His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  A wave of heat rolled up his neck. Claudia's refusal to heed his medical advice was a constant needle in his side. Even though he knew that reversing her age was an impossibility, some part of him still couldn't come to terms with the inevitable. It meant facing an old demon named Failure.

  "You know I don't approve of gossip, Sera."

  "That's the trouble with you, Michael. You don't approve of anything." She tugged her apron over her head, letting a cloud of flour sift onto the puddle that was creeping across the floor. "If you weren't so blessedly good-looking, I don't know that any woman would want you to come a-courting."

  "Is that the kind of 'friendly conversation' you anticipate at Aunt Claudia's?"

  She gave a guilty start.

  "Well, no. Not exactly." She pursed her lips. "If you really must know, I spend most of my time trying not to talk about you to the unmarried girls. One can only stand to hear so much sappy sighing over one's brother. Bonnie's the worst, although Aunt Claudia doesn't help matters any, the way she always brags about you taking care of her like a son. Honestly, if she weren't more than twice your age, I think she'd try to marry you herself."

  Michael grimaced. He supposed he should be flattered that half the female population in this town hoped he'd set his cap for them, but he didn't think of himself as any great prize. The simple truth was, Blue Thunder was short on bachelors, and that meant the wedding-bell chasers had time to make mischief.

  Most bachelors in Blue Thunder considered the two-to-one ratio a dream come true. But for Michael, who knew his illness would prevent him from doing right by a wife, the surplus of love-starved women was nothing short of a nightmare.

  "You know, Michael," Sera said, locking her sky-blue stare with his. It was a sure sign she was about to brave forbidden territory. "It wouldn't hurt you to start courting again—and it sure would make my life easier," she muttered under her breath. "Did you get to meet Eden? Is she the hootenanny Bonnie says she is?"

  Michael nearly choked to have his kid sister stumble across his most shameful, secret fantasy about Eden.

  "'Course, I wouldn't want your heart stepped on by a hootenanny," Sera said quickly, misinterpreting his distress. "Bonnie says the only reason Eden left Colorado is 'cause the Injuns, Chinamen, and beggar-trash wouldn't have her."

  Michael flinched. He didn't want to believe that the seventeen-year-old he still remembered so vividly had fallen into the desperate straits of prostitution.

  "You have no right to spread such rumors, Sera."

  "I'm not spreading rumors," she corrected him primly. "Bonnie is. I'm just trying to find out more about Eden. Is she pretty?"

  Michael tore his gaze free as the heat started building again in his face... and his loins.

  The devil take him. How was he supposed to answer Sera? That Eden Mallory transcended "pretty"? That she was an angel, a vision of the divine? That he was an unholy bastard for taking an innocent's memory to bed with him every night, year after year, until the fantasies had eroded the reality completely?

  Crouching under that wagon today, thigh to thigh with the flesh-and-blood woman, he might not have recognized her at all, if it hadn't been for her cascade of auburn hair. And then to learn from Aunt Claudia that her niece, his fantasy, was named Eden, of all things...

  "Michael Elijah, I declare." The unabashed amusement in Sera's voice brought him crashing back to the present. "You're blushing."

  He snapped erect, towering over her in dire warning. She merely grinned.

  "So, you liked her, eh?"

  "Seraphina, I will not have you matchmaking for me."

  "Of course not, Michael." She flashed impish dimples and turned on her heel, tossing the apron over the banister.

  "Sera! Where are you going?"

  "To take a gander at this Eden Mallory you like so much."

  Michael groaned to himself. The last thing he wanted was Sera growing friendly with a woman whose father had been a doctor. If any of Mallory's medical wisdom had rubbed off on Eden, she was the one person he could count on to see past his pretenses and warn Sera he was sick.

  "Sera," he said sternly, "ogling strangers and carrying tales are not pastimes for proper young girls—"

  "I know," she countered cheerfully. "That's why I do them." Waving, she darted for the kitchen's outside door.

  "Sera—"

  "Bye, Michael," she called, her words floating above a receding rumble of thunder. "Have a nice sulk."

  He muttered an oath. For a moment, he chased after her. But when the lower half of the back door slammed and he glimpsed her dashing rabbitlike through the puddles of their backyard, he stopped to reconsider. Short of raising Sera's suspicions, and acting like a horse's rear end in the process, what possible excuse could he provide to prevent his sister from visiting their landlord and her guest?

