out and took him.
* * *
"Mr. Brown? Mr. Brown? Are you in there?" The knocking at the door was insistent.
"Yes, yes, go away!" he growled with a vengeance. His mouth was dry; his eyes burned and his head ached. Hell and damnation, even a good hangover was preferable to the way he felt now.
The knocking resumed. "Mr. Brown, the farrier left a message that your horse is ready. He said you'd want to know immediately. Will you be wanting supper before you go? Mr. Brown?"
Supper? What the devil time was it? Had he slept away the whole blasted day? Damn! A waste of the good weather.
"All right. All right. Don't break the goddamned door! I'll be there directly."
He glanced down at himself—fully clothed right to his boots. Disgusting. He'd have to have a bath and clean clothes before he started out. He chuckled wryly; Whiz was fastidious about his riders.
Groaning with a heavy sigh, Fletcher rose, crossed to the window and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Pulling aside the lace curtain, he leaned his forearm on the casement and peered out. His impression from the evening before hadn't changed. This was another nameless town like the rest. He wasn't about to tarry here long.
As he turned, he caught his reflection in the mirror. He didn't like what he saw. Always having been clean-shaven, he hated his new furry look. But his full beard hid the lower half of his face. It also hid the thick scar that ran the entire length of his right cheek and under his jaw.
"Damn, do you look abominable," he said to the reflection. His voice was raspy and harsh. It had sounded that way since the assault nearly ten years ago. The attackers had apparently severed something in his neck when his face and throat had been sliced open. It had taken weeks for him to be able to speak at all. The deep shadows under his eyes made their color appear black and sinister.
No, they wouldn't recognize him at home. He barely recognized himself. Besides, what dead man returns from the grave? That is, if the asylum had informed Buck of his supposed death over three years ago. Perhaps they hadn't cared to relinquish the payments and had kept his death a secret. Fletcher wouldn't know the answer to that and many other questions until he came face to face with Mr. Buck Bannistre, himself.
Pouring water into the basin, he splashed water on his face, finger-brushed his hair and left the room.
* * *
"Hello there." Fletcher recognized the lilting voice as Sage Jurrell came up behind him. "I'm sorry about Jimmy," she continued, coming around to face him. "When I sent him up, I never dreamed he'd make such a ruckus. I thought he was going to slip a note under your door. He doesn't have as much sense as he ought to, but he's a big help around here so I keep him on."
Lovely and generous, too.
Fletcher leaned his arm on the counter. "It was a bit of a shock, but I did need to awaken. I wanted to ride out today, but now I believe I'll have to stay until tomorrow."
He ran his fingers through his hair again, embarrassed by his unkempt appearance. "At least, it'll give me a chance to clean up. After that, know any place a fellow can get a square meal around here?" He looked at her sideways, tilted his head and winked.
Miss Jurrell reddened. "You come back when you're finished, and we'll talk about it." She flashed him a smile that could have melted a glacier.
* * *
An hour later Fletcher walked into the dining room of The Palace Hotel. It wasn't exactly what he would have called a palace, at least not what he would have imagined a palace to look like. It was not elegant by any means, but there were lace cloths on the tables, the chairs were padded, and in the center of the ceiling hung a huge crystal chandelier. No doubt its presence was the reason for the hotel's lofty name.
He was feeling almost human again in clean clothes. The long hot steaming bath had done wonders for his mood as well as his muscles. The weeks of riding alone, sleeping on the ground, avoiding towns except for supplies, had a tendency to make him forget how luxurious a hot bath could be.
"Are you starving yet?"
Sage Jurrell seemed to have an oddly irritating habit of popping up behind him. Before he turned, he struggled to think of a way to kindly ask her to cease the habit when someone laid a hand on his shoulder. He swiveled, startled, slapping at the taction.
His drilling eyes must have flashed fire because Miss Jurrell stammered quickly, "Please forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you knew I was here." She clasped and worked her hands as if she didn't know what to do with the offending appendage.
Seeing her face genuinely upset, Fletcher suddenly felt awkward for having embarrassed her without cause. It was just that it had been so long since there had been reason to act the gentleman inbred in him. The time alone caused him to be wary of contact. And the women he'd been with in the last years had been less than ladylike. He had taken what pleasures he wanted from them and moved on, never going out of his way to be overly kind. At times Zachary Brown had even been intentionally cruel. Many females had tried to work their charms but found he had no heart beating within him, only a driving force which relished crushing others and leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.
Those eager vixens had never complained about his manners or about his performance either, for that matter. When he had paid for a tub and a rub, that's exactly what he'd received: service—bought and paid for. In the past years, women had fallen into his bed with no more coercion than his wayward glance. But somehow they had not had the innocence in their gestures as did the woman standing before him. And it was precisely that innocence that caused him to feel as chagrined and awkward as Sage Jurrell clearly did.
Fletcher took her clasped fists between his palms and smiled. "The fault is entirely mine," he said as sincerely as he could. "Having lived on the trail for weeks, I have become as boorish as any of the animals I've passed. I seem to have forgotten how to act in civilized society. Please accept my humblest apologies."
"I wouldn't say you're that odious," she replied with a relieved beguiling curve to her lips, "but apology accepted." She stepped past him to an elegantly prepared table and glanced back. "Are you hungry?"
"Starved—for food, and the pleasure of a lovely woman to share it with. Would you honor me with your company?"
"I'd be delighted," she said as she took his proffered arm. And if the soft glow in her eyes was to be believed, he thought she meant it.
* * *
Fletcher stretched his long legs in front of him and shifted his position. He was feeling deliciously sated. The meal had been unexpectedly good, and the company even more so. Leaning his chair on its two back legs, he aimlessly ran his finger around the rim of the wineglass he held.
Contrary to what she claimed, Sage Jurrell did seem to have a habit of telling her life story to total strangers. Captivated by her, Fletcher found himself listening more to the timbre of her voice than to what she was saying.
I guess she thinks that because she knows my name, I'm no longer a total stranger. At least she thinks she knows my name.
He had a moment of concern wondering how she would fare as a manager if she was this friendly to all the male clientele. While she chattered, he put the goblet to his eye and peered at her through it.
"Thank
