1860
Late
summer held
the town of
Maple Falls
in a sweltering
grip. Night
air hung heavy
and damp,
ripe with
the scent
of hot earth
and river
water. It
was the kind
of night that
beat thick
and low in
a man's blood,
making him
dream of rumpled
sheets and
sultry women,
of flesh going
slick beneath
the stroke
of his hand.
Lucas
Garrett flopped
onto his bed,
blissfully,
gratefully alone.
He
gave a relieved
groan, sprawling
over the full
width of his
specially made,
extra-wide mattress.
Such
luxury! No one
to prod him
awake just as
he drifted off
to a well-earned
sleep. No soft
voice to politely
request a blanket
when the night
was clearly
too damn hot
for it. No knee,
however shapely,
to suddenly
be drawn up
a little too
close to areas
he'd rather
be protected
from stray extremities.
No reason to
wake up spitting
out the hank
of silky hair
that had ended
up in his unsuspecting
mouth.
Just
for a moment,
he wondered
if his sharp
relief meant
he was getting
old. Surely
not; he was
only twenty-eight.
Even Lucas Garrett
needed some
time to himself,
an occasional
night off. Heck,
he loved women;
everyone knew
it. After a
night or two
alone, he'd
undoubtedly
be back in the
saddle with
his usual vigor.
He
frowned when
the prospect
didn't provoke
a single twinge
of anticipation.
Maybe
three nights.
Lovely,
solitary sleep
was just drifting
over him when
a brisk knock
rattled his
door on its
hinges.
Husband!
Father! was
his automatic,
instinctive
response,
bringing him
up sharply
until he remembered.
There weren't
any husbands
and fathers
in Maple Falls,
not anymore,
at least none
worth worrying
about. He
started to
relax.
But
the bright,
cheerful "Lucas?" that
followed the
knock had him
wondering if
an enraged father
wouldn't be
preferable after
all.
"Lucas? It's
the third Thursday
of the month.
Wake up and
let me in, darling."
Damn.
Flora Fergus,
whose anger
at her absent
husband translated
into luscious
-- and extremely
exhausting --
enthusiasm.
He hadn't actually
forgotten that
Flora claimed
alternate Thursdays,
but he'd tried
to drop enough
subtle hints
when she visited
his store yesterday
afternoon to
make sure she'd
skip their usual
rendezvous tonight.
Unfortunately,
Flora had never
been a terribly
subtle woman.
He
briefly considered
letting her
in and just
as quickly dismissed
the thought.
He could try
to explain to
her that he
just wasn't
interested,
not tonight.
But knowing
Flora Fergus
-- and he did
know her, intimately
well -- she'd
promptly burst
into noisy tears.
If there was
one thing in
the entire world
that terrified
Lucas Garrett,
it was a weeping
woman. He'd
have her in
his arms to
comfort her
before the first
tear rolled
down her lovely
plump cheek.
And then he'd
never get any
sleep.
"Luuuu-cas," she
called, cajoling
and seductive.
The doorknob
jiggled loudly.
Lucas
rolled over
and pulled a
limp pillow
over his head,
trying to blot
out Flora's
voice, telling
himself there
was absolutely
no reason to
feel to guilty
or obligated
or any other
damn thing.
A
feather quill
poked through
the slack casing
and scratched
his cheek. The
pillow effectively
cut off his
air, wrapping
him in suffocating
heat. Unfortunately,
it didn't do
nearly as good
a job at muffling
sound.
Hell!
He yanked the
pillow away,
sat up, and
groped around
on the floor
beside his bed.
For once, without
a woman there
to insist on
showing off
her feminine
skills by picking
up after him,
he'd been able
to leave his
clothes conveniently
nearby.
He
hopped into
his pants and
tugged on a
shirt. Only
one doorway
led to his rooms
over the store,
at the top of
the staircase
tacked to the
back of the
building. Flora
blocked that
escape route,
but these were
desperate times.
He tiptoed through
the sparsely
furnished parlor
and poked his
head through
the front window,
left wide open
in the vain
hope of catching
a humid breeze
from the river.
