Divine Deception

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Trader Donavon strode determinedly to the barn. No doubt he had sheltered his horse there the night before. Once inside the barn, he dropped Fallon feetfirst to the ground and released her.

  “Tell me where your belongings are, and I’ll return for them now. Not clothing or any such trivial possessions—you won’t need these old rags he gives you—but anything of value to you,” he said.

  Fallon was still stunned, awed in unbelieving shock, but she managed an answer of sorts. “My mother and father’s photograph…in…in the kitchen. That’s all,” she stammered.

  The hood nodded, and the man turned toward the house. Moments later, he returned with the photograph clutched tightly in one gloved hand. Without speaking, he handed it to her and effortlessly lifted her onto his horse. Mounting behind her, he clicked his tongue, and the horse bolted out of the barn.

  As they rode past the house, Charles, standing in the open doorway, once again snarled, “Within the week, Donavon.”

  Donavon halted his horse. “You push me too far, Ashby. I do this because I won’t see the child here with the likes of you any longer! Do not make to threaten me.” He spurred his mount, and it bolted into the frigid cold of Mother Nature’s winter wrath.

  

  The blowing snow and frost stung Fallon’s tender face. The cold bit at her through her thin dress and quilt, forcing her thoughts from her dazed state. The events that had just occurred had been brief and confusing. Yet she knew they certainly had taken place, for she now sat astride a magnificent black stallion, Trader Donavon holding her securely with one arm, clutching the reins in his other hand. The horse stumbled, and Fallon gasped, sure the animal would lose his footing in the deep snow.

  “Whoa, Brigadier. Slow now,” Trader Donavon mumbled calmly to the horse.

  Fallon looked down to find her own hands fiercely gripping his massive forearm. Her mind tried to tell her tightening fingers to relax and release their grip on him, but the freezing appendages would not obey.

  What does he intend to do with me? she wondered. She harbored no ridiculous hope he actually intended to keep his word and marry her. But what then? Perhaps he would employ her at his residence in some manner. She took comfort in the thought. No doubt his home would be a warm and solid shelter from the elements.

  “We’re nearly there, Miss Ashby. I apologize for the cold,” his voice boomed suddenly, causing her to jump. She felt him tighten his hold on her, pulling her back against his own body. “Pull the cloak around you as well,” he instructed.

  The warmth of his mammoth body stung her own slight and freezing one. She reached out, taking the sides of his heavy cape and closing it in front of her. It was very protective. She began to shiver uncontrollably as the warmth of the cloak and his body began to penetrate her flesh.

  Fallon felt his breath in her hair. Periodically, his chin bumped her head when the horse faltered. The unfamiliar sensation of something similar to a fever began to rise within her. The warmth seemed to start in her chest, spreading throughout the rest of her like sunlight piercing an evaporating cloud. Sleep tempted her to a point of no resistance, and she let her head fall forward slightly.

  “Stay awake! Do you understand me?” Trader Donavon shouted. He cupped her chin tightly in the hand that held the reins and shook her head. “Don’t give into the cold.”

  His voice was harsh and demanded compliance. “Yes, sir,” she answered, forcing her eyes to stay open. Fallon began to tremble again as her senses were well aware of the cold once more. She grasped the hem of the cloak, holding it tightly about her, vainly willing it to give her more warmth.

  In such a desperate state, Fallon tried to occupy her mind with other thoughts, tried to distract her fevered brain from nesting on the reality of the cold.

  “Well,” she mumbled in a whisper to herself. “He’s got two arms, two hands, and two legs. It must be his head that is so monstrously misshapen.” But it was no use. Fatigue overcame her again, and her head dropped forward as she gave in.

  She was instantly revived as Trader Donavon’s hand uncomfortably encircled her throat. “Stay awake! Do you hear me, girl?” he shouted. Fallon nodded.

  “Answer me!” he commanded.

  “Yes, sir,” she managed to answer, straightening once more. She dared not ignore the commanding voice again.

