Stealing Mercy (29 page)

She would remember this, after she was gone.

CHAPTER 29

The judicious use of a spice or herb can transform a dish. Once you know what flavors will complement and enhance, it’s fun to experiment. Use fresh herbs whenever possible.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

The shadows had fallen and a weak moon poked through the thinning clouds. A wind danced the tree branches across the windows. The fire cast an orange glow through the room. But Mercy couldn’t hear the wind or see the shadows or feel the fire’s glow; every sense focused on Trent.

Could this be love, she thought. This warmth, this safety? Could she stay sheltered with this man for a lifetime? Could she tell him about Steele, trust him with her secrets and with her heart? Of course, he hadn’t said he loved her. He hadn’t asked her to be his wife, in so many words. He’d talked of their future. Did he want to marry her? He hadn’t actually said so.

Trent had his face buried against her neck. His kisses sent spirals of heat across her body. She sank beneath his warmth and size, knowing that she would never tire of this. A small voice in her head sent warning signals, but she didn’t try to turn away from temptation.

The door opened and then closed with a click. Cool wind blew into the room and Mercy heard a small gasp. Struggling beneath Trent’s weight, Mercy tried to see who had come, despite her reluctance to face the intruders. Trent remained slumped against her, a heavy weight and immoveable protection against the interlopers.

“Oh no,” a female said, her voice filled with a host of emotions.

Mercy flattened her hands against Trent and pushed his chest. His heart beat rapidly beneath her hands. He leaned into her and held her tighter, despite her attempts to wiggle free.

“Get. Off. Of. Her,” a male voice demanded.

Trent was wrenched from her arms, leaving her cold and shaky. Sitting up, Mercy clutched the quilt beneath her arms, exposing her shoulders.

Miles held Trent by the collar and Chloe looked on with a horrified expression. “Oh Trent,” Chloe said, disappointment and a touch of amusement in her voice.

Miles cocked back his arm for a right hook, but Trent grabbed him around the middle and the two men crashed to the floor.

“Stop,” Mercy pleaded, suddenly conscious of her near nudity. She wanted to spring between the men, but she couldn’t risk losing the blankets. “Please, Miles. Trent.” She sent Chloe an imploring glance, but Chloe shot a look at Mercy’s exposed shoulders and shook her head in disgust.

Trent had Miles on the floor, wedged between his knees, but Miles had his hands around Trent’s throat.

“Chloe, stop them,” Mercy called from her perch on the sofa.

Chloe folded her arms across her chest. “He rather deserves it. I know Gram would do much worse if she were here.”

Mercy fluttered between the horrible realization that Chloe would probably tell Mrs. Michaels everything and that she would lose the good opinion of all of Trent’s family. “It’s not how it looks,” Mercy said. She motioned to her clothes lying near the fire. “I fell in the river and then I hit my head.” She lifted her hair away from her face to show Chloe her wound.

Chloe took her eyes off the two sparing men for a moment to inspect Mercy’s forehead. Her eyes crinkled with concern. “Oh, nasty.”

“Yes, so you see--”

Chloe gave her head a tiny shake. “I know what I saw, and I still think Trent deserves this.”

“Then so do I, but honestly, does Miles?”

Chloe’s attention returned to the men sparing in front of them. They’d long since crashed to the floor. Miles was on top, and then Trent, and then Miles; Mercy couldn’t tell who was winning, for they both appeared to be losing. Their fists flew around them and occasionally landed with a sick thud. Trent managed to ease away from Miles, and tried to stand, but Miles grabbed his ankle. Trent went down with a bellow and then quickly retaliated, catching a hold of Mile’s shirt and bumping his head on the floor.

“Boys!” Chloe called. She marched over and kicked Trent’s shoulder and he sagged onto Miles. Miles managed to get his fingers around Trent’s throat.

When Trent and Miles had both secured each other’s throats and their faces were turning motley red, Mercy turned towards Chloe, but Chloe was not where she’d been just moments earlier.