  Giving in to the torment, Michael finally raised a hand to his head. Hellfire. Eden Mallory was bunking next door.

  It was going to be a long summer.

  Rubbing his temples, Michael turned once more for the hallway. The ceiling needed paint, and the primrose-dotted paper on the walls was starting to peel along the seam. He hadn't had time to see to the repairs, though, not between his patients and the various odd jobs he did for Aunt Claudia to repay her loan for his medical schooling.

  His jaw hardened to think of the futility of that education.

  Even after all these years, the thought of Gabriel's death hurt so much, he couldn't bear to look at his brother's daguerreotype. Sera had handled the loss better, but then, at ten years old, Sera hadn't lost her faith in God yet. During Gabriel's burial, she'd sworn she'd seen Mama taking his hand and leading him through the Pearly Gates. Papa, of course, had been livid to think that the wife who had cuckolded him was in heaven. He'd punished Sera for her sin of vanity—lying to seek attention—and he'd forbidden her to speak of her supernatural visions.

  To this day, Michael still wasn't sure that Sera had been lying. But Papa had won: Sera stopped claiming she played with her dead brother's ghost. Gabriel had disappeared entirely from household conversations—until Papa's death. At that point, Sera had ventured her opinion that Gabriel acted as a sort of guardian spirit over his siblings. She'd even dared to confess that she saw Gabriel in her bedroom most nights.

  Michael had been horrified to think that his sister had been suffering these grief-induced delusions for so long—and practically under his nose. He'd promptly prescribed a regimen of medicines and rest. Nowadays, she didn't talk much about Gabriel, and Michael liked to think that he'd finally found the right combination of medicines to put her plague of hallucinations in remission—if not to cure her outright.

  And speaking of visions...

  Michael's mind drifted, conjuring forbidden thoughts of Eden. Now there was a vision a man could believe in: autumn-colored hair, luminous green eyes, luscious breasts and hips. He'd known, of course, that Claudia was expecting kinfolk, but he'd never dreamed that visitor might be the object of his fantasies. For weeks after that night in Whiskey Bend, his dreams had raged like a fever out of control, filling his nights with visions of a tempestuous, red-haired siren who'd dried his tears with one hand and massaged his straining crotch with the other.

  The very idea made him burn with lust and shame.

  Of course, Eden had appeared closer to his own age in the dreams, which had finally dwindled over the years, but not to the point of stopping. In truth, some lonely corner of his soul welcomed their return. But then, he'd never expected to see the real, flesh-and-blood Eden again. He'd never thought he'd have to face her.

  But that's not what's really troubling you, is it, Jones? he jeered in self-disgust. The real trouble is you took a gander at the live woman and came to realize what a poor substitute your imagination has been. She's beautiful.

  A poignant yearning stirred inside him. To the memory of the Tennessee woman-child who'd touched his soul, he could now add the vision of Eden Mallory running across the stree
t, casting her life to the fates, wrestling a wild-eyed horse to save a child. Today he'd seen the strength, the courage, the magnificent spirit of the woman his fantasies had maligned.

  He supposed he should be grateful Eden hadn't recognized him. No doubt his clean-shaven mug looked quite different from the cut and swollen face she'd washed in the livery. With eight years of aging to add to the change, he doubted whether Eden would ever recognize him. He hoped his luck held out. He wasn't proud of his behavior that night in Whiskey Bend.

  If only Eden weren't so... special, he mused wistfully.

  Don't be a fool, Jones. Even if you were in the prime of your health, a woman like Eden Mallory wouldn't look twice at a failure like you.

  The thought lanced his chest, cutting so deeply he actually clutched his heart. Suddenly his knees buckled. He stumbled forward, his hip upsetting the hall table. A flower vase crashed, and lamp fixtures tinkled; something wet and smelling of decay struck his cheek. An indescribable panic seized him as he lost all control of the muscles in his legs. He flung out his hands, groping blindly for the coat tree opposite the table.

  Instead, he fell like an avalanche, striking his temple, helpless to claw his way out of the darkness that flooded his mind.

