by Tate, Kristy
A crack rang through the forest. Thunder? Or a gun shot? As she ran, her soaked dress caught on branches, tears streamed down her face. She tripped over a tree root, righted herself, and allowed a small glance over her shoulder. She couldn’t see Mr. Steele and yet, she couldn’t stop. Pressing forward, somewhat disoriented, she stopped when a blinding pain slammed across her forehead.
Rose Arbor, Washington
Suddenly, something small, plastic and slimy hits my arm. Flinching, I look up and see a large furry, somewhat slobbery creature leaping in my direction. I try to dodge him, but the monster bolts into me, knocking me down. My bags of apples and oranges spill to the sidewalk and the fruit rolls away like scattered billiard balls. The container of blueberries pops open. I gape at the flying fur prancing around me. He smashes blue berries with every bound. A small boy follows, shouting, “Ball! Ball!”
The boy, a tot with a head of golden curls, throws himself on top of the dog searching for the lost toy. Adult footsteps follow, calling, “Babs! Henry!”
I brush my hands off. They sting from my crash landing and tiny bits of rock and dirt have lodged into my palms.
The footsteps stop in front of me. “So sorry! They’re wild animals.”
I pull my knees up, brush my hands on my corduroys and look up into the face of Odious Odor Errol. His eyes flash with recognition and amusement and he extends a hand down to help me up. I ignore him and climb to my feet.
“Mrs. Michaels? How lovely to see you again.”
I grimace as I try to use my foot. I’d twisted my ankle, making the retrieval of strewn fruit unnecessarily taxing.
“Here, let me help you,” Odious says, taking possession of one of my brown paper bags and scooping up wayward fruit.
“You needn’t bother,” I say, wincing and trying to balance on one leg.
“Henry! Come and help.”
The boy stops wrestling with the furry mammoth, looks at me and says, “She said not to bother.”
“She was just being polite. Now, come on and help pick up what you spilled.”
Henry cocked his head at me, considering. “She doesn’t look polite. Anyways, I didn’t spill it, Babette did.”
From my angle, standing on one foot and using the hand rail as balance, as Odious retrieves apples and oranges, I can see where his hair is thinning on the top of his head. It’s not attractive.
Odious straightens and brushes off his hands on his jeans. “I’m afraid I can’t save the blue berries.”
I shrug. “That’s all right. I’d probably bought more fruit than I could possibly eat.”
“Then why buy it?”
I blink. “Indulgence, I guess.”
His gaze sweeps over my thin frame. “Gluttony doesn’t appear to be your vice. Nor does sloth, given your garden.” He hands me the bags of fruit and notices for the first time I’m not putting weight on my right foot. “Aw, I see. It’s pride.”
“You see what?” I balance the bags, one on each hip.
“Your vice, it’s pride.”
“Nonsense!” I wish he would leave so that I could limp to the Jeep, but then I remember my dysfunctional car and my face flushes hot.
“Absolutely, you weren’t going to tell me you were hurt.” He smiles as if he knows me. “You were waiting for me to leave so that you could hobble on your own.” He holds out his arm as if to wrap them around me. “Here, let me help.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.” I can’t take a step, but other than that, I’m as right as rain. And then, as if the heavens heard, a raindrop falls.
He chuckles. “See? Pride. If you suffered from greed, you’d be threatening a law suit. Wrath and you’d be howling for vengeance. Lust -- well, then you wouldn’t be refusing my arm.” He pulls the bags from my arms. “Now, where is your car?”
I blink, feeling defeated. Gulping, I say, “My car isn’t working.”
“Did you ride the bus?”
I hadn’t thought of the bus. “Yes.” Another lie. This man makes me lie.
He laughs. “Will it take you to your doorstep? If not, I’m afraid you’ll have a hard time climbing Olympic Hill.”
