Fletch aimed the old pistol and shot again. The horse bolted with the Frenchie clinging to the saddle.
“Reload!” he shouted to his troops, reaching for the long rifle—no rifle.
He pulled his sword—no sword. Damned officers keeping the best for themselves. He ran after the coward, wielding a dagger, refusing to let them escape this time. Had to stop the spy, take down the horse?—
A slight body hit him from behind. He tried to shake them off, grabbing for. . . skirts?
“Stop! He's gone. You can't do more. Please, come back inside. He's not worth harming yourself. Rafe will find him.” Small hands tugged at his good arm.
Rafe, the ginger giant who kept them fed. Couldn't let anything happen to Rafe. Needed to reload. Bloody cavalry, where were they?
“Mr. Fletcher, come inside. Let me fix you tea. It's chilly out here. Thank you for stopping Hugh again. I’ll stir the fire so you can warm up.”
The black rage foamed without direction. He needed his weapons. What was the enemy position? Why was this female here? Was she friend or foe?
He followed her, hoping she’d lead him to weapons or his troops.
The warmth of a banked fire and the scent of pickled onions seeped past the foaming fury. Where the devil was he? If he didn’t have to shoot anyone, he needed a drink. Resisting insistent hands, he knocked over a chair looking for his flask. Chair?
“Look on top of that cabinet, please,” an enticing siren murmured. “I can't reach it.”
She sounded a little desperate. Perhaps she needed a good drink too. He picked up the chair and set it down in front of a tall cabinet. Cabinet. Battlefields had no cabinets.
He was in a kitchen, making a fool of himself. Now he really needed that drink.
Climbing up, he groped around. Instead of a flask, he found a round, solid object with a chain attached. Maybe she chained her liquor. But his palm cradled warm metal as he climbed down.
She set a lantern on the table. “Sit here. I'll fix something to heat your insides.”
That sounded promising, even though a woman who understood his needs existed only in his sick mind. No matter. He could see what he held now. . . a gold pocket watch, not old or new, just nicely made. The ornate cover had the owner's well-worn initials engraved in the design. He could tell from the wear that it had been much loved. He held a piece of someone's life here—the ticking of their days and years.
He popped it open. Good watch, sturdy crystal, not too scratched. He studied the face. Roman numerals, must have belonged to an educated gent. A second hand! That was brave of the maker. The hands had stopped, so he wound it. Nothing. Dead.
The siren set a steaming mug before him. He took a swig and spluttered it all over the table. “What the hell?”
“Hot milky tea.” She swiped at the mess. “You'll sleep better for it.”
Sleep? He didn't remember the last time he’d slept. Possibly for a few hours with Willa. A good tumble in bed. . . Fletch eyed the siren’s nicely rounded bosom in a thin flannel gown while she wiped the table. He could reach out?—
As if reading his mind, she returned to rinse her cloth in the sink. “The watch was my father's. It stopped working a few years ago. Brydie set it on the cabinet to keep the children from playing with it.”
His gaze returned to the dust-covered gold. It needed a good polish. With the aid of his pocket knife, he pried open the back easily enough. Looked like the pin had worked its way out. “Overwound.” He sipped the contents of the mug without noticing what he drank while he studied the cogs. The foaming rage crept back into hidden recesses.
“My fault, most likely. I suppose I thought I could make time go faster if I wound it.”
“Nervous habit. We all have them. I need my tools. It can be fixed.”
“I can't pay you,” she said honestly. “I just hoped to help you sleep. Rafe said clocks calm you.”
Fletch took another sip, grimaced, and finally relinquished the last of the rage. He was in a perfectly normal kitchen—perhaps a trifle more grandiose than the one he remembered from youth. The woman returning to the seat across from him wore gray flannel that had been washed a few times too many. She wore her waist-length dark auburn hair in a glorious plait.
“Women calm me,” he said crudely. “I don't suppose?—”
She rose and slammed her chair against the kitchen table. “Most decidedly not. Ever. Never.”
She swept out, leaving Fletch morosely studying the beautifully designed timepiece in his palm.
Best stick to mechanical relationships or he'd end up like the poor deluded lunatic claiming what wasn't his to take.
