by Grace Walton
“I believe there was an omnipotent force that created the world.” It was an honest answer, but a thoroughly unsatisfactory one to Rory.
“What else did your sister-in-law teach you?” He changed the subject again.
“Well, she tried to teach me to control my temper and not to act so impulsively, but I wasn't a very good student.” Rory laughed. “God's still trying to teach me those two. Maybe that's why He sent you to Savannah?” They reached the top of the staircase.
“Rory I've been called many things, but never an instrument of God,” he mocked. “Is the rest of your wardrobe as striking as this velvet gown?”
“Come and see for yourself,” she challenged gaily leading him into her bedchamber. The pristine white of the dresses shone clearly atop the richly colored bed covers. They had all been cut and sewn with precision. Tiny embroidered stitches and crystal beads adorned the starkly simple evening gowns, while snowy satin ribbons cascaded from the bodice of the day dresses. A beautifully tailored riding habit was constructed from bleached nubby canvas. Every article of her new wardrobe was an unrelieved white. Gloves, bonnets, slippers, everything she would wear in Savannah was the same hue.
“Dylan, why white?” It seemed odd to her that choice.
“Rory by nature, people are very inquisitive. I'll wager once they notice you wearing white exclusively, they'll be intrigued.” He strolled to a nearby chair and sat down. “So intrigued, in fact, they'll invite you,” he said sardonically, “to every ball, tea, or dinner that's being held. Those invitations will naturally include your betrothed.”
“Why do you need to go to all those parties?” She had joined him and sat in the companion chair. “I always imagined spies spent most of their time sneaking through dark alleys or listening at locked keyholes.”
His low laughter was rich and dark. “Most people think that,” he acknowledged. “Actually, I get my information in the most commonplace way.”
“What way would that be?” she persisted.
Dylan was silent for a moment as he considered how to reply. He had no intention of telling her about how useful women had been to him in the past. But he knew she would not rest until she'd gotten a satisfactory answer. “Much of the time, at parties, wine flows freely. People reveal more than they intend to, and most don't remember the next morning exactly what they said.”
She nodded and replied, “Especially in Savannah.” A few glasses of Chatham Artillery Punch had been known to lay out the strongest man.
He did not tell her of the midnight prowls that were a vital part of gaining information. Or that guns and swords were frequently involved. Dylan would make sure she was never a part of the seamy dangerous side of what he did. “Just follow my lead sweetheart, you'll do fine.”
Rory was silent and thoughtful, then she asked softly, “Dylan what will happen if we're found out?”
“Found out?” He was puzzled.
“What if someone guesses we aren't really engaged? What if the gunrunners find out what we're doing, what if…” She was clearly worried.
“Life is made of what ifs Rory,” he spoke coolly. “Doesn't the Bible say, 'cast your burdens on the Lord for He cares for you'.”
She nodded, surprised. “How do you know that verse?”
“It was my mother's favorite.” He shrugged, making light of her question. Rory could tell by the closed look in his eyes, there would be no elaboration. “Sweetheart, throw on that new riding habit and meet me at the stables.”
Before she could ask why, he was gone. As she changed into the riding clothes, Rory mulled over all he'd said. She prayed God would bless what they were about to do. She felt like some of the Old Testament women who'd had to be obedient to the Lord without being sure of the outcome. At the mirror of her dressing table, she stopped and put her hair up in a knot. A maid finally had taught her how to master that trick. Her reflection in the mirror revealed a determined young woman.
Lord, she prayed silently, I know you want me to help Dylan, and I know he needs you. Make me able. As she turned with a rustle of skirts to leave, she realized true obedience never stopped to question how the challenge would be overcome. It only responded in trust to the One who allowed the challenge. Lord, she sent up one last request. I trust you. Help me trust you more.
Rory was tugging on an ivory riding glove as she walked out the back door. She walked through the garden toward the stables. Her attention was focused on the troublesome little button that fastened the glove. She didn’t look up until she'd almost reached the stable yard. When she finally did glance up, she stopped dead in her tracks, stunned at the sight before her.
