The darkness began to clear. In its place came pain unlike anything Tristen had ever felt before. His mind was a blur of images of fire and the unconscious bodies of Jacob and Amanda, he struggled to open his eyes, knowing he had to find some way to save them from the burning building. When he opened his eyes though, what he saw was the inside of his bedroom at his father's station house.
"How did I get here?" Pain shot through his cheek as he moved his mouth to talk, and he immediately lifted his hand to it.
"You mustn't touch it, sir," he heard someone say as footsteps approached him. "I shall fetch your father. He'll be most eager to see you."
Tristen tried to sit up in bed, but as pain shot through one of his arms and across his chest, he realized it was hopeless. Looking down, he saw stitches scattered up along his arm toward his shoulder, as well as some sticky substance plastered on the burnt skin covering his chest.
"How in the hell did I get here?" he asked, his eyes still focusing on his surroundings.
The servant that wanted to go fetch his father stalled in his retreat.
Receiving nothing but his silence, Tristen thought he might try a different approach. "Why am I here?" he asked. "I was at a party at the Fergus's estate. There was a fire..." His words drifted off, his mind plagued with the images of two hurt and unconscious people that had been in that burning building with him.
"I will go get your father," the servant said. "He will be able to explain everything to you."
Waiting until he was left alone, Tristen tried to sit up again, using his injured arm for guidance and his other for strength to move him. He had barely managed to move a few inches when his father ran into the room.
"What in heaven's name do you think you're doing?" the old man asked his son, coming to a stop just inside the doorway. He walked quickly toward the bed. "I'll help you lay back down and get comfortable. The doctor insisted you were to stay in bed and hardly move in case you busted open the stitches again."
When his father stopped beside the bed, Tristen reached out for him, his hand grabbing the older man's arm. "There was a fire," he started, needing his father to listen. "Amanda and Jacob were hurt."
The old man nodded as he helped his son to lie back down. "You best not worry about such things now. You just need to concentrate on getting better."
There was something about the way his father avoided his gaze that made his stomach begin to sink. "What is it, Father?" he asked. "What has happened?"
The old man shook his head, again trying to lay his son back against the pillows. "You need to heal first. Then you can worry about the details of that night."
"That night?" Tristen asked. "How long have I been here?"
His father left him, walking over to the drinks tray on the desk. Pouring himself a glass of liquor, he downed it in one gulp. "I thought I'd lost you that night," he said as he poured himself another drink. "When you were dragged from the burnt rubble of the cottage, you were covered in burns and bloodied from the glass embedded in your skin. The doctor came and stitched you up as best as he could and put jelly bush honey on your burns." He downed another drink. "Your mother and I have been waiting three days for you to wake up. She'll be so relieved when I tell her you've regained consciousness."
Tristen fell back against the bed, his mind a maze of all he'd just been told. "And Jacob and Amanda?" he asked, wondering if they had suffered a similar fate to him.
His father remained silent, staring into the contents of his glass.
"Father, tell me what happened to them."
Hesitantly, his father raised his gaze to look at him, his face pained. "When they finally got the fire out, there were two bodies found in the rubble. One was Jacob. The other was Amanda."
"I have to go see Amalie," he said, trying to get out of bed. His father rushed to him, his hands on his son's shoulders holding him back in the bed.
"You will stay where you are until I know you have healed and are safe," his father demanded. "I will not risk losing you again."
"Let me go!" Tristen yelled. "I need to go see her."
He fought against his father, but it was no use. He was so very weak.
"He needs his medication," the old man instructed the servants Tristen could hear moving around the room.
The servants came toward him, one crushing tablets in their hand, another pouring a glass of water.
"You need to take this," his father instructed. "The doctor assures me it is exactly what you need to help you heal and fight infection."
Being held down by his father and one of the servants, Tristen bucked against them. Try as he did though, he couldn't stop swallowing the grainy liquid they poured down his throat.
"I want to see Amalie," he muttered, a warm feeling washing over him until finally there was only darkness.