Oh dear. Take two men, add sexual tension, a spark of fire, a hint of wind…Mercy twisted around in time to see Chloe tripping forward, the pot of broth in her hands. Chloe splashed the broth on the wrestling men and then hit her brother over the head with the pot for good measure.

When the two men separated she said, “Broth heals all wounds.”

*****

Twilight tinged the sky pink by the time they returned to the ranch. From the kitchen Mercy could smell a savory smoke and she imagined Mrs. Michaels, capable and unflappable, whipping up something for her guests, minus trout, minus huckleberries and minus her two grandchildren and their two guests. The twist in Mercy’s stomach had nothing to with hunger.

Her clothes, sodden earlier, had been wrung out, and laid before the hot stove so that they were now merely damp. At first, because of the fire, they’d been warm and moist, but sometime during the walk, the heat had chilled. The wrinkly clothes clung to her skin like they were a part of her, and Mercy felt has wrung out and battered as her dress.

Because he’d insisted, Trent carried her in his arms. He’d wrapped her up in a blanket, but her bare feet dangled in the air. Her shoes had never been recovered. Trent radiated with nervous energy. Miles, on the other side of her, looked hostile and stony faced. He had wanted to carry her and Mercy had been so worried that another fight would ensue that she’d started to cry. That had shut up both of the men. Only Chloe seemed to be enjoying herself. She bounced beside Miles, as if the impending scene could only promise great fun.

A soft yellow light shone through the farmhouse windows. From the porch Mercy heard the sound of clattering silverware and subdued conversation. Looking through the doorway, she saw twelve men sat around the dining room table. Mr. Steele sat wedge between a heavyset man with a string tie around his neck, and a barrel-chested man who was tucking into his food with unabashed gusto. Had Steele wished to leave, he’d have to extricate himself, and between the table, the company, and the overflowing food board immediately behind him; it wouldn’t be an easy task. Steele was trapped.

As was Trent. Did he wish to marry her or was he trapped by convention and a misplaced sense of responsibility? She didn’t need his protection. She could manage on her own. Mercy slid a glance at him. His jaw set, his eyes serious, his lips firm, he gently set her down and then took her hand as they passed through the door. Behind them trooped Miles and Chloe. If she dug her heels at this point, how would Trent respond? And how could she drag her feet without shoes?

The seated dinner guests turned to stare. Mercy could feel Steele’s gaze on her face. She caught the widening of Mrs. Michaels’ eyes. Mercy tucked her barefeet out of sight.

Trent smiled in a greeting, but it looked forced and fierce. He dropped her hand, placed his hand around her waist and said, “Grandmother, friends, I’d like to announce my engagement to Miss Mercy Faye.”

The company stomped their feet and cheered their approval. Mrs. Michaels raised her goblet and demanded a toast, but Mr. Steele put down his glass and stared at Mercy with ice blue eyes that seemed to say,
you cannot hide behind this man.

*****

A few minutes later Mercy bumped inside the coach between Trent and Miles. An angry heat pulsed between the two men, and tucked inside of blankets, Mercy was, thankfully, at last warm. Stifled, in fact.

Since Trent had announced their eminent marriage, Miles had looked, if anything, angrier. When Trent arranged to return Mercy to her aunt, Miles had refused to be left behind. Without him, she would have had an opportunity to talk with Trent and she had things to say, difficult things that she didn’t know how to vocalize, so as she sat in the neutral zone between two hostile countries, she tried to marshal her thoughts. She had questions for Trent, but none seemed acceptable for Mile’s ears, so she held her tongue and chewed on her lip.

Slipping Miles a guarded glance, she knew she should be glad of his livid hulk, without him she didn’t know where or what she’d be doing. She flushed. Of course, she knew. And from the grim expression on Trent’s face, she was fairly sure he was of the same mind. And he
minded
. He wanted to be alone with her as badly as she wanted to be with him, but propriety, something that had been recently disregarded, whispered that she should be grateful for Miles. She didn’t want to be married under duress. She shivered.

