Touched by Fire

by Gwyneth Atlee

  Daniel wiped it. “Hadn’t noticed. Must be getting colder out.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I figured Hell froze over, to see you inside a place like this.”

  John shook his head at the barkeep’s inquiry, then said, “I brought Amelia to Phineas’s house. She misses you. Uncle Phineas said you were with Hannah, but I saw your horse tied here instead.”

  Daniel reclaimed his beer and sipped it. “She thought I should leave.”

  “So you’re feeling sorry for yourself again and thought you’d drown it here?”

  “Aw, hell, John,” Petey said. “I offered the man a drink. What’s the harm in that?”

  “Ask that fellow crawling out the door.”

  “He had it comin’. If Dan here hadn’t done it, I’da took him down myself. Talkin’ that way about Daniel’s woman . . .”

  Daniel shook his head. “It’s all right, Petey. Thanks for the beer. I need to speak to John now.”

  Petey’s gaze roamed the room, then settled on one of the women, whose breasts threatened to escape a daring bodice any moment. She jerked her head at him by way of invitation.

  “I reckon she’ll be a sight more grateful to hear of my good fortune anyway,” Petey told the men.

  He crossed the room to join the dark-haired adventuress. She smiled and leaned forward, her bosom apparently defying the laws of gravity.

  “Hannah won’t set a wedding date,” said Daniel. “Says she won’t marry me until she’s whole. What the hell does that mean? Have I lost her, John?”

  John sighed. “You’re asking me to explain a woman? Maybe you were right. Hell really has frozen over. I couldn’t answer you on that. Maybe what happened frightened her so much she needs time.”

  “I think that’s part of it. And she’s damned angry, too.” Daniel explained the contents of Sheriff Handley’s letter.

  “So she’s afraid, mad, and insulted all at once. If you were her, would you want to talk marriage?”

  “Why not? Maybe I’m hurt, too, by all of this. Maybe I think about it every day, dream it every night. Sometimes I dream I get there sooner. Sometimes I dream she’s dead, or that bullet pierced your heart and not your arm. I need her right now. I need to keep her safe and close, and she’s pulling away.”

  “So you came here to get drunk and whip some ignorant logger?”

  Daniel shrugged, too miserable to argue. “Something like that. But you didn’t give me time to attend to the drunk part. I’m only half way through my first.”

  “Don’t give up on Hannah. Not now. Not yet.”

  “She was talking crazy, all this stuff about a game and attacking. She said she was tired of being frightened. Pitiful, she called it.”

  “Pride,” John said. “‘When pride cometh, then cometh shame.’”

  “Don’t you have anything to do with your winters other than memorize the Bible?”

  “It’s cheaper than whiskey, and it’s never given me a bloody lip. Come on, Daniel. Let’s go. Your little girl is waiting for her Papa. She wants to show you where her tooth is coming loose.”

  Daniel pushed away the beer mug, still half-full, and followed John to where the horses had been tied.

  “I’ll be there in a bit,” John said once they had mounted.

  “Going to see Bess?”

  John smiled. “Bess’s father.”

  “I thought you looked mighty slicked up for a call on Phineas. Are you going to ask him?”

  John nodded. “I feel a fool, walking into that fine house and asking to take his youngest daughter to a little cabin.”

  “You won’t be living in a little cabin long. Can you make him believe that too?”

  “I could wait and prove it, but Bess and I —we’re in a hurry. All I can do is show him my plans. The rest is up to him.”

  Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. “You go talk to him, then. And leave the rest to Bess. She’ll make his life a misery if he says no. The woman is in love.”

  “That makes two of us.” John laughed and turned his mount toward the Brannon mansion.

  o0o

  “Today’s my day for visitors named Aldman,” Alfred Brannon remarked cordially. He shook John’s hand and gestured toward a chair near the fire. When John sat, he lowered his bulk into its mate.

  John glanced around the room, once more taking in the parlor’s elegant furnishings, the portrait of Mr. Brannon, some years younger, the ornate marble chess set on a beautifully carved table. Was it right to even try to take Bess from all this?

