Washington’s rowdy lumber camps were no place for an innocent young beauty… .
When Rachel McKinnon attracts the attention of Jonas Wilkes, she is truly in dire straits. Wilkes, the owner of a lumber empire, has power over most everyone he meets—and now he wants Rachel. Her only hope is Griffin Fletcher. The town’s darkly handsome, unmarried doctor, he once made a promise to Rachel’s dying mother to keep her daughter out of harm’s way. But little did Fletcher know that looking after the lovely Rachel would mean facing down Wilkes, his nemesis. Now the enmity he harbors for Wilkes is about to erupt in a dangerous confrontation … and the young doctor who swore never to love again is suddenly in danger of falling desperately in love with the one woman he swore he would always protect.
One of America’s best-loved storytellers, Linda Lael Miller sets passions blazing in the unforgettable tale of FLETCHER’S WOMAN.
Register online at www.SimonandSchuster.com for more information on this and other great books.
Sigrid Estrada
Linda Lael Miller is the New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty novels, including her bestsellers of romantic suspense, Don’t Look Now, Never Look Back, and One Last Look. Her acclaimed frontier romance series include Springwater and The Women of Primrose Creek. There are more than 14 million copies of her books in print. Ms. Miller resides in the Scottsdale, Arizona, area.
Visit her website at
www.lindalaelmiller.com.
More enthralling novels from
Linda Lael Miller
Be sure to read her electrifying bestsellers of romantic suspense!
DON’T LOOK NOW
NEVER LOOK BACK
ONE LAST LOOK
“Exciting… .Linda Lael Miller at her intriguing best.”
—Midwest Book Review
All available from Pocket Books and Pocket Star Books
Dear Readers, Old and New,
Is it with joy that I give you one of the novels written earlier in my career. Some of you have read it, and will feel as though you’re meeting old friends; to others, it will offer a completely new reading experience.
Either way, this tale is a gift of my heart.
The characters in this and all of my books are the kind of people I truly admire, and try to emulate. They are smart, funny, brave, and persistent. The women are strong, and while they love their men, they have goals of their own, and they are independent, sometimes to a fault. More than anything else, these stories are about people meeting challenges and discovering the hidden qualities and resources within themselves.
We all have to do that.
We are blessed—and cursed—to live in uncertain times.
Let us go forward, bravely, with our dearest ideals firmly in mind. They’re all we have—and all we need.
May you be blessed,
Linda Lael Miller
ALSO BY LINDA LAEL MILLER
Banner O’Brien
Corbin’s Fancy
Memory’s Embrace
My Darling Melissa
Angelfire
Desire and Destiny
Fletcher’s Woman
Lauralee
Moonfire
Wanton Angel
Willow
Princess Annie
The Legacy
Taming Charlotte
Yankee Wife
Daniel’s Bride
Lily and the Major
Emma and the Outlaw
Caroline and the Raider
Pirates
Knights
My Outlaw
The Vow
Two Brothers
Springwater
Springwater Series:
Rachel
Savannah
Miranda
Jessica
A Springwater Christmas
One Wish
The Women of Primrose
Creek Series:
Bridget
Christy
Skye
Megan
Courting Susannah
Springwater Wedding
My Lady Beloved (writing as Lael St. James)
My Lady Wayward (writing as Lael St. James)
High Country Bride
Shogun Bride
Secondhand Bride
The Last Chance Café
Don’t Look Now
Never Look Back
One Last Look
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 1983 by Linda Lael Miller
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-0-671-73768-9
ISBN-10: 0-671-73768-6
ISBN 978-1-47671-072-3 (eBook)
First Pocket Books printing April 1983
POCKET and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
FLETCHER’S WOMAN
Prologue
Providence, Washington Territory
May 21, 1889
Rebecca McKinnon sank back on her satin pillows as the pain intensified. With fingers that seemed to bear little regard for the orders of her mind, she took the letter from the table beside her bed and read it for perhaps the hundredth time since its arrival the day before.
Anguish filled her, mingled with a dizzying, hopeful wonder. Ezra. At last, Ezra had found her. And that meant that Rachel probably would, too.
Tears of frustration and pain burned in her eyes. Would he tell Rachel what he knew? Would he set up some kind of mother-daughter confrontation?
Rebecca shuddered. Her head began to throb, and she flung back the red velvet comforter that covered her and struggled out of bed. She crossed the room on thin, shaky legs, her once voluptuous body gaunt and bony benea
th the gossamer beige silk of her nightdress.
