Fletcher's Woman by Linda Lael Miller

Town.
    A great fuss had been made over Fawn throughout the evening; Molly carried trays up to her room, and Dr. Fletcher visited her frequently, his face grim.
    Rachel didn’t know whether Fawn was ill, or whether she’d been hurt somehow. She hadn’t dared to ask.
    Now, alone in a small, quiet bedroom, she felt a twinge of envy, followed by a deep, shattering sense of loneliness.
    And Dr. Fletcher—Griffin—was out. She could feel his absence throbbing in the substantial house, as though the structure was straining to hold its breath until his return.
    Then, in the distance, a door closed. The house let out its breath, drew another, and was normal again. Rachel closed her eyes and slept.
    â€¢   •   •
    Griffin awakened reluctantly with the dawn. Another day. God, sometimes he wished that time would stop just long enough to allow him to gather his thoughts.
    He threw back a tangled blanket and moved, naked, across the cool smoothness of his bedroom floor. At the washstand, he poured tepid water from a pitcher into a basin and washed. That done, he shaved, dressed in his customary black trousers and a fresh white shirt, and brushed his hair.
    Though he had a number of other matters to think about, his mind kept straying back to Rachel, who was sleeping in the room directly across from his. A sudden, devastating need sprang up inside him, consuming him, thrusting aside all his good intentions.
    He was free now, he reminded himself. There was no good reason why he shouldn’t be attracted to her.
    Fitful and unaccountably anxious, he moved to the windows, looked out on the clear, freshly washed day forming itself of sunshine and blue sky and fading mists. He drew a deep, ragged breath and searched his mind for specific fears but found only one—loving again.
    Griffin braced himself inwardly, turned from the window, and left his bedroom.
    In the hallway, he paused, everything within him drawn to Rachel’s closed door. After several seconds, he summoned enough discipline to walk away, to open the door of the room where Fawn rested and look in.
    She was gone, and the room was as neat and unchanged as if she’d never been there at all.
    Griffin was both exasperated and amused, but he wasn’t surprised. Even as a small child, Fawn had had trouble staying in one place for more than two hours at a time.
    He descended the stairs, strode through the quiet house to the kitchen.
    There, four different lamps aided the struggling dawn, and Molly stood before the enormous cookstove, stirring something in a cast-iron kettle.
    Her smile was wary, and a tendril of steam-dampened, coppery hair fell over her forehead. She brushed it aside with the back of one hand. “What about the McKinnon girl?” she demanded without preamble.
    Griffin bowed slightly and laughed. “And good morning to you, too, Molly Brady.”
    Molly shook her head good-naturedly and ladled hot oatmeal into a crockery bowl as Griffin helped himself to coffee.
    â€œShe’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” Molly pressed. “Saints above, I can just imagine what those lilac-colored eyes do to a man’s insides.”
    Griffin sat down at the round oaken table and spooned coarse brown sugar over the cereal Molly set before him. “She’s only a child,” he snapped, speaking as much to himself as to Molly.
    Her laugh was pleasantly derisive. “Some child, that one.”
    â€œShe’s only seventeen,” Griffin said, taking an unusual interest in the cream pitcher.
    â€œAye,” Molly agreed cheerfully. “And at her age, I was a year married and mother to my William.”
    Griffin ignored the remark and ate in silence.
    Molly wouldn’t have it. “The poor thing—she looked so lost and confused last night! I’ll be bound you didn’t trouble yourself to explain matters to her, Griffin Fletcher.”
    Griffin sat back to finish his coffee. “Her