Jane Bonander (6 page)

“How are things with Emily this afternoon?”

Dinah blinked, grateful he had interrupted her. “She was quite calm.” She thought a moment, then made her decision. “Did you know she enjoys sketching?”

He frowned. “Of course. Until I saw that funereal piece of art over the desk in your room, I’d forgotten her passion for it.”

“Ah, yes. There was another one hanging over my bed, but I’ve taken it down.” She sighed. “I thought it was truly ugly, but I’m beginning to think I should put it back up. After all, it’s the way Emily expresses herself, and I don’t have to like it.”

His face was hard, closed in. “Zelda didn’t like any of Emily’s paintings. I’m surprised she didn’t have those two pieces destroyed as well.”

“Destroyed?” What a terrible thought.

His smile was grim. “They made incredible fireplace fodder.”

Dinah gasped at the waste. “They may not be pretty and superficial, but they’re part of Emily, of who she is. It seems to me that to destroy them would be to destroy a part of her.”

“Emily’s view of the world wasn’t what Zelda wanted it to be.”

“But that doesn’t make it wrong,” Dinah countered. “Even now, your mother has a hold over Emily. She threatened to punish her from the grave.”

He expelled a sound of disbelief. “What?”

“According to Emily, her pictures disturbed your mother, therefore she didn’t want Emily drawing them. I think she reasoned that if they bothered
her,
they must have bothered Emily, too. But for Emily, they were a form of therapy.” My, didn’t she sound profound?

He seemed to think so, too. “I can believe that.”

Dinah let out a quiet, relieved breath of air. “Drawing calms her down. It’s better than any form of therapy or treatment I’ve ever seen. At Trenway, there was a woman who had the most beautiful singing voice. We discovered that if we let her sing, she was peaceful. If we asked her to stop, she became violent. Shrieked like a bloody banshee.” She shrugged. “It probably wasn’t the most professional form of treatment, but it worked.”

His searching gaze made Dinah uncomfortable. One thing she would do, she knew for certain, was return that unsightly picture to its place on the wall. It was possible that Emily had put it there in the first place, just to get a rise out of her. And if she sneaked into Dinah’s room and found it gone, she would know her ploy had worked.

Dinah inhaled the fresh mountain air and studied the distant, snow-capped hills. The trees that grew at the highest elevations appeared black and purple. “It’s so beautiful here. I would never have believed any place on earth could be as perfect as this.”

The view from her wing at the asylum had offered plump, Trenway cattle grazing on thick, succulent grass. She’d often wondered who benefited from them. Probably that cow of a matron and her fat daughters, none whom ever missed a well cooked meal. It certainly wasn’t the inmates. The memory of gray, spoiled meat floating in greasy swill nearly made her gag.

She crossed to a patch of elegant blue flowers resembling forget-me-nots and knelt in the grass to examine them. “Look at these,” she said, tossing the words over her shoulder. “Did you know these are called hound’s tongue?”

From a distance, she studied his hounds and made a face. “Not likely named after them, though. These flowers are as beautiful as your hounds are ugly.”

She fell forward, moving her hands over the soft flowers and cold grass. The smell was intoxicating. In spite of everything, Dinah had felt revitalized the instant she saw the mountains from the train.

She rose and inhaled again, closing her eyes as the crisp, clean air filled her lungs. She spun in circles on the grass, flinging her arms wide, feeling alive and free.
Thank you, Daisy, thank you, thank you, thank you!

“Oh, if I could sing, I’d belt out a song that would knock the antlers off an elephant.”

He chuckled, not the sound he’d made before, but it was filled with humor, nonetheless. Her stomach did a little dip.

“I don’t believe elephants have antlers, Miss Odell. They have tusks.” This odd girl-woman was beginning to grow on him. What an unusual creature she was.

She laughed, a tinkling sound that rivaled birdsong. “Oh, of course. Well, you know what I mean.”

“I’ve been here so long, I don’t see the beauty of it anymore. I rather take it for granted, I’m afraid.”