  “I’ve been expecting this, Mr. Aldman,” Brannon said after a long pause. “I do have other daughters.”

  “I understand that, sir. But I’m not in the same position as their suitors, I’m afraid. Bess is used to having things, and most everything I had was lost. Before I ask you for her hand, I’d —I’d appreciate it if you’d hear me out.” Inside his suit, John felt himself sweating. The wool itched something fierce, but he wouldn’t allow himself to fidget.

  Brannon lit his pipe, puffed twice, and then nodded.

  “Daniel and I have plans for the farm. We’ve even written out some papers. Nothing fancy, mind you. Just our ideas and some things we’ve done already. Before —before that business with the wedding, Hannah helped us, too. She’s got a stake in this, and she knows a lot about raising horses. I’d like your opinions on those plans. You’re a man who understands business, and as I see it, if you don’t think we have a chance, I have no business asking to wed a woman as deserving as your Bess.”

  John tried to steady his hands, and his nerves, to pass the envelope he withdrew from his breast pocket, but even so, it shook. Mr. Brannon took the envelope and unfolded the papers from inside it.

  Puffs of smoke rose from the right side of his mouth as he examined the plans.

  John wondered if he’d spelled the words right. He bit his tongue, resisting the impulse to explain or add. Stammering couldn’t help his case, couldn’t do anything but make him look as foolish as he felt. He glanced once at the paneled door and wondered if Bess were on the other side, listening, holding her breath with him.

  The clock on the mantel ticked dutifully, keeping careful count of the longest minutes of his life.

  Mr. Brannon refolded carefully, then returned the papers and their envelope to John. “I may not be a man disposed to dandling children on his knees, but I consider my daughters’ welfare a sacred trust, Mr. Aldman.”

  John tried without success to read the man’s expression. He hesitated, a lump rising in his throat.

  The older man smiled. “I am relieved to see you are as concerned with Bess’s future as am I.”

  “I love her very much. I don’t want her to be disappointed.”

  “Your plans look sound. Farming hay and grains as cash crops until you can build a self-sustaining herd. Gradually shifting to reliance on the animals. You’ve investigated markets as well as sources for the blood stock, and you’ve even begun financial negotiations with some reputable lenders. You’re an enterprising fellow, Mr. Aldman. You remind me of myself, some years back. I was no more born to wealth than you were.”

  “My brother’s as much to praise —or blame —as I am, and Hannah made some excellent suggestions.”

  “So you’re not too proud to listen to a woman. Good. You’ve no doubt guessed from watching Mrs. Brannon run an emergency hospital that she could run the country if need be. She’s the best counselor I have. Miss Shelton has a fine head on her shoulders, I’ve discovered. She’ll be an excellent asset to your family business, should she continue with her plans to marry Daniel. My daughters weren’t raised to sit in drawing rooms playing the piano, either. Oh, Mrs. Brannon takes Bess to all the proper functions, but the girl’s not happy unless she’s useful. In my view, she’d be completely wasted on the tea and gossip set.”

  “In that case,” John began, “may I ask —”

  Mr. Brannon raised a palm. “—Not just yet. For one, I still have mudsill manners,
for everything I’ve earned. Would you have a drink, Mr. Aldman? Some coffee, or some cake?”

  “N—no, but thank you.” What he really wanted was to escape this clammy suit.

  “Then let’s get down to terms. I’m giving you one year.”

  “A year?”

  The older man nodded. “A year to make a fair start on your plans. You’ll want my help, of course, with the financing.”

  John felt his body stiffen. “No, sir. I do not. I don’t wish to marry your daughter for any other reason than the one I’ve given. I love her very much. The business will succeed or fail on its own merits. Nothing else.”

  “My wife was right about you. She said you had moral courage. I didn’t understand her at the time. All right, then.”

  “All right?”

  “You may ask my daughter for her hand. That business about the year won’t be necessary. I trust Bess’s judgment, and my wife’s. And with Miss Shelton on their side, I am completely outnumbered by the remarkable women of this household.”

  Just outside the door, he heard an excited female shriek. Recognizing Bess’s voice, John laughed and shook her father’s hand.