  * * *

  Collie's head shot up and his hand froze, hovering above the knob to the kitchen's backdoor. Thunder sounded like crumpling tin around him, but the crashing that he'd heard hadn't been thunder.

  His heart lodged in his throat; he nearly strangled on the air that tried to squeeze by. Straining every sense, every instinct, he tried to isolate that noise again. Mountain sounds he knew, but city sounds confused him. They came from every which way, and they always meant trouble—like hounds on a scent. Or a shotgun blast. Was that crotchety old taxidermist still chasing him?

  He crouched the way his cur dog used to, tasting the wind, sniffing the rain. He could run fast, if he had to—not faster than buckshot, but faster than people. And he could outsmart any lazy old city hound, too.

  But nothing stranger than usual struck his senses. Just the smell of horse manure mixed with geraniums and cinnamon, and the clatter of rain mingled with the banging of a window shutter.

  Collie loosed his breath, sagging back against the door. If he weren't so hungry, he wouldn't have come here. Sera was gone, he knew. He'd seen her run hand-in-hand down the street with a tow-headed hillKit. That she wasn't home, in the kitchen, disappointed him; still, he knew she wouldn't mind if he took a loaf of bread. Or maybe one of her apple pies. Sera had said it wasn't stealing if he left something behind. And he always left flowers for Sera. They had an agreement.

  It was the others who didn't understand... like her brother.

  Turning, he raised first his eyes, then his nose, above the half door. He sniffed longingly, his eyes trained on the golden crusts cooling at the center of a sawbuck table. Collie had stolen food a lot less appetizing than that before. But never from Sera, of course. The trouble was, with mud flooding all the ditches, he hadn't been able to find a flower pretty enough to leave her. And he couldn't leave her any of the apples he'd stashed in her rain barrel. He needed those.

  He frowned, mouth watering, mind racing. Would Sera be angry if he brought her flowers later?

  A tiny pain speared his heart.

  No. He couldn't risk that. Sera was his only friend. Maybe he could sweep the floor for her. He knew how much she hated "house drudgery," as she called it.

  Glancing furtively behind him, Collie lifted the latch. The door wasn't locked. It never was. But even if somebody, like that brother of hers, had been mean-spirited enough to lock Sera away from him, Collie would have found a way in. He wasn't the kind who liked to brag, but lock picking was one of his best skills.

  Every instinct on alert, Collie slinked inside the yeasty warmth. To him, the kitchen was Sera, all Sera. Eagerly, he sought the lingering signs of her presence: pink lip smears on a coffee cup, a strand of hair dangling from the water pump, dainty footprints in spilled flour. He breathed deeply, forgetting for a moment his gnawing gut and numbing toes. If he concentrated really hard, sorting through the barrage of odors, he could smell gardenias, Sera's favorite perfume, amidst the bacon grease and spices. He could also smell leather, hair tonic, licorice, and tobacco.

  He frowned, sniffing again. Yep, man smells. Not the sort of odors he associated with Doc Jones, even though Collie knew the sawbones was around here somewhere. He'd seen the gelding in its stall.

  He edged toward the table, careful to "walk Injun," as Pa used to call it. Sidestepping the flour, skirting a broken egg shell, Collie left no traces of his own on the bleached pineboards.

  Then he darted another wary glance around him. So far, so good. He was just reaching for a jar of strawberry preserves when a long, guttural groan made him jump out of his skin. He spun around, his bowie clutched expertly before him, until he realized that no beast was lunging at him from behind.

  Dang. He drew a shaky breath. Did Sera own a hound now?

  Then his gaze lit on a piece of broken porcelain. And a puddle of water, mixed with crushed lilac petals. The debris led into the hall, where it was dim. Collie crouched again, his pulse racing. The groan-growl had come from that dimness.

  With fifteen years of scrapping to bolster his nerve, Collie decided to investigate. It was Sera's house, after all. And if somebody was robbing it, he thought righteously, well... he'd do something. He didn't know what, exactly. But he would.

  Creeping along the wall, Collie drew close enough to the entranceway to poke his head around the corner. What he saw made him gape. Toppled furniture littered the hall; coats and hats were strewn across a pair of boots. Attached to the other end of those boots, beneath a heap of posies and umbrellas, he spied Doc Jones sprawled on his back.

  Collie sniffed suspiciously, looking for whiskey bottles.