Trent noticed and turned to her. “Cold?” He brushed the hair off her forehead, exposing the bruise.

Beside her, Miles bristled and emitted a noise that could only be described as a low growl.

Mercy sighed, leaned back against the cushions, and watched out the window. Shadows danced in the woods. The dark trees swayed in the wind. The noise of the coach and the rattle of the horse’s gear, blocked out all other sound and the wind did little to lift the oppressive warmth of the coach. Once, through the trees, Mercy thought she saw the shadow of a passing rider.

She clutched Trent’s hand. “Could someone be following us?”

Miles looked out the window. “It’s just your conscience,” he said after a minute. Then he settled back into the seat with a disgruntled harrumph.

It would be a long seven miles. Trent let go of her hand and Mercy felt alone, bereft and frightened.

CHAPTER 30

Clotted Cream

Lightly sweeten heavy cream, whip until stiff, and mix with a little sour cream.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

When they pulled up in front of Mile’s townhome, they were surprised, given the late hour, to find the windows ablaze with light, the front door standing open, and Laurel, Eloise’s maid standing on the front porch, wringing her hands.

“I’m not getting out until I see Mercy safely back at her aunt’s house,” Miles sat in the coach like a large, immoveable boulder of ill will.

“I’m fine,” Mercy promised Miles.

Miles looked first at Trent and then at Mercy, folded his arms and stared straight ahead.

Mercy watched the maid jittering on the doorstep. “I think Laurel needs to speak with you,” she told Miles.

Miles sent the maid a questioning look, but refused to budge from the coach.

Laurel hurried down the front path and motioned to Miles. From her stricken face, Mercy knew something was wrong.

Miles must have had the same idea, because after a backward warning glance at Trent, he sprang from the coach. “Do not leave, I’ll only follow.”

Trent groaned and sank back against the cushions. “I’ll make the arrangements with the pastor at first light,” he said as soon as Miles slammed out the door.

“You needn’t bother,” Mercy said, leaning away from him. Her voice sounded strained to her own ears.

Trent leaned forward. “And why not?”

Mercy lowered her voice so that Miles couldn’t hear. “You haven’t even asked me to marry you, you oaf, you just announced our marriage to the world without even my consent.”

Trent leaned back and chuckled, clearly relieved. “Oaf?”

Mercy looked out the window, away from Trent. She watched Laurel catch Miles by the jacket, drag him away, out of earshot and whisper in his ear.

“I’d hardly call my gram’s dining room the world.”

“I’m extraordinarily angry with you,” Mercy whispered, not wanting to be overheard by the approaching Miles and Laurel. “Not to mention embarrassed--”

Trent reared his head back against the seat as if she’d pushed him. “Why would you be angry?”

Mercy leaned forward and pointed her finger at his chest. “Why did you take off my clothes? That was completely inappropriate. You must have known there would be no going back--”

Trent did nothing to lower his voice. “You had been soaked in running glacier water. I suppose it would have been much more appropriate to let you die of hypothermia!”

“You could have taken me to the ranch, sought help from your sister or grandmother. I wouldn’t have minded if
they’d
taken off my clothes.”

Trent opened his mouth to argue and then flushed. “I didn’t mind taking off your clothes, and to be honest --”

“You
didn’t mind! Perhaps I minded!”

“May I remind you that you didn’t seem to mind at the time--”

“I wasn’t conscious!”

“Later, you were very much awake.”

Tears welled in her eyes and she batted them away, praying Trent wouldn’t see. She didn’t want to marry because propriety dictated it or because their marriage would sooth his guilty conscience. If she became a ‘had to’ in his life, how long would it be before the balm that eased his shame grew sticky and uncomfortable? When she married, if she married, it would be for love, like the love that she’d felt between her parents. The sort of love that made one get out of bed every morning at four to bake bread, that held hands every evening during prayer, that clung to one another despite pain, illness and death. She turned away, not knowing how to say that marriage, at least her marriage, couldn’t be fabricated, thrown together, willy-nilly, with as little thought as a mincemeat pie.