Chapter Two

Rory found a man–made trail not far from the house and decided to see where it led. She noted the various species of trees familiar to her, oak, walnut, elm, birch, and several varieties of evergreen. While traipsing the woods in Boston with Isabelle, she'd learned to recognize not only the trees, but a variety of plants. She made a mental note of their location now so they could harvest them in the future and use them for medicinal purposes. Now and then, she snapped off the branch of a tree. Since oak were the tallest with the widest trunks, the route home would be easy to follow. Small critters scampered across the path ahead, squirrels, rabbits and even a raccoon once. Birds chattered from the trees and some called out to warn of her presence.

She hadn't wandered far when she heard water trickling over rocks. Certain the current connected with the stream in back of the house, curiosity propelled her to veer off the path and discover it.

The forest thickened here but wasn't impassable. The hem of her skirt caught on thorny bushes but not enough to make her turn back. Perhaps she'd find a mist–shrouded glen or a family of faeries making merry in a pool shaded by lacy ferns. Isabelle always said, "A sight worth seeing takes effort to find."

The sound of the current grew louder, which meant her mystical glade drew near. Rory lifted the limb of a birch obstructing her view and gasped. A man knelt on the opposite banks of the stream. He lowered his head toward the water, cupped a handful in his hands and splashed his chest. She couldn't see his face but knew by the broad shoulders and sinewy ropes of his forearms, a young man knelt in the sand. Not an ounce of fat claimed his exposed torso. Her eyes wandered to a white, cotton shirt canopying a crop of scrub brush. Socks and boots lay to his right. Dear God, did he plan to remove his trousers next and enter the stream for a swim? She should make her presence known or at the very least flee, but she couldn't convince her legs to obey. Not until she saw his eyes, then she'd leave. She guessed they were brown but then again, they could be blue, like the indigo hues in his pitch-black hair.

Rory’s mind drifted into a fantasy while he splashed water under his arms and across that hard, flat abdomen. What a magnificent man. Not one of the young men who'd called on her in Boston compared. Not by a smidgen. Maybe the gorgeous creature had lost his way. Perhaps he'd embarked on the adventure of a lifetime and had stopped to rest. Or, he could be an outlaw hiding out from his pursuers. She'd never discover the answer to those questions. For some unknown reason, the thought saddened her.

At last he came to his feet. With her pulse racing and her heart thumping in her chest, she watched him unbutton his trousers. Good Lord, within seconds he'd rolled them down that narrow pelvis and stepped out of them. Decorum claimed her; she had to withdraw. Retreating backwards, she pivoted and realized her long, auburn hair had snared the arm of a tall thorny bush. She tugged and yanked, yet couldn't free the strands tangled in the ruthless grip. Forgetting her intent to remain invisible and the inexcusable predicament of spying on a near–naked man, an exasperated groan slipped from her throat.

Still battling the bush, she jerked her chin in his direction. Their eyes met and locked. Time passed; one slow heartbeat after another. Deep blue. Even from this distance, his eyes shone like sapphires. And his smile—or was it a smirk—was one step from heaven. His generous, sensual mouth conjured images of his lips on hers. She imagined them closing over hers, tasting, teasing . . . oh, she had to stop thinking about this decadent stranger and do something to free her hair.

Dear God, help me. I promise never to spy on another human as long as I live.

"Got a little trouble there, eh?" Without buttoning his trousers, he leaned over and plucked a knife from his boot.

She shook her snared head.

"Hold still, I'll be right over." He entered the stream, the water rippling around his narrow waist. "You should tie that long hair back while trekking through the woods."

Onward he came, the smirk erased by a wolfish grin. Damnation, why hadn't she thought of a knife? She'd be free from the death grip on her hair by now. With a final, painful wrench, the branch snapped, releasing her from her woodland prison. Turning on her heels, she sprinted through the forest, oblivious to the sounds of fabric tearing, mindless of the bite of branches against her cheeks. She couldn't allow him to catch her, ask her why she'd been spying on him or worse, kill her with the hunting knife he brandished.

The path loomed ahead. If she made it home in one piece, she'd get down on her knees and thank the Almighty. The wind carried the echo of his voice, "Forest sprite, wait! I won't harm you. Wait . . . wait . . .."

