said, yet without making a move to go. I felt his eyes upon me, searching, beseeching.
Afraid I might betray my real feelings for him, I began to close the door. "Good-night, Randall."
"Sleep well," he called.
But there was no sleep for me. My fear of what I might learn tomorrow kept me wide awake for hours, staring into the darkness.
The hope that I would not hear the evidence the letters claimed struggled against the possibility of truth I could not deny.
Getting away the next afternoon proved to be a problem. The children dawdled over lessons, there was a squabble between Vinny and the downstairs maid that had to be settled, and worst of all, Randall stayed around the house most of the morning instead of riding out or going into Mayfield.
At lunch he sent word that he wanted to watch the girls' riding lesson in the afternoon.
Since I was the one who usually supervised their lesson, I wondered if Randall might think this an opportunity for us to be together.
I did not want to be alone with Randall until I'd seen Brett. So after Jed led out Missy and the ponies, I told the girls to begin without me, explaining that I needed some trotting practice on one of the trails bordering the pasture.
The day was overcast. Gray clouds hung low over the hills, adding to my feelings of uneasiness. I gave Missy her head, to cover as much distance as possible before turning up the hill to the meeting place Brett had designated.
It was windy at the top of the hill. What must have once been lush meadows for herds of grazing cattle were now barren and brown. The shelter mentioned in the note was a dilapidated rubble of rotted timber, the roof falling down.
Missy was restless. She shook her head, whinnying nervously. I planned to remain seated on my horse during the meeting. It would be easier to escape should Tolliver become violent again. My heart was pounding in my throat.
From here I could see all the way down into the valley. In the distance was a big, rambling house. The Tollivers', I imagined, though I had never noticed it before.
A light rain began to fall. I let Missy walk around a little as I searched the surroundings for some sign of Brett, but there was no one in sight. I knew if it started raining harder, I would be expected back at Bon Chance.
I could delay no longer. Either I rode home without seeing Brett and hearing what he had to say, or I could ride down the hill to the Tolliver stables and look for him there.
It was a rash decision, but once made, I lost no more time. The ground was getting damp and slippery as I guided Missy down the steep slope.
I knew the mare was sensitive to my every movement, the pressure of my knee against her side, my inner turmoil or tranquility. Missy's ears twitched as I tightened the reins when we reached the bottom of the hill, and I slowed her to a walk.
The Tolliver place was deserted. There didn't seem to be anyone around. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the sky was darkening rapidly. I went around the house and back toward the barn. Still, I saw no one.
Had Brett changed his mind? Forgotten our meeting? Maybe he thought I wouldn't come.
Looking up, I saw a dim light in one of the windows of the barn's upper story. Mama had told me Brett lived above the stables. I rode closer.
"Mr. Tolliver! Brett Tolliver!" I called.
Around the side, steps led to a door at the top. As I held Missy to a standstill, the door creaked open and a hulking figure, wrapped in a blanket, stood there. He motioned with his hand.
"Come up!" he called hoarsely.
This was my moment of decision. I could turn around now and get out of here as fast as Missy could run. But something else compelled me. I dismounted, looped my reins on the hitching post under the roof's overhang.
My knees were trembling as I climbed the stairs.
Brett stepped back inside, holding the door open wider for me to enter. The room was nearly bare. One low-burning oil lamp in the high-raftered room cast a meager light. There was a table, two straight chairs, an unmade bunk in one corner. An open bottle of whiskey and a tumbler half full were on the table.
"Wasn't sure you'd come. Plucky lady, aren't you?" Brett shuffled over and pulled out a chair for me. "I've been sick. Couldn't ride out on a day like this." Punctuating his remark was a rattling cough.
"Seat? No? Drink? No?" He laughed harshly. "Medicinal," he said, pouring more into the glass and taking a long sip. "For me! Hah!"
I put both hands on the back of the chair to steady myself, hoping my inner trembling didn't show. "Now that I've proved I wasn't afraid to come, what can you tell me about my cousin's death?"
His burning eyes flashed. "Alair was in love with me, you know. She was going to run away with me. It was all set. She was coming to meet me like in the old days by the river and we were going off together." Brett took another swallow of whiskey. "But Randall followed her. There was an argument. He wanted her to come back with him. She didn't want to go, but he was on horseback,
too . . . tried to grab the reins of her horse, but she broke away . . . galloped her horse . . . him in hot pursuit. She looked back to see if he was gaining on her . . . didn't see the low-hanging branch of a tree . . . was knocked off her horse—" Brett's voice broke. "It was . . . horrible! She lay there so white, still, blood running down her face, matting her beautiful blond hair—"
Brett put his head down on his arms on the table, his shoulders shaking in great, gulping sobs.
