Fletcher's Woman (16 page)

She glanced at the door and smiled. To think she'd been cowering there only the night before, humbly seeking sanction in her own building!

The gentle black woman, Mamie, came in as Rachel was pouring a cup of coffee.

“Don't you look nice, Miss Rachel!”

Rachel smiled. She'd never felt so good about the way she looked or the person she was. “Thank you,” she said.

Mamie began to gather pots and pans, making a great, cheerful clatter in the sunny warmth of the kitchen. Soon eggs were frying in a cast-iron skillet, and bread was toasting in the oven.

Rachel felt ravenous. She was eating with as much restraint and decorum as she could manage when Fawn Nighthorse, the Indian girl she remembered from Tent Town, came shuffling in, clad in an oversized flannel nightgown, and stared, open-mouthed, at the newest resident of Becky's Place.

“Good morning!” chimed Rachel, pleased.

Fawn peered at her, squinting her bright brown eyes and then widening them again. “Rachel?” she whispered at last.

Rachel nodded, then giggled at the wild disbelief playing in Fawn's swollen face.

Fawn crept to the first available chair and fell into it, shaking her head. Her midnight-colored hair glimmered on her shoulders, trailed over her breasts and past her elbows. “Does Griffin know you're here?” she asked, in a soft, awe-stricken voice.

Rachel bristled. “No. It's none of his business!”

Fawn tossed a grateful look in Mamie's direction as the enormous, suddenly anxious woman set a mug of hot coffee before her. When her eyes linked with Rachel's again, however, they snapped with warning. “If Griff finds you here, he'll blister your bustle!”

The very thought stirred depths of outrage Rachel had never experienced before.

But Fawn held up a slender brown hand before she could protest. “Don't even say it—I know what you're thinking. But if anybody
would
dare, Griffin would. You'd better not test the theory, Rachel.”

Even though Rachel smiled with unshakable confidence, the certainty in Fawn's tone had found its mark. Before she could frame an answer, however, the kitchen door swung open and Jonas Wilkes appeared, splendidly dressed in a tailored gray suit.

As his golden eyes connected with Fawn's dark brown gaze, an intangible, soundless explosion seemed to rock the room. In its shuddering aftermath, Jonas's charged glance slid to Rachel's face and was instantly genial. “So my guess was correct, Urchin. You were hiding here all the time. Ready?”

Rachel was so anxious to escape the taut hostility in that kitchen that she scrambled to her feet without answering, nearly overturning her half-filled coffee cup in the process. Her toes and arches ached inside the soft velvet slippers she'd found among her mother's things.

Fawn rose slowly to her feet, her eyes on Jonas's composed, admiring face. “Now, just a minute, Jonas. . . .”

He surveyed Fawn's flannel-covered frame with polite disinterest. “It's good to see that you're recovering so rapidly, Miss Nighthorse,” he said. And then, frowning, he touched the neat row of stitches in her lower lip. “I hope your progress continues.”

Fawn paled—Rachel would have sworn to it—beneath the cinnamon smoothness of her skin. Then she sank silently back into her chair.

Jonas nodded slightly, with an air of distracted chivalry, as though he were confirming something the Indian woman had said.

Rachel was unnerved by the whole situation, sensing that it held meanings as deep as Puget Sound itself, but when Jonas offered his arm and smiled at her, she thrust aside the vague misgivings she felt and accompanied him out of the kitchen, through the deserted saloon, and into the bright, fragrant glow of the morning.

“How did you guess that I was here?” she asked, as she settled herself into the carriage seat across from Jonas.

He shrugged. “No one can remain in the same house with Griffin Fletcher for long, Urchin. He's fundamentally obnoxious, you know.”

“I do know,” she said, ruefully. “I was wearing one of the dresses you gave me—a beautiful pink taffeta—and he exploded.”

For a moment, Jonas looked as though he might laugh, but then a guarded look came into his face. “What did he say?”

Just the memory made Rachel blush profusely. “He—he implied that I was following my mother's trade,” she said, leaving out an account of the bruising, hungry kiss.

Jonas shook his head sadly. “Don't let that upset you, Rachel. Griffin sees most women in pretty much the same way.”

