And he'd be damned if he'd let her settle for second best. Then he'd scoffed at the idea that he could even be considered second best at anything.
Regardless, she needed to be shown that he was no longer the man she'd become engaged to, and, even if it hurt her, he knew that the hardest thing he was going to have to do didn't involve physical therapy.
What he had to do was much, much worse, and much more painful than anything the enemy—or the so-called healers—could inflict on him.
He was going to have to be strong enough to let her go—to push her away, cruelly, if need be, and he had a feeling his love wasn't going to go easily.
She was a tough little flower, and he knew she'd want to be all brave and noble and stay with him, regardless of his frightening looks.
But he would have to do whatever it took to make sure that she had a better chance of happiness than the zero chance she would have with him.
Something his cousin had said—about leaving her to some unknown kind of guy—had bothered him more than he wanted it to, but, as much as it killed him to admit it, and it did, she could do much worse than his cousin, Devon, who seemed well poised to take his place. He was a steady guy, with a steady job at the post office, and he would treat her right.
Well. He'd treat her well, but not necessarily right.
Lawson doubted that his surprisingly staid cousin would recognize that little Fleur needed a strong hand to curb her more impetuous, mischievous tendencies—like taking her life in her hands to try to climb up to his window.
As he turned to shuffle back to his house, he had to chuckle at her tenaciousness.
When he lay down—alone, as he was destined to be from now on—on his bed that still smelled of her floral perfume, he acknowledged to himself that he was going to miss her so much he didn't know if he could stand it, especially now that he'd had a taste of her.
Well, not quite a taste, unfortunately, he thought, taking another good swig of bad whiskey and allowing his mind to replay every excruciatingly painful, amazingly incredible second of those few short hours with her. They were all he had left of her and all he was ever going to have of her.
DEVON QUICKLY BECAME a fixture at the O'Meara household, and Fleur's mother fairly doted on him whenever he was around.
He gave Fleur a respectful amount of time to mourn her father—not that he wasn't around during that time. He was, always "checking in on them", as he liked to call it, making himself as useful as possible, dealing with the paperwork involved in her father's death that confounded the two of them, and even doing some of the things that would have been on Mrs. O'Meara's "honey do" list, although it flitted—unwarranted and unwanted—through Fleur's mind that he was nowhere near as good at that kind of Mr. Fix-It thing as Lawson was.
But she shoved that errant thought out of her mind as quickly as it came into it. Devon was here—and obviously wanted to be here—and Lawson wasn't and didn't, not through any fault of hers whatsoever.
It was a good three months or so before he asked her out formally, after having already run the idea by her mother, asking her advice about whether or not it was improprietous to do so so soon after her father's death.
Frannie had hoped that this might happen, and she gave her consent quite readily, thanking him for being so considerate about the loss of her husband and for coming to her before asking Fleur, a very simple, often neglected courtesy.
Neither of them expected her to turn him down, but she did, citing that she needed more time but not specifying exactly why.
Devon suspected that Lawson had a lot more to do with her request than the loss of her father did, but he kept his thoughts about her motives to himself.
Mrs. O'Meara, however, had no such compunction about taking her daughter to task for not jumping at the chance to date him. "How many young men of such quality are there around here that you can turn your nose up at someone like him, girl?" she asked as they settled down to their evening meal—scalloped potatoes and ham, with homemade bread and butter, fresh tomatoes with mozzarella, and baby peas as sides.
"Enough that I'm not going to allow you—or anyone else—to pressure me into dating when I'm not sure it's proper." She gave her mother the eye. "Aren't you the one who's always saying that if it's right, he'll wait?"
Frannie choked a bit on her potatoes. "That's not quite what I was referring to, and you know it, daughter."
"Same principle," Fleur retorted smartly, dishing up very small servings of everything for herself, at which her mother tsked loudly.
"Eat, Fleur, eat! You're going to waste away! Who wants to date a skinny girl, now, really?"
"Yes, Mother," she replied, refraining from pointing out that Devon obviously did, but she didn't change the size of the portions on her plate in the least. And, in fact, she committed a cardinal sin by leaving a lot of it behind, surprised that her mother didn't chide her for that as she would have if her father was still around.
In the end, he had continued to ask her almost daily since she'd turned him down—making it into a kind of joke between them, such that she had even prompted him a couple of times about it when he was leaving the house and hadn't asked her yet—it was closer to five months before she accepted, and he couldn't quite control a bit of a "whoop!" when she did.
"Finally?" they heard her mother interject from the parlor, when they were in the dining room, playing cards.
"Yes, Mother," Fleur answered, rolling her eyes. "Finally."
"About damned time!" she exclaimed vehemently, making the two of them dissolve into laughter.
Devon leaned forward. "Where would you like to go, and what would you like to do? It's entirely your choice."
"Hmm. How about dinner and a movie sound? I'd love to see Mary Pickford's new film, even though it's named after a bug."
He looked confused, then chuckled. "You mean Daddy Long Legs?"
