Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Taylor’s breath came in a gasping rasp of sound. She felt Grey at her back, although he hadn’t touched her or said anything. She leaned back against the warm and solid support of his broad chest. He put a hand on her arm and held her protectively. “In your vision, what was I doing, Bentley?” Taylor asked, already fearing his answer.

  Bentley’s face drained of color. He didn’t want to tell her; that much was evident. “Mind you, I only saw this for a second or two, and I am now trying to recall every detail. But you were … well, you were lying on the ground. Bleeding. And under you, as if you’d thrown yourself protectively over her, was Miss Amanda.”

  Taylor felt as if she’d been gut-punched. It was Rube’s curse coming true. The old Cherokee guard had said she or those she loved would die. He’d said they would not live long lives and would not know happiness. It was coming true—and she had brought all this on them herself. By being here and by being alive. No more. She would do everything she could to make certain they lived—and she didn’t, should it come to that.

  “Son of a bitch,” Grey said at her back, startling Taylor back to the moment. “Are you sure that’s all you saw, Bentley? Where was I?”

  “I didn’t see you, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Grey gently squeezed Taylor’s shoulders, kissing the top of her head. “It’s not true. Don’t you see? It can’t be because I’m not there. And I won’t leave you, Taylor.”

  She gave a shake of her head. Her chest felt very tight. Drawing in air was difficult. She had to keep her private vendetta a secret from Grey. He would tie her up and leave her here if he had any idea what she planned to do. She had no idea why Bentley hadn’t seen Grey there … but something would happen to separate them. It would. Spirit guides were never wrong.

  “I’m so sorry. But I felt I should tell you,” Bentley was saying, looking from her to Grey. “I’m certain it’s a warning of some sort.” Then he clutched at Taylor’s arm and looked into her eyes. “You will be careful, won’t you, miss? We’re all quite fond of you here.”

  Moved by his declaration, Taylor nodded and tried to speak around the lump of fear and emotion clogging her throat. “I will be careful, my man-bird. As always, you will be my talisman, and you will keep the danger from me.”

  She’d said it with a smile … but she knew she’d lied and that it was impossible. The danger would find her. And it would kill her.

  * * *

  Before Grey could even alight from the brougham, the front door of the Stanley James residence was jerked open. Amanda stood in the doorway. Sobbing and dressed in rumpled clothes that appeared to have been worn since yesterday, she clung to the doorjamb and to the door itself, swaying between them as if she’d been lashed to them. “Thank God you’re here. I fear Mother is dying.”

  Grey spoke from the carriage’s door he’d just opened. “Where is Dr. Meade’s carriage? I told your boy to go for him.”

  “I haven’t seen him,” Amanda sobbed.

  “Then where’s your father?” Grey barked as his feet hit the ground. From the corner of his eye, Grey was aware of Taylor’s movements. She had dismounted from Red Sky and was handing her reins over to Calvin, who’d ridden here topside and seated next to the driver.

  Amanda’s face contorted with another spasm of emotional pain. “Father left. I don’t know where he went.”

  Grey frowned, exchanging a pointed look with Taylor, who now stood beside him and was pale, tight-lipped … and dangerously silent. “That’s odd behavior for him, Amanda,” Grey said, hearing the angry bark in his own voice. It wasn’t directed at her but at the ugliness he felt certain the day’s events would expose to them all.

  With Taylor at his side, they quickly strode up the walkway that led to the opened door where the girl was. “Amanda, how is it that you’re left to open the door? You must have a staff approaching fifty here. Where’s your butler?”

  It wasn’t propriety he worried about, but chaos. Was no one in charge? Was nothing being done for Camilla? And to help Amanda?

  “Grey, please, what does it matter? I was afraid!” Amanda cried, now wringing her hands together. “I heard your carriage and ran to see if it was the doctor or my father. When I saw you and Taylor from the window, I came running down myself. I sent Henry up to be with his wife, Betsy, our housekeeper. She’s something of a nurse and is with Mother right now. Please, Grey, Taylor, help me.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Amanda. Help you. I need to know where everyone is, though, in order to do that. I have to say I don’t understand your father at all. The man’s wife is dying—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s true. She is,” Amanda said, her voice breaking, a hand to her temple. She stared at the ground as she spoke, sounding as if she weren’t aware she was speaking aloud. “So pale and vomiting. She’s wringing wet with her own perspiration and can barely talk.” Suddenly Amanda sought Grey’s gaze, her own wide-eyed and nearing the precipice of panic. “I don’t know where Father is. Do you hear me? He left in a rage, saying he would kill her.”

