by Eloise Alden
A hot dry wind blew down the street carrying fallen leaves, bits of paper and pieces of trash. Dust swirled through the open gates of Denny Park. Seattle wasn’t a large city, but it was growing rapidly. She was nothing more than a shop girl, not significant in anyway. Of course, she’d thought that before and Steele had still noticed her. He had sought her out, and then had tried to kill her, or abduct her and press her into service as he and Drake Wallace had done to so many others. She couldn’t turn her back on the girls, of course she couldn’t, but she could keep a low profile. She’d make candies and pastries and rarely leave the kitchen. Steele would never know she still existed.
And although the gold could hardly compensate for a girl’s life, at least she had something to offer. Verity’s feet felt like lead as she entered the gates of Denny Park. She remembered the afternoon she’d ran into Trent here. Running from Steele, hurrying to Georgina’s, she wished that she’d met Trent under different, less complicated and unhappy circumstances.
Fear niggled in her belly. What if Trent tried to draw her out? She knew she could resist Minnie and her countless social invitations, she knew she could withstand her aunt’s teasing, but could she refuse Trent? He was like the wind tossing the leaves; he swept her up, carried her about, and pitched her around. Whenever she saw him, whenever she thought about him, she felt pleasure tingling deep inside and threatening to spill. She worried he could see her thoughts. If he knew what she felt for him, she’d be lost. No, she couldn’t see him.
Silence muted the park, as if the wind carried a white noise that muffled the sounds of wildlife, insects and people. In what seemed to be a very far distance, she could hear the wagon wheels and horses rolling through the dusty streets. Verity picked up her skirts and walked a little quicker. Dust blew in her eyes, and she tasted the grit in her mouth. Why hadn’t she asked Young Lee to accompany her? Was walking through the park with such a substantial amount of money prudent? Maybe she should have asked Trent to pawn the jewels for her, but then she remembered that she’d resolved never to see him again. Just seconds ago. I’m weak, she thought, chastising herself. He makes me weak. I’m stronger without him.
Her head thundered from the blow. Multicolored lights of shooting pain passed before her eyes. Sometime later she found herself face down in the dirt, weaker than she’d ever been before.
Verity blinked and her eyelash brushed against rotting leaves and twigs. Her head throbbed; she touched it gingerly and found dead leaves stuck in her hair. She pulled them away and saw they were stained and sticky with blood. She hadn’t tripped. Someone or something had knocked her down.
The air, thick with dust, hung in the trees and turned the sunlight into the color of a wheat field. The hushed park had come alive; every noise amplified: an animal skittered in a nearby thicket, a twig snapped. Verity sat up, tried to not to panic, and listened. How long had she lain on the ground? Her muscles cramped and the sun, overshadowed, by clouds had risen to a zenith.
She thought back to what seemed like only minutes before. She’d been thinking of Trent and Dorrie. She’d had a purse full of gold from the sale of her mother’s jewels. Reaching for it and finding nothing, her heart sank.
Verity rolled over onto her back and watched the sunlight flicker through the boughs of a pine tree and wondered how she could lose the only tangible thing she had left of her mother in such an incomprehensible manner. Her skin prickled and the hairs on the back of her neck rose.
She wasn’t alone.
Animals, she reasoned, possibly a red fox, skunk, or a squirrel. Harmless creatures. Even though she knew a thief wouldn’t stay to watch her wake, panic caught in her throat. She scooted on her bottom and leaned against a pine tree. The dust swirled and disguised the park. Someone, no something, she corrected herself, hid among the grave markers, watching. Why?
Using the tree for a brace, Verity stood and managed to brush off her skirts. Her sleeve had a new hole, a straight tear up the inseam, and her arm had a corresponding scratch. She limped with wet-noodle legs and unfocused eyes.
Another twig broke. Verity swallowed deeply and patted her apron for some sort of weapon and found the vial of the sedative. She didn’t want to think of anyone coming close enough to it to be of use. She chose a solid stick from the park’s floor and swung it purposefully as she walked in what she hoped was the direction of her aunt’s home. She abandoned her plans of visiting Georgina; she no longer had anything to offer.