“No, a friend will pick me up,” I admit, not liking the direction of the conversation. I can see where it’s headed, but I feel powerless to stop it. It’s like watching a flame flicker towards a fuse to a stick of dynamite. Does a refusal of help signify pride, or common sense? “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
His gaze sweeps over me as he laughs. Then he abruptly turns and walks away with my bags of fruit. Whistling, the dog and child fall behind him. He looks like the Pied Piper, or the conductor of a marching band.
“Wait!” I call after him.
He turns and raises his eyebrows, a smile tugging at his lips.
“You have my groceries.”
“Come and get them,” he says, walking backwards.
I stand rooted to the sidewalk. “That’s not fair.”
“Fairs are for pigs and cows,” Henry says.
“Well said, son,” Errol says.
“And people,” I tell them, hating that I have to raise my voice. “People can also be fair. Or not.”
He nodds in my direction. “Have you already called your friend?”
I don’t answer but hobble towards him. I do okay on the sidewalk, but he’d climbed the grassy hill, and I worry that I’ll slip and fall. With my lower lip caught between my teeth, I try to navigate the lawn. Another rain drop falls. If the grass becomes slippery and wet, I’ll have to crawl.
“We’ve spent so much time discussing your vice, we haven’t talked about mine,” he says, watching me.
I don’t want to tell him that Dot had previously described his vices in great length.
“Envy,” he says, coming towards me. “Right now, I envy your friend.”
Sighing, I reach out and take hold of his arm. He seems remarkably stable. Hitching both bags to one hip, he slips one arm around my waist and pulls me to his side. Together, with the dog and child trailing behind, we do a fair imitation of a three legged race contestants. Only we don’t race. We walk slowly and without conversation to his Mercedes, my hip bumping his thigh. He smells of leather and cloves.
Standing on the sidewalk, he clicks his fob and the trunk whirrs open. He drops his arm from my waist and I’m suddenly cold without him. After depositing the groceries beside a set of golf clubs, he closes the door and then scoops up the child and hoists him into a car seat. Henry goes in without a sound. Babette follows. I feel somewhat reluctantly impressed that he’d settle his dog and child first before opening my door.
CHAPTER 26
Peppermint tea is used to calm the palpitation of the heart. In cases of hysteria and nervous disorders, try an infusion of peppermint to soothe.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
I really have to stop waking like this, she thought. This was the second time in the same day that she found herself face down in dirt, terrified. This cannot continue, she reasoned, pushing up onto her elbows, hesitant and afraid of an assailant. As she tried to look around, a wave of dizziness sent bile up her throat. “Oh dear,” she moaned, laying her head back onto her hands as a band of pain tightened around her temples. She curled her knees into her belly before attempting to stand. She rubbed her dizzy head, thinking of Steele. Had he even recognized her? Had he chased her? Had he considered her dead and left her for wolves? She mustered her strength and a tiny ounce of courage. With the help of a tree trunk she managed to get to her feet.
Why hadn’t she confided in Trent? Why hadn’t she told him about the night in New York when she’d left Steele for dead? She’d confided in Georgina, why not Trent? Was it because she was in love him? Because she valued his good opinion? Had she thought that he wouldn’t understand? How could he understand? How could any man understand the fear of a lone woman? Given Trent’s height, strength and his willingness—if not eagerness—to fight, he’d never understand her sense of vulnerability. He never ha
d to carry forged iron umbrellas.
A rabbit skittered across the path. Frightened, she jumped and her feet went out from under her. She landed hard on her bottom. Struggling to regain control of her shaking body, she managed to push the sodden strands of hair away from her face and tuck them behind her ears. Then she bowed her head.
With no other options, with no avenues for help, Mercy began to silently beg. “Oh God, forgive me for not listening to Father Klum. If you’ll help me return to the ranch, safe, dry, and no longer pursued, I promise I’ll attend all of his sermons. I’ll donate all my chocolate money to the poor. I’m so very tired of being chased.” So very tired. I must get up, she thought, I can’t lie here damp and cold. Slumping to the ground, she laid her head back into her hands.