  With those dire words, Amanda flung herself outside and into Grey’s arms. Taylor immediately tore her cousin away from Grey and spun her to face her. “Amanda, listen to me. Kill who? Who did he mean?”

  Amanda sobbed and nodded. Taylor exchanged a fearful look with Grey and then lovingly brushed Amanda’s hair away from her emotion-dampened face. She gently gripped the other girl’s chin. “Amanda, who do you think he meant?”

  But Grey knew. “My mother.” Even to his own ears, his voice held the ring of steel. “Goddammit,” he said through gritted teeth. Both women faced him, frozen in place, their eyes wide. “Take Amanda inside, Taylor,” he ordered. “Go inside now, both of you. Go on.”

  “Grey, your mother? Are you sure?” This was Taylor. She hadn’t moved, and she still held onto Amanda, who was clinging to her.

  His heart was breaking, but Grey tried his hardest not to dissolve right there. “Yes, my mother. Who else? You said so yourself not three days ago on our picnic. It’s what Amanda also believes. Am I right or not?”

  The women exchanged a glance and then faced him again. They didn’t need to say a word, yet Taylor spoke, her heart in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Grey.”

  He nodded. “Me, too. For all of us.”

  “You have to go to her.”

  Grey stared stupidly at Taylor and felt certain his bones were melting. He could barely think. Stanley James had gone to kill his mother? Why? Supposedly the two were in love. Then he remembered Bentley’s vision. His mind cleared. “No, Taylor. I’m not leaving you. Franklin is home with her. He’ll protect her. And Bentley said we—”

  “No. Bentley said only me. I can take care of myself. I always have. And Franklin may not be with your mother.”

  “He’s not,” Amanda cut in. “He’s at Uncle Charles’s. There’s a meeting of his campaign committee. I sent a boy to get them, but to tell them to come here. So your mother is alone, Grey. And she can be the only one Father meant.”

  Taylor spoke next. “Go to her, Grey. She’s your mother. If she’s done something, no matter what it is, she’s your mother and you must respect her.”

  Grey stared at Taylor for a long heartfelt moment. “Remember those words, Taylor. You’re going to need them today. Now, go inside and take Amanda with you. Be with Camilla while you can.”

  With that, he pivoted to face the brougham, his gaze searching. “Calvin!” he called out impatiently. The boy sprinted around from the carriage’s opposite side and gave Grey a questioning look. “Jump on Red Sky and ride for Dr. Meade’s. God alone knows what’s become of that James runner. After that, ride for the police. Send them to my mother’s home. It’s where I’ll be. Go now!”

  Without looking back to see if Taylor and Amanda had done as he’d said, Grey hopped back into the brougham, yelling out to his driver as he did, “To my mother’s home, Edward! Hurry!”

  As Edward climbed hastily onto his perch, Grey c
losed the door and peered out the small window, looking to where he’d left Taylor and Amanda. They were still standing there … holding each other and staring at him. Grey’s gaze locked with Taylor’s. In her blue eyes he saw everything he needed to see. Love. Regret. Sympathy. She was hurting for him and for what he may face at his mother’s. Yet Grey knew that what Taylor faced here was most likely a hundred times worse. A hand held out to her, he nodded, acknowledging her silent message.

  “Do you have your gun, Grey?” Taylor suddenly called out, already reaching for hers, as if she meant to throw it to him.

  It wasn’t what she wanted to say, Grey knew, but it was all she could say at this moment. He understood. Both of them needed not to think, not to feel. But to act. God willing, there would be time later for crushing emotion. But not now. So, hoping his expression conveyed to her the depth of his love for her, Grey shook his head. “Keep your weapon, Taylor. I have mine. And you … you will need yours. Be careful.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Hurry, Taylor. We have to hurry.”