Her head thudded with every footfall, but she held it high, careful not to demonstrate weakness or fear. Another twig, a closer twig, snapped. She picked up her skirts and broke into jog. Behind her, heavy footsteps. She watched the dust curl through the trees and then, seeing nothing but the thick air, she hitched her skirts to her knees and ran, praying for a straight, unimpeded path.
The ground became uneven and Verity recognized the brick path that led to the street. She stumbled over the bricks, mindful of her ankles and the screaming scratch on her arm. She could hear someone behind her, so close she imagined she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. Any moment she’d pass the folly, a reasonable hiding spot. Verity sprinted up the incline and saw the folly’s roofline poking out of the swirling dust. As she raced toward it her foot caught on a loose brick and she pitched forward.
Hands caught her as she fell. She could smell whiskey and sweat as she was lifted into the air and pressed against a broad chest. Verity kicked and screamed.
The man had a deep baritone laugh. Verity went still when she recognized the tattoo on the man’s arm. Orson. Which could only mean that Steele knew she had a connection to Drake’s death. He knew she’d faked her suicide in New York. He knew she’d stolen his passage way to Seattle. He knew she lived. Verity threw her hands behind her, in an attempt to pull Orson’s hair or gouge his eyes. “Let me go!”
He chuckled in response, kicked his knee between her flailing legs, and held her vice-like with one arm while the other ripped at her bodice and fumbled at the buttons on her blouse. Verity bucked her head back and made contact with his chin.
“Demmed chit,” Orson muttered, tightening his hold.
She grappled for the bottle. The small glass vial would be easy to shatter and perhaps insubstantial against Orson’s strength, but if she could smash the glass and aim for his eye then maybe she could break away. If she leaned left she could hit the vial against the Huntington family obelisk. She bent away from Orson, toward the obelisk, and nearly toppled into the rhododendron bush. The vial, her hope for escape, slipped from her fingers and rolled out of reach.
Verity flung herself after it. She landed hard in the dirt, on her elbows with a woof of pain. Twigs and bracken pierced her yellow poplin. A stick jabbed her side and the rhododendron bush brushed her hair. The dirt smelled pungent with dying leaves. She thought she saw the tail of a mouse scurrying over a rock and she stifled back a scream.
Orson loomed over her; she could feel his heat as she scrambled for the lost vial. The tips of her glove reached the vial and she curled it into her palm.
And then, the rush of feathers, the shifting air, the blur of bright gold, blue, and burgundy. A pheasant lifted from his shelter with a shattering cry.
Orson reared back. Verity rolled over, faced him, supported herself on her elbows and planted the heel of her boot in his crotch. The big man doubled over and Verity thwacked the bottle over his head. He folded to his knees, his face twisted in pain.
Although she doubted he’d be able to chase her very soon, she splashed what remained of the sedative in his face for good measure. Orson sputtered and blinked against the onslaught. A trickle rolled down his nose and caught the corner of his mouth.
Verity fled.
BETTE
Rose Arbor, Washington
Suddenly, something small, plastic and slimy hits my arm. Flinching, I look up and see a large furry, somewhat slobbery creature leaping in my direction. I try to dodge him, but the monster bolts into me, knocking me down. My
bags of apples and oranges spill to the sidewalk and the fruit rolls away like scattered billiard balls. The container of blueberries pops open. I gape at the flying fur prancing around me. He smashes blueberries with every bound. A small boy follows, shouting, “Ball! Ball!”
The boy, a tot with a head of golden curls, throws himself on top of the dog searching for the lost toy. Adult footsteps follow, calling, “Babs! Henry!”
I brush my hands off. They sting from my crash landing and tiny bits of rock and dirt have lodged into my palms.
The footsteps stop in front of me. “So sorry! They’re wild animals.”
I pull my knees up, brush my hands on my corduroys and look up into the face of Odious Odor Errol. His eyes flash with recognition and amusement and he extends a hand down to help me up. I ignore him and climb to my feet.