*****
He didn’t regret kissing her, who, after all, would? But, he still felt a twinge of guilt. While he felt nearly consumed in his desire for her, she, obviously, didn’t feel the same and so, as he hurried through the woods, he felt a confusion of shame, longing and worry. The path clung to the river bank and in the distance, caught in a snarl of fallen branches at the river’s edge, Trent spotted Mercy’s shoe. He felt sick.
And then he saw the bright blue frill of her skirt lying in the mud. Her hair fanned over her face, her legs curled into her skirts, her arms tucked beneath her body for warmth. His heart stopped for a moment and then he raced to her.
He knelt down and worried where to touch her without causing pain. “Mercy,” he whispered, reaching out and brushing her hair off her cheek. “Are you hurt?”
She didn’t respond. Her face was white, her lips blue. He strangled back a sob as he gently lifted her into his arms. She felt weightless and as her head rolled back he was stunned by the fragility of her neck. An angry welt was rising on her forehead. Why had she seemed so indomitable to him? She’d been so strong, so full of purpose. She’d always had such an agenda, why hadn’t he seen her frailty? How delicate she’d always been, not just now, as she shivered against him, but even as she’d wielded her ridiculous umbrella, she’d been just a tiny thing in a giant outrage.
He pressed her to him, willing his heat to warm her. She murmured something and her eyelids fluttered.
“What is it, Mercy?” Trent asked, smoothing back her hair, examining the purpling bruise on her face.
“Thank you,” she said through chattering teeth, “for coming for me.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” he said, smiling despite his fears. He cradled her like a child and she huddled against him, shivering.
“I was mean. I’ve promised God I’ll never be mean again.”
She must have really hit her head, he thought , wondering if he could use this promise in the future. He knew they were a mile or so from the farm house and less than a quarter of a mile from the ground’s keeper’s cottage.
“I’m so cold,” Mercy said, her teeth clattering.
“I know, sweet, you’ll be warm soon.” He turned towards the cottage.
Mercy shook her head.
“No?” Trent asked, looking down at her, struck again by her pale skin and bright eyes.
“Perhaps never.”
“Don’t say that, darling. Don’t.”
Mercy fell silent and Trent couldn’t help watching her as he walked as quickly as he could to the cottage. In his arms, she grew quieter, the shivering abated. He jostled her. “Mercy?”
“Hmmm,” she murmured.
“Mercy, you have to stay awake.”
She turned her face into his chest. “No. I’m going to sleep now.”
“No, sweet, you’re not.” He stopped and brushed her hair away from her face, exposing the welt that had seemed to have doubled since he’d last looked. “You have to stay awake.” Panic made his voice ragged. “If you sleep, I’m afraid you won’t be able to wake.”
She turned her face against his chest. “Silly,” she said.
He shook her, feeling mean and scared. “MERCY! You can’t fall asleep!”
“I’m so very tired.”
“I know, but you can’t--” to his relief he saw the cottage over the knoll. It stood in the shelter of maples and pines. The river curled behind it and in the far distance he could see Mount Rainer. He could go for help, but then he thought of Steele and the thought of leaving Mercy alone terrified him. He’d have to warm her first, and then go for help.
When he pounded the door, Mercy didn’t flinch. Fear welled in his chest. He kicked the door with his boot.
“Higgins!” he called for the grounds keeper and then remembered that Higgins would be at the main house with the guests. Trent swore softly and then tried the door. It swung open and a breath of warm air swelled out.
Trent had never given Higgins much thought. The gardener, a gentle man usually accompanied by shovels and a wheelbarrow, had always smelled of dung and peppermint. The dung he’d understood, seeing that the ranch had a large amount of gardens to be mucked, but the peppermint he really hadn’t considered. The cottage reeked of the Christmasy smell.
Trent pushed into the room and slammed the door behind him. Ashes smoldered in the grate. A sofa stood before the fire, and Trent laid Mercy on it, tucking his coat around her shoulders. She buried into its warmth, still shaking.
“Just a minute, sweet,” he said, wondering if she could hear his promise.
After a moment, he had the fire roaring. Through an open door, he spied a large quilt folded at the end a bed. “Forgive me, Higgins” he muttered as he retrieved the quilt.
