from side to side.
Rachel Jenkins grasped the back of the chair as if fatigued by the question. "The boy's disappearance many years ago made me realize how very fragile is our hold on those we love. We have no right to expect that we'll be together when the sun heralds the new day. It was a sobering realization, Mr. Brown."
She straightened her back, and her imperious pose returned. Turning on her heel, she strode out, still issuing orders. "Caleb, if you'll be kind enough to see to my carriage, please. Good day to you, Mr. Brown." As they left, the room suddenly felt hostile and cold.
Fletcher poured himself another cup of coffee and sat in the window seat, viewing the outside world through the steam from his cup. Physically, the town had not changed much in his absence. Fine carriages with matched pairs of high stepping horses still made their way to and fro. Richly dressed young ladies alighted from those carriages to giggle and blush at the attentions of dashing cavaliers, much to the consternation of their mothers. But life had definitely gone on without him. Caleb's mother was right: it was a sobering thought.
He felt as if he were here but somehow not here; as though he had died and come back as a ghost to see how the living had fared. So far, the picture had been grim. If his disappearance could have tamed the fire of a true southern dragon like Rachel Jenkins, then he feared what the Mathew twins had told him was true: it had sapped the life from his serene and gentle mother. Holding the warm cup in both hands, he sipped his coffee and rested his head against the casement. Buck's dastardly act had been accomplished with impunity. The evil had prospered while the innocent had suffered. Fletcher was home, yet he knew the return from hell was just beginning. With that thought, he watched his own hand open wide and close again into a tight fist.
Caleb's voice rang out like a pistol shot. "Are you trying to get yourself recognized?" he snapped through clenched teeth as he entered the room. "What the devil got into you a minute ago? You knew whom Mother was talking about. Why would you encourage her to remember his face with yours clearly in view in front of her?"
Fletcher gave no response.
"Rasc, have you heard a word I've said?"
"Yes, I've heard you. I'm quite certain everyone in the house has heard you," Fletcher hissed with an underlying tone of quick anger. "And I'll thank you not to chide me as if I were a child." He didn't mean to snap. But he was annoyed with himself because he knew what Caleb said to be true. It had been a dangerous moment of weakness.
He rose, came to the table and slammed down his cup. Leaning on both hands, he lowered his head and groaned. "Your mother caught me unaware. She was such a tough old bird. I always thought she merely tolerated me." He glanced sideways. "You never knew how much I wanted her respect." He felt a hand on his shoulder.
"You had her respect," Caleb replied, "and much more." He moved to the fireplace and rested his elbow on the mantel. He stood rubbing his chin, eyeing Fletcher with open compassion. His eyes darted back and forth as if desperate for a plan to ease his friend's suffering.
"Why didn't you tell me about Kyndee last night?"
"Hmmm?" Caleb’s eyes focused on Fletcher. "Kyndee? Right. I thought you'd enough bad news for one evening." He drew a deep breath. "She's married. She's his now under the law."
"I know," Fletcher said with rising anger. "As is my home, my name, my life. The law...the law—" He slammed the table with his fist. "But the law won't protect that whoring bastard after I explain what he's done!"
Caleb stepped forward, gripped the opposite edge of the table with both hands and tilted across it. "I don't think you realize the risk to your life if you come forward. As a green colt Buck was able to lock you away in a dungeon. Although God only knows how he got his hands on his inheritance without anyone being the wiser—probably took his mother's jewels to a pop-shop. Don't you see? He's increased the holdings of Seabrook and now wields tremendous power. What I'm trying to tell you, my friend, is that in this town he is the law!"
Fletcher's head snapped up. "What? Jefferson? Wilton? Morgan? I've never known more honorable and honest men. Surely they couldn't have been taken in by those charlatans."
"They weren't. They were replaced by men hand picked by Buck. Jefferson died of a sudden unexplained illness. Wilton was called out of town to nurse a supposed sick relative. The only one left is Morgan. He keeps to himself and is rarely seen."
His hair fell into his eyes as Fletcher jerked his head and turned away. "Damn! I wanted to enlist their help." He paced the room with his coat drawn aside, his hands on his hips. He stopped by the window and rested one hand on the sill. The means of attack were being cut off one by one.
His head was starting to pound; the tightness in his chest caused him to take short shallow breaths. He felt as much a prisoner now as he had in his cell. Once again Buck held the key to his fate. His fists balled in silent frustrated hostility. "Even unknowingly, those usurpers thwart me at every turn."
"Do you see now why you have to keep your identity a secret? It would be easy for him to arrange a convenient accident—" Caleb stopped and furrowed his brow. "Usurpers? Buck had an accomplice?"
"From the memory of that day and the scars on my body, I expect he had several. But he still needed a key player, someone to pressure me into going with him that afternoon, someone persuasive, someone he knew I wouldn't refuse," Fletcher said with raw rancor.
"My God! You can't mean Kyndee?" Caleb asked, his eyes wide with clear disbelief. She was never particularly fond of Buck. Frankly, I was flabbergasted when she married the brute. I thought she merely fatigued of his pursuit. Surely you don't think she had a hand in it?"
A caustic mixture of hate and sorrow overcame him. He sucked in a deep breath and turned his face away to allow the pain to pass before answering. "I don't think, Caleb," he growled. "I know. I've heard Buck's words in my head everyday of the last six months, ever since I started remembering who I really was, ever since I pieced together what they'd done to me."
The hammer in his head was drowning him, threatening to take control. He pressed back against the wall, closed his eyes and shoved both hands through his hair, squeezing his head, trying to strangle the pain. The pressure from the outside seemed to relieve a portion of that within.
"I remember Buck standing over me; his voice was close. I was struggling to stay conscious, to know why he'd done it. He was chuckling! I was slashed and bleeding, and he was chuckling. My crushed ribs felt the impact of his boot as he said, 'Kyndee said you'd put up a good fight. Guess she was wrong, Brother!' Then something smashed into the side of my head. My memory fled, Zachary Brown was born, and Fletcher Stedman disappeared for over nine years."
Allowing his knees to buckle, he lowered himself to sit on the floor. He stayed that way, his elbows resting on his raised knees. He heard Caleb move about the room and approach him. His fingers were pried from his head, and a cup was placed in them.
"Drink this," said Caleb in a sympathetic tone. "It'll help."
"What is it?"
"Never mind; drink it," he commanded.
Fletcher tasted coffee but also a strong lacing of brandy. It spread a wonderful warmth on the way down. He held the cup to his forehead.
Caleb settled on the floor next to him. "Rasc, we've been close friends for a long time. You've told more tall tales than I care to remember, but I've never known you to lie when the stakes were high. Because of our friendship I know you won't take offense that I ask you this: before we embark on a course from which there
