by Loki Renard
“She deserves more than a lovely home,” Harris said. “She deserves men who love her.”
“Men?” Lord Fayrefield’s sneer grew. “Preposterous.”
“No more-so than fourteen wives,” Harris pointed out. It was a logical point, but logic had no place in the discussion they were having. Fayrefield was planning on scolding them and sending them away, he did not intend on listening to reason.
“I will entertain this foul and lurid discussion no longer,” the great man declared. “Leave my house at once.”
“Not without Fiona,” Harris insisted.
“I will call the police if you do not leave. My daughter is done with you. She is home, she is safe, she will be found a socially appropriate husband. She is certainly no longer your concern.”
“But she’s a grown woman. She can choose.” Harris could not be silent in the face of Lord Fayrefield’s ridiculous snobbery. “She wants to be with us.”
“What Fiona wants has never been relevant,” Lord Fayrefield replied. “She is of the house of Fayrefield. She is my daughter. She will do as I decree. Now go! Before I have you charged with something most unpleasant.”
Tom’s hand closed around Harris’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “There’s no point staying here.”
“But Fiona…”
“Fiona’s a big girl. She’ll make her own choice. Come on.”
Harris allowed himself to be lead a few steps, then turned back toward Lord Fayrefield. “If you lay a hand on her, if you ever so much as make her sad, I will…”
“You will rot in a cell if you say one more word,” Lord Fayrefield snarled. “Get out of my sight.”
Harris would have said another word. He would have said several more words, but for Tom’s heavy hand clapping over his mouth. He was all but dragged out of Fayrefield manor by Tom, who didn’t seem to care that they were leaving Fiona behind.
“I saved your life twice before, make this the third time,” Tom growled in his ear. “Don’t antagonize this man, alright?”
He let Harris go, but Harris couldn’t let what had happened go as easily.
“That man is a complete ass. We can’t leave Fiona here.”
“She’s not in any danger,” Tom assured him. “Which is more than I can say when she was with us.”
Harris narrowed his eyes at Tom, wondering for the first time if Tom really cared for Fiona the way he did. “Do you even want her back?”
“Of course I do!”
“Then let’s go back in there and get her,” Harris pointed to the great double doors. “Let’s just get her!”
“Fiona has to face her father,” Tom insisted. “She can’t run from her problems every chance she gets. Let her handle this.”
“Didn’t you see her?” Harris pointed back toward the doors. “She was like… she was a different woman. She needs us!”
As usual, Tom had the last words in the argument. “She knows she has us. She knows where we are staying. It’s up to her now.”
Harris could have argued more, but Tom pointed out that several police cruisers could be seen winding their way through the country roads in the distance. If they didn’t want to end up in jail, they had to leave and wait for Fiona’s decision.
* * *
Obeying the butler’s instructions, Fiona washed and changed into a long skirt and blouse which covered her body and made her modest. It was not her usual attire, but it was her customary attire whenever she was at Fayrefield Manor. Lord Fayrefield did not like to see skin. Lord Fayrefield did not like to see her at all, actually. The only time he smiled at her was when he was pretending to be proud of her in front of guests.
Fiona did not expect there to be much in the way of smiles during this audience. She did not know where Tom and Harris were. Perhaps they had already abandoned her. Perhaps they had been chased off the property. Either outcome would not have surprised her. She knew in her heart of hearts that she had been more trouble than anyone could reasonably be expected to tolerate.
With her heart in her throat, Fiona descended the stairs, approached her father’s office door and knocked briefly.
“Come!” Lord Fayrefield’s voice rang out and her stomach clenched.
She crept into her father’s presence, feeling like a beaten dog cowering as it approached its master. Her father had always been an imposing man, and never was he more so than in that moment.
“Fiona.”
“Father.”
She could feel his gaze on her, a penetrating stare that held no affection, but copious amounts of ruthless judgment.
“I see they have kept you more or less in one piece,” he sniffed. “No easy task given the trouble you’ve managed to get yourself into.”
“Yes, I am well, father,” she said. “You also look well.”
He ignored her statement. “Word has gotten out that you were seduced by both your bodyguards,” he said. “As a result, the Sheikh is no longer interested. I have settled the matter with the Russian businessman you antagonized, as I do not wish to have my progeny’s death on my conscience. To have lost your mother was a tragedy. To lose my daughter would constitute extreme carelessness.”
There was no humor in his voice, indeed Lord Fayrefield seemed entirely unaware that he was more or less paraphrasing the words of the great Wilde playwright.
“Thank you, father,” Fiona said dutifully.
“Do not thank me. Assure me that you will no longer keep the company of those two men. They have defiled you most thoroughly, but perhaps in time your reputation might be restored if you return home and resume the role of dutiful daughter.”
“What are you saying, father?” Fiona knew very well what he was saying, but she wanted to hear it explicitly, spelled out so there could be no later denial.
“I am saying you must choose. Either you continue the disgusting affair you have embarked upon with men far below your stature, and in doing so forfeit your claim to our family’s title and lands, or you come to your senses, move back home and perform your duties as the lady of the house until a more suitable suitor is found. You will, of course, enjoy all the privileges you have become accustomed to.”
