Violet Fire (25 page)

Ford grinned, holstering his gun. “Nope, guess you didn't. Hey, Bragg, I ain't stupid. I know you got more money than this whole town put together. I know you got some powerful people eatin' from your hands. But you provoke me, I will throw you in my jail. Your money may buy you freedom, but you spend a night in my place an' you ain't evah gonna forget it.”

“Is that a threat, Sheriff?”

“Nope. That's a fact.” He looked at Grace. “Maybe later, when the two of you are nice and cozy, you should remind him of it.”

Rathe's arm tensed beneath hers.

“Please,” Grace whispered, “please.”

Ford was beaming. “I only stopped by to share some news. Thought you might be interested.”

“What news?”

Ford looked sad. “That sailor, the one who assaulted Miz O'Rourke? Able Smith? He appears to have escaped. Can you believe that? What with the judge comin' an' all?”

Rathe stared.

Ford sighed. “You two enjoy yourselves tonight,” he said. He turned to go.

Rathe's hand clamped on his shoulder, stopping him. Ford looked at the hand. But Rathe didn't remove it. “You're making a big mistake, Sheriff,” Rathe drawled, “if you think you can come up against me and win.”

Ford shrugged free. He touched his hat and walked away.

“Rathe, let's go into the restaurant—now.”

He stared after Ford, then took her arm. Grace looked
at his profile, very worried. It was hard as granite. She laid her free hand on top of his. “Are you hungry?”

He forced his attention to her, but he still didn't answer.

As the maitre d' led them to their table, Grace was reminded that she had started this entire thing. Rathe pulled out her chair, seating her. He was very grim.

“What are you going to do?” Grace asked as he perused a wine list.

He didn't look up. “About what?”

“Rathe!”

He laid the list aside. “Isn't this what you wanted? Me to take on Ford? Stand up against him? Kill him?”

“No!”

“That's what this is going to come to, Grace. Either that or he'll kill me.”

She clutched her hands. “No! There has to be a way to resolve this.”

“I want you to stay out of it,” he told her.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Order some champagne.”

“No, I mean about Ford.”

He looked at her, then turned and signaled to a waiter. “I'm going to find that sailor and bring him back.”

“He's probably left town!”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Rathe, don't pursue this. Let it go.”

“What about the principles involved here, Grace?”

Grace looked at the tablecloth. “This is personal for you. You're doing this for all the wrong reasons! Just like you proposed to me for all the wrong reasons!”

His hand slapped the table, hard. “You're sitting in judgment on me again! And I don't like it!”

“Everyone's staring,” she whispered.

“Everyone's been staring at you since you came down those stairs,” he said tightly. “It's because you're stunning. Tell me something, Grace.” He leaned forward. “Just how in hell would you know why I do anything?”

She swallowed.

“You don't know my thoughts, my feelings. You don't know them because you don't care enough to find out what they are! Instead, you've judged me as some sort of rotten cad—and for some reason, you won't look any further.”

“That's not true.”

“No?”

“Then tell me,” she said, her heart pounding. “Why
did
you ask me to marry you?”

“Because I wanted you to be my wife.”

Wanted. The past tense. He had wanted her to be his wife—he didn't want that anymore. Why should he? He had what he wanted—didn't he? Not that it mattered! She didn't want to be his wife—did she?

He was still staring at her, hard. Grace dropped her gaze, feeling miserable. She did not see the disappointment sweep his face.

How many times had he come close to proposing again? Rathe wondered. He kept giving her openings, but she wouldn't respond, wouldn't tell him she'd changed her mind. He was stunned, then, to realize he still wanted to marry her. And that he always would.

Oh, my God, he thought. He was in love with her. He hadn't faced it before—there had only been words spoken in the frenzy of passion. But he could no longer avoid the truth. He had fallen in love with Grace O'Rourke.

A crazy, red-haired, politicking spinster.

A wonderful, warm, blossoming woman.

And on the heels of shock came fierce resolution. He would marry her. No matter what it took, he would marry her.

“Well, isn't this a quaint, happy scene?” purred Louisa Barclay.

They both looked up, startled from their grim thoughts. Louisa was resplendent in bold purple silk, her shoulders and most of her white bosom completely bared. Grace suddenly felt dowdy and drab.

“Why, this is a surprise,” she gushed loudly. “If it
isn't Rathe Bragg and—why—I almost didn't recognize you!”

Grace sat still and taut, wishing that Louisa had caught them gazing with rapt devotion into each other's eyes.

“Hello, Louisa.” Rathe was standing politely. He took her hand and brushed it with his mouth, barely touching her skin.

“I had heard, of course—why everyone in this town has heard, but I just didn't believe it until I saw it with my little ole eyes! It
is
the governess—oh, excuse me—the darkie schoolteacher!”

“Louisa, stop it,” Rathe said.