“Mrs. Michaels? How lovely to see you again.”
I grimace as I try to use my foot. I’d twisted my ankle, making the retrieval of strewn fruit unnecessarily taxing.
“Here, let me help you,” Odious says, taking possession of one of my brown paper bags and scooping up wayward fruit.
“You needn’t bother,” I say, wincing and trying to balance on one leg.
“Henry! Come and help.”
The boy stops wrestling with the furry mammoth, looks at me and says, “She said not to bother.”
“She was just being polite. Now, come on and help pick up what you spilled.”
Henry cocked his head at me, considering. “She doesn’t look polite. Anyways, I didn’t spill it, Babette did.”
From my angle, standing on one foot and using the handrail as balance as Odious retrieves apples and oranges, I can see where his hair is thinning on the top of his head. It’s not attractive.
Odious straightens and brushes off his hands on his jeans. “I’m afraid I can’t save the blue-berries.”
I shrug. “That’s all right. I’d probably bought more fruit than I could possibly eat.”
“Then why buy it?”
I blink. “Indulgence, I guess.”
His gaze sweeps over my thin frame. “Gluttony doesn’t appear to be your vice. Nor does sloth, given your garden.” He hands me the bags of fruit and notices for the first time I’m not putting weight on my right foot. “Ah, I see. It’s pride.”
“You see what?” I balance the bags, one on each hip.
“Your vice, it’s pride.”
“Nonsense!” I wish he would leave so that I could limp to the Jeep, but then I remember my dysfunctional car and my face flushes hot.
“Absolutely, you weren’t going to tell me you were hurt.” He smiles as if he knows me. “You were waiting for me to leave so that you could hobble on your own.” He holds out his arms as if to wrap them around me. “Here, let me help.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.” I can’t take a step, but other than that, I’m as right as rain. And then, as if the heavens heard, a raindrop falls.
He chuckles. “See? Pride. If you suffered from greed, you’d be threatening a lawsuit. Wrath and you’d be howling for vengeance. Lust--well, then you wouldn’t be refusing my arm.” He pulls the bags from my arms. “Now, where is your car?”
I blink, feeling defeated. Gulping, I say, “My car isn’t working.”
“Did you ride the bus?”
I hadn’t thought of the bus. “Yes.” Another lie. This man makes me lie.
He laughs. “Will it take you to your doorstep? If not, I’m afraid you’ll have a hard time climbing Olympic Hill.”
“No, a friend will pick me up,” I admit, not liking the direction of the conversation. I can see where it’s headed, but I feel powerless to stop it. It’s like watching a flame flicker toward a fuse to a stick of dynamite. Does refusal of help signify pride or common sense? “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
His gaze sweeps over me as he laughs. Then he abruptly turns and walks away with my bags of fruit. Whistling, the dog and child fall behind him. He looks like the Pied Piper or the conductor of a marching band.
“Wait!” I call after him.
He turns and raises his eyebrows, a smile tugging at his lips.
“You have my groceries.”
“Come and get them,” he says, walking backward.
I stand rooted to the sidewalk. “That’s not fair.”
“Fairs are for pigs and cows,” Henry says.
“Well said, son,” Errol says.
“And people,” I tell them, hating that I have to raise my voice. “People can also be fair. Or not.”
He nods in my direction. “Have you already called your friend?”
I don’t answer but hobble toward him. I do okay on the sidewalk, but he’d climbed the grassy hill, and I worry that I’ll slip and fall. With my lower lip caught between my teeth, I try to navigate the lawn. Another raindrop falls. If the grass becomes slippery and wet, I’ll have to crawl.
“We’ve spent so much time discussing your vice, we haven’t talked about mine,” he says, watching me.
I don’t want to tell him that Dot had previously described his vices in great length.
“Envy,” he says, coming toward me. “Right now, I envy your friend.”