  “I’m right behind you, Amanda. Lead the way.”

  Under the twinkling glitter of a massive crystal chandelier hanging suspended overhead, Taylor quickly and solemnly followed Amanda’s frantic form up the wide polished-wood staircase that began in the marble-tiled gallery entryway and split at a small landing about ten steps up. From there, with a grand sweep off either end of the landing, the stairs swooped upward in two directions to the second floor. Given her current frame of mind … uncertain, fearful, angry, seeing an omen in every word, every action … Taylor likened the banistered structure to the spread wings of a great bird of prey, just waiting to devour her. She swallowed and fingered her gun in its holster.

  “This way.” At the landing, Amanda turned left and, still holding her skirt up to keep from tripping on its rumpled length, hurried onward. “Not much farther. Oh, Taylor, I cannot believe this. I never should have told Father that you were coming.”

  “You mean today?”

  “Yes. No. At all, I mean. Then maybe Mother wouldn’t be—” Amanda gasped and jerked around to face Taylor. “I didn’t mean that like it sounds. It’s not because of you—”

  “I know, Amanda. Just get me to her. I want to see her.”

  Amanda’s expression crumpled. She let go of her skirt and put her hands to her face. Sympathetic yet helpless, Taylor reached a hand out to her cousin, but Amanda sank down in a crying heap on a riser. Taylor instantly sat next to her and put an arm around her, cradling her, allowing her to sob out her misery. “I’m so sorry to break down, Taylor. You always were the strong one. But we’re losing her. I can’t help but cry.”

  “Do so if you must, Amanda.” What Taylor didn’t say was that she was not strong, as her cousin said she was. She was hardened, but not strong. “You have been facing many sorrows these days.”

  Amanda lowered her hands from her face and stared heartbroken into Taylor’s face. “She keeps calling for you.”

  Taylor nodded, frowning. “Your messenger said this also. Why me? I would think she would want you, Amanda.”

  Her face blotchy with emotion, Amanda stared into Taylor’s eyes. “She does. She knows I’m there every second with her. But she says she has something to tell you that you should hear only from her.”

  Taylor’s gut tightened with apprehension. She abruptly stood up. “Then we should go to her.”

  Still sitting, Amanda grabbed Taylor’s hand and held on. “No. I’m afraid to let you talk to her. Because I fear she is waiting only to see you before she … lets go.”

  Taylor looked down into her beloved cousin’s face. “We will pray that is not so. But if it is, there is nothing we can do to stop it. I should grant her wish and hear her words.”

  Amanda’s chin quivered as she stared up into Taylor’s face. Then slowly Amanda leaned forward, touching her forehead to Taylor’s hand. “I love you so much, Taylor. I have thought of you so often through the years.” She again looked up at Taylor. “Will you help me be strong? Will you hold my hand?”

  Taylor smiled down at Amanda and stroked her face, one shaped so much like her own. “I will. But first you must show me the way.” She turned to look up the stairs to the second floor.

  Amanda sighed. “All right. Let’s go.” With Taylor still holding her hand and assisting her to stand, Amanda came to her feet.

  Taylor walked quietly by her cousin’s side, her hand held tightly by Amanda. In only another moment, they achieved the second floor and walked down its length, their footsteps muffled by a long woven runner. To both sides of them were closed doors that, Taylor presumed, hid the family’s bedrooms. As she walked, she couldn’t help but notice the gallery of family portraits adorning the walls.… These people were also hers. Beneath a few of the paintings were vases of fresh-cut flowers atop dark-wood tables. At the hall’s very end was a tall, narrow window that allowed sunlight to cheerfully filter in. All in all, the scene was a pleasant one of exceeding wealth and domestic tranquillity … but a mocking one. Because behind one of these doors a woman lay on her deathbed as a result of having been repeatedly poisoned.

  At least, that was what Taylor believed. Just then, a door opened about three down from where Amanda and Taylor were and on their right. Out stepped an older woman attired in a domestic’s gray uniform. Her back was to Taylor as she took great care to close the door behind her. Taylor noted that the slender woman’s graying hair was coming undone from its bun. Just then the woman shook her head sadly and turned around, her face a study in worry. In her hands was a basin stacked with wet and soiled cloths. She looked up and started when she saw the girls almost upon her. “Oh, you startled me, Miss James.”