She stopped dancing on the grass, her face serious and filled with emotion. “Oh, you shouldn’t let that happen.” She inhaled again, raising her delicate shoulders. “Smell that.” When he merely looked at her, she put her fists on her hips. “I mean it. Come on, smell that air.”

To humor her, Tristan took a deep breath.

“What do you smell?”

He shrugged. “Air. It has no particular odor of its own.”

“Nonsense.” She inhaled, closing her eyes. “I smell… flowers. So many different kinds, I can’t identify a single one. And I smell the grass and the dirt. And,” she added, inhaling again, “pine.” She made a sound of pleasure, not unlike a woman beginning to feel the stirrings of passion. Tristan was intrigued.

“What else do you smell, Miss Odell?”

“Oh, let me see.” She sniffed again, then smiled, her eyes still closed. “Manure.”

He laughed. “Now, don’t tell me that’s a pleasant odor.”

“But it is. It’s earthy and warm.” She pulled in another noisy breath. “I like it.”

He shook his head, unable to keep from smiling. “You’ve been behind asylum walls too long if you find manure a pleasant smell.”

A change came over her so brief, he wasn’t sure he’d seen anything at all.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice soft, “I guess I have.” She recovered quickly. “Now, come.” She danced off toward the barn. “Show me the rest of the ranch. I want to see everything.”

Tristan followed her as she skipped toward the outbuildings, her drab skirt flying up to expose her petticoats. She was refreshing, almost exhilarating. She breathed life into everything that had become stale around him. Even so, she was merely a wide-eyed child.

Something about her continued to bother him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but by God, he would. He was accompanying her and Emily to the hot springs in the morning, although he hadn’t done it with any of the other nurses. He’d made himself too scarce, primarily because he preferred the numb armor that protected his heart from the feelings Dinah dredged up within him.

After dinner, Tristan pored over his ledgers. There was a rap on the door, and Alice stepped into his study. He glanced up briefly, then went back to the column of numbers.

“Yes, Alice? What is it?”

She clucked her tongue and stepped closer to the desk. “I’ve discovered the oddest thing.”

He ran his finger down the column, stopping at the total. “What’s that?”

A barrage of hard rolls and slices of bread tumbled onto his desk, the crumbs spilling over his books.

He cursed. “What in the hell?” He brushed the dried bread away with an impatient hand.

“You’ll never guess where I found these.”

Annoyed now, he murmured, “No, I never will. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I was cleaning Miss Odell’s room.”

The finality of her statement was supposed to be clear. It wasn’t. “And?”

Alice leaned over his desk, her face red, her pale eyes intense. “The hard rolls were in the desk drawer, rolled up in a napkin. Tristan,” she scolded, “those are the rolls I sent up to her the day she arrived, over a week ago.” She looked about, as if someone might be listening. “The bread was in her bedside table, hidden inside a napkin.” She picked it up and crumbled it, the crumbs adding to the mess on his desk. “Not fit for anyone but the birds.”

Tristan studied the bird food. “I’ll admit it’s unusual.”

“And this,” she said, drawing a partly eaten apple from her apron pocket, “was under her pillow. Can you imagine?
Under her pillow.”
She dug into the other pocket and, with two fingers, pulled out another napkin. She opened it and showed him what was inside, then dropped it with the other debris. “This was a piece of cake.” She shook her head at the mess of frosting that clung to the cloth, then tugged at her bodice.
“Uff dah.
I baked it three days ago, and I found it on the windowsill.”

Tristan sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s odd, I’ll grant you that.”

“It isn’t as if I don’t feed her. I mean, after all, Tristan, I’m a good cook and I see that we have plenty to eat.”

“That you do, Alice.”

“Well, what do you make of it?”

He shook his head, completely baffled. “I haven’t a clue, but if it’s important to you, I’ll find out.”

“Ya, well it’s important, for sure,” she answered with a huff. “The way she’s stashing food, a person would think she’s afraid she’ll go hungry.” She leaned across the desk, shook a finger at him and blew a strand of gray hair from her face. “And nobody goes hungry when Alice Linberg cooks!”

She had stripped to her camisole and drawers as quickly and eagerly as a bawdy-house tart. Now, she bobbed in the heated water with Emily by her side, her face cloaked in rapture.