* * * *
Weeks turned into months, and Tristen's wounds slowly healed, leaving behind some nasty scars as a reminder of that fatal day. Some were worse than others, but as the doctor reminded him, he was lucky to be alive. He didn't feel very lucky though. So much time had passed and still, he'd heard no word from Amalie, not a visit or even a letter.
Pulling his shirt on, he left his room. He began buttoning his shirt up from the bottom as he walked down the hall toward the stairs. There was a carriage waiting for him out back, ready to take him into town and to the Fergus estate. He knew the folly of such a journey, having already been turned away so many times, but still he had to try again to see Amalie. He needed to ask her why she had deserted him after the fire without so much as an explanation.
As he walked past the sideboard, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Stopping, he looked back at what he had become, sadness filling him. One side of his chest was terribly scarred by the fire, the healed skin now red and angry. His arms and torso were also covered with many jagged, raised areas that were once gashes from the flying glass in the burning cottage.
Lifting his hand to his face, his fingers ran over the raised, hideous reminders of that day. His hand fell away, and he quickly went about doing up the last few buttons on his shirt, eager to hide what he could of his mutilated body. He was detested by the creature he had become. He was once a man of leisure, his average good looks making him well sought after by the belles in the town. Now though, he was little better than a monster.
There was no way Amalie would ever again welcome him with open arms, but he still needed to see her. He needed to hear her say the real reason she had turned away from him was because the mere sight of him sickened her. The thought of hearing her say such words stabbed at his heart, but he was also no fool. If he were to see her, he needed to prepare himself for rejection.
He was just about to step out of the rear entrance when he heard the giggles of some of the kitchen maids. Noticing the women outside, he prepared himself to walk swiftly by so as not to horrify them too much by his appearance. So many servants had already quit due to being unable to stomach the sight of his scarred face. He didn't want to chase even more away from his father's service.
"Amalie is so lucky, especially after everything she's been put through," he heard one of the women say.
"Agreed," he heard another reply. "It's about time Miss Fergus was allowed some happiness. She's going to want for nothing being with such a dignified chap."
Curious what they could be talking about, he approached the two women. "What did you say?" he demanded.
The maids tried to flee inside the house, but he caught one of them by the elbow as she passed him.
"I want to know what you were talking about."
The tearful girl struggled. "Please, sir. We meant no harm. We were only talking about how Miss Fergus is now engaged."
He let her go as if she were alight. "Engaged?"
The maid nodded. "Yes, sir. To Bastian Tanner."
The words were like a knife in his heart. Turning around, he walked back into the house and up to his room, despair and anger consuming him. Amalie is engaged. The thought of her being with another man as she had once been with him ripped at his emotions, now more than ever before. Bastian was very astute, not to mention handsome—two attributes Tristen could no longer compete with.
Entering his bedroom, he slammed the door behind him so hard it rocked the vase on the small table near the entrance. He reached for the ornate vessel, his fingers gripping the rim, trying to steady it. Without reason, he lifted it to look at the intricate painting decorating it, catching his dulled reflection on the glossy surface. Repulsed by what he saw, he threw the vase across the room, shards of it scattering across the floor as it hit the wall. Would the pain never end? How was he ever going to get Amalie to look twice at him now that she was engaged to one of the most sought after bachelors in the area?
There was no hope. A woman as beautiful as Amalie would never settle for being with a man who looked as hideous as he did. Feeling as if his world was again crumbling around him, he stepped toward his bedside table, desperate for the drugs there that would dull what he was feeling. As he passed the dresser, he caught his reflection in the mirror. What kind of life was he expected to have looking like this? He was a monstrosity, the mere sight of his face scaring even the kitchen maids that worked at the estate. How could he expect anyone to fall in love with his beastly appearance?
Filled with despair about what had become his life, Tristen opened the drawer of his bedside table and reached for the bottle of heroin tablets. Empty. He searched the drawer. Nothing.
"Argh!" he yelled, his frustration mounting.
Picking up the small table, he threw it across the room toward the dresser. The two pieces of furniture collided, and the glass in the dresser shattered, scattering all over the floor.