I had never been exposed to such raw emotion, had never seen a man weep openly. But one cold detached part of my mind kept asking, Is he telling the truth? Is that what really happened?
Brett raised his head and turned to me, his face contorted with pain and anger. "He killed her just as sure as if he'd put a gun to her head. When I told him she was going off with me, he said I'd rather see her dead!' Well, he did see her dead!"
Suddenly Brett stood up, knocking the chair over backwards, and staggered over to me. He grabbed my wrist. I tried to twist away from him, but his fingers tightened cruelly.
"You're living with a murderer!" he hissed.
"No!" I gasped, struggling to pry his fingers off my wrist with my other hand.
"Yes! I've got no witness, but I've lived with this all these years and now you can live with it, too!"
I tried to reach for the riding crop I'd laid on the table, but before I could reach it, a paroxysm of coughing overtook him and he dropped my hand as he hunched forward.
I took the chance to make my escape. Picking up my crop, I ran for the door and down the steps, my boots clattering on the wooden boards. Panting, I untied Missy's reins, somehow got myself up and into the saddle, whirled her around and raced down the road.
The light rain had turned to icy drizzle. It pelted my head and back as I huddled over Missy's neck. I had left my riding gloves on Brett's table when I ran out, and the wet leather reins cut into my bare palms. Daylight was fading fast. I still had a long way to go before reaching the safe haven of the barn at Bon Chance.
My hair slipped out of my snood, my hat fell back and soon my hair was soaked. It was hard to see through the driving rain, but Missy knew her way once we reached the ridge and started for home.
Back on Montrose property now and heading for the barn, I saw the figures of two men holding lanterns, while a horse was being led out. As we approached, I recognized the man standing ready to mount—Randall.
He spun around as I pulled to a stop in front of him. He was at Missy's side in an instant, one hand on her bridle, the other grabbing for the reins. In the wavering lantern light I could see the combined fury and fear in his face.
"Where have you been? I was just starting out to look for you!"
Holding back the half-sob of relief I felt at being safely home, I didn't answer. I was drenched and shivering with cold. He put up his hands and lifted me out of the saddle.
"You little fool, you should have known better than to ride so far and stay out this long," he said grimly.
My legs were shaking and I leaned against him for a moment. I felt his arms go around me, holding me hard. Then I pulled away and pushed the strands of wet hair out of my eyes. We stared at each other for a long second, then I brushed past him and started in a half-run to the house. Behind me I heard Randall issuing brisk orders to rub Missy down and see that she was fed.
Once in the house I went upstairs, so drained and weary I had to cling to the banister. Vinny stood waiting at the top, her eyes wide with fright.
"Oh, Miss, Mr. Bondurant was in a fierce temper about you! I ain't never seed him lak that . . . not since the night Miss Alair—"
Vinny's arm went around my waist and she guided me along the hall to my bedroom. Of course, that's why Randall seemed so angry. He was thinking of Alair.
Vinny stripped the soaking-wet jacket and heavy riding skirt from my shivering body while the frightened housemaid poured kettles of boiling water into the large copper tub Vinny had pulled in front of the roaring fire in the fireplace. I got out of my underclothes and stepped into the soothing warmth of the hot water, leaned my head back against the rim, closed my eyes. Every bone in my body ached, every muscle knotted. But soon I began to relax and gradually felt revived.
After a while, Vinny held out a blanket she had heated for me. "Best you git out now, Miss Dru, 'fore the water turns cool."
She wrapped me in the blanket, then seated herself on the stool in front of the fire and gently dried my feet, slipped on warm stockings, and helped me into my flannel nightie and quilted robe.
"I'm goin' go get some hot coals to put in the warmin' pan and get your bed nice and cozy," she told me as she hurried out of the room.
I moved over to the dressing table, picked up the brush to brush my damp hair. It seemed almost too heavy.
My meeting with Brett had been a harrowing experience, and I was still feeling its effects. If what he had told me was true, no wonder Randall was upset! Tonight's circumstances must have reminded him sharply of the night Alair died. Yet, if Brett were telling the truth, Randall had followed her out to the woods to prevent her running away. I shuddered, imagining the scene he had described.
