Authors: Marcia Lynn McClure
Divine Deception (2 page)
“
Well, well, well. Looky what we have here.” The intrusive words echoed somewhat painfully through Fallon’s barely conscious mind as she tried to wake from her deep and contented slumber. “My, oh my. How folks would talk if’n they could see what I’m aseein’,” her uncle’s loathsome voice chuckled.
Fallon felt almost intoxicated with warmth. She was warmer than she had been in a long time. It wasn’t a crackling-fire kind of warmth. It was a snuggled-up-in-a-warm-quilt kind of warmth, and she fought full consciousness, afraid the bitter cold of complete awareness would dispel the comfort of it.
“
Wake up, girl! And I’ll give ya credit for being smarter than ya look,” Charles chuckled.
For a moment, Fallon’s eyes resisted her mental commands to open. Her uncle was crouched down, staring into her face with his wicked smile, revealing the all too familiar rotting teeth. The man was chuckling low in his throat, the sound of triumph somehow, and she had an aching urge to slap him soundly.
“
And you,” he continued, looking past Fallon. “You think just ’cause ya have money and own half of this state, ya can waltz in here and dirty up my niece?”
Fallon looked down, realizing only then that the comfortable warmth enveloping her were large, strong arms—arms shrouded in black, hands covered in black gloves. As she looked upward, she felt the hem of Trader Donavon’s black hood brush against her hair.
“
What in the—” Trader Donavon mumbled as he too struggled from a deep sleep. “What’s going on here?” he demanded as he pushed Fallon out of his arms and off his lap. He stood immediately. “What’s the meaning of this?” he shouted as he looked first from Fallon and then to her uncle and back again.
Fallon watched as her Uncle Charles broke into hateful laughter. “The meanin’, sir, is this: either you make an honest woman of my niece and let me stay on this here farm—free of charge, I might add—or I let everyone know what kind of man ya really are! Takin’ advantage of young innocents and the like. Otherwise, I’m afraid the only work left that Fallon will be fit for is over at the saloon in town.”
Fallon felt confused. “I fell asleep at the table, Uncle Charles. You’re mistaken! How dare you accuse me of—” she stammered.
Charles interrupted, “Not you, girl. Him and you. The both of ya lyin’ there all tangled up in front of the fire. I know what went on here last night.”
An evil grin spread across his ugly face, and it was too much. In that instant, all the anger building inside of Fallon reacted, and she slapped the vile relative hard across one cheek.
“
You little—” Charles growled, instantly striking her back.
His slap caused Fallon to lose her balance, but she was caught in one of Donavon’s powerful arms, rescued from hitting the floor.
Charles Ashby was entirely provoked. “I’ll teach ya to hit me, girl!” he shouted as he drew back a fisted hand, preparing to hit her again.
Donavon caught Charles’s fist in his own. “Strike her again…and I will kill you, Ashby,” Trader Donavon growled.
Charles began laughing. “She’s not fit for anythin’ else now, Donavon. Ya’ve made sure of that, ain’t ya?” He yanked his hand out of Donavon’s grip. “Now, do we deal or not?”
Fallon turned and looked at the great tower of a man. His broad chest rose and fell with barely controlled anger. He spoke. “Ashby, you are the lowest form of life on this earth. Make no mistake about that fact. I know you arranged this…this situation, but I’ll deal—with a few of my own terms. I’ll destroy the note to this farm on one condition: you are to send this girl away, some place where she will be free of your vile presence and abuses. She is a mere child and deserves better.”
Fallon felt her heart swell to near bursting as Donavon championed her, but the vile laughter of her wicked uncle distracted her once more.
“
No deal, Donavon. She marries you—you and that ugly face ya hide! She deserves no better. I want her married to you, ‘Donavon the Dragon.’” Again, he broke into harsh laughter.
“
I should kill you where you stand, Ashby!” Donavon growled, so fiercely that Charles’s laughter ceased. “But I’ve seen enough of that in my lifetime.” He paused, his anger yet apparent by the rise and fall of his massive chest as he breathed. “Very well. I’ll marry the child, and you’ll keep this miserable farm. But if you ever mention this again, you
will
die…by my own hand.”
Donavon turned to Fallon, the hem of his hood trembling with his obvious fury. “Miss Ashby, gather whatever possessions you have, and come with me. Know that I’m not convinced of your innocence in this farce. But it would be inhumane to leave you here with this animal.”
Fallon stood stunned. Had she heard him correctly? He meant to marry her?
“
Marry her, Donavon,” Charles reminded, “before the week’s over.”
Trader Donavon took Fallon roughly by the shoulders. Turning her to face away from him, he wrapped her thin quilt tightly around her and opened the cabin door. “Ashby, I may be frightening in my own right, but you’re the monster here,” he growled. Swiftly, he scooped Fallon up in his arms, carrying her out of the cabin and into the still-raging storm.
“
Before the week’s over, Donavon!” Charles Ashby called after him. “Before the week’s over, or I’ll tell the world what ya really are and see the girl off to work in the saloon!”
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.
“
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—”