  “I don’t imagine you’ll suffer overmuch wondering about my daughter’s answer,” Mr. Brannon chuckled around a mouthful of pipe smoke.

  o0o

  Instead of going straight home, Daniel found himself storming into Abel Skinner’s office with Handley’s letter in his hand. Sheriff Skinner looked up from some papers he’d been signing.

  “The law has had its chance. I’m not going to let this go,” Daniel warned the man. “I can’t let Malcolm get away with hurting her and killing that poor woman.”

  Skinner gestured toward a chair, but Daniel remained on his feet, fists clenched with pent-up rage. From the corner of his eye, he saw a muscular deputy edge nearer, one hand poised near his gun.

  With a snort of disgust, Daniel dropped into the chair. Pounding Skinner might make him feel better, but it wouldn’t solve the problem. Besides that, it would buy him a slew more.

  “Want to talk about it?” Skinner asked, his voice still keeping to its grating near-whisper.

  “Hannah says this Handley fellow is a friend of Malcolm’s. They go way back. She’s sure. The woman knows who hurt her. Hell, I saw him with my own two eyes before the fire. He hurt her then, and threatened to do more. I believe Hannah.”

  “You have to.” Skinner pushed aside his papers. “Want some coffee? We can talk about what we’re going to do.”

  “Then you believe her, too?”

  Skinner nodded. “She seems sensible enough, and honest. Aldman, I’ve been sheriff here for twelve years. That’s time enough to see a lot of shanty boys and farmers beat up women. Hell, I’ve seen them kill their own wives on occasion. And you know what? Every one of them denies it. ‘She fell down those stairs, or she tripped and broke her neck,’ they tell me. The throttle marks and black eyes aren’t supposed to matter. A lot of them have friends, too, or even mamas who will vouch for their whereabouts, swear what gentle husbands they were. Meanwhile, I look at a yard full of beat-up, scrawny, motherless kids.”

  Skinner’s eyes hardened with what must be a particularly ugly memory. He got up and poured both men mugs of coffee from a dented tin pot on his wood stove. Steam rose, rich and tempting, from the dark brown liquid.

  “I guess it’s no surprise that Shelton has a friend, too. But his friend being another sheriff complicates things. You and your brother didn’t see Malcolm this last time, so in the end it comes down to his word against Hannah’s. We’ll have to bring in outside law.”

  “They won’t believe her, will they?”

  Skinner shook his head. “Divorced woman’s word won’t be worth much, especially with his loving wife and local lawman speaking out against them. She have any friends at home to back her up?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The sheriff sipped his coffee. “If we could find some sort of proof a man matching his description left the area, maybe we could get a witness to identify him.”

  “But you’ve been looking for that witness all this time.”

  “True. But maybe if Shelton thought I had one, he’d do something stupid. Sounds like a real hothead. Any kind of serious investigation might make him mad enough to come back our way again.”

  “And then he’d try to kill Hannah.”

  “Sounds like, if you or I were there, we’d have a clear-cut case of self-defense. Sometimes justice works out that way in the North Woods.”

  Daniel tried the coffee, found it strong and to his liking. “I don’t like this waiting for him to make a move.”

  “You play poker, Aldman?” Skinner asked him.

  “On occasion.”

  “Seems to me this is the only hand we’ll get. We’ll have to try to bluff him into thinking we’ve got better. I’ll send off a couple letters. Then we’ll have to wait.”

  “Will you tell Hannah about this?”

  “She’s already scared enough. Why don’t we talk to Mr. Brannon, make sure a deputy’s in place? Meanwhile, I’d suggest you buy yourself a real gun. And wait for him to come. You go after him before them, and I’d have to arrest you. It’d be a damn shame to hang a man for killing someone who deserves to die. You hear me, Daniel Aldman? I said wait.”

  “On two conditions. First, watch out for Hannah. I don’t want him near her. And second, let me know when he’s seen near this town. I can’t stay here right now. Hannah —Hannah’s made it difficult. But I want to be the one to kill him. I want to be the one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “I went ahead and did just what you asked.” A huge chair overwhelmed Jacob Handley’s small form, but his voice boomed out its usual unlikely bass.