“Honey, I'll forgive you your trespass, as I can see that you're squabbling with your new par—ah, lady friend? An' how do you like the accommodations heah?”

Grace inhaled sharply.

“But darlin', “Louisa said to Grace. “Don't despair. You'll have such fun makin' up. Rathe is an
expert
when it comes to makin' women happy. But you already know that, don't you?”

Grace was red with humiliation and anger. Before she could take a breath, Louisa was kissing Rathe's cheek. He drew back rigidly, but too late. Grace had seen her full pink lips open and wet on his skin. Then Louisa sailed away. I will not cry, Grace told herself.

“Ignore her. She's a spiteful cat,” Rathe said, sitting and taking her hand.

Grace yanked her palm away as if his touch burned. “You didn't ignore her. You didn't think she was spiteful enough to keep her out of your bed.”

“I never said I was celibate before you.”

“No, you most certainly didn't.” She knew she could not contain the tears another moment longer.

“Grace!”

She leapt to her feet and ran out of the dining room. She knew he was behind her. She stumbled on her dress on the stairs, but managed to regain her balance. On the top step she fell, onto her hands and knees. Rathe called
to her, pounding up the stairs. Grace stood and heard the fabric of her beautiful gown ripping. She began to weep.

He froze on the top step, but only for an instant. “She's not worth crying over,” he said gently, taking her into his arms.

“I tore my new gown,” she sobbed.

“It can be fixed.”

“My beautiful new gown.”

“I'll buy you another one.”

“I don't want another one.” She wept.

He rocked her. “Don't cry. Please don't cry.”

“Hold me.”

“I'm holding you.”

“Don't let me go.”

“I won't. Ever. I'll take care of you, Grace. I swear it.”

“I'm afraid.”

“Don't be afraid. Don't ever be afraid. Everything will be fine.”

“How can you take care of me when you're going to get killed?”

He raised her tearstained face. “What?”

She looked into his eyes and her face crumbled anew.

“Would you care, Grace?”

“Yes, yes, I would care!” she sobbed hysterically.

His breath caught in his chest. His hold on her tightened. Together they swayed.

“I don't know what's happening to me,” she said into his soaked chest.

“Just stop fighting me, Grace,” he murmured. “Stop fighting me and everything will be all right.”

The first thing Grace was aware of was the morning sunlight spilling brightly, hotly, into their room. She opened her eyes, blinking, wondering why she had slept so late. Remembrance flooded her—Rathe carrying her into their room, holding her, touching her. Something had happened to her last night, an explosion of passion accompanying the realization that she was so very scared for him. When his mouth gently sought hers in comfort, still wet with her tears, she had clutched him fiercely, holding his big neck in her hands, never wanting to let him go. His gasp was one of surprise.

“Rathe,” she cried, nipping his mouth frantically, demandingly. She could not control her need, her aggression, fed by horror and fear. She was desperate, and only his big body sliding into hers could still that desperation.

Grace rolled onto her side. She had started something, something she desperately wished she could undo. She did not mean the passion which she and Rathe had shared. How could she feel shame over her uninhibited behavior when there was so much more at stake? When an innocent man could be killed? When it was her fault for provoking Rathe to oppose Ford? And even if Rathe didn't get killed, even if it were Ford, she had never meant to put a match to burning coals, had never dreamed the result would be an uncontrollable conflagration.

The sheriff had threatened Rathe. She felt sick remembering. Previously, Rathe and Ford had only been hurling
innuendoes at each other, but this time the sheriff had blatantly threatened him. If Rathe ever wound up in Ford's jail he would be in dire straits. Somehow, at all costs, that must not happen!

She found the note immediately. It was propped up on the night table by the pitcher of water. Shocked, Grace stared at his bold handwriting, the envelope addressed with a single word, Grace. Sitting up, she reached for it, filled with dread. Somehow, she already knew…

“I didn't want to wake you after last night,” he wrote. “I'm on my way to New Orleans, which is the most likely place for Able Smith to have gone. I hope to be back in a week or so, with him. The room is paid for. Charge anything else you need, including meals. Everything is arranged. I've left you extra money, just in case. Rathe.” There was a hundred dollars inside the envelope.

He was gone. Grace crumpled the letter and threw it on the floor. She would pray that he would come back empty-handed so that this ridiculous conflict would go no further. And even then, she had a feeling that nothing was going to stop the two men, not now.

Grace, you fool! If someone is killed it will be your fault! If Rathe is killed
…She inhaled. The thought was unbearable. She cared for him. She really cared for him. Somehow, it was happening. She was falling in love with him.

And he hadn't even said goodbye.

Enough brooding. She decided she would take advantage of his absence in the best way she knew. She would devote herself full-time to her informal class. And if she could, she would think of a way to manipulate Rathe away from a confrontation with Ford. She had tried to manipulate him once; she'd try again. But why did she feel so awful just contemplating such action?