He stepped over to the drinks tray on his desk and poured himself a glass of whiskey, hoping it would dull his growing despair. It didn't. Reaching for the drawer, he opened it, again searching desperately for the opioid. Unable to feel anything, he pulled the drawer completely out and tipped the entire contents onto the floor. Out from the paper rolled a bottle still half-full of tablets. Frantically grabbing for it, he opened it and poured several of them onto the palm of his hand. Pouring himself another drink, he threw the heroin in his mouth and gulped them down with the whiskey.
He hated feeling this way—pain from his flesh and pain from his heart. He would give anything to be free of this life forever. All he could hope was the dosage he had taken would be enough to free him of his apathy soon.
Walking across the shattered glass on the floor, he went to the window and looked out across the vastness as a warm feeling from the drugs began to wash over him. Even the vast cattle station his father owned couldn't return him to happiness. He was burdened to exist in his self-pity and sorrow, never again holding the woman he loved against him.
Leaning against the wall beside the window, he slid to the floor, the bottle of whiskey still in his hand. He lifted the bottle to his lips, gulping down the liquid. As the alcohol warmed him, Tristen shut his eyes, images of another time—a happier time—drifting through his mind. He wanted nothing more than to disappear and forget all the pain that now filled him and drift back to a time when life was good. To a time when Amalie had been his.
As he took another swig from the bottle, he felt nearly complete comfort washing over him, almost like everything would be all right. It was a feeling he never wanted to end.
* * * *
Amalie sat in her father's study, sobbing into her hands. She couldn't believe what was happening to her. Would this hell never end?
"You need to stop this, child," her father chastised her firmly. "You have to understand now that your brother is dead, I must do what I have to in order to keep you safe. A marriage to Bastian Tanner will do that."
"It will not!" she finally spoke up in a teary, yet stern voice, raising her head to look at him. "Bastian doesn't care about me, or my welfare in my brother's absence. All he wants is what money he thinks he might get from crawling into my bed."
"How dare you speak in such a manner!" her father scolded her. "You are obviously still too young to know what is beneficial for a woman such as yourself."
"There is nothing beneficial about a marriage to Bastian," she stated. "He is a greedy, slimy, little man who cares only for himself and his needs."
The old man waved his hand in the air, dismissing her remark. "You are just being stubborn. You will marry Bastian, and that is final."
"Please, Father, no," she begged. "You can't make me do this."
"I can and I will," he stated firmly. "Your marriage will benefit this family greatly."
She thought about her father's words, realizing that he was talking about financial gain. "If it is money you need, I have another way that will suit us both. If you would just let me see Tristen, I will find a way to get you the finances you desire. Once I tell him of my situation, he will do what is right."
She couldn't explain to her father what she meant, not without confessing to her pregnancy. All she could hope for now was that he trusted her enough to do what was right for them both.
The old man poured himself a drink. "Bastian was there the night Jacob was killed. He saw who lit the fire that killed him and Amanda. He saw Tristen."
Her tears again flowed freely. "I don't believe you," she screamed. "Why would Tristen do such a thing? What would he have to gain from my brother's death?"
Just then the door creaked open and Bastian walked inside the room.
The old man turned to look at him. "She won't believe that Tristen lit the fire that killed Jacob. Even after I told her what you saw, she continues to defend him."
"Because I know it wasn't him. Carter and I were outside that night too, and we both saw a man running from the back of the cottage that definitely wasn't Tristen. The man we saw had fair hair."
Bastian stepped toward her, his hand reaching out to rest on her shoulder. "You saw what you wanted to see. The only man who ran from the cottage that night was Tristen," he assured her. His hand stroked her shoulder. "I realize it must be hard for you to hear such a thing about someone you were once so close to, but I know what I saw that night."
Amalie stepped away from him, her skin recoiling from his touch. "If you're so certain it was Tristen, then tell me why he did it. Tell me what he had to gain from the death of my brother."