Of course, she’d thought he was gone. Indeed, he’d intended to go off, leaving them with the matron of the spa, but had chosen to stay.

There were many things gnawing at him. For instance, why she hadn’t brought up the marriage agreement. For most women, it would have been the first thing they would mention, to be certain he hadn’t changed his mind. A union in name only was perhaps the most desirable for a woman. In many ways, it was ideal for a man. Especially a man who had a mistress hidden away somewhere.

He had absolutely no desire for a wife, yet he had no mistress, either. He’d missed his calling; perhaps he should have become a monk. Brother Fletcher had a nice, safe ring to it.

As long as she didn’t bring up the subject of marriage, he wouldn’t. It gave him more time to decide what to do about her.

Through the glass partition, he studied the two women, neither of whom appeared older than sixteen, at best, although Emily was twice that. His gaze swung to the woman, Dinah.

He snorted a laugh. Woman, indeed. It was hard for him to call her that, for even in her camisole, she was, well, not very shapely. How he could feel anything toward her was a puzzle, for he’d never been drawn to a woman like this one. Though her hair was vibrant, redheads had never interested him. Their skin was usually red and blotchy, and they rarely had eyelashes. Dinah Odell’s skin was pink and clear, and her eyes were rimmed with thick, russet lashes. But damn it, he liked a woman with curves, not one that was built like a jockey or a stable boy.

She floated to the surface of the water. Through the gauzy fabric of her drawers he could see the dark triangle at the juncture of her thighs. His groin tightened. A girl she was not, even if she didn’t have the full breasts he usually liked in his women.

They’d arrived at the spa before he thought to ask her about her habit of hoarding food. It was a curious thing, although he was willing to let it go. However, Alice would not, so he’d better get an answer of some kind before they returned home.

Dinah stepped from the pool and briefly watched Emily work with the matron of the spa. With a look of confusion, Tristan studied her. She had curves, all right, and long, shapely legs. His mouth quirked into a sly smile as he remembered his brother’s proclivity for derrieres. The few times they’d been together, they’d gotten to know one another’s likes and dislikes well. His brother would like Nurse Odell’s derriere. It was sweetly rounded, visible beneath the wet fabric that clung to her flesh. With a flash of surprising insight, he realized he didn’t want to share this with anyone, not even his brother.

Reluctant to leave the warm, soothing water, Dinah sighed and glanced at the spa. Someone stood behind the glass partition and she instinctively knew it was Tristan. The air was cool, but a heat spread through her, sinking into her scalp. She wondered how long he’d been there, how long he’d been watching.

She’d been pleased to find him ready with the rig earlier in the morning, relieved that she didn’t have to tackle the job herself. Not that she wouldn’t have tried. Sweet Mary, she’d try anything once. Everything she’d done to this point was proof of that.

She didn’t have clothing to swim in, but she couldn’t ignore the warm spa water. During her incarceration, chilling ice-water baths had been weekly punishment. She’d taken sponge baths since she’d arrived at the ranch; a tub brought raw memories of things best forgotten.

When she saw the steam hovering over the warm spa, wild horses couldn’t have kept her from it. Even without soap, the water was heavenly. And not to be held under until she lost consciousness was a sweet pleasure. These simple treats had become paramount to her.

Catching a glimpse of Tristan staring at her, she picked up her clothes, which she’d quickly dropped on the floor beside the spa earlier, and retreated to the safety of the dressing room. Once inside, she peeled off her wet drawers and camisole, studying herself in the small mirror that hung on the wall. Carefully undoing her breast wrap, she unwound it, uttering a sigh of relief when her breasts sprang free.

She supposed it was time to do away with the binder, but from the day Daisy had noticed her, she’d insisted Dinah wear it. One more thing to make her less attractive and less appealing to the guards. One more thing to keep them from harassing her. It had worked, but it was uncomfortable and oftentimes painful, especially at the time of her menses. Without it, however, she felt, well, vulnerable.