  She was speaking to Amanda, who answered her. “I’m sorry, Betsy. This is Taylor, my cousin. She’s finally here.”

  “Praise the Lord.” The woman tugged back a wisp of the hair that had come undone and was hanging in her haggard face. She stared now at Taylor. “I’m so glad you’re here. She’s been asking for you.”

  With that, she stepped back and opened the door, giving it enough of a push to swing it open. “Go on in, honey. You, too, Amanda. She wants you both in there. I won’t let anyone in until you come out. Just try not to excite her or wear her out, you hear?”

  With Amanda, Taylor nodded that she heard and understood. As one, she and Amanda approached the door, turned into the room—heard the door close behind them—and walked to the bed, stopping beside it. What Taylor saw there shocked her. She stifled a gasp, reflexively squeezing Amanda’s hand. Taylor would never have known this woman was her Aunt Camilla. The woman in the bed, clad in a white nightgown and covered to her chest with a sheet, was pale and sweating. She looked old. Her dark hair was lackluster; her brown eyes glinted dully from sunken hollows of sockets. Under her eyes was limned in blue, as were her lips. She tossed her head from one side to the other, as if in pain. But she seemed suddenly to sense the presence of the girls. She stilled and stared their way. She tried to smile, but it wouldn’t hold. With effort, she raised a thin clawlike hand and said, “Taylor, you’ve come. I knew you would.”

  Her voice was whispery, feeble. Taylor’s heart lurched. She instantly stepped forward, up to the bed, and took her aunt’s hand in both of hers. It was amazingly cold and blue-veined. Taylor jerked her gaze to Amanda, who’d appeared on the bed’s other side and now held her mother’s other hand. Her cousin nodded as if to say she knew. Taylor returned her attention to her aunt. “Of course I have come. You are my aunt, and I love you.”

  Camilla James shook her head slowly from side to side, squeezing her eyes shut as silent sobs racked her. Alarmed, Taylor exchanged a glance with Amanda, who looked equally distraught, and then put her free hand on her aunt’s shoulder. “Do not cry. You must not upset yourself. You must save your strength so you can fight this and get better.”

  Camilla opened her eyes, showing Taylor she had knowledge of her impending death. “I have no strength. I wil
l not get better. It’s why I sent for you.” She stopped, taking in several shallow breaths. Over the ominous rattle in the sick woman’s throat, Taylor could hear her cousin’s quiet crying. “What I have to tell you, Taylor and Amanda, you must hear from me. Both of you.” She looked to Amanda. “Don’t cry, my sweet. I have to do this.”

  Amanda raised her mother’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “I know, Mother. I know.”

  “Where is … Where’s your father? I don’t want him … to hear.”

  Amanda met Taylor’s gaze and then tenderly stroked her mother’s head. “He went—he’s not here.” Taylor heard the hardness and bitterness in Amanda’s voice when she spoke of her father. But then she went on in loving, soothing tones. “You can talk to us, Mother. No one but us will hear you.”

  “Good.” Camilla James nodded and slowly rolled her head, as if it took effort, until she again faced Taylor. Then, with each girl standing on opposite sides of her bed and holding her hands, the sick and dying woman said, “I don’t have much time.” Amanda’s tears flowed again. Taylor tensed her jaw, working it, forcing a muscle in her jaw to jump … but she remained dry-eyed. “I didn’t want to tell you in this way. But now I have no choice. You must know the truth.”

  “The truth about what, Aunt Camilla?” Taylor’s stomach was in knots and her heart thumped erratically in her chest.

  Camilla’s eyes filled with tears. “I am not your aunt, Taylor.”

  Amanda gasped at the same time as Taylor, who wondered if maybe her aunt was a bit delirious. “Of course you are my aunt. Uncle Stanley is my father’s brother, and you are married to him. You are my aunt. Maybe not my blood. But the aunt of my heart.”

  Camilla shook her head and swallowed. Her hand in Taylor’s felt limp and clammy. “No. I am your blood. You have my blood, Taylor.”