  Pulling the folds of his cloak more securely about her, she shivered as his powerful arm tightened around her waist. She could feel the contours of his chest, his solid musculature beneath his shirt, as she leaned back against him. Again she fancied she was safer then, out in the elements, with no shelter in the brutal throws of a winter storm. She was safer held in one strong arm of Trader Donavon than she had been since leaving her mother.

  

  In her heavily fatigued, nearly dreamlike state, it seemed hours before the brightly lit windows of the Donavon ranch house cut through the blowing snow. The ranch house stood strong and impenetrable, and the smoke of a much-needed fire rose from each chimney. Fallon imagined the warmth inside reaching out to her, beckoning her with arms of haven and comfort.

  “Good boy, Brigadier,” Trader Donavon soothed his horse, reining in before the front porch of the house.

  As the much-longed-for oblivion of sleep threatened to overtake her once more, Fallon was hazily aware of someone opening the ranch house door. Cozy, warm firelight streamed out onto the breast of the snow. Trader Donavon dismounted as a man approached them. Fallon, weakened by so many affects, slumped forward on the horse, and she felt her face come to rest in the comforting, soft hair of the horse’s mane.

  “We’ve been so worried! Lost in the storm, were ya? I was sure of it! And what have ya dragged home with ya this time?” the man inquired.

  Fallon was aware of Trader Donavon’s powerful hands around her waist as he lifted her from the horse. “Warm the west room, Ben,” he said to the man.

  Fallon stood unsteadily. She looked up at the great tower of a man before her, cloaked all in black, head and face hidden by the hood. “I…” she began, and then she felt nothing but two powerful arms reaching out to support her frail body.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “She’ll be fine, Trader,” a voice said. “I’d suggest feeding her as soon as she’s able to take something. From the look of her, she hasn’t been fed well in some time. And then rest, of course. Keep the room warm, and see she drinks lots of water.” Fallon opened her eyes as her mind began to regain consciousness. Doctor Smithers was leaning over her.

  “Well! Good morning, Fallon,” he said rather too happily. Fallon tried to reply, but her voice failed her. She smiled in response. “You’ve had a rough time of it, I understand.” Fallon nodded. “Well, you’re fine now. A day of rest and good meals will perk you right up. I’ll come by and check on you in a few days, all right?”

  Fallon nodded. As the doctor stepped back from the bed, she noticed the towering, dark form of Trader Donavon behind him. “I’ll leave her in your care, Trader,” Doctor Smithers said, nodding at the hooded figure. “Mrs. Townsen is quite capable, but do feel free to send for me at any time.”

  “Thank you,” Trader Donavon replied, shaking the doctor’s outstretched hand.

  “Goodbye, Fallon. You do what Mrs. Townsen says,” Doctor Smithers instructed Fallon before leaving the room.

  “Well, for crying out loud, Trader. This girl needs a drink of water!” The feminine voice was so completely foreign to Fallon’s ears, she jumped, entirely startled by the sound of it. She turned her head to find a small, frail-looking woman standing on the other side of her bed holding a glass of water. “Lift her head for me, boy!” The woman nearly barked the order at Trader Donavon. Trader Donavon slid his gloved hand beneath Fallon’s head and lifted it as the woman brought the glass to her lips. “Little sips, dear, little sips,” the woman cooed. “That’s it.” Then she lowered her voice and spoke to Trader Donavon, obviously assuming Fallon would be unable to hear. “I can’t believe this, Trader! What kind
of a brute would—”

  “We’ll discuss it later, Patty,” Trader Donavon interrupted firmly.

  The woman rolled her eyes. She smiled sweetly and returned her attention to Fallon. As she tenderly caressed the girl’s forehead with a lavender-scented hand, she whispered, “You’ll be fine now, dear. Try to rest. I’ll be right here if you need anything at all. Now, close your eyes, and get some rest.” The woman’s gentle caress and soothing voice instantly lulled a fatigued Fallon back to sleep.

  

  Fallon slept deeply. She awoke lazily, the delectable scent of frying bacon and eggs greeting her senses. She smiled, thinking she must still be sleeping and only enjoying her dreams. It had been months and months since she had breathed such a delightful aroma.