She sobbed when the cupola of the barn came into view, and next the chimney. Her heart pounding from the run, she bent at the waist to catch her breath and frowned. The hem of her skirt looked like tattered fringe. Sweat from her forehead trickled down and stung her cheeks. She didn't want to think about the nicks and scrapes on her face and arms. Damnation, what will I tell Jon and Isabelle?

Rory skirted the back of the barn, ran her hands through her unruly hair and smoothed out the front of her skirt. A story, I need some kind of believable tale by the time I reach the house. To the west, the sun began its descent in a brilliant display of plum and ochre. If she could drop from sight right now, she wouldn't have to resort to white lies.

"Ah, there you are, lass."

"Jon, good Lord you scared the devil out of me. Where did you come from?"

"The barn, tucking the animals in for the night. God's toenails, lass, you been wrestling with the devil?" Jon arched his neck. "Your arms are bleeding and your cheeks are scratched."

Saw the devil all right. A sinfully beautiful, two–legged devil. "That walking stick you ordered me to carry riled up a ferocious critter. A dark, hairy beast rose up from a briar patch. Never did get a good look at what chased me."

Jon looked at her askance. "What happened then?"

"Tripped over my own feet, went head first into–into—"

"Another briar patch?" He scrubbed a hand across his chin. "Something doesn't sound right but as long as you're not harmed, I'll leave it alone."

If Jon doubted her long tale, she'd never get by Isabelle. "I best get cleaned up."

"Since this is a good night for tall tales," Jon winked, "send the others out and I'll build a fire. Join us after you tend to those scrapes, lass."

When she walked into the kitchen, Isabelle reacted similar to Jon. "Rory, what happened? Are you hurt?"

Rory waved her off with a dismissive hand. "A few scrapes and bruises, nothing broken."

"I can see that, but how did you acquire them?"

"Like I told Jon, I thought a beast wanted me for supper. I panicked, took off running and fell along the trail. Really, Isabelle, I'm fine, or will be once I wash up."

"Do you want help?"

"No thank you, I can handle it." Rory scurried toward the steps, eager to end her sister's intense scrutiny. "Jon asked me to shoo you all outside; he's building a fire."

"Wait!"

Rory held her breath.

"Sophia and Eliza have been hounding me all afternoon to fetch Beloved."

A silent sigh of relief escaped Rory’s lips. "Oh, I placed her in the trunk. I'll bring her down, promise."

"I'll never understand why they covet that old rag doll."

"Same reason I loved her as a child." Rory called out over her shoulder. "She's special."

"You still love her," Isabelle shouted after her.

Rory bustled into her room, closed the door and walked to her dressing table and mirror. Small scratches crisscrossed her face where cheek and branch had dueled. Her arms fared worse from the harrowing run. She poured cool water from the pitcher into the washbowl, plucked a cotton rag from the dowel and with tolerable pressure washed the grime from her face and forearms. She'd have to find Isabelle's stash of salve before joining them by the fire.

The event in the forest seemed rather silly right now. Why had she run from him? Most likely he wouldn't have harmed her, and now she'd never know a thing about him or why he'd stopped there. Their chance encounter would become a distant memory, a brief moment in time of two strangers crossing paths. No, he could never be a distant memory. She'd never forget those eyes, that raven–black hair or the rich, lustrous voice calling out to her, 'Wait, forest sprite; I'll not harm you.'

After discarding her torn skirt and cotton blouse, she sneaked into Clark and James' room and rummaged around until she found comfortable clothing, a roomy, flannel shirt and a pair of well–worn trousers. Beneath the orange glow of a campfire, Isabelle would soon forget about the minor cuts to her cheek and the scrapes to her arms would be covered. Out of sight, out of mind.

Rory turned on her heels before she reached the door. "The doll." Dropping to her knees, she opened the trunk and retrieved Beloved. She cradled the doll to her chest and thought about her mother. Beloved was the only possession she owned that her mother had made. Soft and pliable after many years of cuddling, Beloved had seen better days. Her head flopped to one side, and the stuffing in one arm had dropped to parts unknown eons ago. A black, button eye clung to her face by a precarious thread and a portion of her red–threaded lips had gone south. Isabelle spent countless hours trying to replicate the doll for her girls but not one had passed the acceptance test.

She looked at the doll's face. "That's because you're special, aren't you, Beloved? One day I'll pass you on to my daughter, and I know you'll make her as happy as you have me all these years."