Violet Fire (31 page)

His mother appeared in the doorway then, crying. Storm moved aside, into her husband's arms, smiling. Miranda
was a tiny woman and Rathe dwarfed her as he embraced her. Since Grace, nothing had felt this good, and he felt such anguish welling up in him that he held her longer than necessary, so he could regain control. “Where are my nephews and niece?” He managed a very forced smile.

“They're asleep,” Brett said. “Thank God.” He exchanged a fond look with his wife. Something twisted inside Rathe, seeing their intimate exchange, when it had never done so before. Brett saw him watching, and flashed him a dazzling white smile. “My hands weren't full enough with just my wife,” he said, winking.

Storm poked Brett in the ribs. “Don't let him fool you, Rathe, he's a wonderful father. How is Nick doing? And where is the lovely lady you were bringing?”

Rathe's expression froze. He became aware of a heavy, questioning silence. Storm quickly came over and held his arm. “I've just said something awful. I'm sorry, Rathe.” She smiled at him tremulously.

Rathe couldn't return her smile. “Nick is fine,” he said. “He's putting a lot of effort into restoring Dragmore.” Had it only been a few months since he had been in England? It seemed like years, like a different lifetime—a lifetime before Grace. And now it was a lifetime without Grace. “As for my lady friend, she had an accident.” He wondered if his voice sounded as hoarse to their ears as it did to his.

“Everyone into the parlor,” Miranda said, throwing Storm a scalding look. “Derek, pour some brandies. Rathe, are you hungry? You're too thin.”

This time his mouth curved. “No, Mother, I'm not hungry, but a brandy sounds perfect.”

 

He clenched the fencepost and stared at the shadowy outline of Derek's prized stud stallion. The moon was almost full and very bright. All around him were the familiar Texas night sounds he had grown up with. Yet tonight, there was no comfort to be gained from them. An owl hooted. Rathe leaned against the fence and stared blindly
into the dimness. Behind him, the ranch house was mostly dark, except for the lights in his room and the master bedroom.

In that bedroom Miranda stood with a brush in her hand, her beautiful features tense with worry. “He's outside walking, Derek. Something's so terribly wrong.”

“I know,” Derek said. “I could tell the instant I saw him. There's no sparkle in his smile, no light in his eyes.” He looked at his wife, misery in his own gaze, sharing their child's sorrow. “Do you think she's dead?”

“I think he needs you,” Miranda said, clasping his large hand with her little one. “I can't stand to see him like this. Rathe was always so full of love and laughter. It's like looking a a stranger!”

Derek went outside. He didn't try to disguise his steps as he approached. He knew Rathe heard him, not because he turned—he didn't—but from the mere fact that he was his son and he had trained him in the way of the Apache. Rathe finally ducked his head in some kind of acknowledgment as Derek paused at his side by the corral. A moment passed.

“He's a real beauty, Pa.” His voice was raw.

Derek placed his hand on his son's back. “Rathe, what happened?”

Rathe made a protesting sound, looking at his boots, only now his vision was fogged. He blinked furiously. He wasn't sure he could speak even if he wanted to.

Derek didn't move his hand. He gripped his shoulder. “Get it out,” he said. “You've got to get it out.”

Rathe choked and took a long, deep breath, shaking his head no, but tears wet his face. He gulped air frantically. “Pa,” he managed to say, “I need to be alone.”

Derek's hand moved to his neck and tightened. “Did you love her?”

The warm pressure of his father's hand and the intimate question were his undoing. He convulsed over the railing and gasped on a huge sob. “Ah, shit,” he moaned.

“I'm sorry, son,” Derek said, pulling him to him, until
Rathe's hanging head touched his shoulder. Realizing their intimacy, Rathe started to tense and withdraw, but his father tightened his hold. “Dammit,” he said, “I'm your father and I love you. Cry if you have to.”

Rathe cried.