Wrinkling her nose, she picked up the soggy strip of fabric off the floor, deciding to dispense with it, at least until she could dry it out. She kicked at her other unmentionables, which were wet, too, of course.

She stepped into her dry petticoat, tied it at her waist, then pulled her dress on over her head. It felt different without the binder; she actually filled it out. Her nipples tightened, as if approving of the change. But it was odd, too, to have them loosely grazing the front of her bodice. And to be without her drawers was positively scandalous. A wicked, adventurous smile touched her lips.

After fluffing her curls to help them dry, she stuffed her wet things into the valise she’d brought for Emily, then waited for her in the changing room.

Tristan had become so distracted by the change in Dinah’s bodice, he’d forgotten to grill her about the hoarding until they were nearly home. While Emily napped in the seat behind them, Tristan’s gaze kept going to the front of Dinah’s dress. He swallowed repeatedly when her nipples pebbled against the cloth. And her breasts moved when she did, affording him a view that warmed his already heated member.

He cursed his celibate state, sensing she would have no effect on him if he weren’t living like a monk. No, the abstinent life was not for him, but breasts or not, she wasn’t his type. Best get on with the business at hand and hope she’d forgotten about the marriage arrangement. He realized she’d be an unusual kind of woman if she had.

“Mrs. Linberg fears you don’t enjoy her cooking.”

Appearing surprised, Dinah swung toward him, as did her breasts. “But I do.”

He cleared his throat, trying without success to keep his gaze above her neck. “She’s found food in your room.”

Dinah flushed. “Oh. Well, it’s… it’s just that I can’t eat very much at one time. You see, um, that is, I was quite ill before I left the asylum, and my appetite was nearly gone.” She gave him a tiny, apologetic smile. “I’m afraid my stomach sort of, well, shrunk.”

He raised a doubting eyebrow, but said nothing. It was possible, he supposed. “Any time you’re hungry, feel free to go to the kitchen and help yourself to whatever Mrs. Linberg has there. I’m sorry if that wasn’t made clear to you.”

She studied her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “Th… thank you. That’s very kind.”

He frowned again. Kind? “If you’re hungry for something, Mrs. Linberg will fix it for you. That’s one of her jobs, and she does it well. She’s easily offended when someone appears unable to eat her cooking.”

There was a strange plea in her eyes. He had to glance away.

“That’s very nice of her. I’ll remember that. Truly, she’s a wonderful cook. I’m just not able to eat much at once. I’ll explain that to her. I certainly wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Tristan’s mind whirling with the incongruities she presented, not the least of which was how she entered the changing room flat as a board, and emerged with a pair of perky, tantalizing breasts.

Martin Odell could feel the veins in his neck pop out. When he was angry, they strained at his skin, and at this moment, he was so angry his head was ready to explode.

When the matron from Trenway had sent word that they’d found a body locked in a metal box and that they feared it was his niece, he saw everything that he’d worked for threaten to go up in a plume of smoke.

One of the girls was already dead; he couldn’t do a damned thing about that. Charlotte had been the weak one. Obviously, placing her in the asylum had been the wrong choice, but at the time, it had made sense. After all, she’d had those crazy fits. He shuddered, remembering how her eyes would roll back into her head and the spittle would collect in the corners of her mouth.

But the other one. He sneered. Now, that one deserved to be put away, if for no other reason than that she was too damned curious and she had a smart mouth. He couldn’t afford to have her dead, though. Both girls dead would mean that his brother’s money would go to the university. What a stupid-ass thing to do, bequeath one’s entire wealth to furthering higher education if your children die. If something happened to his nieces, the money should go to him. It
should.
He deserved it. But, no. His brother was a fool, bestowing such wealth on pompous professors. What a waste! When word got out that the body at Trenway might be Dinah’s, the board of regents contacted him, so eager to get their hands on the money that they nearly frothed at the mouth. Damned, lofty, high-brow frauds.

As he turned the corner en route to the morgue to identify the body, he was accosted by a thin, bespecktacled man with a bad complexion. A lawyer. A mealy-mouthed lawyer. Bastards. They were lying, stinking bastards, every last one of them. He could smell them a mile away, and they all smelled like a week-old weasel carcass on a hot, humid day.

