Fletcher's Woman by Linda Lael Miller Page A

father can explain. I’m going to find him today.”
    Molly raised one shapely auburn eyebrow. “Aye? And it’s a day’s ride up that mountain and back. What if you’re needed here?”
    Griffin shrugged with an indifference he didn’t feel. He shouldn’t go, he knew that—especially not when he could probably persuade Field to go instead. But he needed the ride, the distance, the time.
    â€œI’ll be back as soon as I can. Until I am, you keep Rachel in or near this house. Jonas is flat on his back and hurting in some crucial places, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try anything.”
    Swiftly, before he could refuse, Molly refilled his cup with coffee. “Griffin,” she ventured, with gentle caution. “I know that you and Becky McKinnon were close friends. I know you promised her that you would see Rachel safely out of Jonas’s reach. But what if Rachel is attracted to him? Whatever else he is, Jonas is good-looking and rich. Those qualities make a powerful combination when a girl has been poor all her life.”
    Griffin shoved his cup away, staining the crisp white tablecloth in the process, and rose to take his suit coat and round-brimmed hat from the peg beside the back door. “Jonas would destroy her,” he said.
    Squaring her shoulders Molly, extended the ever-presentblack bag. “Maybe he does love her,” she said doubtfully, her green eyes haunted and faraway.
    â€œLove?” The word was bitter on Griffin’s tongue. He wrenched open the door and was comforted by the resulting rush of cool air. “Jonas wouldn’t know love if it did a jig on his breastbone.”
    Molly’s strong, Irish chin lifted. “And you’re a fine one to be throwing stones, Griffin Fletcher. The word practically makes you scream and run.”
    Griffin went out, slamming the door behind him in eloquent response.
    â€¢   •   •
    When Rachel awakened, she was bemused to find that she felt nothing. Not grief for her mother, not anger at Griffin, not loneliness. There was, it seemed, a void inside her.
    The lovely house was cool and quiet as she made her way through it, to the kitchen.
    Molly Brady was there, with her quick smile and her cautious, questioning eyes. “Here, then, sit down and have a bite,” she commanded, in her melodic brogue.
    Rachel smiled wanly as she accepted the offered oatmeal, with muttered thanks, and sat down to eat. As she moved, the cheap wool of her dress scratched at her bare thighs and irritated her breasts, but she didn’t care. Nothing mattered, nothing at all.
    Molly centered a wide-brimmed straw hat atop her head. “Rachel?”
    Rachel looked up, managing a soft, distracted smile. “Yes?”
    â€œWelcome.”
    Tears clustered in Rachel’s throat, which was odd, she decided, since she had no feelings.
    Molly must have seen something in her face, for she approached swiftly, took off her hat, and sat down in the chair nearest Rachel’s. “I’m thinking you’re a girl in need of someone to talk to, Rachel McKinnon.”
    â€œIt’s very strange,” Rachel confided, pushing her half-finished breakfast away. “So much has happened to me, and yet I don’t feel anything.”
    â€œYou will,” Molly promised, one of her small, reddened hands coming to rest on Rachel’s wrist.
    Rachel swallowed, averting her eyes. “What kind of man is Dr. Fletcher?” she asked.
    The housekeeper sighed. “He’s a good man—a strong, responsible man.”
    â€œBut he’s arrogant and aloof, too!” Suddenly Rachel’s lost emotions were streaming back, and she wasn’t so sure she welcomed them. “My goodness, Molly, I was minding my own business. I went to Mr. Wilkes’s house because he invited me to take a bath—”
    Gentle amusement sparkled in the green, green eyes, but there was something