Rachel was still digesting this information when Jonas's carriage drew to a stop in front of the stark, white-frame church. Horses, some standing alone and others hitched to buggies or wagons, were tethered to the sturdy picket fence, and men and women stood in small groups, chatting in subdued, Sabbath Day voices.

Rachel noticed immediately—and with singular annoyance—that the stylish ladies of the community had separated themselves from the calico-clad women of Tent Town. Subtle glances swept in her direction from the privileged; frank stares came from the others.

Rachel lifted her chin and smiled winningly at the dapper man whose arm she held.

The interior of the church was rustic, but spotlessly clean.
There was an organ, and there were leather-bound hymnals resting neatly, at two-foot intervals, on the rough-hewn pine-board pews.

Jonas guided Rachel into a seat near the door and took his place beside her. With a wicked and quite endearing grin, he whispered, “If it's one of his hellfire and damnation days, we can make a run for it.”

Rachel smiled at the image that suggestion brought to her mind, but she was looking forward to hearing Field Hollister preach, knowing instinctively that the experience would be memorable.

A plump, elderly woman began to labor over the organ keys, and as the parishioners straggled in from the churchyard, the canvas-dwellers, as well as those who boasted solid houses, continued to stare at Rachel.

But when a fearsome glower formed in Jonas's features, the scrutiny came to a swift, if petulant, halt.

The organist's fervent, if slightly discordant, voice rose in a rousing rendition of a normally somber hymn, and the congregation joined in shyly. Some knew the words, while others riffled quickly through their songbooks in search.

Field Hollister rose as the last self-conscious notes fell away, looking quietly magnificent in his neat, shabby suit and spotless collar. His eyes swept over the congregation, catching only briefly on Jonas's slightly upturned face, but pausing with disconcerting amazement on Rachel's.

There was a slight catch in his voice as he wrenched his attention away and began the fine, sensitive sermon Rachel had expected.

Rachel was moved by his gentle, compelling words, but she was also relieved when the service ended. Field's eyes had strayed to her face several times during the sermon, and each time she had seen a scolding look in their azure depths.

Now, to her profound discomfort, Field was standing at the church's open doors, greeting his congregation warmly as they passed.

Rachel would have given anything to slip by him unnoticed, but that was impossible. Jonas had stopped in the aisle to converse with a portly, gray-haired man, and all the other worshipers had departed in the interim.

“Where have you been?” Field asked directly, in a sharp whisper. “Griffin is half crazy with worry!”

“Griffin is more than half crazy,” Rachel retorted, desperate to defuse the confrontation.

Field's gaze found Jonas and glinted with sky-blue fury, and his voice was still low. “Rachel, you weren't—you didn't—”

Rachel blushed so hard that it hurt. “Of course I didn't!” she hissed.

The minister, averting his eyes for a moment, sighed. “I'm sorry. It's just that we looked everywhere—”

“Except my mother's saloon,” interrupted Rachel, impatient and self-conscious.

Field touched her arm gently. “You're all right, that's the important thing. I'm glad—”

“Of what?” demanded Jonas, suddenly.

Something terrible gleamed in Field's eyes. “Did you enjoy my sermon, Jonas?” he countered. “If I'd known you were going to be here, I would have chosen a different text entirely.”

Jonas's smile again seemed fixed. “You did fine, Reverend. Now, if you'll excuse us. . .”

Field shook his head in some deep frustration and turned away, and Jonas's grasp on Rachel's arm, almost painful a moment before, slackened as he led her graciously outside.

Preparations for the picnic were well under way in the spacious, grassy lot behind the church and the tiny cottage Rachel knew was the parsonage.

Small children played the quiet, restrained games that were deemed suitable for the sabbath, while well-dressed women in broad-brimmed bonnets spread colored tablecloths on the warm soft ground. The men smoked and clung together in tight little groups, as though they were braced for some violent invasion. The subdued, shabby populace of Tent Town gathered at a suitable distance.

Across the breach, ragged children watched the prosperous ladies take pies and cakes and chicken and ham from their baskets, and their small, scrubbed faces were bewildered and full of yearning.

Rachel knew, even as she folded her crisp sateen skirts to sit on the blanket Jonas had spread for her, that she would have no appetite.

