Fletcher's Woman (13 page)

The latter's disappearance had been a disappointment to Rachel; she'd wanted to know her, to ask her questions about so many things, so many people.

“Saints be praised!” Molly cried out, suddenly, startling both Rachel and the silent, vacant-eyed boy who ate at the table beside her.

The kitchen door opened, and Dr. Fletcher appeared in the space. Rachel was so perplexed, and stricken, by the bruised, swollen state of his jaw that she bounded to her feet.

Dr. Fletcher did not so much as glance in her direction, and she was still smarting from the unaccountable pain that caused her when her father walked in.

“Pa!” she shrieked, flinging herself into his strong, ready arms.

Ezra McKinnon smiled down at his daughter with amused tenderness. “Now that's a greeting if I ever saw one,” he said.

It was then that Rachel remembered. She felt the color drain from her face, the tears gather in her eyes.

Ezra held her close. “It's all right, Little One,” he said. “I know your mama's gone.”

Rachel allowed herself the broken, defenseless weeping she needed. By the time the storm had passed, she and her father weathering it together, she was so weary that she could hardly stand.

Ezra settled her into a chair at the oaken table and sat down nearby. For the first time, she noticed that they were alone in the spacious room.

“We'll put this place behind us,” Ezra promised, his voice gruff with suppressed emotion. “There's no point in staying now.”

Rachel swallowed hard, wondering how her father would take the news. Then, bravely she explained that Rebecca had left her an inheritance, that they could have a home now, that there was no need to move from town to tiresome town anymore.

She was stunned by the fierce set of her father's face, by his terse words. “We'll do no such thing, Daughter. After what Griffin Fletcher told me today, I wouldn't stay here for anything.”

Disappointment and frustration made Rachel stiffen obstinately in her chair. “What did he tell you that was so terrible, Pa?”

“You just never mind what he told me. Soon as Becky's been buried proper and we've paid our respects, we're moving on. And that's all there is to it, Rachel.”

And so it was,
Rachel thought, with a sinking heart.

The messenger stood awkwardly beside the parlor fireplace, burly in his rough-spun trousers and worn flannel shirt.

Jonas, clad in a brocade robe, poured brandy for himself and then for the visitor. “Well, Peterson,” he demanded sharply. “What now?”

Peterson's eyes kept straying to the grandeur surrounding him, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his thick neck. “Swenson said you'd want to know that McKinnon's gone. He turned in his time today.”

Jonas absorbed the information calmly. “After a long talk with Griffin Fletcher, by any chance?”

An irritating grin split Peterson's otherwise unremarkable face. “You ever seen Fletcher fight, Boss?”

A bitter, rueful chuckle escaped Jonas. The grinding, ceaseless pain in his genitals was answer enough to that question, for him if not for Peterson. “So Griffin was there. Who did he kick hell out of this time?”

Peterson twisted an already shapeless hat in his massive hands. “That redheaded toolsmith that hired on last month—Dobson.”

Jonas shook his head. The irony of it was exquisite. Would Griffin make another trip up the mountain tomorrow, to undo today's damage? “Is the man all right?”

Peterson nodded, putting aside his hat to accept the offered drink. “Swenson had to stitch up his head, and he's off his feed, but other than that, he's fine.”

Jonas took a drink of his brandy. “Swenson's food would put anybody off. Did McKinnon say why he didn't want to stay on?”

“Didn't explain nothin'—just said he wanted whatever money he had comin' and left with the doc.”

“I see,” muttered Jonas. And then he sank gingerly into his favorite chair, wincing at the resulting ache between his legs.
“Finish your brandy and get out of here, Peterson. And tell Swenson thanks.”

Mrs. Hammond came in as Peterson went out. She fixed an annoyed gaze on Jonas and demanded, “What are you doing downstairs? You're in no condition—”

Jonas closed his eyes. “Where's McKay?” he asked sharply.

“Probably under the nearest rock,” replied the woman.

Jonas grinned and opened his eyes again. “Well, overturn it. I want to see him—
now
.”