  “Good morning!” Patty happily chirped as she entered the room. Fallon smiled at the maternal-looking woman who stood at the foot of her bed. She held a tray heaping with food. “Smells good enough to eat, doesn’t it?” Patty sighed, smiling. She walked to the side of the bed and set the tray on a tiny table. “Now, first things first. Let’s get some food into that starving little body of yours. You look like a cat that hasn’t been fed in a month,” Patty chattered.

  Fallon struggled to sit up, but her body was indeed weak with hunger and exhaustion. “I’m sorry,” she apologized as Patty helped her to a sitting position. “I guess it’s just been so long since I rested deeply.”

  “Whatever are you apologizing for?” Patty asked. “Now, let’s get you fed.”

  Fallon struggled to raise a spoon to her mouth. She was so weak that her hand trembled uncontrollably as she raised it to take the food. “I don’t think I can,” she whispered.

  “Well, of course not! You are weaker than…anyway, I’ll feed you myself,” Patty said, smiling as she brushed the hair from Fallon’s forehead.

  The first bite of bacon was unlike anything Fallon had known. Never had food tasted so good.

  Instantly Patty began to chatter. “My, my, my. That little Trader. I never know what he’s going to be up to next!”

  “Little Trader?” Fallon asked.

  Patty laughed. “Trader! I’ve known him for simply years. I’ve always called him ‘little Trader’ and saw no reason to change just because he got a might taller.”

  Fallon took another bite as it was offered to her.

  “How do you feel? Better?” Patty asked.

  “Yes. I think I do,” Fallon answered.

  “Well, after breakfast I’ll help you get freshened up, and maybe we can find you a nice book to read or something. You need to stay in bed I think, though. But let’s at least change your nightdress. This one has been on you for almost two days.”

  Fallon looked down to find herself dressed in a lovely cotton nightdress. “Thank you so much! But how did you ever manage to get me into it all by yourself?” she asked.

  “I didn’t. I had help,” Patty answered, nonchalantly. Then she became very serious. “Trader was terribly angry when he saw those marks on your back, sweetheart,” she said slowly.

  Fallon’s mind went whirling. “What do you mean?” she asked in a horrified whisper—though knew well what Patty was referring to.

  Patty drew in a breath and then continued. “Those enormous bruises on your back. Trader helped me dress you, but he kept his eyes closed the entire time until I told him to look at those bruises! See, I couldn’t dress you by myself, and you and me, we’re about like picking up a rag doll to Trader. Anyway, he kept his eyes away until I saw those bruises.”

  Fallon looked away, suddenly ashamed. She wasn’t sure whether it was the bruising that embarrassed her or the fact that Trader Donavon had assisted in dressing her. She looked back at Patty when she spoke again.

  “Pumpkin, don’t be shy. We’re friends now. Doc Smithers says those bruises were caused from some very hard blows. Was it that…was it your uncle?”

  Fallon nodded, and tears fled from her eyes as she remembered what had happened. “He drinks every minute, ma’am,” she whispered. “And he gets angry at the slightest thing. I’m fine…really.”

  Patty smiled and patted Fallon’s cheek with a napkin to dry the tears. “Well, you’re all right now. Let’s finish up and get you dressed. And you call me Patty instead of ma’am, all right?”

  

  After breakfast, Patty helped Fallon wash and change clothes. Fallon was discouraged by her weakened state. Patty even had to comb her hair for her. She could not understand what was wrong with her. After so many months of being uncomfortable, underfed, and overworked, why did her strength choose to abandon her now? Did it simply understand it could give in? Did it understand it could find rest and weakness?

  Patty left the room once Fallon was comfortable, but her solitude was short-lived, for Trader Donavon entered almost immediately. Fallon was embarrassed at the thought of his having seen her without clothes and found it hard to look directly at him. Even had she felt confident, it was difficult to talk to someone who had no visible face. Where do I focus my attention? Fallon thought.

  “How is it that you came to be with that degenerate, Miss Ashby?” the great edifice of a man abruptly asked. He towered at the foot of her bed like an ominous dark cloud.

