Season of The Shadow. Bobbi Ph.D. GrooverЧитать онлайн книгу.
the miniature frigate tattooed on the back of his hand seemed to sail of its own accord.
Fletcher rose, blowing hard, and stood over the fallen intruder. "You lousy bastard. Only a lowlife would strike a woman. If you ever bother Miss Jurrell again, you'll answer to me, understand?"
The attacker groaned through his bloodied jaw as he slowly moved his head up and down.
Fletcher hiked the man to his feet and shoved him toward the door. "Get out! And don't ever set foot in this hotel again. Your kind is not wanted here!"
The man stumbled and shouldered the doorframe, doubled over and spitting blood. Finally, grabbing a passerby for support, he dragged himself out the door.
Fletcher leaned his forearms on the wall and squeezed his head hard between his hands. I can't fall—not now. But the dizziness was increasing. He sealed his eyes shut, hoping to stop the room from spinning. Nauseating bile rose in his throat.
"Zack?" Sage's voice sounded thin and distant.
"Wait," he whispered through his tight jaw. His head hurt. He could actually see the blackness coming—tiny starbursts of black amalgamating into a miasmic hood, blinding and enfolding his mind.
Damn.
He fought it. He struggled for control by taking deep, slow breaths. His brain told him to concentrate on something else. He could hear the movement of the clock in the front hall. The ticking was oddly soothing as he tried to breathe on every fourth beat. When he reached fifteen he knew he had won. It was receding; he could feel it. The blackness began to fade, as in the first moments of dawn, and the room settled into one place. Opening his eyes, Sage's worried face was the first thing he saw in focus.
"Better?" she whispered.
Fletcher nodded and closed his eyes again. He was afraid to speak with the wretched lump in his throat. He gagged and swallowed. Finally the sick feeling receded as well.
Taking deep breaths and careful to keep his head balanced, he turned his shoulder to the wall and wrapped his bleeding knuckles with a handkerchief. He looked into Sage's face. There was an angry red mark where the brute had slapped her. Fletcher touched his hand to the spot, and she leaned her head into his palm.
"I wanted to kill him," he said. The rasp made his voice sound murderous.
"You almost did." Their faces were close enough for him to feel her breath as she spoke. "Thanks for coming to my rescue. I don't know what would have happened if—"
Fletcher cut her off with a kiss—deep and hungry—as if he wanted a lifetime of her in that one kiss. Taking her face in his hands and caressing her jaw with his thumbs he murmured, "Take care of yourself, Miss Sage Jurrell." He curved a lop-sided grin. "Just do what I do, and you'll be fine."
She smiled that same perky smile she'd had the first day they met. "Get out of here before I turn into a helpless female and make a fool of myself by begging you to stay."
"Good-bye, Sage," he cooed.
"Good-bye, Zack," she responded, her eyes welled with glistening tears.
He turned from her and loped out, moving with long strides to the door. As he pushed it open, he couldn't resist the urge for one last look at her, but he saw only the back of her skirt as she fled up the stairs.
Fletcher rode out of town as unobtrusively as he had entered. In the next few days as he slept under the sky, he was surprised at how lonely he was. Nearly ten years of enforced solitude seemed to have been wiped out in a few short weeks with her. "I was fine before I met her, and I'll be fine now that I'm gone,” he said with a chuckle. It brought a smile to his face to think of her. But as the days wore on, the smile faded because the loneliness deepened. Sage had opened a door he thought closed forever. Yet the further he rode from her and the closer he came to them, the more he wasn't certain whether he loved or hated her for it.
* * *
It was six months and many weary miles later, within a four days' ride from Crisfield that Fletcher Stedman slid deeper under the steaming waterline of a hot bath. He had taken a room at the inn to wash off the trail dirt, have his hair and beard trimmed, and find a tailor to outfit him in suitable clothes.
He held the sponge above his head and squeezed. The steaming water dripped through his hair and down his face. "Ahhh," he moaned, and leaned back against the rim of the tub.
Letting his big toe stick out of the water, he made a pistol of his hand and fired.
"Pitchoo," he sounded. The obstinate toe stayed where it was. "Hmmm...missed...reload." This time he laid his cheek on his finger barrel and took careful aim. "Pitchoo," he sounded again. The toe flew up and sank, causing water to spray on the floor. Fletcher blew the imaginary smoke from his fingertip and tipped his imaginary hat. "Yes, sir, still the best shot around." His smirk changed to a grimace when he gripped the rim of the tub and the ugly scars glared at him. The disfigured skin stretched over his arm and matched many other areas of his torso. The guards and the fire had given him a permanent disguise.
He had been terrified during the first days of his flight. Ill and severely burned, he wept and shivered. But a merciful God had intervened, and he had lived.
Fletcher chased the soap and scrubbed his arms, chest and shoulders. God, the water felt good. He could still remember the feeling when, after escaping, he had taken his first hot bath in six years. He’d wanted to giggle like a small child, blow bubbles, and make fountains with his fists, but fearing the luxury might be snatched away at any moment, he lay still and savored the gift charitably offered to him by a generous stranger.
Wandering from town to town, he had discovered that not only was he not dimwitted, but unclouded by potions, he had a quick mind for numbers. He used that advantage at many card tables, collecting a tidy sum and gaining quite a reputation. He found himself invited to private games where the players were wealthy and the stakes high. His losses were few, and using the advice of influential gentlemen and his own financial acumen, he invested his winnings wisely, bringing him even greater wealth.
Frowning, he wondered what time it was. He reached for his pocket watch. "Oh blast it!" He had best hurry. There were two elderly ladies waiting for the pleasure of his company at supper. He ruminated on what a strange day it had been...
He'd been riding back to the inn, enjoying the cloudless afternoon, when he'd heard a scream. Searching for the source, he saw a carriage out of control—the horses galloping and lathered. There was no driver in sight. Fletcher set Whiz into a run and dashed in pursuit. Within minutes he caught up to them.
It was a struggle but the team eventually slowed and came to a halt. What a surprise he'd had upon looking into the carriage. In a heap on the floor, amid layers of silk and satin, were two ladies struggling to right themselves.
"Oh, my...oh my dear...Flora, are you all right?" exclaimed one of the ladies in a flurry near to hysteria.
"Yes, yes. I think so, Laura," said the other one from beneath her.
"How...how did we ever stop?" asked the first woman, scrambling to extricate herself from the woman beneath her.
Neither one of them had so far noticed Fletcher sitting atop his horse, now amused by their conversation after his initial concern that they were in one piece.
"May I be of service to you, ladies?" he asked as he dismounted. "I hope you've not suffered anything worse than a frightful scare."
The two women, their eyes large as melons, stared at Fletcher as if he had appeared from thin air.
Fletcher stared at them. He blinked hard, thinking he was seeing double. They were twins.
"Oh my. Was it you who stopped our carriage?" asked one of them.
"Quite." He removed his hat and offered a courteous bow. "Zachary Brown at your service. I heard your distress and as a gentleman I was obliged to come to your rescue. I'm only too happy that I was able to help." He drew his eyebrows together and folded his arms. "Whatever became of your driver?"
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