Jonas's voice severed her thoughts gently. “What is it, Rachel?”

Rachel lowered her head, pretending great interest in the folds of her skirt. “Those children over there,” she whispered
brokenly, knowing full-well the gnawing emptiness they endured, an emptiness that had little, if anything, to do with food. “We have so much, and they have nothing.”

Jonas, who was lying on his side on the blanket, his head propped up on one hand, reached out to lift her chin with the other. “Suppose we remedy the situation, Urchin? Will you enjoy the day then?”

Bewildered and hopeful, Rachel nodded.

Jonas bounded to his feet and moved from one bright picnic blanket to another, speaking in charming undertones to the occupants. Almost magically, the bounty began to move from one side of society to the other. Blushing matrons carried generous shares of their food to the startled, somewhat suspicious recipients, and while the two groups did not really blend, they did draw closer together.

Rachel's step was light as she thrust most of Mrs. Hammond's fried chicken into the fray, along with a cherry pie and half a chocolate cake.

Field Hollister intercepted her as she walked back to rejoin an amused Jonas.

“Did I really see this happen?” he asked, smiling in amazement.

Rachel shrugged. “It was Jonas's idea, Field.”

Field looked pleasantly skeptical. “I think you have a remarkable effect on our Jonas Wilkes, my dear.”

Rachel laughed warmly and shook her head, but the words she was planning to say died suddenly in her throat. Griffin Fletcher was striding toward her, his face pale and stiff with rage.

Hoping to find a defender, she looked imploringly to Field. But his arms were folded and his kind eyes seemed to be saying, “I told you so.” Rachel turned, in desperation, to appeal to Jonas.

The blanket where he'd lain, only moments before, was empty. Jonas was nowhere in sight.

Rachel drew closer to Field, frightened and all too conscious of the hush that had fallen over the picnic grounds.

“Don't you dare make a scene here!” she hissed with bravado, as Griffin came to a forbidding halt approximately two feet away.

Griffin reached out and took Rachel in a painless but inescapable grasp. His voice was ominously low. “Fair
enough,” he said. “Might I suggest a little conference over by that willow tree?”

Rachel, following his gaze, thought the tree in question was rather too far away, situated, as it was, on the far side of a murky, moss-strewn pond. “Well—”

“It's that or a drama this town will never forget,” he said reasonably, a false smile twisting his lips.

Rachel tried to look calm as Dr. Fletcher half-dragged her through the deep grass, around the edge of the pond, and behind the sheltering branches of the willow.

There, he suddenly took her shoulders in a hard grip and thrust her backward, so that she could feel the rough bark of the tree through her blouse and thin camisole.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

Rachel was terrified, but she did her very best not to reveal that. She met his eyes and fired back bright purple malice from her own. “I don't have to explain anything to you!”

A mockery of a smile lingered on his lips for a moment. “No. No, Rachel, maybe you don't. Maybe the fact that you're here with Jonas explains everything.”

Rachel was outraged. “You're as bad as Field! I spent the night in my mother's room!”

The scornful amusement in Griffin Fletcher's eyes was so expressive that he didn't have to voice his contempt, didn't have to speak at all.

And Rachel was wounded to the quick. She lifted her black skirt, to reveal the velvet slippers she'd taken from her mother's wardrobe. “Look!” she pleaded, foolishly, hating herself all the while for wanting so desperately to prove her innocence. “These are my mother's shoes. . . .”

Jonas was rounding the edge of the pond now, and approaching fast. Griffin watched him advance with frightening relish. “You seem to be filling Becky's shoes, all right,” he said.

Rachel, reeling under the brutal impact of his words, nearly fell as Griffin released her and strode away.

Jonas and Griffin met in the middle of the path that encircled the small pond, but if they spoke to each other, the interchange was too low-pitched to reach Rachel's ears.

The day was spoiled. As Griffin went around Jonas and exchanged inaudible, wildly gestured words with a red-faced Field Hollister, Rachel whirled blindly to escape.

The slick bank of the pond shifted beneath her feet. Just before she fell, Rachel heard a hoarse, hurried voice shouting
Dr. Fletcher's name. The sound died as the shallow, stagnant waters of the pond closed over her head.