Harnessed Passions Page 2

  Daniel Browning was tall, young and handsome. His blondish-brown hair fell to his shoulders and was held back from his face by a silk ribbon. It was somewhat longer than the style most American lawyers preferred in this day and age, yet perfectly acceptable by those of his native country of England. His strong jawline and chiseled nose echoed an air of sophistication and pride. His powerfully, muscular arms and wide span of chest, made most men think twice before confronting him. He looked like a human mountain. The fact that he was exceptionally good-looking had not been lost on the two barmaids, who made sure his bottle of whiskey was readily accessible. Along with his turquoise eyes, Daniel made the completed picture of architectural perfection.

  He had at once captured the attention of the town’s female population, as he walked freely about the train station after he arrived earlier that afternoon. Those respectable young ladies occupying the streets and stores, giggled as he nodded his way past them, while those of lesser respect, especially the girls working the local bar, made their interest known. The scantly clothed women with their brightly colored lace and satin bloomers, elastic garters and cheap cologne, made certain their invitations were understood as they slithered around the room, smiling and winking at him, nodding toward the stairs that lead to the bedrooms hidden on the upper level.

  Although he had been aboard a schooner the past two months, with literally no female companionship, he declined their suggestions repeatedly. He was eager only to settle into the town and his new office before trying to find a woman to share his bed. He arrived in Kentucky just that day; ready to join his childhood friend in the small law practice started a couple of years prior.

  Harold had moved to Kentucky after graduating Oxford, two years before the American Civil War ended. His office was small, but very successful and when he asked Daniel to join him, the opportunity couldn’t be passed by.

  Daniel was a model citizen in England, respected and revered. A prosperous solicitor in his own right; he came from a prominent family of wealth and title, so having to earn respect was new to him. It was a novel idea, which was why he sold his share of the firm to his partners and moved across the Atlantic Ocean to be with his friend. It was the thought of starting a life where nobody knew who or what he was, that made it seemed romantic and quixotic; both of which intrigued him.

  “Does this Margie know what sort of rogue she’s marrying?” Daniel asked with a soft chuckle on his friend’s blushing behalf.

  “She knows I’m in love with her,” Harold answered. “And since I’ve been the perfect gentleman since moving to Kentucky, what more is there to tell?”

  “What about that night in Baths, with those two lasses from Bristol?” Daniel teased, again earning his friend a red heat to tint his pale cheeks.

  “Margie is a true lady, Browning, and I will thank you not to mention my past to her.”

  “So discussing the damsel from Wales is out of the question?”

  “Damn straight!” Harold snapped, smiling at his friend’s deep laugh.

  The man in the corner snorted again, much louder than before. He hadn't particularly cared for the town's newest arrival and listening to their conversation was causing his drunken mind to grow more agitated. From the moment his brown eyes set on the man whose mere presence demanded attention, there was a strong animosity toward him. The British accent along with the expensive dark colored waistcoat and suit jacket, made Daniel appear more of an outsider than one of the local residents. He sat with dignity, talked and laughed softly and made an overall picture of high breeding. All of this played on the man's nerves, until he at last exploded in an abrupt display of anger.

  "What the hell do ya know 'bout ladies?" he snarled, rising up on shaky legs and knocking the chair opposite him over. His appearance was the result of many hours spent in the small, dark tavern; his breath and clothes thick with the scent of sweat and whiskey, as he approached Daniel and Harold. "Ain't no real ladies left in this here piss hole."

  "Take it easy Overton," the bartender commanded.

  "Go ta hell, Simmons. I ain't talkin’ ta ya, no how. Well Mister Fancy Breeches?" he glared at Daniel, as he wobbled closer to his table. "I axed ya a question."

  "I don't find a need in replying to drunks," Daniel insisted, sitting his glass back on the table, his fingers playing with it in an attempt to retain his temper. He'd been in enough pubs over the years, to easily recognize the look in the man's eyes. Daniel knew the man meant trouble and he would answer him, only if he had no other choice.

