by Faye Hall
Tristen was confused. “I never sent for you. The only person I asked to meet me out here was Amalie.”
Jacob pulled a note out of his pocket and handed it to Tristen. “Are you saying you didn’t send me this?”
Tristen took the piece of paper and glanced down at it. Shaking his head, his gaze shifted back to his friend. “I didn’t write this.”
“Then who did? And why would they put your name on it?”
The two men stared at each other, both confused. Tristen didn’t know how to answer Jacob. All he could tell him was the truth about Amalie.
“I love her,” he confessed, his words soft and heartfelt as he folded the note he was holding and placed it in his trouser pocket. “She is everything to me.”
“Amalie’s pregnant,” Jacob said.
“What?” Tristen asked, shocked by what he was hearing.
“You’ve been sleeping together for eight months, a baby is hardly a surprise,” Jacob stated.
Tristen knew what his friend said was true, but still...a baby? Why had she not told him yet?
“I can try to talk to my father for you,” Jacob finally relented, interrupting his thoughts. “Besides, I can think of worse brother-in-laws to have than you.”
Tristen smiled. “I’m going to be a father.”
Jacob nodded. “It appears that way.”
Just then a blood-curdling scream came from inside the workers’ cottage a few yards from where they were standing.
“What the devil?” Tristen asked as he and Jacob ran toward the building.
“Jacob, help me!” the woman’s voice yelled from inside.
“Oh my God, that’s Amanda!” Jacob exclaimed.
Tristen ran with his friend to the front door of the building. “Why would she be calling for you?”
Jacob stopped at the door. “You’re not the only one who has been keeping secrets,” he confessed, opening the already slightly open door and stepping inside.
Following his friend inside, Tristen wanted to ask exactly what he meant by that. But the smoke drifting toward him on the air made the words die on his lips.
“We need to find her and get her out of here,” Jacob exclaimed as he rushed into the smoke.
Tristen reached for his shoulder, pulling him back. “Take it easy, mate. You have no idea what is in there or where the smoke is coming from.”
Hearing Amanda scream again, Jacob pulled away from him and ran into the smoke. Tristen followed, close on his heels. As the smoke got thicker, he quickly lost sight of his friend.
“Jacob!” he yelled, knowing they had to get clear of this building before the fire took over. He heard no reply.
His pace slowing slightly, he lifted his shirt over his nose and mouth to protect him from the thick smoke. Just up ahead he could hear the crackling of flames, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before this building, and anything around it, went up in flames. He didn’t want to be in there when that happened. Tristen had so much to live for now. Amalie and he were going to have a baby.
“Tristen!” he heard Jacob yell to him, and he could only hope he was getting closer to him.
Looking down at the floor, he saw the unmoving body of a woman. “Amanda?” he asked, kneeling down beside her to see how badly she’d been hurt. The smoke was too thick for him to see anything though. Dragging her toward him, he placed his hands under her arms and tried to move her out of the smoke and toward the exit.
“Help me, Tristen,” Jacob’s ragged voice yelled to him.
Laying Amanda down where the smoke was thinner, he went back into the fog to look for his friend. He saw a bloodied hand lying on the floor.
“I’ve got you.” Tristen coughed, the level of smoke now making it extremely hard to breathe.
He tried to lift Jacob’s arm up to drag him over to Amanda, but Tristen was rapidly losing strength and collapsed under the weight. He held both of Jacob’s bloodied wrists and tried to drag him that way. He succeeded in getting him to where Amanda was still lying unconscious on the floor of the building.
“Help me!” he yelled in the direction of the door, hoping that by now someone had noticed the burning building and gone for help.
Loud popping and breaking sounds began surrounding him; a few at first, but with each second there were more and more. Feeling a slicing pain on his arm, he looked down to see a jagged piece of glass sticking out of his now bloodied flesh. The fire must have reached the alcohol bottles stored in the cottage. He needed to get Amanda, Jacob, and himself out of there now.
More explosions; this time closer. Jagged pieces of glass were flying through the air everywhere around him. Tristen tried to shield himself, but it was no use. He could feel the pain as they cut his skin—his face, his chest, his arms. The flames were getting closer, the smoke so thick now he couldn’t even see the door. Hearing a loud creak coming from the ceiling, he looked up to see a cloud of flames engulfing the timber support beams.
“Help!” he yelled again, but it barely came out a whisper, his voice so thick with smoke.
A snapping sound from the support beams alarmed him, and he tried to see what was happening, but he couldn’t see anything. He felt a thudding pain as something hit him on the back. Excruciating pain shot through him both from the impact and the flames now burning his clothing and licking at his skin. He stumbled across the floor, his strength leaving him. When he heard the echo of what he thought—hoped—were voices far away, he made one last lunge in the direction of them before he fell to the ground and everything went black.
Chapter 4
The darkness began to clear. In its place came pain unlike anything Tristen had ever felt before. His mind a blur of images of fire and the unconscious bodies of Jacob and Amanda, he struggled to open his eyes, knowing he had to find some way to save them from the burning building. When he opened his eyes though, what he saw was the inside of his own bedroom at his father’s station house.