"That's it!" She banged her palm down on the table, then laid her cards down, too, face up. "And that's Gin, also!"
THEY QUICKLY BECAME SOMEWHAT of an item, getting themselves invited to all of the best parties in town, picnicking down by the lake when weather permitted, even just strolling in the park sometimes, arm in arm, when she came to town to meet him for his lunch hour.
Fleur liked Devon a lot—she always had. He was smart and funny and kind.
But the reality of the situation was that he was no Lawson, and regardless of everything that had happened between them, regardless of the fact that she hadn't heard or seen anything about him in over six long months—not even from Devon himself, whose relationship with his cousin seemed to have dissolved, too—she still felt—just as strongly as she always had—that she belonged to, and with, Lawson Fields.
Fleur knew that she shouldn't have been stringing Devon along like this—that it was cruel to do so. But he seemed so keen on her that she couldn't bear to break his heart, especially since she couldn't even point to someone else as a reason to do so.
At least not someone who wanted her the way she wanted him, anyway—someone he wouldn't argue fervently—and rightly—against.
And she did have a good time with him whenever they went out. Strange, but he never really pushed her to be anything more than casually affectionate with him, though. Lawson would never have put up with that. He had made it known from the start that he wanted her in every possible way a man could want a woman—even though he'd managed to keep her pure, it had been a close shave more often than not!
But not with Devon. He was almost brotherly towards her, kissing her warmly on the cheek, not the lips, in greeting, or even on her forehead sometimes. They held hands and walked arm in arm a lot, and he was very solicitous and gracious and gentlemanly towards her, but not only didn't he stir any passion in her at all, he wasn't even trying to, as far as she could tell!
One evening, one of the rare times she wasn't out doing something with Devon, she heard an urgent knock at the door. It was later at night than they usually received visito
rs, and her mother had already gone up to bed.
"Who is it?" she asked, before opening the door.
"It's the big, bad wolf. Who do you think it is at this hour?"
"Patsy?" Fleur threw open the door and her friend practically ran her over to get in.
"I could have called you, but I wanted to tell you this in person."
"What? What is it? Has someone died?"
Her friend sank into the easy chair next to where she'd been happily ensconced under a blanket, reading The Career of Katherine Bush, by Elinor Glyn, a book that she only read at night—usually in her room, where she was less likely to be caught reading it. It was truly scandalous, and she had no doubt that her mother—who railed against the likes of bawdy female authors such as Miss Glyn—would have thrown the book into the fireplace if she'd discovered her daughter was reading what she considered to be out and out filth.
And delicious filth it was!
"So?" Fleur asked expectantly.
"Well, you know how Eliza and her husband have separated."
"That's what I'd heard, too. Do you know why?"
Patsy looked a bit peeved at that question, as if it was merely a stumbling block to the juicy tidbit she was waiting to impart. "No, and it's of no matter to what I have to tell you, but I believe he's moved to the city and she's living all alone in that big house, at least until they get divorced and he kicks her out. I think she got caught with her hand in the cookie jar, shall we say, one too many times—damn, you got me off track!"
"Don't blame me!"
"Anyway, as I said, all of that is neither here nor there, except that she's all alone now and looking for someone to fill more than her poor husband's shoes, shall we say."
Fleur frowned. "Stop stringing me along and spit it out, for crying out loud!"
"Well, you'll never guess who she chose to take his place."
"Nor am I going to even attempt to do so, since you're obviously bursting to tell me. What poor soul, pray tell, is going to be her next victim?"
Patsy gave her a sly smile. "I'm so glad you put it that way—Lawson Fields."
Fleur sat back in her chair, her face blanching white. "You're kidding me! How do you know all this?"
"Rhody Phillips—you remember her, she lives next to their house in town?" Fleur nodded, although she wasn't really listening as it didn't seem to be an important part of the story. "She was the one who called the police."
"The police?" The alarm she felt at those words made her blanch even whiter and seeped into her tone. "Why?"
"Apparently, Eliza had decided that Lawson would be her next conquest, despite the fact that everyone knew by now that he had come back from war quite disfigured, and that he was a dedicated hermit because of it. He was never seen around town at all, and he didn't really need to be, since the stores downtown accommodated him by delivering anything he needed, something which they were only happy to do, since they charged him extra for the courtesy. Not that he objected in the least. In fact, he never even appeared to the delivery boys, for whom he left the door unlocked so that they could put the items—rumored to mostly be various types of liquor—in the kitchen and, also, for whom he was known to leave a quite generous tip."
"Go on," Fleur urged.
"She had dolled herself up that very afternoon and arrived on his porch—uninvited, of course—to knock on his door, giving out some entirely fictitious story that her car had broken down on the road and she was hoping she could use his phone to call for help."
Patsy had speculated that she probably had to knock until her knuckles bled to get a response out of him, but that was probably hopeful editorializing on her part.