Dylan sat confidently astride the biggest blackest horse she'd ever seen. A stable boy held the reins of a dainty white Arab mare. Rory held out her palm to the mare who lipped it and whickered softly.
“She's a darling.” Rory patted the horse's sleek arched neck. “Is she for me?” It was hopeful.
“Perhaps, I haven't decided,” he said. “I was thinking about giving her to Sander.”
Her crestfallen look was so obvious he laughed softly and confessed, “Yes sweetheart, she's yours. She'll make a perfect town mount in Savannah and besides,” he goaded lightly, “She matches your wardrobe.”
The stable boy locked his hands to make a step for Rory. She thanked him and mounted quickly. With the slightest nudge from Rory, the mare tossed her head and danced sideways.
“She's a spirited little thing. Just like her rider.” Dylan warned as he watched her gather the reins more securely.
“She just needs a good run. That's all,” protested Rory defending her new mount. She intentionally ignored his compliment.
The mare snorted and lashed out with one hind leg at the big black beside her. As Dylan reached to grab the unruly mare's reins, she reared up and shot off across a bare field. Dylan spurred his horse after them. He wasn't too concerned about the feisty mare's break for freedom. He knew the girl could ride. Ride wasn't the word for it. Rory Windsor made every other woman he knew look like a sack of flour atop a horse. There was a grace about her as she rode. Something he'd never seen in another female.
The white horse would soon run her energy off then they could talk. They needed to talk. Rory had to know what to expect from him in the upcoming days. Dylan was intent on her realizing from the onset that their relationship was a cold-blooded business arrangement. Everyone in Savannah must be convinced he was in love with the red-haired girl. But she had to know the truth.
Love was not even a remote possibility. Not for Dylan St. John, never with Aurora Windsor. If he could come up with a way to repay her for her help, he would. Settling his debt to her would make the point crystal clear. The gift of the mare was a step in that direction.
He easily kept a length behind the racing white horse. It was obvious Rory's mount was tiring. Their original breakneck pace was gradually slowing into an even steady lope. Dylan's own horse was built more for stamina and had no difficulty pacing the Arab.
They had galloped through several fields, over a muddy creek, through some piney woods, and now they approached a wide irrigation ditch. Rory gathered the mare to jump the ditch when the tired horse suddenly refused.
Dylan's heart slammed into his ribs as he saw the horse shy. It stumbled to avoid the ditch. Rory jerked the mare's reins in an attempt to help the animal catch its balance. This almost worked, almost. The momentum of the Arabian mare drove it down towards the marshy ground.
At the last possible second, Rory kicked her feet free of the stirrups and tumbled bonelessly to the cold muddy ground. It was a practiced move. One he knew to be in the arsenal of an experienced horseman.
But she didn't do what was supposed to come next, a smooth roll to absorb the bone breaking impact with the earth. He heard the hollow crack as her head hit a large stone lining the bank of the ditch. The nauseating sound of a ripe melon being dashed open filled the air.
Dylan's curses rent the sudden silence. He vaulted off t
he black before it had a chance to stop. Rory lay strangely still in the dead winter grass.
“No,” growled the man fiercely as he gathered her tenderly into his arms. “No, you stubborn imp.” Kneeling there holding her limp body, he watched the beautiful face intently for any signs of life. There were none.
His face seemed carved in stone as he brushed the fallen hair away from her face with trembling fingers. Rory's delicate lips were becoming an alarming shade of ashen blue. He'd seen that color before. He knew exactly what it meant. It was death. Death come to take her away. He cursed softly and willed her to live. “Breathe sweetheart, breathe.” Dylan raised her higher. Nothing happened.
If she wasn't dead already, she would be soon if she didn't take a breath. A sudden raging anger rose up in him at the thought of her dying. He felt the dark violence. He feared it would take over his soul. He shook her fiercely. “Aurora Windsor you cannot do this. Do you hear me? You cannot.” He tenderly smoothed the hair away from her forehead. “You cannot leave this life, not yet.”