  "Them sounds like fightin’ words ta me."

  "I don’t want to fight you, sir, so go back to your table, finish your drink and leave us alone." Daniel refused to stand. He was by far no coward, as his large muscular frame confirmed, but fighting drunks had never proved worthy of a man with his talents and skills. The other man would get hurt and wake up with broken bones and bruises, never remembering how it happened. This, to Daniel’s way of thinking, was far from a fair fight.

  "Ya yeller, or sumpin?"

  "No, I'm just not in the mood to fight."

  "Since when does a man have ta be in a mood, ta fight?" the man growled, with a hooting laughter.

  "Go finish your drink Overton, before you cause any more trouble," the bartender shouted to him again.

  "I told ya ta stay outta this. This here's between me 'n Fancy Breeches. Well, mister, ya feel like makin’ me shut up?" Daniel looked to Harold, who raised his eye brows in question to him, his thin lips fighting the urge to smile.

  Daniel removed his jacket and tossed it to the back of a chair next to him before slipping the elaborately engraved gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket, along with the silver flask he carried for emergencies and laid them on the table. He stood from his chair, stretching himself up to a full six feet four inches then confronted the man with a look of warning in his blue-green eyes as he towered over the drunk by more than half a foot. His shoulders were broad and firm, the well-toned muscles of his arms strained against the material of his suit coat; his hands large and powerful, offering a silent warning all on their own.

  "I don't want to fight you, Mr. Overton," he said softly, yet clearly; his muscles bulging under his white silk. "Go sit down and finish your whiskey, before you get hurt."

  "Ya think yer that good, do ya? Well I'm sick of listenin’ to ya 'n old blubber butt there," he slurred, pointing a shaky finger at Harold, who remained seated at the table, interested and amused by the man's reactions, as well as that of his heroic friend. "Ya don't know beans 'bout what a real woman is, do ya?” Overton poked Daniel in the shoulder with a long bony finger. “Well I can tell ya this; there ain't no more real women left in all of Kentucky. The last one left a month ago."

  "I think you should go sleep it off, Overton. It's obvious you're distraught and near ready to pass out." The anger was beginning to show in Daniel’s eyes as he stared at the drunk, fighting the urge to slug him and have done with it.

  "Don't go tellin’ me what ta do," the man growled in a wavering slur, his fist rolling up into a tight ball. "I ain't tired 'n ya ain't my pa, so put 'em up 'n fight, or go crawl back into yer hole." Daniel ducked the man's punch as he swung blindly for his jaw. He dodged two more swings, before Overton’s aim finally improved and his fist came a little too close for comfort. Daniel reacted out of instinct and brought his large fist up into Overton's gut, lifting him off his feet and knocking him to the dirty floor.

  The man groaned in pain, struggling to stand, but in his drunken condition found it harder than anticipated. He stumbled back to the floor twice before securing his balance on unsteady legs, turning back to his abandoned table and grabbing the half empty bottle of whiskey by the neck. He raised it above his head, spilling the contents unnoticed down his arm and chest as he swung it in the air. He lowered the bottle to the table’s edge, breaking the end off in a shatter of glass, and then came at the much larger man again. Daniel ducked the attack easily and maneuvered behind him as he ran toward him on wob
bly limbs. He grabbed Overton’s arm, wrenching the bottle from his grip then pushed him out of the way with one highly polished boot to his backside, sending him flying across the room to land on top of another table.

  Overton stumbled to his feet awkwardly, trying to shake off the effects of the giant's blow. He lunged blindly at Daniel once more, his arms flailing in the air. The two men fought for a very brief time, while shouts and cheers rose from the few patrons gathered around them; the commotion bringing in passersby from the street to watch.

  It was far less than a real fight; Overton swung wildly at Daniel, who ducked the blows gracefully, striking back only when necessary. Within just a few minutes, Overton lay unconscious on the floor, his eye already turning black, blood running down his face from the cut beneath his cheekbone, his lips were red and swollen. His arm was twisted with broken bones, and his chest heaving with the labored effort to breathe around several bruised ribs.

