Harnessed Passions (2 page)

She sat studying the dark, muddy cloth with
interest. It was strange in appearance, both the way it floated and
the way it seemed to mold to something much larger than a tree
limb, as she at first had assumed. Anticipation and curiosity bound
within her, as she considered the reason behind why her friend
would discard the very expensive, blue paisley dress in the muddy
swimming hole. The lace collar had been torn partway off the
neckline and was tangled in thin muddy strings; the sleeves ripped
and weighed down by something bluish-yellow in color, the cuffs
pulled down beneath the surface of the water’s depths.

Julia sat in the disgusting mud, her bottom
wet and soggy, her feet buried in the dense ooze, a frown creased
her brow deeply as she watched a shadowed object slowly float up
from beneath the dress, bringing the sleeve up out of the water. It
looked at first as though it was a dead animal; a beaver or a duck
perhaps had managed to get entwined around the material, but as she
continued to watch it, the object took on an oddly familiar
shape.

It was twisted and bloated and discolored,
but there was no denying what it was; a small hand poked out of the
torn sleeve of the dress as it bobbed up from the bottom. With a
sickening realization, Julia began to recognize the object in front
of her; her eyes wide with disbelief. What she first assumed were
muddy strings tangled in the dress collar were instead a mass of
dark hair. She blinked repeatedly; trying to force her eyes to tell
her what she was seeing wasn’t real.

The weight of the arm bobbed gently in the
water, causing the torn dress to shift slightly as it floated
closer to the edge where Julia sat watching it. The hem of the
dress had caught on the limbs of a beaver’s abandoned dam, causing
the heavy object to twist. The tiny toes of two black boots popped
up from beneath the water’s surface, making Julia’s breath catch in
her throat.

As if moving by an unknown force, she
reached for an old branch in the mud beside her, poking sharply at
the branches until the dress broke free, twisting freely in the
rocking waves. Her pulse began to race and her breathing sharp and
raspy. A great splash sounded as the heavy object hit the bank and
Julia found herself staring into the lifeless face of…oh my
God…Heather!

A scream echoed around her like thunder in
the clear afternoon skies and with a harsh start she realized the
sound had come from her own throat. She tried to stand, but fell
back in the slippery mud still holding her ankles prisoner in a
death grip. Pain ripped her insides and she sank further back into
the wet earth, her feet struggling for freedom from the ooze.
Julia’s disbelief barely registered the dark purple gash slanting
across her friend’s grotesquely bloated forehead. She twisted
around, turning from the horror that floated within inches of her,
her clothes tangling about her legs as she tried to move away from
the water’s edge, driving her down into the mud, her lip and chin
struck a stone buried beneath the slimy surface. She continued to
try and get away; ignorant of the blood seeping through the mud
caked on her face.

Her eyes closed tightly and she screamed
again, much louder than before, hoping someone would hear her. She
pleaded with the surrounding brushes for help as birds squawked
angrily above her, flying from their nests. Her soul began to sob
violently as she prayed this was all just a cruel and thoughtless
trick. Tears streamed down her muddy cheeks and neck, her throat
becoming horse with the force of her voice, her heart ached with a
pain that seared it in two.

A dark shadow remained hidden behind the
bushes, scrutinizing the scene with silent anger, mindful of the
girl's hysteria. It would be simple to dispose of her right now,
she was helpless to fight and nobody knew she was there; if struck
from behind; she would fall easily in the mud. One quick move and
she could join her friend in the unforgiving afterworld, one shove
and they would drift together in a watery grave for eternity.

But grief gripped with the misery and a
mournful soul silently screamed out in denial. The pain was greater
than the need for retribution. Instead, the shadow moved quietly
away from the swimming hole, careful to stay out of sight as the
sounds of voices shouted, calling out to her. The girl’s screaming
hid the noise of departing feet as they disappeared among the
brush.

That girl...Julia
Turner...she did this, she was responsible for all of this and she
would pay for what had happened. It was her fault; it was a
dreadful, horrible mistake and if there were even an ounce of
justice left in this world, everyone’s
little sweetheart
would soon be
encased in her own grave.