For a second he stood, considering. He wondered what his gram or Chloe would say. He wondered if they’d come looking for them when they didn’t return with the promised fish or huckleberries.
He knew what he had to do, and yet he hesitated. In the many times he’d imagined stripping off Mercy’s clothes, he’d never seen it going quite this way.
CHAPTER 27
Bear meat is very hearty and gaseous. Don't serve with baked beans or onions.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
Mercy woke to find a cup pressing against her lips. The cup’s rim scalded. She tried to turn her head, but a hand held her fast. “No,” she said. The liquid had a pungent odor, like Christmas. Peppermint.
She’d spent the last Christmas with her parents and now she’d never spend another with them. Unless.
“Mercy, stay with me.” The hand bobbled her head and the tea splashed on her throat. Trent. Mercy smiled.
“Did I hurt you?” A piece of cloth mopped at her throat. She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t feel. She knew she was cold and that the tea had been hot, but somehow none of that mattered. She faded into a dream.
The sheep bleated and the bear growled low at a peacock wandering too close to his cage.
“It seems unkind to allow these flocks to congregate around the bear,” Steele said.
“I think it unkind to keep the poor thing in cage,” Mercy said, sizing up the animal that rather resembled a furry tree stump. “Although, he looks remarkably well fed. I’m sure he’s not tempted by a few smelly sheep.”
“Temptation. I understand temptation.”
“Are you fond of mutton?” she asked. “Should I warn the sheep?”
He ran a finger down her arm, sending a cold shiver across her back. “I’m fond of buttons, particularly undone buttons.” He took her wrist and pulled her to him. He smelled of soap, heavy with lye. His mustache poked her lips when he kissed her. She felt nothing, but a panicky need to escape.
“I will make you a lucky girl,” he said in her ear.
Lucky girl. I will not be your lucky girl, she screamed, raising the poker over her head and crashing it onto his skull. The blue sky faded into dark; the shadows flickered with the fire’s changing light. The moon sent its rays into the tiny apartment and ice filmed the windows.
She was cold. Despite the fires, despite the sun, she couldn’t be warm.
When Trent heard Mercy scream, he abandoned the tea pot. Repeated she call
ed Steele’s name, and then she said, very distinctly, “I will not be your lucky girl!”
And suddenly, Trent understood. He heard everything she said and everything the words implied. Combined with his conversation with Steele, it all, suddenly, made sense.
He had to marry her. He didn’t stop to question anything. He only knew that he had to marry her. Immediately. She was in serious danger. She’d somehow thwarted Steele in New York and staged her own suicide. She’d sailed around the western hemisphere on her own. Imagine her terror at encountering Steele again. No wonder she’d been plotting and conniving to shut down Steele’s brothel. She probably thought that if she could take out Lucky Island she’d be rid of him.
Steele wouldn’t be foiled so easily. Trent could only guarantee her safety if he kept her with him, always. He wouldn’t consider how ridiculous it was for him to believe he could keep a constant vigil over her. He didn’t care that she might have an opinion on her marital state. None of that mattered. If she woke, when she woke, they’d be married.
For a moment he abandoned the cool rag he pressed against Mercy’s forehead and went to Higgin’s bedroom where he found a soft pair of breeches and a large white shirt. Thankfully, the ground’s keeper was about his size. He’d have to repay him. Trent stepped out of his own sodden clothes and into Higgins’. He let himself imagine sharing the cottage with Mercy, returning at days end to her, stripping out of his clothes before her without thought or embarrassment, without lust.
His imagination faltered. Who could step out of his clothes beside her and casually talk of the weather, the horses, or the garden? Who could think of anything other than being with her?
He needed to go and get help and yet, he couldn’t leave her. Perhaps a miracle would send Higgins back to the cottage. Trent attempted to change his clothes without taking his eyes off of her. She slept, still and silent and he didn’t know which was worse, the nightmare or the deadly sleep. When he tightened the belt of the trousers, she stirred. He shoved his arms into the shirt and hurried to her side.