The quiet outrage playing in Hammond's face was delightful. For the millionth time, Jonas wondered why she stayed, year after year, when she disapproved of almost everything he did.

“If you think for one minute that you're going to send for a woman at this hour—”

Jonas laughed. A woman! It would be days before he could contemplate that. “Rest assured, Mrs. Hammond. Thanks to Griffin Fletcher, that sweet prospect is out of the question. You'll have no cause for moral outrage tonight.”

Scowling, Mrs. Hammond left the room.

Jonas had no doubt that McKay would appear shortly. He refilled his glass from the bottle standing on the table beside his chair and thought.

So Griffin had gone to McKinnon and warned him that his daughter was in grave danger of losing her virtue to the monstrous Jonas Wilkes. He swore harshly, and the sound echoed in the empty room.

He closed his eyes, thought of Rachel. He should let McKinnon take her away, he knew that. But even the thought of her absence filled him with a shattering, insufferable void.

Good God, what had she done to him? What magic had she worked, to make him feel things he'd sworn he never would?

Jonas opened his eyes to see McKay standing in the doorway, watching him.

“What is it, Boss?”

Quietly Jonas gave the order.

•   •   •

Ezra McKinnon stood on the doctor's front porch, staring up at the star-strewn sky, dealing with his own grief. How could Becky be dead?

He grasped the painted porch railing for support. What a fool he was, letting this second, final loss of her shatter him the way it did. What reason did he have for mourning her? She'd
half-killed him, leaving that way—leaving him, leaving her own child.

A ragged sob tore itself from McKinnon's throat, echoed in the night. There were other sobs wanting to follow, but he pressed them back.

A drink would be just the thing. Yes, a drink and a willing woman.

Squaring his shoulders, McKinnon swung over the porch railing and walked around the house, across the moon-shadowed yard and into the barn. There, he saddled a horse, the bay he'd borrowed back at the lumber camp.

In the half-light of the barnyard, he traced the Wilkes brand with the tip of one finger, turned his head, and spat.
Over
my
dead body, you bastard
, he vowed, addressing the words to the timber baron who thought he could use a good man's daughter like she was nothing.

The familiar remedy worked as well as it ever had. Becky'd done all right for herself, McKinnon thought, two hours later, as he left the saloon. He remembered Rachel's high-flown idea about turning the place into a boardinghouse and chuckled to himself.

McKinnon mounted the bay and rode out, following the dark road. They'd spend this one night in Griffin Fletcher's house, he and Rachel, and in the morning, they would say a proper and respectful good-bye to Becky and get out of Wilkes's reach. He'd heard there was work further north, in Canada.

The riders surrounded him suddenly, no sound having warned of their approach. There were six of them, as near as he could tell, and their faces were covered. McKinnon cursed the damp ground that had muffled the hoofbeats of their horses.

•   •   •

Rachel awakened with tears on her face.

This day would hold too many good-byes: one to her mother, one to her dreams of having a real home, one to Griffin Fletcher. The idea of rebellion turned, shining, in her mind.

Suppose she simply refused to leave? What would happen then?

The morning sun glimmered in the guest-room window, and Rachel hated it, hated herself, hated her father. She was helpless against his authority, according to laws both moral and civil.

Eventually that control would shift to an as-yet-unknown
husband, bypassing Rachel completely. She would never be able to make real choices for herself, and the knowledge filled her with rage.

For the first time, Rachel understood why her mother had run away.

She drew a deep breath, flung back the covers, and got out of bed. At least there would be money now, she wasn't going to leave without that no matter what. And there would be more later, when the saloon was sold. Life would be easier. She would buy a few books, and a new wardrobe and maybe—just maybe—she would find a man who would allow her at least a semblance of freedom.

There was a light tap at the bedroom door as Rachel finished dressing and began brushing her hair. “Come in,” she said, with resignation.

The reflection of Molly Brady's face and shoulders appeared in the mirror beside her own.

A consuming, unfounded dread twisted in Rachel's heart. “Molly—what is it?”

