Linda Castle (19 page)

F
lynn woke to the rhythmic sound of thumping. He opened one eye and discovered a bright shaft of noonday sun blazing through Marydyth’s bedroom window. It was hot and his skin was sticky with a sheen of sweat. The window was open and a wisp of a breeze carried fresh, warm air into the room.

Flynn glanced around the room, searching the tangle of blankets as he tried to locate his drawers. Finally he spotted them, beneath the ruins of Marydyth’s nightgown.

An involuntary smile curled the corners of his mouth. They had tasted a passion last night that was all the sweeter for their spoken truce.

He eased himself out of bed, suddenly aware of the new ache in his ribs. A chuckle escaped him when he wondered if the doctor would consider hot sweaty lovemaking “taking it easy.”

Flynn opened Marydyth’s bedroom door and peered out into the long hallway. He could see nothing. The dull thump grew louder and seemed to be coming nearer.

“What in hell can that be?” he muttered as he followed the sound. After leaving the hallway and negotiating
a series of turns and stairs, Flynn finally discovered the source of the noise.

It was Marydyth. She had her back to him, her firm, rounded rump swaying prettily beneath her day dress each time she tugged the huge trunk down another stair.

Jerk, thump, sway. Jerk, thump, sway.

Her progress was loud, slow and too damn sexy for words.

“Need any help?” Flynn leaned against the wall and leered at her. He wanted to give her more than help.

She whirled around, wide-eyed and startled. “Oh, you scared the life out of me.”

He grinned and drew her near him to claim a kiss. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“After last night I thought you might need your rest. Lord knows I don’t want to be the cause of your death.”

As her words registered on both of them, their smiles faded. An awkward moment passed between them, then Flynn finally grinned.

“We both need to stop being so sensitive about things like that That was funny. There ain’t a thing in the world wrong with us laughing about it.”

So they did.

“You mean it?” she asked as he looped a big arm around her and pulled her near once again. “You don’t think I tried to kill you?”

“If you say you shot at a rattler, then you shot at a rattler.” He nuzzled her earlobe.

“And the rock slide?”

“A quirk of nature.” He nipped her chin playfully.

“And the person you saw running away—the one you thought was me?”

“I was hit on the head. I couldn’t have been thinking clearly. I haven’t had a clear thought since I met you.”

She smiled at him. It was a golden image that burned into his heart. Then she laughed and the sound trickled over his skin like sweet rainwater.

“I am glad you finally believe me but I still have some things to tell you.”

“Later. Hell, we have all the time in the world. Where is Rachel?” he asked as he molded her buttocks against his groin and rubbed against her.

“She’s stirring up gingerbread makings.”

“Mmm, my favorite. I don’t suppose we have time for another one of my favorites right now?” He rubbed against her suggestively.

“Not right now, but there is always tonight.” Marydyth grinned and kissed him.

“Honey?”

“Mmm?” She was occupied kissing his collarbone and trailing her fingers along the edge of his bandage.

“What in the hell are you trying to do with this old trunk?”

She stopped kissing him and turned. She looked at the dome-topped trunk, balanced between one stair and another, and shrugged.

“I need more clothes. This one has several dresses and other things I could use.”

“Frilly things?” He waggled his brows. “Soft woman things, the kind that are so much fun to take off?”

“You are insatiable!”

“I hope so.” He swatted her behind playfully. “Now tell me where you want this thing and get out of the way. If I have to listen to any more of those thumps I’ll have a headache tonight.”

“In my room.” She leaned against the wall and folded her arms beneath her bosom.

“Now, may I make a suggestion?” She didn’t wait for
his reply. “Will you put on a few more clothes before you join Rachel and me for lunch?” She glanced down at his drawers where the evidence of his passion strained against the fabric in the front. Then she scurried away before he could swat her again.

The trill of her happy laughter echoed over her shoulder as she ran down the stairs toward the kitchen.

Flynn picked up the trunk, ignoring the dull ache in his ribs as he strode down the hallway to Marydyth’s room. But he underestimated his injury and overestimated his strength. By the time he reached her door, one side of his ribs was burning like liquid fire and his breath was coming in short, pain-filled gasps. He bent to put the trunk down but a sharp pain grabbed him and he dropped it hard to the floor.

