by Tate, Kristy
“How? How could you have possibly foreseen this?” Trent turned a corner and Mercy bumped against him. Her teeth jarred with the contact.
“Did you know what that girl had planned?” he asked.
“The police?”
Trent shook his head. “Sherriff Calhoun, remember, is a partner in Lucky Island, and I assume, although I don’t know, because you won’t tell me, that this has something to do with the brothel.” Trent gave her a side long glance. “Answer my questions. Why did you bring that girl to this place?”
Mercy blinked back tears. “Dorrie hadn’t mentioned any thoughts of revenge, other than the chocolates, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Revenge?”
Mercy told him of Drake’s involvement. “We didn’t even know if the chocolates would work.”
“Chocolates?”
Mercy hated his tone. It said everything she felt, all the shame and disapproval that racked her he’d managed to communicate in that one word. Chocolates. She looked up at the sky, wishing that it could suck her into its blue expanse and transport her to another planet so that she wouldn’t have to have this conversation. If only a tornado would come and carry her far, far away.
“The chocolates had been laced with a sedative.” She felt her face flush with blood and heat. “It wouldn’t hurt him. It just, supposedly, well it does what the name implies. It’s supposed to suck the violence out of... men.”
She looked up to see Trent’s mouth hanging open in surprise.
“Dr. Merry gave it to me and the girls all swear it works. They’ve all used it before.”
“The girls?”
Mercy sighed. “The girls from Lucky Island. They’ve been working for me. The girls used the sedative on only the most violent men. Hilda had sworn it she’d seen it work, but she didn’t know if the effects were temporary or long lasting. Cassie had thought temporary…to be fair, I’d been skeptical, but it seemed worth a try. And I know the sleeping potion works.”
“Sleeping potion?”
Mercy rushed on. “Dorrie was supposed to leave Drake the chocolates. Each sweet had three times the necessary dosage. Theoretically, if he rationed the chocolates he could have been … out of business, for months. In light of his serious crimes, it seemed a small retribution. Too small.”
“Obviously, that’s what Dorrie had thought,” Trent said. He stopped outside the gate.
Mercy wished she could tell what he thought. With his jaw clamped shut and his eyes hard, he was an impossible read.
“What do you think I should now? It seems wrong to just leave Dorrie there.”
Trent pushed her up the steps of her aunt’s house. “Go to bed, Mercy. I’ll come by in the morning.”
*****
A wind howled and tossed the trees branches and leaves outside the window. Mercy watched the trees’ shadows chase across her bedroom walls. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing Dorrie and Drake and the blood splattered carpet, so she kept her eyes open, her gaze fixed on the moving shadows.
Tomorrow she’d have to face Georgina and the girls. What would she say? Fortunately, Tilly had already gone to bed when Trent had brought her home.
Trent. Mercy rolled over and put her pillow over her head.
Another complication.
An angry one.
She didn’t think the morning would ever come, but when it finally did, Mercy slid from the bed with an iron strong resolve.
*****
Mercy closed the door to Paulson’s Pawn shop with a heart as heavy as her purse. She could feel the gold coins jingling and bouncing against her hip with every step. Worried that the strap would break, she held the purse against her body. After a sleepless night, Mercy had begun her day with a groggy head and determination. She’d sell her mother’s jewels and give all of the money to Georgina’s cause. And although she’d still employ as many girls as her bakery and confectionary could support, she would stop interfering with Steele and the Lucky Island brothel. If she stayed quietly in the background perhaps Steele would never notice her.
A hot dry wind blew down the street, carrying fallen leaves, bits of paper and pieces of trash. Dust swirled through the open gates of Denny Park. Seattle wasn’t a large city, but it was growing rapidly. She was nothing more than a shop girl, not significant in anyway. Of course, she’d thought that before and Steele had still noticed her. He had sought her out, and then had tried to kill her, or abduct her and press her into service as he and Drake Wallace had done to so many others. She couldn’t turn her back on the girls, of course she couldn’t, but she could keep a low profile. She’d make candies, pastries and rarely leave the kitchen. Steele would never know she still existed.
And although the gold could hardly compensate for a girl’s life, at least she had something to offer. Mercy’s feet felt like lead as she entered the gates of Denny Park. She remembered the afternoon she’d met Trent here. Running from Steele, hurrying to Georgina’s, she wished that she’d met Trent under different, less complicated and unhappy circumstances.