It should have been her, not sweet innocent
Heather Farnsworth. A soft vow echoed through the shadowy soul, as
tears of grief and sorrow streaked down a dirty face; she would pay
for this and pay dearly. Heather’s death would be avenged; Julia
Turner would suffer the atonement for what had happened here
today.

September 1873

Two men sat at the small round table near
the front of the saloon, laughing and talking cheerfully with each
other. Stories and tales were exchanged from many years gone by, as
the brown fluid from the whiskey bottle slowly began to diminish.
Harold raised his glass again as the handsome, blondish-brown
haired man next to him followed suit.

"Here's to Margie Webster, soon to be Margie
Leonard," the man chirped, gleefully. "She is the only woman with
whom I find myself in love with. I am the luckiest man out of all
the blokes in Kentucky, all of America; hell, the whole universe."
The glasses clinked with their salute, spattering the dark liquid
across the rims and onto the table in front of them. They drank
down the liquor in a large gulp, feeling the burn of its effects as
it struck their throats.

A soft grunt of disapproval echoed from the
dirty, unshaven man sitting alone in the corner of the room. His
dark eyes shadowed from sight, hiding his penetrating gaze from the
two men who glanced silently toward him. Two empty bottles of
whiskey, as well as a partially full third one adorned the table in
front of him. Wet puddles from many drunken attempts to fill his
small glass lay across the wooden surface, running down the edge to
settle on the floor. The man had made several comments since Harold
and his new partner had entered the saloon, but so far they had
been successfully ignored.

Daniel Browning was tall, young and
handsome. His blondish-brown hair fell to his shoulders and was
held back from his face by a silk ribbon. It was somewhat longer
than the style most American lawyers preferred in this day and age,
yet perfectly acceptable by those of his native country of England.
His strong jawline and chiseled nose echoed an air of
sophistication and pride. His powerfully, muscular arms and wide
span of chest, made most men think twice before confronting him. He
looked like a human mountain. The fact that he was exceptionally
good-looking had not been lost on the two barmaids, who made sure
his bottle of whiskey was readily accessible. Along with his
turquoise eyes, Daniel made the completed picture of architectural
perfection.

He had at once captured the attention of the
town’s female population, as he walked freely about the train
station after he arrived earlier that afternoon. Those respectable
young ladies occupying the streets and stores, giggled as he nodded
his way past them, while those of lesser respect, especially the
girls working the local bar, made their interest known. The scantly
clothed women with their brightly colored lace and satin bloomers,
elastic garters and cheap cologne, made certain their invitations
were understood as they slithered around the room, smiling and
winking at him, nodding toward the stairs that lead to the bedrooms
hidden on the upper level.

Although he had been aboard a schooner the
past two months, with literally no female companionship, he
declined their suggestions repeatedly. He was eager only to settle
into the town and his new office before trying to find a woman to
share his bed. He arrived in Kentucky just that day; ready to join
his childhood friend in the small law practice started a couple of
years prior.

Harold had moved to Kentucky after
graduating Oxford, two years before the American Civil War ended.
His office was small, but very successful and when he asked Daniel
to join him, the opportunity couldn’t be passed by.

Daniel was a model citizen in England,
respected and revered. A prosperous solicitor in his own right; he
came from a prominent family of wealth and title, so having to earn
respect was new to him. It was a novel idea, which was why he sold
his share of the firm to his partners and moved across the Atlantic
Ocean to be with his friend. It was the thought of starting a life
where nobody knew who or what he was, that made it seemed romantic
and quixotic; both of which intrigued him.

“
Does this Margie know what
sort of rogue she’s marrying?” Daniel asked with a soft chuckle on
his friend’s blushing behalf.

“
She knows I’m in love with
her,” Harold answered. “And since I’ve been the perfect gentleman
since moving to Kentucky, what more is there to tell?”

“
What about that night in
Baths, with those two lasses from Bristol?” Daniel teased, again
earning his friend a red heat to tint his pale cheeks.

