Fletcher's Woman by Linda Lael Miller Page A

need stitches beneath her lower lip. “You bastard,” he breathed, without looking up.
    Jonas stood at the foot of the sofa now, his voice an irritating drone in the throbbing tension of the room. “Indians are a disciplinary problem, you know.”
    Griffin brought a bottle of alcohol from his bag and began toclean the wounds on Fawn’s battered face. “Shut up, you son of a bitch, and get me some hot water and a clean cloth.”
    Jonas did not stir from his post at Fawn’s feet. “Now, now, Griffin, I thought we were friends.”
    Mrs. Hammond entered the room, shamefaced and stricken, bearing a basin of steaming water and several towels. The flow of the conversation was not interrupted by her presence.
    â€œFriends, hell,” Griffin growled, making use of the materials Mrs. Hammond had provided—it was annoying, he thought, how she’d spared Jonas even that small effort—and then dipping a steel needle into carbolic acid and threading it with catgut. Fawn flinched as the sharp point of the needle pierced her flesh, then stirred and opened her wide, brown eyes as he tied off the last stitch.
    Soft jubilance soared in Griffin’s weary spirit. It was a valid thing to be happy about, he supposed, a good friend regaining consciousness; and after three deaths and the inheritance of a troublesome, grief-stricken girl named Rachel, Griffin was especially grateful. “How do you feel?” he asked gently.
    Fawn shook her head slowly back and forth. “Not good, Griffin. And no lectures, please.”
    â€œNo lectures,” he promised.
    Fawn smiled, and the effort was obviously costly. “How do you feel, Griffin?”
    â€œI’ll show you,” he replied. And then he raised himself to his full height, turned to Jonas, and aimed all the terrible pain and anger he felt at him. The thud his fist made as it landed, full-force in Jonas’s midsection, was a satisfying sound.
    Jonas doubled over with a windless grunt, and Mrs. Hammond cried out as though she’d been struck herself.
    Slowly, Jonas straightened up again. There was hatred in his eyes as he surveyed Griffin’s taut features, his shoulders, his half-clenched fists.
    Then, incredibly, Jonas laughed. “Beating the hell out of me won’t exorcise your demons, Griffin. Nothing will do that. By the way, Rachel was a fetching sight today, wasn’t she? I ought to give her the rest of Athena’s clothes.”
    Blood pounded in Griffin’s temples, aching savagery flexed and unflexed the muscles in his hands. Athena’s name fell at his feet like a burning tree, the flames flaring up to sear him in the deepest recesses of his mind and soul. A cry of brutal, murderous fury tore at his throat, and he lunged toward Jonas, blinded by his despair and his rage.
    But Jonas was prepared. A thin, silvery blade flashed in his left hand; the fingers of his right beckoned calmly. “Come on, Griff. Let’s settle it all, right here, right now.”
    Fawn’s cry echoed in the room, and her words were distorted, washing over Griffin’s mind like a low, tepid tide. “No, Griffin—please. Don’t do it. . .”
    But Griffin could not restrain himself; there seemed to be no reason in all the universe, no sanity. All that mattered was the hatred, the hurt, the betrayal. He relieved Jonas of the knife with one swing of his arm, saw the glimmer of the steel blade as it coursed through the thick air and fell soundlessly to the rug.
    The next few moments were forever lost to Griffin Fletcher; when he came back inside himself, Jonas was lying on the floor in a crumpled, groaning heap, his hands sheltering his groin, blood streaming from the comer of his mouth.
    Bile roiled in Griffin’s stomach and burned in his throat, but he felt no conscious remorse, no pity.
    Mrs. Hammond fell to her knees at Jonas’s side, her considerable bulk quivering with fear and anger.