Stealing Mercy (25 page)

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. Mercy kicked and screamed.

The man had a deep baritone laugh. Mercy 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. Mercy 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. Mercy 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, towards the obelisk, and nearly toppled into the rhododendron bush. The vial, her hope for escape, slipped from her fingers and rolled out of reach.

Mercy 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. Mercy 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 Mercy 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.

Mercy fled.

CHAPTER 24

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 Mercy Faye

Trent paced Lily Hill. He marched past the white picket fence as far as the large maple, and then turn on his heel and thump towards 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 Mercy at the gate. It could as easily have been Lee, Young Lee, or Tilly, but he seemed to know it was Mercy, and 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 hair pins 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 face. “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 --”

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 pulled Mercy onto his lap. “Maybe not. Orson may have had other ideas.”

Mercy nodded. “My money.”

Trent twisted so he could see into her eyes. He hadn’t been thinking of money. “What money?”

Mercy mutely nodded. “My mother’s jewels. I’d sold them. The Bren jewels.”

“They were real?”

Mercy 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 imagine 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.

*****

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. Mercy 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 shimmy had slipped, at every turn she thought she would fall off the horse.

“Grandmother values horse sense above all other virtues,” Trent told her over his shoulder.

Mercy sniffed in reply. After an awkward moment, she said, “Horses are nothing more than giant rodents.” Trent laughed and Mercy could feel as well as hear his laughter and it caused a tingling in her belly.

“Rodents that wear, or don’t wear shoes, as it appears, suits their purposes,” she said.

Trent sobered. “I would never ask you to pull a buggy twelve miles barefoot.”

“I would hope that you’d never ask me to pull a buggy anywhere, but we’re not talking about me. I still don’t understand why the creature couldn’t perform without his shoe.”

They’d abandoned the buggy, Mugs and one horse at the side of the road and had set out, bare back, and in Mercy’s case, side saddle, on an Arabian stallion Trent called Hoss. A perfectly ridiculous name for a beast; he should have name it Jaw Jarring.

“Grandmother would shoot me for laming a horse.”

“Will she shoot you for bringing me to the ranch?” Mercy paused. “Do you think she’ll shoot me?”

“She loves you.”

“We just met.”

“True. She loves your pies.”

Mercy gave up trying to hold herself away Trent’s wide back and sagged against him. “Everyone loves pies. What will you tell her?”

“The truth.”

Mercy sniffed. “That I’m hiding.” She didn’t want to appear weak in front of Trent’s grandmother. “And she knows I’m the girl you kissed in the garden of the Grand Hotel at midnight.”

“Much to the delight of myself and a crowd of theater goers.”

Mercy hung her head and it bounced against Trent’s back.

“Cheer up, darling, she likes you the better for it.” He paused. “Now, here’s the deal --”

Mercy interrupted him. “I didn’t know there was a deal.”

“There’s always a deal.”

Mercy wondered what cards she held.

*****

Chloe grinned. How was it, after all these years, she still obviously delighted in saying, “Gram’s mad at you.”

Mercy hung behind him, he could feel her reticence. After her brush with Orson in the park, he still felt protective.

Chloe’s eyes sparkled. Tattling on her brother, meeting his new love interest, thus opening up all sorts of avenues for teasing and taunting, this had to be her lucky morning. Chloe stuck out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.”

Mercy cast a worried glance at Trent, but he stood frowning at his sister.

“Oh, not from him, of course. He tells me nothing.” Chloe wrapped her hand around Mercy’s and pulled her towards the house. She gave Trent an impish grin. “No, I’ve heard about you from,” she cleared her throat, “some of the cast.”

Cast members that had undoubtedly seen him kissing Mercy on the grounds of the hotel; Trent could read his sister. He knew the way her mind worked.

“And your pies are becoming famous,” Chloe told her.

“Gram told you about her pie?” Trent asked, surprised. His grandmother was like a one way receiver, information came in, but it never went out.

“Goodness, no. I heard about the pies from some friends in town. And the chocolates! What do you call them?”

“Truffles.” Mercy uttered her first word to Trent’s sister.

“Simply heaven. Or, so I’ve been told.”

Trent looked down at Mercy. She had her face turned away, a blush stained her cheeks. He hadn’t heard about the success of her pies or chocolates. He wondered what else he didn’t know and a fissure of frustration started in his gut.

Chloe looked around. “Are you here for the fishing weekend? Did you not bring a bag?”

Mercy opened her mouth in surprise and Trent mentally hit his forehead. The fishing weekend. How could he have forgotten? Steele would be here. Perhaps he already was. Trent cleared his throat. “Have the guests already arrived?”

“A handful. Most are staying at the lodge, so there’s still plenty of room in the house for Mercy. Although, if more show up, I’m sure Mercy could room with me.” She smiled broadly at Mercy. “It’d be fun. We could have a hen chat.”

Mercy had grown still beside him. He could almost feel her asking- Guests? Fishing weekend? Hen Chat? “Perhaps Mercy has different ideas of fun,” Trent said. He took Mercy’s hand in his, but since his sister possessed the other, he could hardly drag her away without also towing Chloe. He tried to lead both girls through the steps to the main house.

“Gram expected you hours ago,” Chloe said. He could hear the laughter in her voice. “She’s counting on you to catch trout. Did you bring clothes for dinner?” she asked Mercy. “We’re usually very casual here, but for the weekend fishing parties, we usually have a formal dinner on Saturday night.”

Mercy could feel Chloe’s eyes sweeping over her blue cotton frock and she was glad she’d changed her clothes and tidied her hair.

“No? Well, never mind. You can borrow something of mine.”

Trent led both girls through the house until they saw Hester. She stopped in the hall, her eyes sweeping over first Mercy and then squinting at Trent. She seemed to be studying him for signs of guilt and then, as if coming to peace with what she found, she smiled. “Perfect. Miss Faye. You are an answered prayer. Come with me, both of you.”

“What about me?” Trent asked. “Am I not an answered prayer?”

“Only because you had the good sense to bring Miss Faye,” his grandmother answered as she bustled towards the kitchen. She lowered her voice and said over her shoulder, “Now, as you know, this isn’t an ordinary fishing weekend.”

“I didn’t know,” Mercy whispered to Trent, “that there are ordinary or extraordinary fishing weekends.”

Hester wheeled around. “He didn’t tell you?” She folded her arms, squared her shoulders and leveled a look at her grandson. “You didn’t tell her about fishing weekend?”

Trent sighed. “I completely forgot.”

Hester’s voice raised a pitch. “You forgot?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s my fault,” Mercy interjected. “I’m afraid I ran into trouble and Trent thought that…well, that I’d find less trouble here.”

“Or that he could cause all the trouble himself,” Chloe chirped.

“Two weekends a year, Gram invites the town, and others, to fish our branch of the Stilly,” Trent said, as he followed his grandmother into the kitchen. “Thus providing a little good will among neighbors and hopefully cutting back on trespassing and poaching which is important because both can spook the horses, especially the fouls and mares during birthing season. This particular fishing weekend is especially important because Gram has hopes of ferreting out Rita’s whereabouts from some of the guests.”

Hester nodded and gave a Trent a rare smile and so Trent continued, “She’s counting on me to catch dinner and since she’s holding those baskets, I suspect she has plans for you and Chloe involving huckleberries.”