Sighing, I reach out and take hold of his arm. He seems remarkably stable. Hitching both bags to one hip, he slips one arm around my waist and pulls me to his side. Together, with the dog and child trailing behind, we do a fair imitation of a three-legged race contestants. Only we don’t race. We walk slowly and without conversation to his Mercedes, my hip bumping his thigh. He smells of leather and cloves.
Standing on the sidewalk, he clicks his fob and the trunk whirrs open. He drops his arm from my waist and I’m suddenly cold without him. After depositing the groceries beside a set of golf clubs, he closes the door and then scoops up the child and hoists him into a car seat. Henry goes in without a sound. Babette follows. I feel somewhat reluctantly impressed that he’d settle his dog and child first before opening my door.
CHAPTER 17
The 'garden huckleberry' is not considered to be a true berry but a member of the nightshade family. Huckleberries are enjoyed by many mammals, including grizzly bears and humans.
From The Recipes of Verity Faye
Trent paced Lily Hill. He marched past the white picket fence as far as the large maple, and then turned on his heel and thumped toward the knotty pine. Seven, eight, nine, if she’s not here by ten, he promised, I’m leaving. But since he’d made and broken that promise countless times, he continued his pacing and upped his number to twenty-five.
At fifty-one he heard the back-gate creak.
He vaulted over the picket fence and raced across the grass, uncertain how he knew it was Verity at the gate. It could as easily have been Lee, Young Lee, or Tilly, but he seemed to know it was Verity. When he saw her tattered clothes, the scratch on her face, the blood mingling with tears, he lost all reasonable thought.
She saw him and although he wouldn’t have thought it possible, he ran faster. She sagged against the door jam, crying. She looked deflated. Her head hung forward and her arms dangled limply as if they didn’t belong to her. Trent gathered her against him and pressed her head against his chest.
“Shh,” he murmured into her hair. She’d lost a number of hairpins and twigs were caught in the loose curls. “Shh,” he said again, running his hand down her back. She quivered in his embrace; he felt her struggle to hold back tears. He pushed back her hair and looked into her eyes. “What happened?”
She tried to look away, but he cupped her head face in his hands, rubbed his thumb across her cheek, smearing a smudge of dirt. “Who? Was it Steele?”
She shook her head. “Orson,” she stuttered. Her teeth began to chatter. “Steele must know, though.”
Trent swung her into his arms and carried her over to a bench beneath an apple tree. The tree, just shy of full bloom, had lost most of its blossoms. The tiny white flowers lay over the grass like a blanket of snow. Trent sat on the bench and pull
ed Verity onto his lap. “Maybe not. Orson may have had other ideas.”
Verity nodded. “My money.”
Trent twisted so he could see into her eyes. He hadn’t been thinking of money. “What money?”
Verity mutely nodded. “My mother’s jewels. I’d sold them. The Bren jewels.”
“They were real?”
Verity nodded again.
“But how? Why?”
“I felt so badly about Dorrie. Her death is my fault.”
“No, darling.”
“Yes, it is. If I hadn’t…” she began to cry in earnest.
Trent pressed her head against him and had the odd sensation of his heart beating for both of them as if she now belonged to him. He felt a connection to her stronger than he could have imagined or had ever thought possible. The feelings, new, raw, and primal swept through him. He had to keep her safe. He had to keep her away from Orson, Lector, and Steele. Her life had become so entangled with his own he could as easily imagine parting with his right hand as with her.
“Come with me to the ranch,” he pressed. “You’ll be safe there.
#
Verity had never ridden bareback on a horse before. Meadows of daffodils, buttercups, and dandelions, framed by dogwoods, lilacs, and alders. Cherry trees in full blossom filled with swooping robins, a singing creek splashing over pebbles. Verity couldn’t see any of it, her entire body seemed honed to the man sitting in front of her. She had her arms clutched around his waist. She bounced and jiggled behind him and no matter how she tried to maintain an appropriate distance she fell against his broad back with almost every footfall. She was beginning to think it intentional.
Her hair had come loose, her chemise had slipped, at every turn she thought she would fall off the horse.