Touched by Fire

by Gwyneth Atlee

  “You’re wrong.” His voice took on the edge of command he’d used so effectively during the War. “I’m not feeling well. I’ll be in bed this evening. You’ll say you were right beside me, attending to my fever.”

  The stupid girl was shaking, actually quivering with fear. She opened those thin, passionless lips as if to protest, then dropped her gaze down to her hem. After a slight hesitation, she swallowed audibly, then found her voice. “All true. I —I’m not feeling well myself.”

  Feeling magnanimous, he kissed her on the cheek before he left.

  o0o

  As Hannah waited, she leaned against rough bark and thought of Nettie’s offer to set the gossips straight. She’d done right, she decided, by begging her cousin to do no such thing. The women would believe exactly what they wished, and Nettie’s reputation would only suffer if she tried to interfere. Instead, all Hannah asked was friendship. If she succeeded in displacing Malcolm, she would certainly need that.

  The sun sank behind the hill just to the west, leaving her in quickly cooling shadow. She buttoned her coat against the growing chill. From within the house, a lamp’s light painted a long rectangle of warmth upon brown winter’s grass. She thought she saw a cat’s shape humped along the sill. More than anything, that presence made Hannah long to stand up straight, brush off her skirts, and stride back to her house, as she had done a thousand times before. As she would do again, God willing.

  As if in answer to her prayer, she saw the side door swing open. Someone, she couldn’t make out who, exited and disappeared in the direction of the carriage house. Some twenty minutes later, a closed rig clattered from the yard.

  o0o

  Two hundred yards west of Hannah Shelton, another watcher stood hidden by the woods. Though Daniel Aldman didn’t know the area, he’d found what he needed to know by asking about where he might purchase a sound mount. Malcolm Shelton might be a scarred-faced bastard, several men agreed, but he still owned some damned fine horses. They’d rambled on with a dozen tales about the famous Shelton clan, including the ones that concerned his missing former wife.

  “He killed her, pure and simple,” a farmer claimed.

  A man who’d introduced himself as a harness-maker gave his flabby jowls a shake. “I met her once myself. Pretty as a picture, but sharper than a Philadelphia lawyer. She got the best of him, I wager.”

  What seemed to be Sells County’s favorite argument ensued. Daniel left before it came to blows. Maybe men weren’t more civilized here after all, he thought. But at least he’d gotten good directions.

  Now he watched the house, but he hadn’t yet formed a plan to take him further. Apparently, Hannah hadn’t shown herself around town, or he had a feeling every wag in the county would be trumpeting the news. Was she even here at all?

  The dim lights of the first stars seemed to swirl inside his head. Had Hannah run somewhere else? Maybe all of this had been some clever fabrication. Certainly, she’d already proven adept at setting up deceptions. Could she have done it a second time in order to escape her past?

  More importantly, could she have run from him?

  A coach left the carriage house, driven by a span of chestnut horses. Daniel couldn’t see the driver in the poor light, but he swore he could feel Malcolm Shelton’s presence.

  The same man who hurt Hannah. The same man who shot down an innocent widow woman not three paces from his six- year-old daughter.

  If Hannah was in Sells County, had Malcolm already found her? Or could she be hiding somewhere, seeking to kill him?

  Quickly, Daniel calculated the distance to his livery horse and started sprinting through the undergrowth. He’d have to hurry if he wanted their two paths to converge.

  o0o

  Hannah had nearly reached the door before she realized her mistake. The rectangle of light remained on the dried grass. Either someone was still at home, or the lamp had been left burning.

  The latter seemed unlikely. She could easily recite Malcolm’s legion flaws, but carelessness was not among them. Particularly not with oil lamps.

  “Check the downstairs lamps.” She still remembered his sharp elbow at her side, when she’d nearly fallen asleep. Even if she assured him half a dozen times she’d checked already, Malcolm would insist until she walked down the steps and looked. Rarely could he be persuaded his own feet might serve the same purpose.

  Hannah sucked in a raw breath, thinking of it. Though her childhood memories were all tied up inside this house, other recollections drifted through its rooms as well. Painful as her mother’s sudden death, her father’s. Painful as the day she’d been forced out of these walls.