  “My…my father died over a year ago,” Fallon stammered in an effort to answer. “Then…then my mother became very ill, and she felt she was unable to provide for me. Uncle Charles had been my father’s favorite brother in their youth. My mother thought he would be…he would be…different,” she finished. She felt nervous, trembled within.

  “I see,” he said. “Needless to say, Miss Ashby, I am not at all concerned about your uncle’s threats. But I cannot abide seeing children mistreated—any innocent mistreated for that matter.”

  “I’m not a child, Mr. Donavon,” Fallon stated. She then wondered to herself why she had become so defensive.

  “What is your age then?” he asked.

  “I’ll be eighteen in two months, sir,” she replied.

  “Then you are seventeen, Miss Ashby.”

  “Yes, sir,” she muttered, blushing. Obviously in his eyes seventeen was still the age of those termed children.

  “Forgive my error, Miss Ashby. Now would it be possible for you to return to your mother? Surely she is recovered by now.”

  Fallon raised her eyes defiantly as she responded, “She is consumptive, sir, and confined to a sanatorium.”

  “I see.” He strode toward her and stood beside the bed. Fallon felt irritated at having to look up so far and then only to see into the darkness of a hood. “It seems to me you have two choices, Miss Ashby. You can trade one monster for another and marry me, or I will give you the money to return to wherever your mother is and set up your own home. Perhaps you could start a small business with which to support yourself.”

  Fallon was stunned. “You would marry me? I thought you said my uncle’s threats meant nothing to you.”

  “They don’t. But your uncle is still your legal guardian. He will, no doubt, insist that I marry you—especially now. I can’t have my tenants and the people in town thinking me a rogue as well as a monster. It’s rather humorous, isn’t it? Thinking of Trader Donavon, the hideous beast, taking part in a shotgun wedding.” Fallon heard a low chuckle originate from somewhere within the dark depths of the hood, and she wondered if Trader Donavon donned a smile within the dark confines of his garb.

  “But why would you give me money to go to my mother? For no reason? You don’t owe me anything,” she reminded him.

  “I haven’t done a good deed in quite some while. It’s time I did. I can’t imagine anyone having to live with a monster like me. But a monster like your uncle is out of the question. That leaves my helping you to escape.”

  Fallon was intrigued and also surprised to find her heart beating rapidly. “But why then would you offer to marry me? Surely not only to avoid a scandal.”

  He folded his massive arms across his broad chest. “For the same reason—a good deed. Here
you would have anything you need or want—social position, free time—but it would have to be in name only if you marry me. Make no mistake, you would be my wife and run my household…but you would be sacrificing motherhood. Children would not be possible in a marriage arranged as this one would be.”

  “Why?” Fallon asked, surprising even herself at such a boldly uttered inquiry. “Is it because you do not wish to have a family? Or rather, because you are unable to…”

  Trader Donavon appeared to move uncomfortably beneath his cloak. The intonation of his voice sounded almost awkward as he cleared his throat and answered, “I am perfectly capable of…of helping to conceive children, Miss Ashby. But I have no wish to have such a relationship as would be necessary, in my opinion, to conceive and raise them.”

  Fallon’s heart felt like it might leap from her chest. She could never—no, never—tell him she had dreamed of him for months. Still, the truth of it was she was unaccountably and inexplicably in love with the monstrous Trader Donavon. She had been for some time. Whether she was in love with his dark image or whether she sensed something beneath it, she did not know, but she knew, with the choice placed before her, what her choice would be.

  “I choose to marry you, Mr. Donavon.” Fallon watched as his arms dropped to his sides in surprise.

  “What?” he breathed, astonished.

  “I choose the marriage, Mr. Donavon.”

  He was silent for a moment. She sensed he was regaining his composure. She knew he had never suspected she might choose to marry him.

  “Very well, Miss Ashby. You’ve made your decision. However, I want this to be said: a wealthy, horrible, beast of a husband will never be a substitute for a perhaps impoverished, handsome man who would have been your lover as well.”

  Fallon blushed at his remark but added, “My name is Fallon, sir.”

  “And mine is Trader.” He turned to leave the room but paused at the door, adding, “Will you be well enough in three days to take marriage vows with me?”