His face was a terrible set mask. The only movement was a muscle jumping in his clenched jaw as he searched for a pulse in her throat. Then he felt it. The faintest flutter of a pulse. He felt like shouting in relief. He felt like thanking the God he’d ignored for his entire adult life.
Rory's chest rose suddenly as she gasped for air, but her eyes remained closed. He lifted her limp body onto his lap into a fully protective embrace. He settled back against the boulder that had caused her injury. And he waited patiently. Dylan St. John choked back the black impulse to commit murder and mayhem.
Because he knew she would awaken eventually. He didn't want her to be afraid when she did. Especially not afraid of him. And she surely would be if she woke to see violent intent written across his face. No, he would not let her be afraid.
Long minutes passed. He savored the protectiveness that ran through him. Rory was alive. Right now nothing else mattered. The gunrunners in Savannah didn't matter. Arthur Bassett didn't matter, and the horror and violence of his past didn't matter. Only the woman in his arms mattered.
When she began to stir, Dylan watched her features carefully. Blows to the head could be very serious. He knew because he’d dealt out enough of them in the past to be an expert.
Rory didn't know exactly where she was. But she knew she was safe and warm. Trying to move her head proved to be too painful, so she decided to just stay put. Someone rather large and comforting was holding her. She couldn’t bring herself to risk the painful movement required to see who it was. Then she caught the signature scent of his soap.
“Dylan, is that you?” she inquired weakly.
“Yes, sweetheart,” he answered in a matter-of-fact voice. His chin was resting on the top of her head.
Rory liked that, at least he'd keep the aching thing on her shoulders. She was sure if she tried to move it again, it might roll right off onto the ground.
“What happened?”
“You tried to jump yon ditch without your horse.”
She heard the words as a rumble from his chest. “Oh,” she whispered. She couldn't think of anything else to say so she sat there silently. Surely the throbbing in her head would slow to a dull ache soon. “Dylan?” she made herself ask.
“Yes, sweetheart?” It was the same calm and steady reply.
“Am I hurt? Did I break anything?”
“Only my heart.”
“I didn't think Heartless St. John had one of those.”
“You've been talking to Sander, I suppose?”
“No, Graham.”
“And what did he tell you about mad, bad, and dangerous to know Heartless St. John?”
“He said you were not called that without reason. So I was to be very careful where you're concerned.”
“That's excellent advice. I hope you heed his warning.” Getting carefully to his feet with her still in his arms, he effectively stopped their conversation. “Now let's get you home to Tirzah. I think she will not be very pleased with the way I led you to play in this mud.”
Rory groaned as she surveyed the dirty brown stains adorning the pristine material of her new riding habit. Dylan stood her gently to her feet against the sturdy side of his black mount.
“Can you lean here a moment while I fetch the mare?” he asked before releasing her completely.
Rory gritted her teeth against the pain as she nodded. The mare stood with heaving sides and lowered head by the ditch. Dylan gathered her dragging reins and led her back to Rory.
“Poor dear,” murmured the bedraggled girl as she reached out to pat the steaming neck of the sweating mare. “It's not your fault.”
“Rory don't.” The voice was hard and inflexible. But his strong hands were kind as he lifted her into the black's saddle.
“Don't what?” She was confused by the change in his tone. He mounted behind her. He pushed her throbbing head carefully against his shoulder. “Don't try to comfort that bloody horse. Not while I'm barely resisting the urge to put a bullet through her brain and leave the carcass here to rot.”
“Why?” The injured girl was stunned by the fierce intensity of his words.
“She almost killed you.”
“But she didn't. And even if she had, for me death wouldn't be the end. It would be just the beginning. A start toward eternity.”
The big man considered her before responding. Keeping her safe was important to him. But he wanted no entanglements. Nothing to cause her to think there was a future between them. Because there wasn't and never would be. Aurora Windsor was going to live a pleasant, uneventful life in Savannah after he left. He'd see to it.