Fear niggled in her belly. What if Trent tried to draw her out? She knew she could resist Eloise and the countless social invitations, she knew she could withstand her Aunt’s teasing, but could she refuse Trent? He was like the wind tossing the leaves; he swept her up, carried her about, and pitched her around. Whenever she saw him, whenever she thought about him, she felt pleasure tingling deep inside and threatening to spill. She worried that he could see her thoughts. If he could read her face and know what she felt for him, she’d be lost. No, she couldn’t see him.
Silence muted the park, as if the wind carried a white noise that muffled the sounds of wildlife, insects and people. In what seemed to be a very far distance, she could hear the wagon wheels and horses rolling through the dusty streets. Mercy picked up her skirts and walked a little quicker. The wind blew dust in her eyes and she tasted the grit in her mouth. Why hadn’t she asked Young Lee to accompany her? Was walking through the park with such a substantial amount of money prudent? Maybe she should have asked Trent to pawn the jewels for her, but then she remembered that she’d resolved never to see him again. Just seconds ago. I’m weak, she thought, chastising herself. He makes me weak. I’m stronger without him.
Her head thundered from the blow. Multicolored lights of shooting pain passed before her eyes. Sometime later she found herself face down in the dirt, weaker than she’d ever been before.
CHAPTER 23
To ensure light scones, do not over-handle the dough or roll it too thin.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
Mercy blinked and her eyelash brushed against rotting leaves and twigs. Her head throbbed; she touched it gingerly and found dead leaves stuck in her hair. She pulled them away and saw they were stained and sticky with blood. She hadn’t tripped. Someone or something had knocked her down.
The air, thick with dust hung in the trees and turned the sunlight into the color of a wheat field. The hushed park had come alive; every noise amplified: an animal skittered in a nearby thicket, a twig snapped. Mercy sat up, tried to not to panic, and listened. How long had she lain on the ground? Her muscles cramped and the sun, overshadowed by clouds had risen to a zenith.
She thought back to what seemed like only minutes before -- she’d been thinking of Trent and Dorrie. She’d had a purse full of gold from the sale of her mother’s jewels. Reaching for it and finding nothing, her heart sank.
Mercy rolled over onto her back and watched the sunlight flicker through the boughs of a pine tree and wondered how she could lose the only tangible thing she had left of her mother in such an incomprehensible manner. Her skin pricked and the hairs on the back of her neck rose.
She wasn’t alone.
Animals, she reasoned, possibly a red fox, skunk, or a squirrel. Harmless creatures. Even though she knew a thief wouldn’t stay to watch her wake, panic caught in her throat. She scooted on her bottom and leaned against a pine tree. The dust swirled and disguised
the park. Someone, no something, she corrected herself, hid among the grave markers, watching. Why?
Using the tree for a brace, Mercy stood and managed to brush off her skirts. Her sleeve had a new hole, a straight tear up the inseam, and her arm had a corresponding scratch. She limped with wet noodle legs and unfocused eyes.
Another twig broke. Mercy swallowed deeply and patted her apron for some sort of weapon and found the vial of the sedative. She didn’t want to think of anyone coming close enough to it to be of use. She chose a solid stick from the park’s floor and swung it purposefully as she walked in what she hoped was the direction of her aunt’s home. She abandoned her plans of visiting Georgina; she no longer had anything to offer.
Her head thudded with every footfall, but she held it high, careful not to demonstrate weakness or fear. Another twig, a closer twig, snapped. She picked up her skirts and broke into jog. Behind her, heavy footsteps. She watched the dust curl through the trees and then, seeing nothing but the thick air, she hitched her skirts to her knees and ran, praying for a straight, unimpeded path.
The ground became uneven and Mercy recognized the brick path that led to the street. She stumbled over the bricks, mindful of her ankles and the screaming scratch on her arm. She could hear someone behind her, so close she imagined she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. Any moment she’d pass the folly, a reasonable hiding spot. Mercy sprinted up the incline and saw the folly’s roofline poking out of the swirling dust. As she raced towards it her foot caught on a loose brick and she pitched forward.
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 b
elly.
“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.
*****