  Her pulse roared in her ears, reminding her of the roaring of the great wildfire. Fear threatened to consume her, a blaze fueled by her inertia.

  Something slithered across her chest and landed with a tiny chink beside her foot. Squatting down, she retrieved Faye Barlow’s battered necklace. That old woman had endured so much: a self-pitying husband, a fallen daughter, poverty. Yet she had continued, working with the energy of half a dozen women to survive.

  Hannah’s struggle was about survival too. She squeezed the cross until its four points pressed pink marks into her palm. Then she dropped it in a pocket, determined as Faye Barlow to go on.

  Walking stealthily along the lower floor, she peered inside of windows like a peeping Tom. She saw nothing but the cat, a sleekly silvered tabby, who washed himself serenely on a medallion-backed sofa in the parlor. Her mother would have had a fit to see an animal ensconced on her best piece of furniture.

  Hannah decided she would climb the porch again, right now, before she lost her nerve. Maybe Malcolm had grown careless and left the kitchen peg lamp lit. People changed. She’d watched him harden into cruelty and violence over just a few short years.

  Nervously, she fingered the outline of the gun inside her pocket and whispered one last prayer. God help her if anyone could see her, she thought as she pulled herself onto the porch rail.

  Her skirt snagged on the scrolled wood beneath the porch roof. Perched upon the overhang, Hannah yanked it hard, expecting cloth to tear. Instead the painted wooden gingerbread snapped off and clattered to the porch below. Hannah sat stock still for several minutes, listening for the sounds of her discovery — or perhaps the gunshot that would end her life.

  Thankfully, the evening remained quiet, the only noises those of a light breeze troubling the pine tree crowns across the road.

  She crawled toward the balcony and grasped the railing to pull herself aloft. The old wood shifted, and she reached out for a sturdier handhold.

  o0o

  The road agent shot out of the brush on a big bay, grasping the far horse’s bridle before Malcolm could react. After only a moment’s hesitation, Shelton reached inside his coat for his revolver.

  The robber had been swifter. “Stop right there,” he warned. The clicking of his pistol convinced Malcolm to comply.

  While he glared at his assailant, the huge man made a gesture with the barrel of his gun.

  “Take the gun out, easy, with your left. Then toss it that way, far.”

  “I’m not carrying much money,” Malcolm said. Who could have imagined, a highwayman here in Sells County? His good friend, Sheriff Handley, would hear about this!

  “I’m not a patient man,” the large man warned.

  Malcolm tossed the gun, wishing instead that he had been an instant faster. He didn’t have time for petty robbery, of all things.

  “Now out. I’ll have a word with you.”

  A word? Was that the latest euphemism? Malcolm climbed down slowly, not wanting to give the man an excuse to pull his trigger.

  “I told you,” Malcolm repeated, “I don’t have much cash.”

  As he stepped down, a huge fist clipped his chin. With an explosion of pain, he spun, then hit the ground. He began to fear much more than robbery.

  “You —you’re welcome, of course, to what I have,” Malcolm explained. “The rig, too
—you can take it. It’s quite valuable.”

  The man hauled him to his feet as if his six-foot height were weightless.

  The rising full moon lit the face of Daniel Aldman. At first, so far from Wisconsin, Malcolm hadn’t recognized the man.

  “I don’t give a damn about your money. That was for my daughter. You scared her half to death.”

  Aldman’s fist slammed into his stomach, doubling him over with a violent, wretching sound. Bereft of the larger man’s support, Shelton collapsed into a throbbing heap.

  “That was for Mrs. Tanner and the three children you left without a mother. I’d do more, for Hannah, except I made a promise. I’ll break it, though, if I don’t find her soon. Where is she?”

  Malcolm groaned and swallowed bile, too miserable to speak. Aldman would kill him, he was certain. He tried to make his brain work out some sort of plan.

  Daniel hauled him to his feet again, and that was when he realized, the fool had put away his gun. Could he somehow reach it? Almost before he completed the thought, Aldman pushed him backward and punched him in the eye.

  “Aw, hell,” Daniel told him, looking down at his limp form. “I wasn’t going to do that, but I thought it would be fair to give you one for John. You shot my brother, Shelton.”