On the dresser top, the liquor awaited—amber comfort confined to a crystal decanter.
A chill ran through Rebecca’s soul as she unstopped the bottle and poured a generous dose of its contents into a glass, then replaced the stopper and returned the brandy to its place.
The already dim room darkened; the storm blowing in from the sea was almost upon the town of Providence. The bitter winds announcing its arrival were already screaming around the clapboard corners of Rebecca’s business establishment and creeping across the bare wooden floors to sting her naked feet.
She raised the glass high, in a mock toast—to Ezra. To the mouthy sailor who had betrayed her whereabouts in a Seattle saloon. To her own vanished youth.
Rebecca glared at her shadowy reflection in the dingy, rippled mirror over the dresser, and a sigh escaped her.
Her long, ebony hair was threaded through with gray now, and the fire had long since left the wide, amethyst eyes, rendering them flat and dull and vacant. Her cheeks were hollow and void of all color, her once full and mobile lips were thinned by years of degradation and regret.
Where was that other Rebecca now? Where was the vibrant, spirited woman who had smiled back at her from so many kinder looking glasses?
“Dead,” Rebecca said aloud, in answer. She tossed back the glass of brandy in a jerky, painful motion. “Dead, dead, dead.”
The muscles in her shoulders and in the nape of her neck relaxed with a suddenness that was almost convulsive as the brandy burned its way into her system. A sob rose in her throat, lodging there and hurting more than the vicious disease that gnawed at her vitals and tore at her bones and muscles.
The door of the bedroom opened with a cautious creak—when would that impossible Mamie see that the hinges were oiled?
“Becky,” challenged a gentle, masculine voice. “What in the hell are you doing?”
Rebecca turned, inclining her head toward the man entering her room. Soft relief whispered through her, like a summer breeze rustling the leaves of an elm tree.
“Griffin.”
The young man took her arm in a firm, almost imperious, grasp and ushered her back to the bed, where he tucked her under the covers with the quick, impatient motions of a disapproving father. His dark hair caught what light the gray skies outside would permit, and the strong, aristocratic lines of his face were taut with affectionate annoyance. His eyes, like his hair, were almost black, and they avoided her face for a moment, while he subdued the pity Rebecca suspected was there.
She admired the supple, animal grace of his body and wished fervently to be young and well again. With a veined hand, she reached up and touched the smooth gray silk of his vest. “Where is your suit coat, Dr. Fletcher?”
A smile twisted one corner of the firm, impatient lips. “Downstairs, behind the bar. I trust your worthy employees will keep their fingers out of my wallet?”
Rebecca settled back, soothed momentarily by the brandy and the presence of her taciturn, intolerant friend. “Anybody steals from you, and I’ll have them horsewhipped. Besides, I run an honest house, Griffin Fletcher.”
Griffin laughed softly, and the sound warmed the chilly, lavender-scented room. “The good citizens of Providence might find that debatable, Becky.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and folded his skilled, strong hands around one knee. “Now. Why did you send for me? Is the pain getting worse?”
Rebecca fixed weary eyes on the gilded woodwork edging the ceiling of her room and spoke cautiously. “You said you owed me, Griff, after I helped out in Tent Town last winter. Did you mean it?”
“I meant it.”
Rebecca drew a burning breath and dared to meet the doctor’s eyes. “It’s about my kid, Griffin. It’s about Rachel.”
No reaction showed in Griffin’s face. “What about her?”
Tears glimmered on Rebecca’s lashes now, and she made no effort to hide them. It was too late for that. “Ezra’s bringing her here, to Providence,” she managed, fumbling once again for the crumpled letter on the nightstand.
Dr. Fletcher accepted the offered missive, unfolded it, and scanned its message quickly. Still, there was no change in his expression, nothing to indicate whether or not he would be an ally. “According to this, they’ll be here sometime tonight,” he said.
Rebecca nodded. When she spoke again, her words were tinged with hysteria, and it was hard to make them come out in proper and sensible order. “Griff, she’ll be living in Tent Town—and there’s Jonas—good God, there’s Jonas… .”
Griffin sighed, but no recognizable emotion flickered in the dark eyes. Rebecca knew he understood the singular threat Jonas Wilkes represented, knew he hated the man fiercely. If anyone had reason, he did.
“Calm down,” he ordered sharply.