Bastian smiled at her as if what he was about to reveal was some secret that only he knew. "You, my dear," he said in a cocky tone. "With Jacob dead, there was no one left to keep a constant eye on you and stop him from taking advantage of your innocence."
"And who is going to stop you from doing the very same thing?" she snapped at him.
Bastian's smile started to disappear. "I think Amalie might benefit from a walk in the gardens and some fresh air. It appears her grief is making her irrational."
Taking her by the elbow, his grip so tight it was almost painful, Bastian walked her out of the house and into the gardens. They walked several yards before she finally managed to pull herself free.
"How dare you drag me out here as if I were some piece of luggage for you to do with as you please."
"You need to learn your place, me thinks," he uttered, reaching for her again and dragging her back to him.
She fought against him, frightened what would become of her if she remained out there alone with this man any longer. Her hands caught in his tight grip, she tried to kick him in the groin or thereabouts, hoping that would allow her an escape. When finally she connected with his privates, she waited for him to fall to the ground in a heap. Instead, she received a hard strike across her face, forcing her to the ground.
Struggling to get back on her feet, she felt his boot connect hard and sharp with her stomach. My baby! Desperation creeping into her as she thought of what this bastard might have done to the babe in her belly, Amalie searched for something she could use to defend herself. Reaching for a tree branch that lay on the ground near her, she wrapped her fingers around it and swung it at Bastian with all her might, knocking him to the ground. She hurried to her feet, seeing this as her chance to escape.
"Come here, you bitch!" Bastian cursed at her, scrambling to his feet.
She ran toward the house, the sharp pain in her stomach near crippling by the time she reached the back door.
"Amalie?" she heard a familiar voice call.
Turning, she saw Carter Dix running toward her. "Help me," she begged, the pains shooting through her stomach now so intense she fell to the ground.
Carter picked her up in his arms and carried her inside. "Mr. Fergus!" he yelled as he hurried to her bedroom. "There's been an accident."
Just as he reached Amalie's bedroom, her father came running down the hall toward them. "What has happened?" the old man asked. "Is she hurt?"
Carter carried her inside the room and laid her down on the bed. "She collapsed outside." As he shifted his hands away from her, there was no ignoring the scarlet red blood that covered his arms.
"My God," Amalie's father gasped. "What happened to her?"
She began to cry. "Bastian kicked me in the stomach," she explained. Seeing the continued confusion on the two men's faces, she knew she could no longer keep her secret. "I'm pregnant."
"We need to get a doctor here immediately," Carter ordered. "And someone needs to go and tell Tristen."
"Why the devil would that bastard have to be called?" her father asked.
She shook her head, begging Carter not to say any more. He turned away from her and looked directly at her father. "Your daughter was having an affair with Tristen. It's his baby in her belly."
The old man took a step back, shock filling his face. "But Bastian told me Tristen killed Jacob so he could get to Amalie."
"Jacob knew about Tristen," she spoke up. "And about the baby. I told him the night of the fire."
"Bastian isn't who you think he is," Carter went on to explain. "He is a dangerous man, and if you don't call off the engagement, he may well take the life of your daughter next time."
Her father walked to the door. "We need a doctor immediately!" he yelled before returning to his daughter's side.
"You have to call for the police also," Amalie begged. "You must report what Bastian has done."
"I can't, child. If I do that, then you will learn things about your father..." The old man's words drifted off. Finally, he cleared his throat. "No one is to know about the baby but the doctor and us here in this room."
"What about Tristen?" Carter asked. "He has a right to know."
Her father shook his head. "Tristen killed my son. I owe him nothing."
"Tristen?" Carter asked.
"Bastian told Father he saw Tristen running from the back of the cottage the night of the fire."
"But the man we saw had fair hair," Carter replied. "And he was wearing a suit." He turned to look at Amalie's father. "When have you ever seen Tristen wear a suit?"
Old man Fergus held Carter's stare for a moment before turning away from him and walking toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Carter asked.
"I think I should wait outside for the doctor."
Writhing in pain on the bed, Amalie watched as her father walked out of the room.
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