  “None of it —my fault,” Malcolm muttered. “Only wanted her.” He tasted blood, hot and metallic, running down into his mouth.

  “And you got her, didn’t you? Destroyed her wedding day, hurt her . . .” He glanced skyward and swore, evidently struggling for control. “An animal wouldn’t behave the way you did. God knows, I ought to kill you where you sit. But I won’t, if you’ll just tell me where she is.”

  “Hannah? How would I know?”

  He stomped on Shelton’s left hand, ground the boot against it until Malcolm howled. “Hannah told me you’ve got President Grant beat for connections around here. You know, all right.”

  “Get off! I’ll tell you. Just get off my hand.”

  Daniel removed his boot and stepped back. Malcolm swore a silent oath that he would kill the man. He’d murder both Hannah and her lover.

  “She’s —she’s at the home of her attorney, Adam Bloom. It’s in Hampton Falls, off Big Cedar Road. Ask anybody there for the directions.”

  “And I imagine you were going to pay a social call.”

  “I was going to a church meeting, for your information.” He doubted Aldman would know his church lay in the opposite direction.

  “If ever there was a man in need of preachin’, you’d be him.” Daniel reached for his right hand. “Don’t worry. I’m through with you, unless I don’t find Hannah. Then, somehow, somewhere, I’m sending you to see Saint Peter. See how you like imagining someone after you.”

  Malcolm let Aldman help him to his carriage. His wounds throbbed relentlessly, but he brightened at the thought of the rifle lying on the carriage floorboards. He’d been taken by surprised, but he wasn’t finished yet. After he blew a hole in Daniel, his own injuries would excuse him of the crime.

  Self-defense would be so much simpler than explaining Hannah’s murder.

  Malcolm wasn’t prepared when the sharp crack of the rifle spooked his team. The horses wheeled toward home, their terror curbed only by the reins in his right hand.

  o0o

  Hannah peered into the window at her old bedroom. Moonlight filtered in, partly eclipsed by her own head. She barely made out the bulk of her four-poster bed. Someone had pushed it up against a different wall. Shivering with anticipation, she pushed open the door. The hinges squealed softly, like hungry newborn pups. She drew the derringer and entered, then shut the door to stem the draft.

  Her gaze roved the dimness, and she felt panic tightening her chest. Find it! her mind demanded. Find it —then get out! She felt along the small room’s borders, found a chest in shadow, knelt . . . and bit her lower lip.

  Dear God, this wasn’t it. Malcolm must have moved it, sold it, maybe even burned all her possessions when she left.

  No, that couldn’t be right. The four-poster looked the same, as had her mother’s favorite sofa. The dresser was well-made and had been in good condition. Somewhere, he would have it still. But where? The idea of sneaking through the whole house searching made her chest feel cold and hollow. She couldn’t do it, could she? Could she take the chance on being caught?

  Her breath hissed out quietly between clamped teeth. She’d seen someone leave the house. Logically, that someone must have been Malcolm. If there hadn’t been a second person, she had to guess it was his wife who had stayed behind.

  She didn’t quite believe it. He’d never let her stay home, even after Father died. “Socializing with the wives is crucial,” he’d instructed. He probably sensed the biddies, like their husbands, would gossip about anyone not present. She couldn’t imagine he’d become more flexible when dealing with the second Mrs. Shelton.

  The woman had to be gone. The house stood empty, but for the unfamiliar cat. Hannah convinced herself it must be true.

  She leaned her head into the hallway. Across it, another door stood open, the one her ailing grandmother inhabited when Hannah had been very small. Despite the old woman’s death in Hannah’s fifth year, she still thought of it as Grandma’s room. She still associated it with powdery white flesh, weak cries, and the heavily perfumed smell of decay. She’d never liked that room, had avoided it throughout her childhood. From a dusty corner of her memory, Grandma’s creaking voice invited her, “Come in, child. Come in.”

  She hurried across the hall and felt her way inside. The moonlight from the windows in the front room did little to guide her. This room’s windows were only darker squares in colorless, dim walls.

  Hannah stubbed her toe on a bedpost and gasped with quiet pain. She felt like kicking Malcolm’s wife for moving all the beds. Instead, she sank down to the mattress and began to rub her foot.