A
big, blurry
moon sweated
yellow light
over the town,
revealing the
broad, empty
street below.
He hesitated
only long enough
to hear the
falling tones
of Flora's disappointed
sob. Lucas swung
his leg over
the windowsill
and dropped
the few feet
onto the porch
roof. 
The
corrugated iron
bowed beneath
him, a tell-tale
metal twang
ringing into
the night. He
stilled, certain
he'd been given
away, but from
the back of
the store drifted
the sound of
Flora's wail,
now steadily
theatrical.
Thank God the
other businesses
nearby were
empty; she'd
have raised
a crowd in no
time.
Lucas
bumped slowly
over the heated
metal and lowered
himself over
the edge of
the roof. He
swung there,
waiting for
his momentum
to slow, and
wondered how
he'd ever explain
this if someone
came across
him right then.
The truth --
that he was
fleeing from
what every healthy
young man in
America dreamed
of finding,
a near-unlimited
supply of willing,
attractive,
and downright
eager women
-- sounded preposterous
even to him.
He
let go, bending
his knees as
he hit the ground
to take the
force of the
fall. A sharp
stone bit into
the side of
his foot and
for a instant
he regretted
not taking the
time to yank
on a pair of
boots. But the
lock on his
door was somewhat
less than sturdy,
and Flora definitely
was not.
Jamming
his hands into
his pockets,
Lucas automatically
turned north,
parallel to
the river, and
headed for sanctuary.
Wide,
straight streets
led past the
sturdy buildings
of a town built
in a wild burst
of giddy, boom-town
optimism. But
now abandoned
businesses blinked
hollowly behind
broken windows
and doors badly
in need of fresh
paint. The sagging
porch tacked
onto what had
once been Boswell's
Emporium, the
fading gilded
letters on the
cracked office
window of The
Maple Falls
Frontiersman,
and the fallen-down
sign that used
to proudly announce
Tuttle's Boardinghouse
all clearly
told of forsaken
hopes, shattered
dreams, and
a failing town.
But
the depression
that had emptied
much of the
town and drastically
reduced Lucas's
business had,
in the process,
also eliminated
nearly all of
his competition.
He had every
expectation
that, once the
irresistible
lure of quick
riches and big
scores faded,
the town would
turn to the
slower, less
exciting, and
infinitely more
reliable enterprises
of logging and
farming. And
he'd be right
here, ready
to profit, even
if his contract
with the Maple
Falls Manufacturing
Company hadn't
ensured he'd
stay.
Not
to mention that
when he'd had
enough of quiet
solitude, as
he undoubtedly
soon would,
he'd once again
relish being
surrounded by
an entire town
of charming
and delicious
women who could
scarcely wait
to be led astray.
Yes, he was
clearly a man
who had everything,
he reminded
himself firmly,
made all the
more delightful
since he'd been
the only man
in the area
who'd had enough
sense to realize
it. This oddity
of mood that
made it seem
as much a burden
as a pleasure
would surely
burn off tomorrow
as easily as
a remnant of
morning fog.
Moonlight
sluiced off
the placid,
glassy surface
of the Mississippi.
A shadowy tumble
of useless rubble
hugged both
shorelines,
all that remained
of what had
once been a
strong, well-built
damn. Across
the broad width
of the river,
he could just
make out the
blackened, gaping
hole where the
back corner
of the sawmill
had been ripped
away as easily
a toy house
twisted and
broken by a
frustrated young
boy. Hard to
believe that
the water that
looked so sluggish
now carried
enough force
to do such damage.
He
turned a corner,
away from the
fickle river.
Up ahead, a
light burned
steadily in
Louisa Rockwell's
small cottage.
Kept lit to
guide her father
home, he supposed.
Obadiah was
no doubt rolling
on his pins
again, slumped
somewhere between
home and the
entrance to
the bar of the
Great Northern
Hotel, save
Lucas's own
the only other
surviving commercial
establishment
in Maple Falls.
On
another night,
he would have
gone in search
of Obadiah and
lugged him home.