The unlocked latch opened. The top opened, spilling the contents of the trunk and the tray on top at his feet.

He picked up a handful of lacy embroidered fluff, rubbing it against his cheek as he imagined how it would look on Marydyth.

Then he froze with the fabric still clutched in his hand.

A small lap secretary had broken open. A dried-up ink bottle, a pen and some paper were at his bare feet.

Flynn dropped to one knee and picked up the paper. He held it to the light and felt his breath catch in the back of his throat.

There was a distinctive watermark on the page. The exact same mark that had been on the letter that had caused him to see Marydyth’s sentence commuted.

He stood up, staring at the paper in his hand as if it were alive. The letter—the confession—that had freed Marydyth had been written on her own stationery. The letter was old, so old it could have been written before
Marydyth went to Yuma. It would have been an easy matter to pay an accomplice to write and post it.

A sickening feeling gripped him. Her whispers of innocence faded away and were once again replaced by dark shadows of doubt.

The moon was high when Flynn settled down in the front parlor with his unlit cigarette, two fingers of brandy and the letter. He had sent Marydyth on to bed, telling her that his ribs were bothering him too much tonight.

What a lie.

He held the paper up to the lantern and examined the watermark, comparing it to the piece of stationery he had taken from Marydyth’s trunk.

That trunk, like all the others, had been packed away before he ever moved into Hollenbeck House. Whatever was inside any of them had been there for more than three years.

Flynn rubbed his finger over the scrawling script and the signature. The writing was nothing like Marydyth’s—he had seen her signature on papers at Moze’s. But then, if she had somehow figured a way to concoct a fake confession, she probably wouldn’t have used her own hand. The notion she might have paid someone to do this once again came to mind.

But why wait so long?

Hell, if she had managed to forge the letter, using the mysterious Blaine as the scapegoat, then why had she not done it right away? Serving three years in Yuma couldn’t have been a picnic. Nobody in their right mind would delay if they had a choice. But, then again, Moses had said it looked as if the letter had travelled a lot of miles and years!

He knocked back the whiskey and closed his eyes. It
burned a path to his gut. As if he could feel her eyes upon him, he found his gaze traveling upward to the portrait.

Marydyth. Beautiful passionate Marydyth.

He crumpled both pieces of stationery in his hands and dropped them on the side table. Suspicion warred with trust and swirled around his thoughts like a cold mist.

He was faced with a choice. He could either believe what his eyes told him, or he could believe his heart.

Flynn’s life had always been black and white, right or wrong. Never before had he been faced with so many shades of gray.

“No, by God. I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe that Marydyth Hollenbeck is a killer or that she carefully plotted and planned the confession to get her release.” His voice echoed through the empty room until Marydyth’s scream drowned it out.

The fine hair on the nape of Flynn’s neck prickled. He took the stairs two at a time, knowing what he would find when he reached her room.

Just as before she was covered with a sheen of sweat, thrashing and twisting in the bed, crying out in terror.

“Marydyth, darling, it’s Flynn.”

She latched on to him as a drowning man grabs a lifeline. She was trembling so hard that her teeth kept knocking together.

“Honey, what is it?” He stroked the damp hair back from her face. “Can you tell me?” He rubbed her back, feeling the delicate bones beneath his hand, feeling his own arousal rear to life.

“Are you sure you won’t hate me?”

“I am sure. You can trust me, Marydyth.”

She stilled for a moment, hiccuping loudly. “Trust
you?” Her voice was a husky whisper. It rubbed along his skin and made him itch to be naked with her.

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You can trust me now. I know I’ve been slow to trust you.” He gave life to his own thoughts and flung the last shred of doubt away. “But I trust you now, Marydyth. Do you hear me, Marydyth? I…trust….you.”

She drew away from him and studied his face in the half-light of the moon. Tears glistened on her cheek; her hair was wild. She looked like a woodcut from one of Rachel’s fairy books.