  A light shone in her eyes, nearly blinding her. She heard the unmistakable metallic click of a revolver.

  With a shriek, Hannah rolled off the other side and fumbled for the derringer. Would the pathetic little gun be any match for Malcolm’s real weapon?

  But it wasn’t Malcolm’s voice she heard. “Come —come out. Please. I won’t fire unless you make me.”

  The voice belonged to someone female, and just as frightened as she was. Hannah, quivering behind the bed, felt sick. Malcolm might be good with guns, but she sincerely doubted his wife’s skill. With a little luck, she could shoot the other woman first.

  In theory. In practice, either one or both might die.

  Besides, in all of Hannah’s imaginings, it had been Malcolm that she killed. She didn’t even know this woman, had nothing against her.

  Carefully, she replaced the derringer inside her pocket. “I won’t make you shoot,” she called. “I’m coming out right now.”

  Raising both hands, she emerged from behind the bed. The other woman, a white apron tied around her, stepped inside the room. In one hand, she held a lamp. The other clutched an old revolver. The barrel shook so hard Hannah feared it might accidentally discharge. The blonde set down the lamp on the nightstand nearest to Hannah.

  The younger woman’s face was puffy, and her eyes were damp with tears. “You’re her, aren’t you?” she asked Hannah.

  Hannah nodded, guessing the woman’s meaning. “I am Hannah Shelton. There’s something I needed in this house. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I thought everyone was gone.”

  “You never should have come. He hates you.”

  “I know. He’ll kill me if he finds me. Or you could. He’d like that.” Hannah sat down on the bed, hoping she could get the woman to relax enough to avoid an accidental shot.

  Melissa sat across from her on the old bedspread. Lowering the gun, she used her other hand to swipe away a tear. “I don’t care what he’d like. I used to think —I thought once I could love him past you, love him into letting go of what you did. He has so much hate, it’s just consumed him. Sometime
s, he calls out your name when —when he hurts me.”

  Despite her own problems, Hannah’s heart broke for this woman. “You have to get away from him. He’s a murderer.”

  “I know,” Melissa whispered. “He said once he had killed to get this farm, and he’d kill again to keep it.”

  Had killed? Suddenly, the pieces spun together in her mind. How Malcolm found her father, how he’d insisted on keeping Honor even when Hannah had wanted the animal destroyed. Suddenly, so many things made sense. “Oh, my God. He killed him,” Hannah sobbed. “He killed Father for this farm.”

  “Your father?” Tentatively, the woman reached out for Hannah, stroked her hand.

  Hannah choked back her own emotions to stare Melissa in the eye. “In January, he killed a woman in Wisconsin, and he tried to kill me. Malcolm raped me. Would you like to see the scars from his teeth? Handley said you gave an alibi.”

  Tears flowed freely down Melissa’s face as well. “I had to. He —he hurt me, too, the same way. I couldn’t live through that again.”

  “He’ll hang, if the two of us speak out against him. Then we wouldn’t have to be afraid again.”

  “He’s my husband.”

  “He was mine, too, until he tired of me. He accused me of adultery so he could keep my farm. Come with me, Melissa. We can make this right.”

  Melissa shook her head. “I’m too afraid. He’d kill me. I just can’t.”

  Hannah pitied her.

  Downstairs, a door banged shut.

  “He’s home.” Melissa’s eyes gleamed fear-bright as she stood, facing the door. “I’ll keep him downstairs if I can. Can you get out of here?”

  Hannah nodded. “Melissa, please remember, you’re braver than you think.”

  Tucking the revolver into a pocket, she adjusted her apron to disguise the bulge. Then Melissa hurried toward the stairway, without another word.

  Hannah thought about her gun. Maybe she could creep downstairs and kill the bastard now, if she surprised him. Remembering her father, she longed to do just that. But other memories rose up, even stronger. Daniel Aldman, telling her, ‘From this moment, I consider you my wife.’ Amelia, twirling in her scarlet dress before the ruined wedding, wrinkling her nose at the thought of kissing boys. She’d forced Daniel to promise he wouldn’t hunt down Malcolm so he could be a part of their two lives. Would it be fair to trade their love and hopes for a chance to gain revenge? She shook her head and turned toward her old dresser, the same one where the will had long ago been hidden.