  Daniel stood his chair back on its legs, retrieved his jacket and brushed it off before slipping it on again and sitting back down as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He accepted the glass of whiskey Harold cheerfully offered, raising it in salute from where he had sat watching his English-bred partner.

  Three of the saloon's occupants lifted Overton off the floor, just as the sheriff rushed in, his Colt .45 held tightly in his hand in anticipation of trouble. The tavern’s spectators enthusiastically relayed the story, each having his turn in the telling and leaving no detail out as they rallied around to repeat the tale. The sheriff ordered them to take Overton to the jail, where the doctor would be called to tend to his wounds and where he could sleep off the effects of his day's activities, before turning to confront Daniel.

  "You want to press charges, or something mister?" he drawled, looking at the powerfully built man. There wasn't a single mark on him that could relate him to the encounter with the unconscious drunk.

  "No, just let him sleep it off," Daniel insisted. “He just had too much to drink. He didn't mean any harm and most of the damage was his own doing,” Daniel continued with a short laugh. “He had a difficult time standing much less walking and ran over several chairs and tables. I only had to restrain him a time or two.”

  “Impressive,” the sheriff said under his breath as he took his hat off and scratched his forehead. "Don't know what's come over him; he's usually a real quiet boy, but the last few weeks he's been plum loco; hell the whole town has gone crazy. One girl dead, another sent East last month and now this. ‘Fraid to ask what’s next."

  "No harm done," Daniel replied. The sheriff nodded his head, leaving the saloon and its occupants to relive the glorious details of the evening's outcome in private. Daniel slipped his watch and brandy flask back into his pocket, before raising his eyes up to the amused look on his friend’s round face.

  "Here's to you," Harold said, lifting his glass in one last taunting salute. "To your first night in Mayfield Kentucky." Daniel clinked glasses with his friend, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he swallowed the burning liquid, growling softly under his breath as it floated down his throat.

  "Do you greet all your new residents with such endearing hospitality?" Harold snickered, filling the glasses to the rim with the last remaining whiskey from the bottle.

  "Nah,” he answered with amusement. “Just the fancy breeches."

  Chapter Two

  Kentucky 1881

  The cracking of a whip echoed throughout the silent room, echoing in the open window like an executioner's axe as it struck a victim's neck. Harold Leonard completed his work then gazed up from the stack of papers to eye the elderly man sitting across from him. It wasn't hard to see why this man demanded respect and why he received every ounce of it.

  Victor Turner was a large man, though his illness had taken a dramatic hold on him; reducing him to a shell, confining him to a wheelchair. His once powerful stature was weak and thin, his face drawn and shallow. Still, he possessed a power - more in his eyes and arrogant mannerism, then his disease raked frame - warning one and all not to tangle with him. Even his name demanded attention. Victor Turner; it sounded like a single syllable the way people used it; never Victor or Vic, not even Turner and rarely Mr. Turner, but Victor Turner. It was as if speaking his name would turn the clouds to gold and the earth to wine.

  His dark hair streaked liberally with grey, hung to his shoulders like a shroud; his eyes shone a brilliant emerald green and his large weathered brown hands spoke of many long years of hard work and strong determination. Though the dark shadow of death stood on his front step, he still did not about to back down to anyone. Harold only hoped the old man knew what he was doing this one last time.

  The woman next to him sat as a quiet observer, watching but not speaking a word. She remained so quiet in fact, that one easily forgot her presence. She had spoken little the past hour and a half as Victor dictated his wishes to the lawyer. She didn't look pleased with what her husband revision to his will, but she wasn't the sort of woman who would argue with him - leastwise not in public. Her dark hair, much the same as her husband’s was streaked with grey and held securely at the back of her head, beneath a dark violet bonnet made of the same costly fabric as her gown. Her dark blue eyes sparkled like precious sapphires in the morning light and her full lips were red with rouge.