“In spite of all the evidence and my past?”

“I mean it.” He grinned. “I trust you, Marydyth Hollenbeck—as God is my witness.”

His words sang through her like light through the darkness. Something cold and dark that had gripped her heart was released. She inhaled deeply, savoring the feeling of having someone’s faith.

No, not just someone’s faith—Flynn’s faith.

A heavy burden rose from her shoulders, and for the first time in many years she felt whole and alive. There were no more shackles on her heart.

“Flynn, I’d like a glass of brandy.”

He chuckled. “Sure, sugar, I’ll have one with you.”

“Good, let’s go downstairs and when we’ve finished our drink, there is something I have to tell you. Something I
need
to tell you.”

Downstairs, Marydyth settled herself in the big leather chair. She looked small and very young, with her white gown tucked around her bare toes.

Flynn sloshed brandy into two glasses and handed her one. She didn’t sip, instead tipped the glass and swallowed awkwardly, sputtering and coughing as the brandy went down.

“Want another?” His brows were arched in surprise. He didn’t think she was much of a drinker so she must have been looking for courage in the bottom of her glass.

“Please.” She coughed. “I’ve never.talked about this before. I wish I could forget it.” She shuddered. “But you deserve to know the truth—about me.”

Something thick and tight formed in his throat, knowing that Marydyth had finally crossed the same bridge that he had. They had both decided to ignore old wounds and hurts. Come hell or high water they were laying open their hearts and trusting for the first time.

He refilled the glass and handed it to Marydyth. Then he went and opened a tall window that faced the back garden. It was hot, with no breeze to stir the heavy air.

She just started talking, in a low soft voice. He had to listen hard to hear her.

“My family died of river fever when I was seven.” A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “Uncle Blaine was my only living relative—a bachelor, a gambler—not the sort of person who should raise a child. But to give him credit, he took me. He was Mama’s baby brother and a good deal younger than she was.”

Blaine is real.
A happy voice shouted inside Flynn’s head.

She took a sip of the brandy and then leaned her head back and shut her eyes. Her throat was smooth and slender and Flynn could see the thrum of her pulse beneath her flesh.

“At first it was a great adventure, staying up late, going places with my uncle, but then it changed. I suppose it had something to do with how Blaine’s luck was running—or not running. I began to hate it.”

Flynn studied the curve of her jaw, the delicate bones of her shoulders. Her hair spilled against the dark leather
of the chair. She looked like an angel, a sad, tormented angel.

“We went from one riverboat to another. And eventually I grew up.” She opened her eyes and looked at Flynn. “When I was sixteen Blaine had a particularly bad streak of luck. He owed a tremendous amount of money. There was a man—he owned part of the riverboat we were on. His name was Andre Levesque.”

Her first husband.

“One night Blaine came to my room, more drunk than sober.” Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “He told me that he had no choice—he was sorry—but I would be taken care of.”

Her hand was shaking so badly that brandy was sloshing from the glass onto the front of her gown. An amber stain began to spread on the snowy-white material. As the fabric grew wet it plastered it to her breasts. Flynn reached out to fold his own hand over hers as if to reassure her.

“You don’t have to tell me any more, Marydyth. I said I trust you and I believe you. You don’t have to go through this.”

“Yes, yes I do.” She shivered and drew herself up. “I want to tell you—I
have
to tell you.”

“All right. I’ll listen, but if you can’t do it I’ll understand.”

She looked at him and smiled. “Thank you.” She let out a long breath, then she looked at the wall, focusing on the past.

“Andre was at least willing to marry me, I suppose that is something I should’ve been grateful for. Anyway, all Uncle Blaine’s debts were to be cleared by Andre, and he was going to give Blaine a stake so he could go to San Francisco. All I had to do was get married.”

Flynn tightened his jaw until it pinched.
The bastard had sold her. She was only sixteen and he sold her like a damned common whore.
He clenched his hands into fists, fighting the rage inside him.

“The wedding was quick, Uncle Blaine the only witness. We had supper, lots of champagne and then it was—it was—” Her voice cracked and broke. She took a great gulp of brandy and choked.