Her father was offering forgiveness, which was much more than Fiona had expected, but it came at a price. She could conform to expectations, be a proper lady and live a proper lady’s life—or she would be cast out into the cold.
“I do not imagine that you will take long to make the decision,” her father said. “I have taken the liberty of dismissing both men with payment and instructions not to return.”
“Father, please,” she tried to explain herself, but was not given a chance.
“Enough!” He thundered before she could so much as get two words out. “This has been a most embarrassing affair. I will not have you carousing with common men, Fiona. You will stay at home and you will do your best to appear ladylike and you will certainly not bring any further shame on the name of Fayrefield. I will not allow it! Do you understand me?”
Fiona bowed her head and nodded demurely. “Yes, Father, I understand.”
Chapter Thirteen
Rain beat on the windows of the cheap hotel room. Tom and Harris drank in silence, drowning their sorrows in whiskey. It had been a full three days since they’d left Fiona at Fayrefield Manor, and in that time they had not heard a word from her.
“She stayed there,” Harris said sadly. “I didn’t think… I don’t know what I thought.” He took a swig of whiskey, washed it around his mouth and swallowed with a sigh. “I miss her.”
“She chose what she knew,” Tom said. “We should have expected it. What was she going to do? Slum it with us for the rest of her life? Run away again, after we’d just dragged her back there? I don’t blame her for staying. By the sound of it, Daddy Fayrefield laid out a pretty sweet deal for her.”
There had been no official communication from Fayrefield Manor, but there were plenty of servants and Tom had take
n the liberty of paying one or two of them for information. On the first day, Tom and Harris had heard of Lord Fayrefield’s proposal to Fiona. They had not expected her to take it. They had expected to see her on their hotel doorstep within hours. But that had not happened.
According to reports, Fiona was still at Fayrefield Manor, causing little in the way of trouble. She was silent, the servants said, and sad, but other than that, she seemed well.
“I thought…” Harris sighed. “I thought she loved us.”
“She probably did,” Tom said. “But you have to be realistic in this life. Ain’t no point dreaming. Sometimes you catch a little bit of heaven, but soon enough, you just gotta let it go again…”
His dour philosophy was interrupted by a noise outside, a banging and a scuffling in the bushes, which brought both men to their feet. They barged out into the rain, ready to fend off attackers, or raccoons, or whatever else it might be interrupting their misery.
“Who’s there?” Tom trained flashlight and pistol on the lavender bush from whence the intruder appeared to be originating.
“It’s me!” A female voice rose in the night.
“Fiona?” He lowered the gun, but not the light. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve left,” she said, climbing bedraggled out of the bush. She was wearing a reasonably demure white blouse made completely indecent by the large patches of water which made it see through. “My father said I was bringing shame on the family. But I could not keep to his terms. I could not never see you again.” She stamped out of the bushes and stood, wet as a drowned cat on the doorstep. “He disowned me, he…”
What else he’d done was lost as Harris rushed forward and gathered her up in his arms, pressing hot whiskey kisses to her cheeks and squeezing her tight.
“I missed you,” he said. “I missed you so much!”
Fiona smiled at each of his kisses and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I missed you too,” she said, returning some of his affection.
“Come inside you two, before you drown,” Tom said, pretending not to be affected by the emotion of the reunion.
Harris carried her into the room and retrieved a towel. He was soon vigorously drying Fiona’s hair while also helping her out of her wet clothes. In very short order she ended up in her bra and panties, sitting on the couch between Tom and Harris.
In spite of his joy at seeing her again, Harris could tell all was not well with her. She tried to assure him many times that she was fine, but her smile soon wavered and turned to tears.
“I’m sorry I got you shot at,” she said. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. That’s why I didn’t come right away. I thought… I thought maybe you would be better off without me. I’ll understand if you never ever want to see me again.”
Harris swept her back into his arms and held her tight. “We want to see you, Fiona. More than that, we want to have you. Nothing has changed.”
“A lot has changed,” she sobbed. “I’m done. I’m finished.”
“What are you talking about?” Tom chided. “You’re just getting started.”
“Didn’t you hear me? He disowned me. I’m not Fiona Fayrefield anymore. I’m just… Fiona.”
“We love who you are,” Harris explained, stroking her hair. “We were never with you for your name or your money.”
“You weren’t?” She sniffed and looked at him incredulously. “You wouldn’t have worked for me if I didn’t have all that money.”
“Well yes, you employed me,” Harris said. “That’s how we met, but then we formed a relationship. And you’ve never paid Tom a dime.”
“My father paid Tom.”
“I never took his money,” Tom said. “There’s a lot more to life than money, Fiona. Maybe you’ll finally have a chance to learn that. This is probably the best thing your father has ever done for you.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” Fiona sniffed. “It feels like the worst thing in the world. How will I get room service now?”
“You won’t,” Harris said. “You’ll stay in a house. You’ll cook your own food.”
“Cook my own food?” She wrinkled her nose and cocked her head in confusion. “But kitchens are for servants.”