“I've seen death.” He paused to let the hard words sink in, “I've seen it come to many people in many different ways, and many times I've been the cause of it. Death is always ugly sweetheart. And it's always final.”
“Dylan,” She murmured and choked on the knot in her throat, “I wish you understood.”
“Understood what?”
“I wish you understood how much God loves you. He loves you so much that even if you were the only person in the world, He’d send his son to die. Just for you alone.”
Dylan's arms tightened around her as he harshly laughed. “Funny, another woman told me the same fairy tale once. Would you like to know what happened to her?” It was a rhetorical question, for he continued in a low savage voice. “She died in childbed as I held her hand. And believe me when I tell you Miss Windsor, it was not a beautiful beginning. It was painful, and bloody and final. So please spare me the homily on God's love.”
A solitary tear traveled down her cheek as she listened to him. “Dylan I'm sorry.” Her small muddy hand covered his holding the reins. “I'm so sorry. Was she your wife?” Rory asked timidly.
“No, sweetheart,” his voice softened as he realized how deeply she’d been affected by what he'd said. “I loved her dearly, but she wasn't my wife,” he continued quietly as they reached the house. “I believe you’ve heard enough revelations about my profligate life. Rory, I admire your faith. I admired hers. But I'm not interested in myths.”
They arrived back at Windsor’s mansion. He eased her off the tall horse and carried her up the porch steps. Tirzah met them at the door.
“Lord, have mercy.” Her face mirrored concern. “What you done now Miss Rory?”
“She took a tumble off her horse,” he explained for the quiet pale girl in his arms. “She needs a hot bath and something to ease her head.”
Soon they were up the stairs and near the landing. Tirzah bustled ahead, giving orders to the other servants. Dylan nudged the door to her chamber open with his shoulder. He laid her carefully onto the bed covers.
“Rest now, sweetheart. I'll come see you tonight when you're feeling better.”
“Dylan,” she said. Her brave soft voice stopped him at the door. “I'll pray for you.”
“As you will,” he replied without inflection, turned and left.
When Rory woke,
it was dark outside. She could hear an owl hooting in the distance. It was all very peaceful here in the quiet chamber, and she hated to move. Her head was still tender. There was a swollen place above her left eyebrow. The door creaked quietly open a few inches and Rory saw Tirzah peek in to check on her.
“I'm awake Tirzah.” She motioned the housekeeper into the room.
Tirzah came to stand by the side of the bed. She laid her palm across Rory's forehead. “You ain’t got no fever.” The older woman seemed to take that as a good sign. “Your head still hurt?”
“A little,” admitted the pale girl.
“I'm gonna make you a tisane. Now, Miss Rory don’t you be trying to sit up till I get back,” she warned darkly and left the room clicking the door behind her.
As soon as she heard Tirzah padding down the corridor, Rory tried to sit up. Moving sent a wave of nausea over her. That subsided quickly as she settled the pillows comfortably behind her. Soon she tired of sitting in the dark. She decided to light the bedside candle. Again, her stomach and head lurched as she reached to strike the lucifer against the rasp.
Waiting had never been one of Rory's strong suits. So she was relieved to hear the door swing open. However, the voice she heard startled her. It definitely was not Tirzah.
“Miss Aurora?”
It was Sander. Or maybe it was Bu Allah. Her head hurt so badly she didn’t care which. And she could tell he was uncomfortable.
“Miss Aurora may I please come in?”
This was a puzzle. Why in the world did the black man want to talk to her? Rory knew she shouldn't invite him in, but for some reason, she found she couldn't refuse him.
“Sander what do you want?” she asked in a kindly way.
He smiled, encouraged by her tone, and entered. “I just wanted to see how you were.” He stopped at the foot of her bed. He came no closer.
Rory felt there was more he'd like to say. “Thank you for being concerned.” It was the polite way to respond.