  Malcolm’s mind had wandered, distracted by the shapes that seemed to writhe inside the fireplace a few short feet away. Half-remembered images twisted into blood-soaked passion: his and his former wife’s. Since he’d been home, he’d spent long hours contemplating flame, reliving the night that he hurt Hannah.

  “What’s that?” he asked his friend. Outside, a frigid wind whipped at the window, as bitter as regret.

  “I let that lawyer fellow who’s been asking know where he could find her. That way, at least someone else could say she was alive. She won’t even have to come back. Lawyer Bloom likes to chat with folks. The word will get out she’s been located alive.”

  “I don’t imagine she’d dare show her face here, but I almost wish she would. Dear Hannah . . .” Still gazing into the flickering hearth, Malcolm sipped his brandy and remembered how she’d looked the last time he had seen her. Although her wounds at first had horrified him, he knew he’d finally humbled her. Finally, after everything she’d done.

  A smile contorted half of his scarred face, only to falter once Melissa Shelton came in bearing a tray with two thick slices of pie.

  “I thought I told you, we don’t want to be disturbed,” Malcolm snarled at his wife. He didn’t need his friend to see her bruises, either, to ask questions that were none of his damned business.

  “I —I’m sorry. I thought you’d like dessert. It’s just —it’s —good to have you home.” She stared mostly at the floor, but when she looked at him, her blue eyes glimmered with something. Could it be fear, or did she merely pity him his scars?

  “I’ve been home long enough for you to give me an hour’s privacy.” Malcolm grabbed a plate and managed a stiff nod. He didn’t chastise her too severely, despite her cowering devotion. She might be stupid as a post and about as energetic in the bedroom, but he didn’t want to drive her off, especially since her father’s money was seeing the farm through these rough times.

  When she left, Jacob took a bite of apple pie. “It’s finished, Malcolm. Hannah’s beaten. If she comes and makes a fuss, I’ll charge her with fraud. I imagine all I’d have to do is threaten it and remind her we’re a small county. We don’t have separate cells for lady prisoners. God knows what might happen
if we leave a little prize like her locked up with the drunks and scoundrels.”

  Once more, Malcolm half-smiled with the unscarred flesh on the right side of his face. “I imagine she’d go squalling all the way back to Wisconsin.”

  “You have her farm. You ruined her name. Hell, you even went after her and paid her back for all the trouble she caused. If she comes back to take care of this business, you stay away from her, you hear? I’m telling you for your own good, she’s beaten.”

  The apple pie, his favorite, formed a doughy lump in Malcolm’s throat. Beaten. Yes, she had been. His lust stirred with the thought of beating her again. Of beating her to death.

  o0o

  The letter Mr. Brannon brought her was the last thing Hannah expected, especially with that postmark, Hampton Falls. She had an aunt there, Hilda Blackard, but the woman had barely spoken to Hannah since her divorce.

  Hannah grimaced. There’d been no help from that quarter, even when she had sunken to her lowest point. She suspected the letter was some sort of condemnation for leaving town the way she had.

  She sat down on her bed and turned up the lamp against the wintry gloom so she could read. This didn’t look like Aunt Hilda’s script, and for good reason, she discovered. Hilda Blackard had died months before. Her attorney, Adam Bloom, wrote that Hannah was her aunt’s sole heir. She’d need to travel to Hampton Falls to claim the proceeds from her estate.

  Sole heir? Hannah’s trembling fingers dropped the letter, and she bent to pick it up. Aunt Hilda had been widowed back before the War, by a successful shopkeeper. She’d borne five babes, none of whom survived past the third year. But even so, Hilda had a living brother with three grown children, none of whom had been disgraced by scandal. Had Aunt Hilda argued with him and changed her will before Hannah’s divorce? Or had the old woman pitied Hannah’s suffering, despite the fact she had seemed indifferent?

  Perhaps Mr. Bloom would tell her. The letter offered instructions that would authorize the estate to pay her traveling expenses. Because her location had been unknown, the house and property had already been auctioned. To her surprise, he hinted the amount raised by the sale was not inconsequential.