Spring, 1876

Grace gazed out the window at the east Texas countryside, startled at the lushness of the pastures, the richness of the newly planted cotton fields, the thickness of the oaks and cypresses. She felt uncomfortable. She had been uncomfortable from the moment the train had entered Mississippi. And it had nothing to do with the weather, for it was a pleasant spring. It had to do with him. She had not forgotten him in the past eight months, but being in New York and knowing he was down South had made it a little easier. Now, all she could wonder was if he was still in the South, and if so, where…not that it mattered.

Fortunately, their lecture circuit had not included Natchez. Grace knew she could not have borne the memories had she even set foot in the town. She had wondered if he was still there—but of course he wasn't. And even if he was, by now there would be another woman, another mistress. It hurt too much to bear thinking about, even after all this time.

The National Association for Woman's Suffrage was planning to lobby in Philadelphia in July during the Centennial celebrations. This circuit was a well-organized and massive effort to recruit new members in the hopes that they would make the journey to Philadelphia to show their support. Susan B. Anthony and Matilda Joslyn Gage, while
not on the official Centennial program, had grand plans of delivering a Declaration of the Rights for Women to Vice President Ferry. They intended to read a portion of it aloud from the platform before anyone could stop them. Other members of the National would be handing out pamphlets and copies of the Declaration to the crowd. But Grace could barely get aroused by the prospect. Excitement had long since drained from her life. It had fled the night she had left Rathe in Natchez.

Last November the Democrats had swept the Mississippi elections, ousting the Republicans once and for all from state and municipal office. She had read about it in the papers and felt sad at the thought. She wondered how many voters had been kept away from the polls through intimidation—if not sheer force.

But she had also read about events in Natchez. She'd followed Ford's fall with glee and had learned that the church had been rebuilt by Rathe after she had left.

Despite the fact that she had run out on him, he had stayed long enough to finish what he had started. She was so proud of him—but it was a bittersweet and heart-wrenching feeling. In a way, she wished he had just left Natchez in a fit of hurt anger. Instead, he had proven himself a hero. He had rebuilt the school, and it almost felt like he had reached out, through space and time, to touch her with his deed and his heart.

And there was more. Her mother was miraculously still alive, and at Frazier Hospital. She was stubbornly clinging to life, and the doctors had given her another few years. Grace was thrilled to see the deterioration had stopped, even if it was temporary. She had intended to stay in New York, to be with Dianna, except that her mother had adamantly pushed her to go on this circuit. “This is your life, Grace,” she had said. “Or did you leave him for nothing?”

Grace had told her mother about Rathe. There had been no way she could hide her broken heart from her. But it
was no surprise to Dianna. It had been obvious that there was a benefactor, because of the cost of Frazier Hospital.

And that was just it. Every month Rathe paid Dianna's exorbitant bills. Grace didn't understand how he could find it in his heart to do so after the cold way she had left him. It was magnificent. It tore at her. It was a deed that, like the rebuilding of the schoolhouse, stood blatantly for her to see; and she felt as if he was still in her life, so close, that if she just tried to reach out, he would be there, waiting.

But she didn't want him to be there. What she really wanted was for him to leave her alone, so she could become healed and whole again. Instead, he was a shadowy, insistent presence in her life.

She pressed her forehead to the window, forcing herself to think about their Texas itinerary: Houston, San Antonio, Fredericksburg, Austin, and San Marcos. It was grueling, this tour, but she welcomed it.

 

“Don't tell me you're not coming?” Derek asked incredulously.

Rathe shrugged. “I'm not in the mood for a fair, Pa.”

“We're going to spend the night in town. Fredericksburg's got its share of wine, women, and song. Come on, son. I've never seen you work so long and so hard. I don't know how you're going to deal a deck of cards with all those new callouses you're sporting.”

Rathe had to grin. He knew his father respected his sudden interest in ranching, his self-imposed isolation, his austerity and celibacy, but he also knew his father felt that after eight months, it was time for Rathe to return to the living. Derek had even confessed that while he'd always wanted him working the ranch at his side, he'd never dreamed it would be under these circumstances. Rathe had told them a little bit about Grace, just enough for his father to understand his behavior. Now, subtly, Derek was encouraging him to revert back to his old ways, even if that meant moving on.

