Season of The Shadow. Bobbi Ph.D. GrooverЧитать онлайн книгу.
SEASON
OF
THE
SHADOW
BOBBI GROOVER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents or places are fictitious and reside in the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not the intent of the author or publishers.
SEASON OF THE SHADOW is an original work.
Copyright © 2011 by Bobbi Groover
Published by arrangement with the author
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0523-0
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
For Mom and Dad—
For Pierce—For Logan—
But mostly for Ken—my husband, my friend and my love.
PROLOGUE
˜
He rode alone and no one noticed him. His clothes and demeanor rendered him unremarkable. His wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, screened his face as he passed. Though he wasn't old, nearing a mere score and eight, years of suffering and privation had ravaged him immeasurably. But even the aging and the shaggy beard could not obscure the proud set of his shoulders and the distinctive features of his lineage.
Had the passersby discerned the scalding fury behind the cold dead eyes, they might have remembered him. But they couldn't, and they didn't. He passed through towns and villages without anyone realizing he had been there.
He journeyed in silence through dreary days and unbearable sleepless nights. But he rode with a single goal and nothing left to fear—that made him dangerous.
Squinting against the agony of the throbbing thunder in his head, he vowed to make them pay. He would make them know how it feels to be helpless and afraid; how it feels to wake up not knowing yourself; how it feels to have nightmares so terrifying that sleep becomes an elusive luxury; how it feels to have to fight your way back from the gates of hell itself.
They wouldn't know him, of course. He had been gone nearly a decade, and the scars of those long years had taken their toll on his appearance. But he knew who he was. He knew what they had done to him, and he was determined to make them pay. He hoped, as they slept tucked into their beds, that they had frightening dreams. He hoped they were afraid. They should be afraid, because he finally remembered who he was. He was Fletcher Stedman, and he was going home.
* * *
Nearly two thousand miles away, Kyndee Brock's wailing could be heard throughout the house as she threw down her napkin and fled the dining room. "I won't and you can't force me!"
"I can, and you will!" her brawny father called after her. "You mark my words; this wedding will take place!"
Kyndee sought the solace of her room and slammed the door with vehemence. She threw herself onto the canopied bed and sobbed into her pillow.
"Fletcher, where are you? I need you." But she knew he wouldn't be coming to save her. Fletcher was gone—had been gone almost ten years without word. Sometimes, when she was alone, she imagined he was still there with her, the way he used to be whenever she needed him.
Fletcher Stedman had been her best friend. They'd grown up together and had been inseparable, like two puppies trying to sit in the same spot. Their wealthy fathers' Virginia plantations shared a border. She and Fletcher had planned to be married one day and build a beautiful house right on the property line. To seal their plan, they recited the marriage vows to one another while nestled in the shade of their favorite tree. Their union was sanctioned by love if not by law.
She heard the other girls had thought him handsome and dashing and he was, but to her, he was simply Fletcher and she still loved him more than any man—alive or dead. She remembered the way the wind used to ruffle his luxuriant coal-black hair and give him a rakish look. He'd always cast her that sideways glance with his dark blue, indigo-tinged eyes from under dusky lashes, then tilt his head just enough to tease her into surrendering to whatever daring and reckless scheme he had cooking in his brilliant head.
Her door opened and heavy feet shuffled across the floor. "You're crying over him again aren't you, child?" asked Maggie, the family servant and Kyndee's longtime friend. "Ain't no use, girl. It's been too long now; he ain't never comin' back."
"Oh, Maggie, there are days when I still can't believe it, when I feel he's here with me."
"He is, honey," Maggie offered with overt compassion. "He'll be in your heart forever, but your daddy's right; you got to go on with your life."
Kyndee ignored the last statement. Even now she didn't want to think of a life with anyone but Fletcher. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she sat up and hugged her knees. "Maggie, remember the fracas I caused for Fletcher when I fell into the river?" She sighed as her mind wandered back to the time Fletcher didn't want to take the long way around the river. He goaded her into crossing by a tall tree that had fallen across the river in a storm.
He had crossed first, of course, to show her it could be done. It had been easy for him. She remembered him superbly built with broad shoulders that were neatly wrapped in hard corded muscles. The impressive strength tapered to narrow hips, supported by long lean legs. When she saw him last, he was six feet of exuberance and growing taller with every passing moment.
That day his sturdy frame wavered back and forth across the fallen log, arms outstretched for balance and, for a moment, looked as if he would fall. Her heart had jumped. But when she screamed and cried out to him, he had simply smiled and laughed—his wonderful, hearty laugh. She had crossed her arms with a vitriolic pout but it was difficult to be angry with him. His devilish smile was wide and inviting, his teeth straight and white.
Jumping safely from the tree, he had then seized a long narrow stick from the brush and, threatening an invisible enemy, feigned a vicious fight with his wooden sword. He moved with a swift and easy grace as he grunted and parried, groaned and lunged until victory was his. Panting and jubilant, hands on his hips in an imperious stance, he had called to her from the other side.
"Come, fair damsel, I have slain the fiery dragon, and thy way is clear." He made a wide sweeping movement with his arm and folded into a deep bow. "Don't look down, my lady," he told her in his rich, resonant voice. His inviting arms were outstretched to her. "Look straight ahead; look at me."
It had always been easy for Kyndee to do that. She could have gazed at him all day—at his pitchy hair gleaming in the sunlight, at the warmth of his smile, the profuse length of the dark eyelashes, the fine straight nose, the chiseled line of his cheek and jaw. His total demeanor was one of aristocratic confidence.
Not willing to be outdone, she had snatched up her full skirt and took her first tentative step. The first half of the journey was fine. But then he made her laugh, told her what he wanted to do to her when she reached him. He described in vivid delectable detail his reward for her victory. How she had giggled at his wicked suggestions, feeling a hot blush creep up her neck but when her hand flew to her mouth, her balance fled. She lost her footing and plunged to the frigid water.
Kyndee remembered hearing him scream her name, felt him dragging her from the river. He had cradled her in his arms, trying to give her warmth from the icy water. He had rocked her, murmured how sorry he was and in a voice laden with panicked urgency begged her to please, please open her eyes.
The rest had been a haze. She had awakened the next morning with a heavy splint on her arm, a nauseating dizziness in her head, and a strict order to stay flat in bed for a week.
"He