“You’ll have to get used to being your own servant,” Tom said with a wry smile.
“But where will I live? Where will I go?”
That was a question Harris had been asking himself. He didn’t have an answer for that, but, as usual, Tom did.
“You’ll come back to my place. You and Harris both.”
“Where’s your place?” Fiona sniffed and used Harris’s shirt as a ‘kerchief to wipe her bright red nose. He didn’t mind at all.
“I have a little ranch just outside of Broadleaf County,” Tom told her. “Harris can work the cattle and you can work the kitchen.”
Fiona’s face fell into a familiar pout. “But I don’t want to work in a kitchen.”
“You’re going to have to work somewhere, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” Fiona nodded, shamefaced. The old Fiona would have argued and gotten into trouble. The new Fiona just sniffed and fell into Tom’s arms for a much needed cuddle.
Chapter Fourteen
The ranch was a whole new world. A world of dirt and sky. A world devoid of shopping centers and material goods, a world where everything had been hewn by hand, even the very house she had slept inside. Tom’s grandfather had built it as a single cabin back in the day. It had grown since then, added to by subsequent generations.
Outside there were no bustling streets, or throngs of people, or goods waiting to be picked. There were grassy rolling hills and fences and pens and the occasional cow or horse. Harris had no trouble adjusting, of course. All he needed was a checkered shirt and some boots and he was fitting in with the other ranch hands as if he’d always lived there.
Fiona didn’t find the adjustment quite so easy. Tuscany had been good practice for the ranch in some ways, the complete lack of shopping, the endless grotesque display of raw nature. She supposed it was good that there was no shopping, as she had no money anyway. All her accounts had been cleared out and shut down, even the ones she thought her father hadn’t known about. She wasn’t surprised to discover how punitive her father could be, but she was surprised at how different life was when you couldn’t just pay for everything and do nothing.
In the real world, you had to work. Tom decided that she should help out in the kitchen, and seeing as Fiona didn’t really want to feel his palm on her backside, she agreed.
On the first day of her working life, Fiona reported to the kitchen. She’d expected to find a kindly older woman working the kitchen, perhaps somebody’s mother or an aunt. Instead it was an older fellow named Pete who had long gray whiskers and bright green eyes and barked at her to wash her hands the moment she touched the refrigerator.
“You get the bread started,” Pete grouched. “Flours up there, yeast is there, sugar’s there.” He pointed in various directions, none of which Fiona took in.
“Bread? Doesn’t that come in a bag or a sack or something?” Fiona had vague recollections of bread coming out of a plastic sack if one sourced it oneself, which was a rare occasion in her world. In Fiona’s experience, bread came delivered on a plate, already toasted, sometimes already buttered.
Pete stopped and glared at her. “Don’t you know how to make bread?”
“Make bread? No.” He may as well have been asking her to build him a car.
“Do you know how to fry a steak?”
“No sir,” Fiona replied yet again.
Pete swore the air blue under his breath, then stormed out of the kitchen. Tom couldn’t have been too far away, for Fiona could hear Old Pete yelling at him through the kitchen window.
“Now listen here, you put some blondie in my kitchen who don’t know salt from sugar. I got fifteen men to feed, and they ain’t going to take kindly iffn their lunch ain’t ready on account
of I’m babysitting some born idjit.”
Fiona didn’t hear anything else, but two minutes later, Tom came into the kitchen and beckoned her out.
“Let’s see if there’s something else you can do.”
She hid a triumphant smile as he ushered her out to the barn and laid his hand on the back of a saddle.
“Now Fiona, this here’s a saddle,” he explained in slow tones as if she really were the idjit Old Pete accused her of being.
“I know what it is,” she scoffed. “I’ve been riding since I could walk.”
“Oh yeah? Well then you show me how to get this horse ready for work.” He pointed out an old mare standing half asleep in a sunbeam.
“I don’t think tack is going to make her ready for work,” Fiona said, then squeaked as Tom swatted her bottom.
“Just do it, brat.”
“Sorry, girl,” Fiona said, sliding her hand up the horse’s neck. “They’re making me harass you.”
“You called?” Harris stepped into the barn.
“Harass, not Harris, but close enough,” Fiona quipped. Harris looked good in his ranch gear. Tall, dark and handsome in a Stetson and leather boots; not bad, not bad at all. Harris noticed her appreciative look and returned it.
She smiled to herself as she turned back to the mare and started with the saddle blanket, moved onto a saddle pad and then the saddle itself, making sure none of it pinched the withers. The bridle was a little more difficult, not being what she was used to, but the mare was used to it and accepted the bit without fuss.
“I usually rode English,” she said, pausing at the saddle’s double cinches for a moment. “But I figure they work the same, except you cowboys use two instead of one.”
“Two are more stable for the hard work, roping and such,” Tom explained. “When you’ve got a steer yanking against that saddle horn you don’t want the saddle pivoting. English saddles are pretty, but they’re not designed for any real work.”
“They’re designed for speed,” Fiona sniffed, tightening the cinches. “I guess y’all like to take it slow around here.”