“I'd rather see you roaming Europe,” he'd said softly, one cold winter day over coffee laced with brandy, “instead of here in some kind of self-imposed exile.”

Rathe hadn't responded.

Well, maybe Derek was right, maybe it was time to return to the living. Maybe he needed a good card game, a good drunk, and a woman—any woman. But even as he tried to convince himself of this, he felt no anticipation, and knew he would only be going through the motions. He tried not to think her name.

“Yeah, all right, let me pack a few things.”

Derek grinned. “Your mother's already done that.”

Miranda appeared, petite and dainty in a stunning pink traveling outfit. Derek's eyes brightened at the sight of her. “Have I seen that before?”

She smiled and turned slowly for him. “No, you haven't. Do you approve?”

He grinned and pulled his wife into a sensual embrace. “When do I ever not approve?”

Even as a child, Rathe, witnessing the blatant and hungry love between his parents, had sometimes felt like an intruder. But now, having experienced love himself, it stirred up too much agony to watch them, so he turned away to get his horse. But he was thinking of Grace. Her ghost wouldn't leave him alone.

They reached Fredericksburg as the sun was going down. After dining with his parents, aware of, but ignoring the flirtatious smiles from a dozen genteel young ladies, he settled into a saloon and downed five bourbons, half-heartedly attempting to enjoy a poker game. Hours later and several hundred dollars in the hole, he allowed himself to be led upstairs by a buxom whore with red highlights in her hair. He kissed her, the first woman he had kissed since Grace, and fondled her breasts academically. He was not aroused, and worse, the sight of her overly lush, even flabby body when she shed her clothes made him tender his excuses as fast as he could. He didn't want a whore. Full breasts and reddish hair did not make
her Grace, not even a good substitute. He didn't want a substitute! Dammit, he wanted her, he was pining for her, he still loved her—and she was dead.

The next morning he was suffering from an acute headache when he joined his parents for a late breakfast. “Have a good time last night?” Derek asked, grinning.

Miranda jabbed her husband with her elbow in a very unladylike manner. “Don't encourage him to be a wastrel,” she warned.

“It's good for him,” Derek argued.

Rathe groaned. “I think I'm going back to bed.”

“No, you're not,” his parents said together. Derek let Miranda continue. “You're coming with us.”

“Mother…”

“What do you intend to do? Drink yourself sober in a saloon all afternoon? Look at what a beautiful day it is!”

Rathe gave in. He was too tired to argue.

He trailed after his parents amidst racing children and milling adults. Booths sported the best of the county livestock and the best local homemade confections. A traveling salesman had set up his red wagon, showing off all his wares. Vendors hawked cotton candy. A gypsy fortune teller tried to lure him into her tent with a seductive smile, but he politely refused. A display of bright quilts, balloons, and puppy dogs completed the festivities. A young woman handed all three of them a flyer. The instant he saw the headline,
Support Women's Right to Vote
, his gut cramped and he felt sick. Would it never end? he thought angrily, crumpling the offensive paper. Would he always be tormented by memories of a dead woman?

“They have a speaker,” cried Miranda. “And she's on now! It's Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Oh, I want to hear this!”

“Believe me, Mother,” Rathe said, “you'll be bored.”

Miranda turned on him. “Am I or am I not as intelligent as your father?” she demanded.

Rathe sensed trouble, met Derek's gaze, and saw that his father was trying not to laugh. “Of course you are.” He meant it.

“Do you find me an inferior human being to your father?”

“Of course not.”

“I think I've made my point,” Miranda said.

“I think I've got a radical on my hands.” Derek laughed, the two men trailing after the petite Miranda, marching ahead.

