"I remember Buck standing over me; his voice was close. I was struggling to stay conscious, to know why he'd done it. He was chuckling! I was slashed and bleeding, and he was chuckling. My crushed ribs felt the impact of his boot as he said, 'Kyndee said you'd put up a good fight. Guess she was wrong, Brother!' Then something smashed into the side of my head. My memory fled, Zachary Brown was born, and Fletcher Stedman disappeared for over nine years."
Allowing his knees to buckle, he lowered himself to sit on the floor. He stayed that way, his elbows resting on his raised knees. He heard Caleb move about the room and approach him. His fingers were pried from his head, and a cup was placed in them.
"Drink this," said Caleb in a sympathetic tone. "It'll help."
"What is it?"
"Never mind; drink it," he commanded.
Fletcher tasted coffee but also a strong lacing of brandy. It spread a wonderful warmth on the way down. He held the cup to his forehead.
Caleb settled on the floor next to him. "Rasc, we've been close friends for a long time. You've told more tall tales than I care to remember, but I've never known you to lie when the stakes were high. Because of our friendship I know you won't take offense that I ask you this: before we embark on a course from which there may be no turning back, is there any chance you might've been wrong in what you heard? Any chance you might have been delirious and misunderstood?"
The brandy had done its job. It was dulling the pain—in his heart as well as in his head. As the throbbing receded, the high tide of hatred washed over the beaches of his mind.
"No, Caleb. I heard what he said very clearly."
Caleb slapped his knee. "So be it. The battle lines are drawn. I will do anything you ask to help regain what is rightfully yours. If necessary, everything I have is at your disposal."
Fletcher glanced sideways at his friend and couldn't prevent a wry chuckle as he saw the expression on his face. The soft brown eyes, so unlike the piercing ones of his dragon mother, expressed respect, compassion, friendship, loyalty and zeal. To his knowledge, he had not taken a pistol shot for Caleb nor rescued him from the dripping jaws of a grizzly, yet without being asked, Caleb was willing to stake his life, reputation and finances. In the quiescent moment, Fletcher wondered what worthy deed he had performed in his life that he was deserving of such a friend.
"You can start by helping this old rascal off the floor," he said, in a lighter mood, "and making me another of whatever was in that cup!"
Caleb sprang to his feet and appeared more than happy to oblige.
As he handed Fletcher the second cup, he asked, "What's your first move? I remember you having the same expression the first night you tricked me into going to Madam Louisa's."
A wide sly devilish grin spread across Fletcher's face. "That's exactly what we're going to do to Mr. Buck Bannistre Stedman."
"You're going to get him a whore?" asked his host with a confused smirk.
"No, Caleb, my friend. I'm going to be his whore! His mystery whore," replied Fletcher malevolently.
"Would you care to expound on that, my dear fellow?"
Fletcher guzzled down his brandy-laced coffee, feeling the rush meld with his growing intensity. He lounged against the wall and crossed his long legs at the ankles. "I'm intend to know the people he knows, do business with the people he does business with, go where he goes. I'm going to relax him, tease him, coax him until he plays into my hands. But at the precise moment of thrust, I'm going to geld the bastard."
Caleb snorted and broke into hoots of laughter. "Yes, well that explains it!" He snickered. "With one exception—the beard will most definitely have to go. I hear Buck enjoys his whores clean-shaven."
The two of them howled and refilled their cups, adding less coffee than the time before.
Fletcher could feel his strength returning with the formation of a plan. "I intend to know his likes, his dislikes, his habits, his fears—yes, especially his fears. I'm going to know him better than he knows himself. I will fight his power with my own. But he's never going to know it's me, never going to know where it's coming from. I will have my life back and place Buck in his rightful place in hell. We will see if his bride wishes to follow him there."
He strolled around the room, rolling the cup between his hands pensively. "If, as you say, Buck is the law here, then we must find a way to use his own law against him. We must 'do unto him'."
Caleb looked troubled. "There is one pawn in this game who you must consider before you announce 'checkmate'."
"Don't ask me to consider Kyndee. Not after her betrayal."
"I'm not speaking of Kyndee," Caleb said. "There is still one person at Seabrook who remembers you with love, who played no part in your pain except that she suffered it with you in her heart. She's with Buck even now at his whim and mercy—I'm speaking of your mother."
Fletcher whirled around. "Dear God, he wouldn't dare hurt her!"
"Who would have believed Buck capable of what he did to you? He has deceived everyone. He is master of Seabrook, upstanding leader in the town, supporter of worthy causes. Rasc, what you propose will not be easy. He most likely has informants everywhere. There are not many who feel as I do about him."
"Then we will have to find those he doesn't eat, sleep or drink with and inveigle them to our camp. If we're careful, my mother will be in no danger. But I want to see her first to be sure."
"I think it's too risky," Caleb warned. "What possible reason could there be for Zachary Brown, a complete stranger, to visit Adeline Stedman?"
Fletcher snorted in frustration. "I'll think of a reason."
"And you'll be announced and escorted to her by Mrs. Buck Stedman, in case you're fortunate enough to avoid the master himself. You truly believe Kyndee won't recognize you?"
"I had to do some rather fancy talking to prevent your calling the authorities when I appeared on your doorstep," Fletcher shot back.
"True," the younger man admitted, "but I wasn't in love with you years ago either!" As if he realized the cutting strength of his remark, he added, "Sorry; I just think you're taking an unnecessary risk."
"All right," Fletcher conceded. "But I want you to make inquiries to assure me of her present well-being."
"Agreed." Caleb's grim expression faded. "It'll require some fancy talking to be allowed to see her, but I learned the skill from a master."
"That you did! When can you arrange it?"
Caleb shook his head. "You have to have patience. You've been here less than twenty-four hours. Too much, too soon will cause questions."
Fletcher paced and gritted his teeth. "I've only known my identity several months—several months to relive a lifetime; they've had ten years! I have no patience!"
"Nevertheless, you'll see that your plan requires it. I doubt the well-spent time will diminish your desire for reprisal. There is an old saying, 'Vendetta di cent'anni ha ancor i lattaiuoli'—"
"Speak English!" Fletcher broke in, flashing his friend a warning stare. "My Italian is poor." The rasp scarcely colored the sardonic edge to his voice. "I somehow managed to sidestep Italy on my six year Grand Tour of the madhouses of western Virginia."
"It means, my impatient jolter head: 'Revenge of a hundred years has still its sucking teeth.’ Alacrity, in this case, may not be to your best advantage."
Stroking his beard, Fletcher asked, "And I suppose, in your subtle way, you're about to tell me what is?"
Caleb leaned his hands on the high back of the carved side chair in front of him. "No, Rasc, you're the