On the other hand, the story I had heard was that Alair's horse had returned to the barn, riderless. Then Randall had found her. If Brett's story were true, Randall would have had to leave Alair lying mortally injured, return to the house, pretend anxiety for her, then go looking for her.
I couldn't believe that! It was too awful!
Brett's story was so tainted with ugliness, so sordid, so unlike anything I had really suspected. I hated to think my cousin, as irresponsible and flighty as she may have been, would have broken her marriage vows, abandoned her children, and run away with Brett Tolliver. I shrank from this version of the story, too.
I put my head in my hands, wishing I had never pursued the rumors or tried to unravel the mystery.
I felt a strange emptiness and wondered when the numbness would wear off and the pain would begin. If Brett were telling the truth, there was no hope of a life or love with Randall Bondurant.
A knock at my bedroom door interrupted my depressing thoughts.
Thinking it was Vinny, I called out, "Come in."
In the mirror I could see that it was Randall, carrying a steaming mug on a small tray.
'I brought you a hot toddy. Drink all of it. It will ward off a chill," he said, setting it down on the dressing table beside me. He stood back and, by lifting my eyes, I could see him without turning around.
"I'm sorry if I sounded angry. It's just that I was worried . . . afraid something had happened to you."
I saw him lift his hand as if to stroke my hair, then he took a few steps away from me.
I picked up the mug with both hands, inhaled the rich lemony scent rising with the steam.
"If I weren't sure of my feelings before, Dru, this afternoon convinced me," Randall said stiffly. "Don't ever scare me like that again . . . I care too much . . . I—I love you."
How ironic, I thought. I had been secretly in love with Randall Bondurant for months. Now I had to ask myself if I could really love the man who had caused my cousin's death.
I could ignore it all. Forget what Brett Tolliver had told me this afternoon. Pretend there had been no letters. Close my eyes to evidence, shut my mind to doubts. Listen only to my heart's secret yearning.
But my need for truth was compelling.
I stood up, pulled open the dressing table drawer, gathered up the pile of anonymous notes I'd hidden there, and clutching them in my hand, spun around and held them out to Randall.
"Here!" I said. "This is why I rode out to the Tollivers' place. To ask Brett Tolliver the truth about Alair's death!"
I watched the color drain from Randall's face. "Brett Tolliver!" he exclaimed bitterly. "He doesn't know the meaning of truth. Why would you go to him? Why not ask me?"
I was silent in the face of his rage. "He said you were responsible for Alair's death. That you left her for dead whe
n she fell from her horse." I spoke in a monotone, giving him room to react honestly.
"He told you that?"
"Yes."
"And you believed him?"
My voice broke a little. "I—don't know what to believe. That's why I went."
Randall grabbed the notes from my hand. His eyes raced over them, dropping them one by one on the floor.
"Lies! All lies." He strode to the door, crumpling the bits of paper underfoot, then whirled around and came toward me, standing over me. Frightened, I shrank back.
"You had only to ask me, Dru. I would have told you. I have nothing to hide. What else did Brett tell you? Did he tell you he never let Alair alone from the day we were married? As long as we were in Virginia, he was slinking around. That's why we traveled so much.
"He couldn't bear for anyone else to be happy when he was so miserable, and she was happy with me—for a short time, anyhow. But Brett pursued her relentlessly, sent her letters, stalked her when she went riding in the woods."
His voice hushed, he paused, white-knuckled fists revealing his emotional pain. "Alair and I . . . had talked of going to Europe. She loved the south of France. We were making plans to rent a house there when Brett wrote a note, insisting that he see her. I didn't want her to go that afternoon . . . begged her not to, in fact. Our marriage was not perfect. . . I'm not pretending it was . . . and Alair was headstrong. But we both wanted to make our marriage work . . . because of the children. We t h o u g h t . . . in France . . . we could put our differences aside, start over—"
Randall shrugged. "A foolish idea, I suppose, but there it was. Anyway, she told me she would tell Brett once and for all to stop trying to see her, to get on with his life, find someone and make his own happiness. She said they were childhood friends, he would listen to her. Of course, he didn't. I think he tried to force her to come with him, and she tried to escape. He was frightened and left when he saw she was dead. I think that's what really happened . . . though, unfortunately, I can't prove it." Randall's shoulders slumped.