“How did I get here?” Pain shot through his cheek as he moved his mouth to talk, and he immediately lifted his hand to it.
“You mustn’t touch it, sir,” he heard someone say as footsteps approached him. “I shall fetch your father. He’ll be most eager to see you.”
Tristen tried to sit up in bed, but as pain shot through one of his arms and across his chest, he realized it was hopeless. Looking down, he saw stitches scattered up along his arm toward his shoulder, as well as some sticky substance plastered on the burnt skin covering his chest.
“How in the hell did I get here?” he asked, his eyes still focusing on his surroundings.
The servant that wanted to go fetch his father stalled in his retreat.
Receiving nothing but his silence, Tristen thought he might try a different approach. “Why am I here?” he asked. “I was at a party at the Fergus’s estate. There was a fire…” His words drifted off, his mind plagued with the images of two hurt and unconscious people that had been in that burning building with him.
“I will go get your father,” the servant said. “He will be able to explain everything to you.”
Waiting until he was left alone, Tristen tried to sit up again, using his injured arm for guidance and his other for strength to move him. He had barely managed to move a few inches when his father ran into the room.
“What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?” the old man asked his son, coming to a stop just inside the doorway. He walked quickly toward the bed. “I’ll help you lay back down and get comfortable. The doctor insisted you were to stay in bed and hardly move in case you busted open the stitches again.”
When his father stopped beside the bed, Tristen reached out for him, his hand grabbing the older man’s arm. “There was a fire,” he started, needing his father to listen. “Amanda and Jacob were hurt.”
The old man nodded as he helped his son to lie back down. “You best not worry about such things now. You just need to concentrate on getting better.”
There was something about the w
ay his father avoided his gaze that made his stomach begin to sink. “What is it, Father?” he asked. “What has happened?”
The old man shook his head, again trying to lay his son back against the pillows. “You need to heal first. Then you can worry about the details of that night.”
“That night?” Tristen asked. “How long have I been here?”
His father left him, walking over to the drinks tray on the desk. Pouring himself a glass of liquor, he downed it in one gulp. “I thought I’d lost you that night,” he said as he poured himself another drink. “When you were dragged from the burnt rubble of the cottage, you were covered in burns and bloodied from the glass embedded in your skin. The doctor came and stitched you up as best as he could and put jelly bush honey on your burns.” He downed another drink. “Your mother and I have been waiting three days for you to wake up. She’ll be so relieved when I tell her you’ve regained consciousness.”
Tristen fell back against the bed, his mind a maze of all he’d just been told. “And Jacob and Amanda?” he asked, wondering if they had suffered a similar fate to him.
His father remained silent, staring into the contents of his glass.
“Father, tell me what happened to them.”
Hesitantly, his father raised his gaze to look at him, his face pained. “When they finally got the fire out, there were two bodies found in the rubble. One was Jacob. The other was Amanda.”
“I have to go see Amalie,” he said, trying to get out of bed. His father rushed to him, his hands on his son’s shoulders holding him back in the bed.
“You will stay where you are until I know you have healed and are safe,” his father demanded. “I will not risk losing you again.”
“Let me go!” Tristen yelled. “I need to go see her.”
He fought against his father, but it was no use. He was so very weak.
“He needs his medication,” the old man instructed the servants Tristen could hear moving around the room.
The servants came toward him, one crushing tablets in their hand, another pouring a glass of water.
“You need to take this,” his father instructed. “The doctor assures me it is exactly what you need to help you heal and fight infection.”
Being held down by his father and one of the servants, Tristen bucked against them. Try as he did though, he couldn’t stop from swallowing the grainy liquid they poured down his throat.
“I want to see Amalie,” he muttered, a warm feeling washing over him until finally there was only darkness.
* * * *
Weeks turned into months, and Tristen’s wounds slowly healed, leaving behind some nasty scars as a reminder of that fatal day. Some were worse than others, but as the doctor reminded him, he was lucky to be alive. He didn’t feel very lucky though. So much time had passed and still he’d heard no word from Amalie, not a visit or even a letter.
Pulling his shirt on, he left his room. He began buttoning his shirt up from the bottom as he walked down the hall toward the stairs. There was a carriage waiting for him out back, ready to take him into town and to the Fergus estate. He knew the folly of such a journey, having already been turned away so many times, but still he had to try again to see Amalie. He needed to ask her why she had deserted him after the fire without so much as an explanation.
As he walked past the sideboard, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Stopping, he looked back at what he had become, sadness filling him. One side of his chest was terribly scarred by the fire, the healed skin now red and angry. His arms and torso were also covered with many jagged, raised areas that were once gashes from the flying glass in the burning cottage.
Lifting his hand to his face, his fingers ran over the raised, hideous reminders of that day. His hand fell away, and he quickly went about doing up the last few buttons on his shirt, eager to hide what he could of his mutilated body. He was detested by the creature he had become. He was once a man of leisure, his average good looks making him well sought after by the belles in the town. Now though, he was little better than a monster.