He'd done it
a dozen times
before. But
then there would
be Louisa's
generous, and
undoubtedly
physical, "thank
you" to deal
with, to accept
and honor or
to try and deny
so gently she'd
feel even more
flattered by
his uncharacteristic
refusal. He
wasn't inclined
to do either.
He
sighed deeply.
The endless
obligations
. . . no, the expectations,
wearied him.
Even more so,
the continuous
gratitude shown
him, the necessity
of living up
to what was
anticipated
of him, and
the responsibility
of giving fair
and unselfish
return for the
favors given
so freely to
him.
Something
simply had to
be done. He
was only one
man!
Around
one more corner,
and there was
his mother's
place. Small
and simple,
decidedly unprepossessing,
it could not
have been more
different than
the graceful
brick home they'd
occupied in
Illinois. The
house huddled
demurely under
the sheltering
arms of the
great white
oak that Lydia
Garrett had
taken pains
to save when
she'd had the
place built.
Lamplight
glinted in one
window, speckling
delicate patterns
on the ground
where it fell
through a swath
of lace curtain.
Lydia was still
awake, as he'd
known she would
be. But he never
considered stopping.
He'd made that
mistake only
once as a child,
going to his
mother's room
late at night
for comfort
after a particularly
gruesome dream,
and he'd learned
things about
his mother that
no nine-year-old
should even
know existed.
He
passed the carefully
nurtured hedge
of young lilacs
and turned,
slipping along
the edge of
the bushes and
around the side
of the next
house. Rows
of flowers and
neatly clipped
grass, their
scents blooming
strong and vibrant
as perfume in
the heat, bordered
the proud, white
house. All the
windows were
dark, but Lucas
knew exactly
which one he
wanted.
First
floor, rear
corner, overlooking
the herb garden.
Lucas swung
lightly over
the sill, brushing
aside a filmy,
cream-colored
curtain panel,
and quietly
entered the
room.
His
eyes had already
adjusted to
the night, and
he picked out
the familiar
furnishings,
shadowy forms
lit by a thin
gauze of moonlight.
An
oak dresser
sat against
a nearby wall.
He indulged
himself, running
a hand over
the glassy-smooth
finish, tracing
the frilled
edge of a hand-tatted
dresser scarf.
He lifted a
cut glass bottle,
toyed with the
gleaming silver
of a hand mirror.
Familiar, all
of it, and yet
it still caught
him, the essential
female mystery.
Useless frippery
and silly confections,
the kind of
thing no man
would ever bother
with. But they
always intrigued
him, in the
way they said
woman, hinting
at things he
could explore
for a lifetime
and never fully
understand.
He
walked over
to the bed.
She was fast
asleep, of course,
and he took
a moment to
admire the faint
gloss of light
on clean hair,
the pearly sheen
of pale, fine
skin against
a crisp white
pillowcase.
Even in the
heat, she was
fully covered,
the lacy edge
of a sheet tucked
high across
her chest and
turned precisely
square over
the crazy quilt
he knew she'd
stitched herself.
Even
the air smelled
of her, a little
spice, a hint
of flowers,
a lot of good
clean soap.
He shifted,
uncomfortably
aware that,
though his favorite
hobby had long
been appreciating
women and all
their unfathomable,
secret, and
utterly erotic
ways, he'd never
focused so exactly
on this one.
Just
one more sign
of how truly
addled he was
tonight, and
more evidence
of why he must
get his life
back in order
as quickly as
possible. If
he kept looking
down at her
in the moonlight,
he might do
something truly
insane.
"Pris," he
whispered. "Wake
up, Pris."
She
didn't move,
but he heard
her quick intake
of breath, saw
the gleam of
her irises when
her eyes fluttered
open.
"I've
got to talk
to you," he
went on.
"Oh," she
said, a distinct
note of deflation
in her voice,
as if she'd
just unwrapped
an exceptionally
promising looking
package to find
nothing more
than a plain
pair of cotton
stockings, "it'
s just you."
  
END
OF CHAPTER
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