"He supposedly did, finally, make his way to the door, but only to tell her to go the "f" away, to which Eliza did not take very kindly, being used to much more genteel treatment from those of the opposite sex, who usually found her—as she frequently reassured herself—to be delightful and downright irresistible." As the story continued, it was revealed that when she staunchly refused to go away, continuing to try to work her wiles on him, he—in his utterly, unrepentantly inebriated state, apparently did to her what he'd done to Fleur—twice—although in completely different circumstances. He opened the door to her, revealing himself to be stark naked. Eliza, not being made of as stern stuff as Fleur was, promptly fainted, of course, causing the supremely annoyed Mr. Fields not to rush to her aid, as one would expect of an officer and a gentleman, but instead, to spout off with a diatribe of completely unprintable epithets in regards to how she was inconveniencing him, causing Mrs. Phillips, who "accidentally" saw the whole fiasco, to call the police.
"Son of a gun!" Fleur could barely believe what she was hearing.
But then again, knowing how irascible Law could be, even as a younger man. Really, Eliza had grown up with him, too, and she should have known better than to have gone after him, especially now. But she never could resist the lure of money.
"What happened after that?"
Patsy leaned forward and continued, "Well, from what I understand, he just left her out there, on the porch, out cold. The police came and an ambulance, which carted her off, supposedly still in a dead faint, although who knows if she was faking or not. The police questioned him for a very short while, finding him to be incredibly blotto, and they called his cousin to come be with him. The house was a complete shamble, from what I heard, booze bottles and empty food cans and cartons everywhere."
Fleur looked concerned. "Did Devon even go, do you know? They had a bit of a falling out a while ago."
"I believe he did—he's with him now."
It was at that moment, the phone rang.
"Fleur?"
Speaking of the devil…
"Yes?"
"I know this is an imposition, but I'm at Lawson's—"
"I know."
"You do? How could you possibly know that?"
"And how could you possibly live in this hotbed of gossip and think I didn't know?"
Devon sighed. "Touché. The truth is that I don't think he's really well enough for me to leave him on his own for any length of time. Would you be willing to go and get some things from my place—clothes and stuff—and bring them over to me? He's in a bad way, and I promise you won't have to deal with him harassing you or anything like that."
She didn't like the sound of that at all—it sounded like more than that he was just ossified, as she had heard he spent his days—and thus, she didn't hesitate in the least in her reply. "Tell me what you want, and I'll get there as quickly as I can."
She noted what he needed, then hung up the phone and turned to Patsy. "Hey, would you be willing to do me a couple of favors?"
Patsy showed her true colors as Fleur's friend by answering, "Sure—whatever you need," without asking any further questions.
After Fleur had gone up and explained where she was going to her mother, who was still half asleep and probably wouldn't remember what she'd said in the morning, Patsy drove them first to her own house, to grab her own small medical bag, and then to Devon's place, because Fleur's ancient car was in the shop, as usual. They both went in—and she couldn't resist commenting on the fact that Fleur had a key to his house, of course, although Fleur just stuck her tongue out at her friend in response.
They made up a suitcase for him and drove over to the house. Patsy was out of the car practically before it stopped, but Fleur sat there in the driveway for a good long while, clearly hesitant about whether or not she wanted to go in, but in the end, she felt she had to.
"I hate to ask you to do all of this for me," she asked as they made their way up the front steps. "But can I impose on you to take a look at him, medically, for me, as a nurse? He's—he's not pretty to look at, but Devon sounded concerned, and now I'm worried about him."
Patsy didn't bat an eyelash at her request. "You're too soft hearted for your own good, but yes, of course, I will."
With not a small amount of trepidation, Fleur entered the house that she
had thought she'd never see the inside of again.
CHAPTER 6
Devon met them at the door, looking a bit perplexed at Patsy's presence, but he nonetheless welcomed them into the foyer. Fleur handed him the suitcase, for which Devon thanked them both profusely, as she looked around the place that had been spotless several months ago, because of her own efforts, and was now very much as Patsy had described it—overrun with booze bottles and other garbage.
Patsy watched the two of them interacting with casual interest, noting that there were no kisses, or even hugs, exchanged in greeting. Come to think of it, she couldn't remember a time when she'd seen the two of them—with whom she spent quite a bit of time—being physically affectionate with each other. She discounted the hand holding and interlocked arms as more perfunctory than not. Heck, Fleur kissed and hugged her more than she did the man who was supposedly her beau! But she tucked that very interesting bit of information away for the moment.
"Where is he?" Patsy asked.
"He's upstairs—getting him up there was quite a job, let me tell you, but he's in bed."
"He's drunk?"
Devon sank heavily down onto a kitchen chair, rubbing his hand over his forehead wearily. "Honestly, since he came home, I can't remember a time when he wasn't drunk—around me, at least—although I haven't been here in a while."
Patsy nodded. "Fleur mentioned that you thought it might be something more than that, though?"
"Yeah, I don't know why, but I feel like it's not just the alcohol—that something else might be going on with him. He's really hot to the touch, and he screamed when I bumped his leg against the side of the bed. I know he had a lot of injuries, but I thought they'd all healed."
At that, Patsy stood up. "Would you take me to him, please? I'd like to examine him."
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