  She wore an expensive velvet gown in soft lavender hues, a white gossamer satin collar embraced her chest in a modest cut and full bustle on her backside accented her tiny waistline. Around her neck she wore a string of tiny pearls, a ten karat opal hung from the center of the stand, surrounded with small diamonds. The woman reeked with the air of sophistication and money, spoiled to the point of eccentricity by her adoring husband. What a strange couple these two made, Harold thought as he tried to console his own misgivings on the day's events.

  "I have to ask you again; are you certain, this is how you want things to be handled?" the younger, plump man asked; his honey brown eyes searched Victor’s expression for any visible sign of regret, but there was none. The man had his mind set on his task and would not be convinced to the contrary.

  “Quite,” Victor said, breathing heavily through weak, tired lungs that had been too long neglected. "Just make certain, Daniel doesn't know anything about this. This has to remain between the three of us, until the time comes. Understand?"

  "Yes sir, you have my word on it. But I have to tell you, Mr. Turner, I don't like any of it. Daniel is like a brother to me and I don’t like what you’re planning to do to him. I've known the man since we were children; I respect him more than my own father and I've never kept any secrets from him. I don't know how I can start now."

  "I understand Leonard, but you need to remember how important this is, not just to me, but to both Daniel and Julia. If there were any other way around this, I would have taken it. I just don't have the time to set things right."

  "I'll do as you ask, Mr. Turner. As your attorney, I have sworn complete confidentiality to you and your case, but I still don't like it."

  "All that said, I think we should be going." Louise Turner stood up and reached for the back of her husband's wheelchair. She hated to see the man so weak and vulnerable. The past few days had played havoc on him, robbing him of so much of his precious strength.

  Harold escorted the couple out of his office, opening the doors as he preceded them. He watched with a frown while the black man stepped down from their Dearborn and lifted the man to the back seat before helping Louise in and stowing the wheelchair behind the wagon. The expensive vehicle pulled away from the front of the building, leaving Harold with a feeling of regret and guilt eating a hole in the pit of his pudgy stomach.

  He hated giving that man his word; he felt as though he were selling his best friend to the devil himself. If only Daniel hadn't given the old man over to him as a client, he could have easily rejected his obstinate orders; but he had given his word to his friend to keep him on, and he couldn't back out of it. The money was one thing; ha
ving Turner stables under exclusive contract meant a great deal of money to the practice, but he also had his personal morals to consider. Since Daniel had insisted, Harold knew he had to ignore his standards and do as the old man requested. Mourning what was done wouldn’t help matters anyway. He knew what he had to do, and like it or not, the deed had been done and there was no turning back.

  Running his hand through his thinning brown hair, he went back inside the building. He gave his secretary, Anna, orders not to disturb him then closed the door to his private office again. He sat in his large leather chair and opened the bottom drawer of the oak desk, glaring at the contents. Inside sat a half empty bottle of whiskey and several small glasses. He pulled out a single glass, along with the bottle and sat both on top of the desk. Drinking didn't come as natural to him as it once had; a habit his wife Margie had broken him of quite some time ago, but there was little he could do at the moment. He needed something to dull the gut wrenching guilt churning in his middle.

  Harold drank down the first glass with a shiver and a growl that did little to ease the burning sensation in his throat. God, this stuff tasted like shit, he thought and the worst part was that it did nothing to ease his conscious. After twenty minutes and two glasses later, he didn’t feel much beyond a soft numb buzzing between his ears.

  He closed the bottle and put it back in its hiding spot in the bottom drawer, then walked to the hook holding his jacket and slipped it across his torso. Harold staggered out to the street in front of the large, three story building, telling Anna he would not be returning the rest of the day. He gazed up to the clear blue sky, squinting at the light through blood shot eyes. The sun was high and warm and its heat radiated across his pale, round cheeks, but it did nothing to warm his guilty soul.