 

“Allen, you shouldn't have come today,” Grace said.

Allen climbed slowly out of the buggy which Grace was driving. He had accompanied her to school that day and
they had just returned to Natchez. It was late afternoon. “I had to, Grace. When I heard you had organized a class, I just had to. Besides, I'm feeling much better now.”

Grace shifted in her seat uneasily. She had been too much of a coward to ever bring up the subject of Rathe with him. “I think Doctor Lang was being optimistic when he said you could be up and about. And he certainly didn't mean for you to spend an entire afternoon out of bed!”

“Do you care?”

“Of course I care,” Grace said miserably.

“Do you love him?”

She paused, stricken. Then a burning blush began.

“I knew it,” Allen cried, turning his face away. “I knew you would never have gone to him if you didn't.” He turned a hot gaze on her. “Has he asked you to marry him?”

“I don't want to get married,” Grace said, more calmly than she felt. And the moment the words were out she realized they were a lie.

“I can't claim to understand what's going on between the two of you, Grace,” Allen said carefully. “I can't even tell whether you're happy with him. God knows, he's not a bad man, but he ought to marry you. Anyway,” Allen added softly, “should you change your mind, I'll be here. Waiting. I still want to marry you, Grace.”

He was so sincere and there was so much love in his eyes that Grace wanted to weep. “I don't deserve you, Allen,” she said huskily, and then she clicked the buggy on down the street, back to the livery.

 

On the fourth day that Rathe was gone, Grace had visitors. The children were playing tag in the churchyard. Grace was eating her lunch beside Allen, who was getting better and better. Every day he insisted upon coming with her to school. He moved less stiffly now, and she was glad he was here, for he so enjoyed teaching. She had to admit, it felt good being with him; it felt good teaching together; it felt good sitting here like this at noon, discussing their
students, sharing their progress. This was what it would be like if she married him.

She pictured Rathe. Her heart and soul took flight and soared. There was no comparing her feelings—and she knew it.

“Who's that, Allen?”

Allen looked up from the book he was reading. “I don't know, I—” He suddenly stood. “Grace, don't say a word.”

She stood too, shielding her eyes from the bright sun. As the two riders came closer, her heart sank. She would recognize Rawlins' white-socked chestnut anywhere. And then her dismay increased. Ford was with him.

“Well, well, if it ain't the little schoolmarm,” Rawlins drawled. “Teachin' all the little niggers with her Yankee friend.”

Ford grinned, his eyes on Grace. “Hear your man left town.” He edged his horse closer.

Grace was afraid. “Good day, Sheriff, Mr. Rawlins. What can I do for you?”

Rawlins threw back his head and laughed.

Ford smiled. “She talks like she's all full of vinegar, don't she? But I seen you the other night, all decked out, pretty as a peach. You're with the wrong man, honey.” He reached out and touched her shoulder.

Grace inhaled. Allen stepped between them. “Sheriff, what brings you all this way?”

Ford's eyes reluctantly left Grace. He looked at Allen. “My friend here is all fired up. Thought he'd reached a little understandin' with the lady, ya see. But 'pears he didn't. So I thought I'd accompany him while we discussed things.” He grinned.

Rawlins, sitting negligently in the saddle, suddenly threw his leg over and slid to the ground. He began walking toward them.

“What would you like to discuss?” Allen asked hoarsely.

Grace reached for Allen, grabbing his arm. She whipped
her head around as Ford slid to the ground, put his arm around her and dragged her against him. “Let me go,” she cried, trying to pull free and look at Rawlins at the same time. Ford easily wrapped her in his arms, holding her from behind. The man was husky and strong as an ox, and Grace went still, her heart pounding so fast she felt faint. Sweat gathered and made her dress stick to her body.

“This is my last warnin' to you dumb Yanks,” Rawlins spat. “We don't want no nigger school in Natchez.” He hit Allen, one punch, right in his cracked ribs. Allen cried out and fell to his knees, clutching himself.

Grace gasped and struggled furiously. “You bigoted bully! Let me go!”

“God, bet she's somethin' in Bragg's bed,” Ford said, nuzzling her neck. One of his large hands closed over her breast. Grace froze, stunned, disbelieving. He fingered the nipple, then released her. She bolted to Allen, putting her arms around him. Rawlins and Ford mounted their horses. “Are you all right?” she cried as they thundered away.

Allen was on his knees. “That bastard!”

“Allen, are you all right?”

“It could be worse.”

Grace helped him up. He was sweating. “Bragg will most likely kill him,” he stated grimly.

“No!” Grace was frantic. “Allen—we can't tell Rathe. Please!”

Allen looked at her sadly. “Oh, Grace.”

“I don't want him hurt.”

At last he nodded.