“
Margie is a true lady,
Browning, and I will thank you not to mention my past to
her.”

“
So discussing the damsel
from Wales is out of the question?”

“
Damn straight!” Harold
snapped, smiling at his friend’s deep laugh.

The man in the corner snorted again, much
louder than before. He hadn't particularly cared for the town's
newest arrival and listening to their conversation was causing his
drunken mind to grow more agitated. From the moment his brown eyes
set on the man whose mere presence demanded attention, there was a
strong animosity toward him. The British accent along with the
expensive dark colored waistcoat and suit jacket, made Daniel
appear more of an outsider than one of the local residents. He sat
with dignity, talked and laughed softly and made an overall picture
of high breeding. All of this played on the man's nerves, until he
at last exploded in an abrupt display of anger.

"What the hell do ya know 'bout ladies?" he
snarled, rising up on shaky legs and knocking the chair opposite
him over. His appearance was the result of many hours spent in the
small, dark tavern; his breath and clothes thick with the scent of
sweat and whiskey, as he approached Daniel and Harold. "Ain't no
real ladies left in this here piss hole."

"Take it easy Overton," the bartender
commanded.

"Go ta hell, Simmons. I
ain't talkin’ ta ya, no how. Well
Mister
Fancy Breeches
?" he glared at Daniel, as he
wobbled closer to his table. "I axed ya a question."

"I don't find a need in replying to drunks,"
Daniel insisted, sitting his glass back on the table, his fingers
playing with it in an attempt to retain his temper. He'd been in
enough pubs over the years, to easily recognize the look in the
man's eyes. Daniel knew the man meant trouble and he would answer
him, only if he had no other choice.

"Them sounds like fightin’ words ta me."

"I don’t want to fight you, sir, so go back
to your table, finish your drink and leave us alone." Daniel
refused to stand. He was by far no coward, as his large muscular
frame confirmed, but fighting drunks had never proved worthy of a
man with his talents and skills. The other man would get hurt and
wake up with broken bones and bruises, never remembering how it
happened. This, to Daniel’s way of thinking, was far from a fair
fight.

"Ya yeller, or sumpin?"

"No, I'm just not in the mood to fight."

"Since when does a man have ta be in a mood,
ta fight?" the man growled, with a hooting laughter.

"Go finish your drink Overton, before you
cause any more trouble," the bartender shouted to him again.

"I told ya ta stay outta this. This here's
between me 'n Fancy Breeches. Well, mister, ya feel like makin’ me
shut up?" Daniel looked to Harold, who raised his eye brows in
question to him, his thin lips fighting the urge to smile.

Daniel removed his jacket
and tossed it to the back of a chair next to him before slipping
the elaborately engraved gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket,
along with the silver flask he carried for
emergencies
and laid them on the
table. He stood from his chair, stretching himself up to a full six
feet four inches then confronted the man with a look of warning in
his blue-green eyes as he towered over the drunk by more than half
a foot. His shoulders were broad and firm, the well-toned muscles
of his arms strained against the material of his suit coat; his
hands large and powerful, offering a silent warning all on their
own.

"I don't want to fight you, Mr. Overton," he
said softly, yet clearly; his muscles bulging under his white silk.
"Go sit down and finish your whiskey, before you get hurt."

"Ya think yer that good, do ya? Well I'm
sick of listenin’ to ya 'n old blubber butt there," he slurred,
pointing a shaky finger at Harold, who remained seated at the
table, interested and amused by the man's reactions, as well as
that of his heroic friend. "Ya don't know beans 'bout what a real
woman is, do ya?” Overton poked Daniel in the shoulder with a long
bony finger. “Well I can tell ya this; there ain't no more real
women left in all of Kentucky. The last one left a month ago."

"I think you should go sleep it off,
Overton. It's obvious you're distraught and near ready to pass
out." The anger was beginning to show in Daniel’s eyes as he stared
at the drunk, fighting the urge to slug him and have done with
it.