Some of the color returned to Molly's uncommonly pale cheeks. “Rachel, have you seen your father this morning?”

The room was thick with foreboding. Unable to speak, Rachel shook her head in reply.

Molly was making an admirable effort to hide her misgivings. “Well, I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. The doctor and Billy have gone to look for him.”

Rachel laid aside the hairbrush Molly had given her and sat down, dazed, on the bed.

Molly sat beside her, taking one of Rachel's icy hands in her own. “Now, don't be worrying. He wouldn't leave without you, would he now? And it isn't likely that he's changed his mind and gone back up the mountain.”

In spite of her earlier yearning for independence, Rachel was frightened. She loved her father, whatever their differences. “I-I thought he was spending the night here. . . .”

Molly's voice was soothing. “We all did, Rachel. But the truth is, his bed hasn't been slept in, and the horse he was riding is gone.”

Rachel swallowed hard. “He's left me. I know he has.”

Molly slipped a motherly arm around Rachel's shoulders, but said nothing.

Lost in her brown dress and her own confused emotions,
Rachel endured the funeral at her mother's grave side. There were many mourners there, listening grimly to Field Hollister's gentle, compassionate words, but Ezra McKinnon wasn't among them.

When all the words had been said, Molly and Dr. Fletcher led Rachel away, past the new, mounded graves of the Tent Town woman and her tiny baby.

I should be crying,
Rachel thought wildly. Wondering why she couldn't release the tears that hammered behind her eyes and throbbed in her throat, she turned her head, looked back, and saw the simple pine coffin being lowered into the ground.

A scream pierced the air, and Rachel's knees trembled beneath her, then went slack. Dr. Fletcher was lifting her into his arms when she realized that the scream had been her own and gave in to the black fog rising around her.

•   •   •

Griffin sat back in the chair behind his desk, closed one hand around the drink he'd just poured, and endured. Pain swept over him—his own, Rachel's.

What was happening to him? Why couldn't he separate his feelings from hers?

“Griffin?”

He looked up to see Field standing in the study doorway, watching him. “Have they found McKinnon?” he asked, in a low, gruff voice.

Field's gaze touched the double shot of straight whiskey sheltered in Griffin's hand as he removed three books from a chair and sat down. “Not a trace. And you can't afford to drown your sorrows, old friend,” he observed patiently.

Griffin took a deliberate swallow, tilting his head back as the whiskey burned its way down his throat and warmed his stomach. “Something is wrong, Field. McKinnon wouldn't have disappeared like that—not without his daughter.”

Field sighed. “Isn't it possible that he just didn't want the responsibility anymore?”

Griffin drained his glass in one gulp. “No, damn it, it
isn't
possible. He loved her very much.”

There was a short, tense silence. Field broke it briskly. “It isn't what you think, Griffin. If McKinnon was dead, somebody would have found his body, or the horse, at least.”

Griffin glared at his friend. “Jonas is one hell of a lot smarter than that, Field.”

Field Hollister was no friend of Jonas's, but he slammed one fist down on Griffin's desk, all the same, and shouted, “All the problems in this world do not begin and end with Jonas Wilkes, Griffin! You're obsessed with the man!”

“He killed McKinnon.”

“Griffin, listen to reason for once! He couldn't have. Thanks to you, he hasn't left his house in two days!”

Griffin started to reach for the whiskey bottle, and then thought better of it. He had trouble meeting his friend's steady gaze. “You heard about that, then?”

“Of course I did; Mrs. Hammond made a point of telling me. And I know about that lumberjack, too.”

Griffin ignored the reference to the incident in Jonas's base camp, the day before, and snapped, “Did Mrs. Hammond tell you what Jonas did to Fawn Nighthorse?”

The color drained from Field's open face, and his throat worked fruitlessly.

“I thought that would take the righteous indignation out of you, old friend.”

Field was on his feet now, his hands gripping the edge of Griffin's desk. “Tell me!”

“Believe me, Field, you don't want to know. I brought her here, but she must not have been hurt as badly as I thought she was, because she left.”

“She
left?
But where—”