There was no way Amalie would ever again welcome him with open arms, but he still needed to see her. He needed to hear her say the real reason she had turned away from him was because the mere sight of him sickened her. The thought of hearing her say such words stabbed at his heart, but he was also no fool. If he were to see her, he needed to prepare himself for rejection.
He was just about to step out of the rear entrance when he heard the giggles of some of the kitchen maids. Noticing the women outside, he prepared himself to walk swiftly by so as not to horrify them too much by his appearance. So many servants had already quit due to being unable to stomach the sight of his scarred face. He didn’t want to chase even more away from his father’s service.
“Amalie is so lucky, especially after everything she’s been put through,” he heard one of the women say.
“Agreed,” he heard another reply. “It’s about time Miss Fergus was allowed some happiness. She’s going to want for nothing being with such a dignified chap.”
Curious what they could be talking about, he approached the two women. “What did you say?” he demanded.
The maids tried to flee inside the house, but he caught one of them by the elbow as she passed him.
“I want to know what you were talking about.”
The tearful girl struggled. “Please, sir. We meant no harm. We were only talking about how Miss Fergus is now engaged.”
He let her go as if she were alight. “Engaged?”
The maid nodded. “Yes, sir. To Bastian Tanner.”
The words were like a knife in his heart. Turning around, he walked back into the house and up to his room, despair and anger consuming him. Amalie is engaged. The thought of her being with another man as she had once been with him ripped at his emotions, now more than ever before. Bastian was very astute, not to mention handsome—two attributes Tristen could no longer compete with.
Entering his bedroom, he slammed the door behind him so hard it rocked the vase on the small table near the entrance. He reached for the ornate vessel, his fingers gripping the rim, trying to steady it. Without reason, he lifted it to look at the intricate painting decorating it, catching his dulled reflection in the glossy surface. Repulsed by what he saw, he threw the vase across the room, shards of it scattering across the floor as it hit the wall. Would the pain never end? How was he ever going to get Amalie to look twice at him now that she was engaged to one of the most sought after bachelors in the area?
There was no hope. A woman as beautiful as Amalie would never settle for being with a man who looked as hideous as he did. Feeling as if his world was again crumbling around him, he stepped toward his bedside table, desperate for the drugs there that would dull what he was feeling. As he passed the dresser, he caught his reflection in the mirror. What kind of life was he expected to have looking like this? He was a monstrosity, the mere sight of his face scaring even the kitchen maids that worked at the estate. How could he expect anyone to fall in love with his beastly appearance?
Filled with despair of what had become his life, Tristen opened the drawer of his bedside table and reached for the bottle of heroin tablets. Empty. He searched the drawer. Nothing.
“Argh!” he yelled, his frustration mounting.
Picking up the small table, he threw it across the room toward the dresser. The two pieces of furniture collided, and the glass in the dresser shattered, scattering all over the floor.
He stepped over to the drinks tray on his desk and poured himself a glass of whiskey, hoping it would dull his growing despair. It didn’t. Reaching for the drawer, he opened it, again searching desperately for the opioid. Unable to feel anything, he pulled the drawer completely out and tipped the entire contents onto the floor. Out from the paper rolled a bottle still half-full of tablets. Frantically grabbing for it, he opened it and poured several of them onto the palm of his hand. Pouring himself another drink, he threw the heroin in his m
outh and gulped them down with the whiskey.
He hated feeling this way—pain from his flesh and pain from his heart. He would give anything to be free of this life forever. All he could hope was the dosage he had taken would be enough to free him of his apathy soon.
Walking across the shattered glass on the floor, he went to the window and looked out across the vastness as a warm feeling from the drugs began to wash over him. Even the vast cattle station his father owned couldn’t return him to happiness. He was burdened to exist in his own self-pity and sorrow, never again holding the woman he loved against him.
Leaning against the wall beside the window, he slid to the floor, the bottle of whiskey still in his hand. He lifted the bottle to his lips, gulping down the liquid. As the alcohol warmed him, Tristen shut his eyes, images of another time—a happier time—drifting through his mind. He wanted nothing more than to disappear and forget all the pain that now filled him and drift back to a time when life was good. To a time when Amalie had been his.
As he took another swig from the bottle, he felt nearly complete comfort washing over him, almost like everything would be all right. It was a feeling he never wanted to end.
* * * *
Amalie sat in her father’s study, sobbing into her hands. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Would this hell never end?
“You need to stop this, child,” her father chastised her firmly. “You have to understand now that your brother is dead, I must do what I have to in order to keep you safe. A marriage to Bastian Tanner will do that.”
“It will not!” she finally spoke up in a teary, yet stern voice, raising her head to look at him. “Bastian doesn’t care about me, or about my welfare in my brother’s absence. All he wants is what money he thinks he might get from crawling into my bed.”
“How dare you speak in such a manner!” her father scolded her. “You are obviously still too young to know what is beneficial for a woman such as yourself.”
“There is nothing beneficial about a marriage to Bastian,” she stated. “He is a greedy, slimy, little man who cares only for himself and his needs.”