Rathe was afraid, but compelled. He knew he shouldn't go and listen to this speaker, it would only open all his wounds. But he couldn't stop his body's forward motion. Miranda, being short, worked her way to the front of the crowd, and her husband and son followed her. Rathe looked at the plain, quietly dressed woman standing on the platform, but didn't hear her words. There were a dozen chairs spread in a row behind her, where other speakers were seated. When his vision first caught the familiar pale profile and the glint of severely pulled-back red hair, he knew it was a mistake and it hurt so badly he couldn't breathe. It could not be Grace.

But then she turned her head toward him.

At that instant, his senses came painfully alive. It
was
Grace!

She paled, her violet eyes going wide with shock.

It was Grace! Grace—alive!

He shoved past his mother and father, a grim, frightening expression on his face. He started up the steps to the platform with hard, purposeful strides. The crowd murmured at his intrusion, the speaker stopped in mid-sentence. “What is this interruption? Sir! Excuse me…”

Grace was on her feet, eyes riveted on him.

Oh, God, she was alive!

Grace leaned toward him, as if she were going to come to meet him. Rathe's strides lengthened. She suddenly, abruptly, whirled and took two running steps. It was as far as she got. He caught her and slung her over his shoulder.

She cried out, “Put me down this instant!”

“Who is that man?” Elizabeth Cady Stanton said into
the bullhorn. “Can someone stop that man? He's absconding with one of my women!”

Rathe carried her through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea at his feet, undoubtedly from the fierceness of his expression. He heaved her to her feet. She stared up at him, her eyes shining and bright. Rathe took a deep breath. It was as far as he got. She threw herself at him with a glad cry, and he clasped her to him, moaning. Eyes closed, he held her and rocked her, saying her name, over and over in a wondrous litany.

“Is it really you?” he cried, cupping her face. “Ah, Grace…”

She was crying. “Rathe, I missed you so….”

He kissed her, hard, possessively, bruisingly. She pressed against him wildly, clinging fiercely. The kiss changed tenor slowly. His mouth softened, his tongue slid between her lips. They drank of each other, their teeth catching in their effort to get as far into each other as possible. He wanted her so much he hurt.

He clutched her face. “Grace—how could you do this to me? I thought you were—”

“I had to,” she interrupted, sobbing softly, her violet eyes pleading. “I love you, Rathe, I love you so much, I do! It tore me apart to leave, but how could I stay? I tried to explain it in the letter!”

“You didn't give me a chance,” he cried, gripping her shoulders. “You didn't trust me, Grace! I never intended to take your career from you—never! But did you ask me how I felt—even try and find out? No. You ran away!”

“What are you saying?” she gasped, covering her mouth with her hands, eyes wide.

“I don't want you any other way than the way you are, dammit! I want you to teach, to crusade for what you believe in. I just want to be there to keep you out of trouble! I would never try and take away your career.”

“But in Natchez—”

He cut her off. “Can you blame me?” His gaze locked on hers. “I'm a man. You're the woman I love. I could
never stop myself from protecting you. There were two issues there, Grace, not one.”

“Oh, Lord,” she moaned, and fell into his embrace.

“I should have made myself clearer, but Grace, God, how could you have done it? How could you have run out like that?”

“It was the hardest thing I've ever done.” She wept. “I felt there was no hope for us, that you would always try to control me. I didn't trust you, Rathe, I was afraid to! I'm so sorry, because now I know if I had to do it over, I wouldn't! And I was terrified of meeting your parents.” She was weeping. “I couldn't endure the humiliation, don't you see? And on top of everything else, I thought you might back off from Ford if I left. I was so afraid he'd kill you!”

He was starting to see. “But I thought you were dead!”

“What?” she gasped.

He couldn't, wouldn't, let go of her face. “I thought you were dead. There was a body in the fire.” He stopped. He suddenly understood. His gaze pinned her. “Your necklace, the one I gave you, was there, and some of your things. The body was burned beyond recognition. I thought it was you.”

“No,” she said, aghast. “I managed to escape the night riders and wound up at Melrose. I asked Louisa for her help. One of her drivers took me to the railway station. But Ford was there, and he tore the necklace from me. I thought he was stealing it because of the money—and because you had given it to me. I didn't know.”