Grace began calling to the children who had gathered in a tight, frightened bunch. “It's all right, those dreadful men are gone and they won't be back today. Come on, everyone! Time for class!”

Allen grabbed her arm. “You are insane, Grace! You can't continue with this!”

“Someone has to teach them. And until you are officially back at work, I intend to do that.”

“Grace, these men are not little boys. They have guns and whips. They hurt people, they kill them.”

“I realize that. But I have an advantage. I'm a woman. And they might manhandle me a little, but I doubt even Ford would hurt me.”

“I disagree!”

“Anyway, tomorrow I intend to have a trick or two up my sleeve. I am going to purchase a gun.”

Allen stared.

“Not to use it,” she said, flushing. Allen felt the same way about violence that she did. “Just to carry it.”

“Oh, God,” was Allen's reply.

 

“I don't believe this.” Ford was on his feet.

“Believe it.” Rathe smiled. It did not reach his eyes. He was hot, soaked with sweat, and dirty. But the man he shoved forward was even dirtier—and bruised as well. He had a closed black eye, a swollen mouth, and various cuts.

Ford recovered, and began to grin, thumbs in his pockets. “You don't quit, do you, boy?”

Rathe leveled a stare on him. “Never. Just think of how this is going to make you look, Sheriff. Prisoner escapes, prisoner returned. Good for you, don't you agree?”

Ford spat. “All over some colored trash.”

“And a lady.”

Ford just looked at him.

Rathe controlled himself. He did not want to fight with Ford now, not over Grace, not when he wanted a bigger victory—the sailor tried and judged guilty. He would sacrifice the battle for the war. “Later, Sheriff.”

Ford laughed.

Outside, Rathe nodded to the Pinkerton man he had hired to guard the prisoner, then began hurrying with long strides to Cliff Street. He could not wait to see Grace.

She wasn't in their room, and he assumed she was out shopping. He hoped she was buying herself something pretty and extravagant. He smiled at the thought. He had brought home a few gifts for her, which he carefully placed
on the table. One of them was something pretty and extravagant. He thought they had gotten close enough for her to wear it. But maybe not.

He had not been able to forget the last night they had spent together. Grace had been a tigress in his arms. He had been stunned by her fierce, demanding passion. And he had responded. He had imagined that Grace had deep, hidden fires, but never had he dreamed they could be so hot, so bright. Never had he imagined making love to her in such a hard excess of frenzy. She didn't know it, but she had actually left marks on his neck from her teeth and on his back from her nails. He had worn them proudly.

While he'd been gone he had worried about her, too, knowing the penchant she had for getting into trouble. But what trouble could she possibly get into? He knew she was no longer in the Ladies' Christian Temperance Union, due to her relationship with him. And she was no longer teaching. That was one thing he wasn't sorry about, that he was indirectly responsible for her having been dismissed. Fortunately he had found out about the informal class and forbidden it. That was one issue Grace did not need to be involved in.

He lolled in a hot bath, hoping she would return while he was in it. He would drag her down, clothes and all, letting her know just how much he had missed her. After the other night, she couldn't still be prim and proper-could she? He grinned. There was only one way to find out.

He had, however, just stepped out of the tub and was wrapping a towel around his waist when the door opened and Grace appeared, and then froze, eyes widening. He grinned. “Hello, sweetheart.”

She was staring right into his eyes, her lips parted in a soundless exclamation, a vision in pale blue silk. Then her glance dropped, taking in his mostly naked body, and high spots of color began to form on her cheeks. He couldn't help it, he was having an instant erection from wanting
her so badly, missing her so much. “Come here, sweetheart.”

She did the unexpected. She rushed to him, throwing her arms around his damp body. Rathe hugged her fiercely. “I like this welcoming!”

She clung. He wanted to give her her gifts, but he also wanted to do something else, and his hands held her hips hard against his. “Oh, Grace, did I miss you.”

Her lips met his. Her mouth was open, moist, eager. He cupped her face in his palms, so he could look into her eyes. “I don't think I can behave right now, Grace.”

She smiled, mouth trembling, and he was startled to find tears in her eyes. “Now is not the time to be reformed,” she whispered.

He whooped. He lifted her and carried her to the bed. She lay sprawled against the white sheets, holding her arms out to him. It was a moment he would never forget. A magnificent, breathtaking sight—Grace holding her arms out to him.

He laughed, and dove on top of her. She giggled in surprise. He yanked her reticule out from beneath them and tossed it to the floor, where it landed with a thud. He straddled her, still wearing the towel. “Now, you,” he said, with laughter in his voice. “You are in big trouble!”

“I am?” asked amazing Grace. She reached for the towel, and pulled. “Oh dear,” she said. “I guess I am!”

 

He showered her with the gifts.

The lightweight boxes and the wrapped parcels fell to the bed, sliding across her body. Grace sat up, clutching the sheet. “What are you doing?”