“Mr. Odell?”

Martin sneered. Even the sound of the bastard’s voice was shifty, dishonest.

“What do you want?” He kept on walking.

“I’m here about the will.”

“What about it?” Martin was at the morgue entrance, but the weasel stepped in front of him, barring his way.

Martin had all he could do to keep himself from shoving the slimy piece of shit aside.

Not flustered by Martin’s gruff behavior, the lawyer announced, “I understand that if the body is, indeed, your niece, Dinah Odell, the money from the trust automatically goes to the board of regents at the university. They are my clients, you know.”

Martin saw his dreams of the good life dissipating before his eyes. As long as one of them was alive and without issue, he had control of the money until she reached twenty-two years of age. Keeping both girls locked away in the asylum assured him that neither would ever marry or live a normal life. Then he would have control of the money forever. “A stupid-ass stipulation, if you ask me.”

“Stupid-ass though it might be,” the attorney said, the vulgarism sounding ludicrous on his carefully cultured tongue, “I’m here to make sure of the outcome.”

“Vultures.” The word was spat with scorn. “You’re vultures, every last one of you.”

The lawyer refused to move. “I’m coming in with you, Mr. Odell, and we’ll view the remains together.”

Martin could feel the veins in his neck tighten. He had to relax. How in the hell could he enjoy his brother’s money if he had a stroke?

He pushed past the vulture and entered the morgue. “Suit yourself.”

The doctor in attendance greeted them with a toothy smile, one that indicated how much he enjoyed his work. The chief of police was also there; Martin had met him before. His name was Evans.

“Mr. Odell?” The doctor glanced at both men.

“Yes,” Martin answered, trying to ignore the vulturine lawyer beside him. He nodded at Evans, who ambled toward them.

“You understand the seriousness of the situation, Mr. Odell.”

Martin feigned despair. “I understand that beneath that sheet is a body that could very well be my dear, sweet niece.”

“Ah, yes. You have my sympathy, of course.”

Martin nodded and hung his head to show his grief.

“Come,” the doctor said, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “The body is over here.”

Martin held his breath between large gulps of foul- smelling air and followed the doctor to the table. A body lay on it, a shock of reddish hair protruding from beneath the sheet. Martin’s stomach clenched with dread.

“Now, you must understand,” the doctor began, his voice filled with excitement, “there has been a fair amount of decomposition.”

“Get on with it.” Martin’s voice was abrupt. Impatient. Frustrated. Anxious. He was afraid of what he might find.

The lawyer inched toward the table, then took two steps back and leaned against a post, a handkerchief over his mouth.

The doctor whipped off the sheet.

Over and over again, Martin swallowed. Despite his nausea, he studied the victim. It was in vile condition.

“I’m afraid there was a small opening in the box. Barely big enough for a rodent or two to squeeze inside. That accounts for the condition of the face. Too bad, really,” the doctor continued conversationally. “With the face gone, it’ll be that much harder to make an identification.”

In spite of the decay, Martin was sure the body wasn’t Dinah’s. He knew that wouldn’t be enough, but a squiggle of hope, like a germ of wheat, sprouted in his chest.

“It’s not my niece.”

“How can you be so certain?” Evans and the doctor studied the body, and the lawyer inched toward them again, interested.

“The hair isn’t the right color, and Dinah’s is curly.”

“Ah, but those things can change in death,” the doctor stated.

Though the bones were not exposed, Martin’s arm drifted toward the body, and he pointed to the forearm. “She broke that arm when she was a girl. Fell from a tree or something.”

The doctor took an instrument and prodded the arm. “I’ll check that.”

Evans stepped away from the table, motioning Martin to follow. The lawyer took it as an invitation for himself as well. “Let’s talk outside.”

Martin breathed a sigh of relief. “Gladly.”

They stepped into the corridor, Martin and the lawyer followed Evans upstairs to the office. Once he was seated, Martin discovered his hands and knees were shaking.

“Always a bad experience, Mr. Odell. I hope for your sake the body isn’t your niece’s, but if it isn’t, then another question arises.”