Rebecca forced herself to remain still, though she wanted, even needed, to clamor out of that bed and do something—anything—to stop Ezra from bringing Rachel to Providence. “Rachel is a pretty girl, Griffin,” she said finally, measuring the words cautiously, so that they could not escape her control and stream out in a river of shame and panic. “I know she is. She was a beautiful child. And if she catches Jonas’s eye—”
A muscle knotted in Griffin’s jaw, then relaxed again. “You’re afraid he’ll add her to his collection.”
Rebecca could only nod, and a tense, thundering silence fell. At last, she went on. “That’s happened to more than one young girl, hasn’t it, Griff?”
Griffin bolted to his feet, and stood with his back to Rebecca, his hands on his hips. Something violent and primitive seemed to enclose him; Rebecca could sense his inward struggle even though it was being waged in the darkest recesses of his mind and heart.
She smoothed the velvet comforter. “I’m sorry.”
Griffin’s shoulders were taut under his white linen shirt. He lowered his head, and Rebecca heard a deep, raspy breath enter his lungs, come out again. Finally, he turned around to face her. “What is it that you want me to do?” he asked, in a voice that was barely more than a labored whisper.
Rebecca’s throat worked painfully, and a small eternity passed before she could make herself say, “Marry her. Griffin, will you marry Rachel?”
The request struck him with a visible and unsettling impact. “What?”
A desperate momentum carried Rebecca forward. “I’ll pay you! I have a thousand dollars saved, Griffin, and there’s the deed to my business—”
A humorless laugh erupted from his throat, and he flung his arms outward, in some kind of outraged mockery. “You’re asking me to marry a woman I’ve never even seen? And in return, I get a thousand dollars and a whorehouse?”
Rebecca bounded out of the bed now, to face him. The pain and weakness were forgotten, blown away by the winds of fear raging within her. “Griffin Fletcher, you listen to me, you arrogant bastard! I might be a whore—by God, I am a whore—but my daughter—my daughter—is a lady! Do you hear me? A lady!”
Cool respect glimmered in the dark eyes, and Griffin’s face softened a little. “I’m sure Rachel is everything any man could want,” he said evenly. “But I have no intention of marrying anybody—not your daughter or anyone else.”
Grim finality echoed in the words, and Rebecca sighed and lowered her head. “All right,” she said. “All right.”
Griffin took a new hold on Rebecca’s thin shoulders now, and guided her back to the bed.
She made no protest as he took a syringe from his battered black bag, filled it with morphine, and inspected it for deadly bubbles of air.
“I don’t want my little girl to know I run a whorehouse,” she whispered, in ragged tones.
“I know,” replied Griffin, as he administered the injection and drew the needle gently from Rebecca’s arm.
The pain hammered and raged inside her, in a savage crescendo. It was always like this after an injection, the pain would grow suddenly and immeasurably worse, as though it somehow knew it would be
forced into submission for a little while. “Dear God,” she muttered. “Oh, Dear God. Griffin—what am I going to do?”
“For the time being, relax,” Griffin suggested. He lifted the painted china globe from a kerosene lamp on Rebecca’s bedtable and struck a wooden match to light the wick. The brave, flickering light, unhampered by the decorative globe, pushed back a little of the gathering darkness.
It was harder—so much harder—to stay awake. But the terrible pain was ebbing, just like the tide flowing two hundred yards beyond Rebecca’s window, on the shores of Puget Sound.
“We helped you,” she pressed, single-mindedly. “When there was so much pneumonia and grippe in Tent Town last winter, me and my girls helped you. You owe me, Griffin Fletcher. You owe me.”
Griffin drew a long, slender cigar from the pocket of his shirt, gripped it between his white, even teeth, and bent to light it from the flame dancing on the wick of Rebecca’s lamp. The end of the cheroot glowed red-gold in the dim, trembling light, and the china globe made a clinking sound as he replaced it. “I know that,” he said.
“Will you talk to Ezra? Will you tell him what could happen to Rachel if Jonas fancies her?”
Grimly, Griffin nodded. There was a weary, faraway look in his eyes.
Rebecca struggled to go on, before the blessed, soothing respite of sleep overtook her completely. “And if Ezra won’t listen to you, Griffin, you give Rachel that thousand dollars—Mamie will show you where it is—you give her that money and you put her on board the first steamboat that ties up in Providence—”
“What if she doesn’t want to go, Becky? What do I do then? Bind her wrists and throw her on board?”
“If necessary. You’re my friend, aren’t you?”
Griffin’s chuckle sounded hoarse. “That isn’t friendship, Becky. It’s kidnapping.”
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