  Well, he ain't drunk, at least.

  He edged closer, eyes darting forward and back. When he saw no blood, powder burns, or outlaws lurking in ambush, he squatted warily. Jones looked pale, but not as pale as death. And his breathing was regular. Collie cocked his head. He figured the doc wasn't dying so much as he was dreaming, especially when his legs flailed. Dang. Collie hastily jumped out of the way as a picture frame somersaulted off the end table. No wonder things were strewn all over.

  Collie wandered back into the kitchen, cutting himself a slice of cornpone before he grabbed a broom. Munching as he swept, he tidied Sera's flour, as well as the blue vase scattered through the hall.

  'Course, the skin on his hands and feet was all leather, but he worried that Sera, with her lady's fingers, might get hurt picking up porcelain. So, making sure every last sliver was swept, Collie straightened the furniture and hung the hats and umbrellas. When he'd finished, there wasn't much left of the mess except a watery smear and Jones, who was still snoozing like a baby. Collie shook his head. The doc sure had picked a strange place for a nap.

  He leaned on the broom handle, suddenly wondering if Jones was sick. Sera had said Gabriel died of being sick, and Jones had gotten mighty riled when he'd overheard her say that Gabriel had become an angel who liked to play with lonely boys like Collie. That's why Collie knew the doc didn't like him. 'Course, Collie didn't like Jones, either, so that made them even—well, as even as they could be, he thought sullenly. After all, Jones knew all the Sammertuns in town and could sic them on Collie in a heartbeat.

  Still, if the doc really was sick, Collie mused, maybe he oughta go find Sera. Even if he had no use for her nosy older kin, Sera did. And he didn't think she'd take too kindly to another dead brother.

  Jones groaned again, his head lolling. Collie held his breath. He was just trying to decide whether to stay or run when Jones's glassy blue eyes flickered open and stared square at him.

  "R-Rafe?"

  Uh-oh.

  "Am I in hell, or are you just visiting?"

  Satan's bloomers! Dropping the broom, Collie fled, making sure to grab the cornpone an
d a pie on his way out the door. The doc has gone loco!

  Michael grimaced at the clatter of wood so close to his ears. Squeezing his eyes closed, he tried to make sense of a senseless situation. The boy. No, not Rafe. Rafe isn't fourteen anymore...

  Michael drew a shuddering breath as the memory of their sibling rivalry started to fade. Where was he? And why was he lying on the floor?

  The scent of lilac wafted to his nose.

  He raised tremulous fingers and rubbed his temple. He must be in the hall. Yes, he remembered now. He'd fallen. Struck his head, apparently. He'd been upset. He'd been shaken by his encounter with Eden, and when Sera had insisted on going to meet her—

  "Sera!" He gasped, his eyes flying wide.

  The kitchen door slammed. He was alone.

  Collie. Michael struggled to sit. The boy must have been Collie.

  Silence fell thick and fast, broken only by the tick-tock-ticking that droned endlessly from the wall. He glanced up to note the time, and the clock's hands faded in and out before his eyes. He battled a frisson of panic. My God, what's happening to me?

  Shrugging off wet leaves and petals, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. His pulse was erratic, and his hands tingled as he leaned on the banister. For some reason, he was alive. Why that should be, he didn't know, except that whatever he'd suffered hadn't been an aneurysm.

  He shuddered.

  Spying the pile of porcelain chips, he heaved a breath and frowned. Collie had been sweeping? He suspected Sera's pie thief hadn't tidied the mess to help him. All those years ago, when Sera had tried to comfort Collie over the loss of his hunting hound, Collie had misunderstood Michael's reprimand. He'd been chastising Sera for claiming that Gabriel was in the room, talking to her. Michael hadn't meant to imply that Collie wasn't good enough to play with the "angel" that Gabriel Jones had become. In any event, Collie had gotten his feelings hurt, and matters had only worsened between Collie and Michael when he had stepped forward to help the boy get acclimated to an orphanage after his father died.

  Michael's hands shook, and his knuckles whitened on the banister. Just thinking about his seizure and how he himself might have become a corpse a few minutes ago renewed the pounding in his brain. That Collie, not Sera, had found him had been divine providence, but Michael knew his luck wouldn't hold out.