Divine Deception Read online

  Copyright © 2011

  Divine Deception by Marcia Lynn McClure

  www.marcialynnmcclure.com

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87174

  ©Copyright 20011 by M. Meyers

  A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

  Cover Photography by ©Mikeexpert/Dreamstime.com and ©Adina Nani

  Cover Design by Sheri L. Brady

  February 2011

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction are entirely fictional,

  created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

  Divine Deception: a novella/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  To Barbara—

  To over a decade of beloved, cherished, enduring friendship…

  Here’s to mothers’ rooms, dingy dress-up clothes,

  classic one-liners, and airborne 9x13s!

  For your wisdom, loyalty, and absolutely adored laughter…

  To you, my darling friend!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fallon moved the ragged curtains aside and peered through the frosted window pane. The snowstorm still fiercely blew, and she knew the temperature was well below freezing. The worn quilt she pulled tightly around her shoulders in a futile effort at warming herself seemed almost useless.

  “Perhaps he won’t come at all today,” she spoke to herself. She wanted him to arrive. Desperately, somehow, she wanted him to.

  Glancing about the empty room, reflecting on the unbearably cold and bleak interior of the house, Fallon almost wished Trader Donavon would evict them from the farm. At least then, even if she did end up in an orphanage for a few months, she would no longer have to endure the affliction of living under the same cold, shabby roof with her drunken uncle. Fallon turned, searching the room for anything to use for added warmth, but the drumming of powerful hooves approaching the house instantly captured her attention.

  “He’s here,” her uncle grumbled, staggering in from the other room. “Look sharp, girl, and fetch a warmin’ drink. Now!” He snapped his suspenders into place and attempted to tuck in his filthy shirttails as an angry pounding sounded at the front door.

  Charles Ashby opened the door and greeted his proprietor, Trader Donavon.

  “Well, hello there, Mr. Donavon. Mighty vicious storm out there, ain’t it?” Charles smiled as he spoke. Fallon’s stomach turned at the sight of her uncle’s yellowed, rotting teeth.

  “Yes,” Trader Donavon growled, stepping into the house.

  Fallon forced her lips into a nervous smile. Looking up at the enormous, cloaked, and hooded figure, she asked, “Would you care for a warming drink, Mr. Donavon?”

  The massive form, hidden completely in cloak and hood, turned and appeared to face her. “No, thank you, Miss Ashby. I’m in a hurry.” Fallon nodded and tried to steady her trembling hands as the man returned his attention to her uncle. “Three weeks, Ashby. Three weeks! It’s a warning, and I’m serious this time!” His deep, commanding voice rumbled like thunder echoing through the canyon valley.

  Charles chuckled and reached up to pat the broad shoulder of the landowner. “Now, Mr. Donavon…ya know how hard these sudden spring storms are on us farmers. I’ve had me some setbacks and—”

  “Yes. I’ve heard about your ‘setbacks,’ Ashby,” Trader Donavon said, reaching over and shoving Charles’s hand from his shoulder. “Digger over at the saloon relayed the amount of your current gambling losses to me just yesterday. Three weeks! If you can’t pay the note by then, I’m taking the farm. There are good men in this country who are willing to work hard on this land to build it into what it’s capable of being and producing. I will not have it wasted. Do I make myself clear?”

  Fallon watched as her uncle scratched his oily head, causing white flakes of dirty skin to fall from his scalp onto his shoulders. Yes, she thought, an orphanage would be paradise.

  Charles spoke slowly, scratching his whiskery chin as if he were struggling to think with a shred of intellect. “Well, now, Mr. Donavon, I ain’t too worried about myself, ya see. I can take care of my own hind-end. But think of my dear niece, Fallon, here. What about her? I’d sure hate to see her havin’ to work in the saloon or some such place.”

  Fallon’s horrified gasp caused the hooded figure to turn toward her again. She froze as she gazed up into the dark void of the hood, hiding Trader Donavon’s face from the world. The enormous man seemed to study her for a moment. Fallon shivered with trepidation mixed with excitement as his notice lingered on her another moment before returning his attentions to her uncle.

  “Three weeks, Ashby. I’ll be back, and either you have my money, or have your belongings out front. Good day!” He turned to Fallon, bowed, and said, “Miss.” The massive, menacing figure of a man slammed the door behind him and headed into the fury of the storm.

  Fallon wiped at the frost-covered window, her warm fingertips melting the crystallized water just enough for her to watch as Trader Donavon rode away. Like some ominous black knight, his cape flapped wildly in the stormy gale, and she wished the hood would blow from his head so she might catch a glimpse of the man it hid.

  “It’s true what they say about that one, ain’t it, girl? A monster. He’s that all right,” Charles spat as he headed back into the room from which he had slithered.

  Fallon didn’t answer. She simply watched the vast man ride away until she could no longer see him through the blinding, blowing snow. Then, sitting down in front of the dying embers in the fireplace, she began to weep softly.

  “Oh, Mother,” she whispered. “If only you knew.”

  Fallon pulled the tattered quilt tightly around her once more and bitterly sobbed into its thin folds. She missed her mother so very much. When her father died suddenly the previous year, her mother had changed. Fallon was frightened at how quickly her once young and beautiful mother transformed into a sad and unhealthy creature. Not long after her father’s death, her mother was stricken with consumption and began to fail. Not wanting to burden her beloved daughter with caring for an invalid, she sent Fallon to live with her Uncle Charles. He had been her father’s favorite brother when they were children. Fallon agreed to go only because it was her mother’s wish. She still had not told her mother of the horrid state of affairs she found upon arriving at the home of Charles Ashby. Her mother was already heavily burdened with her own illness and mourning for her lost companion. Fallon feared the knowledge of her daughter’s circumstances would deal her a fatal blow. And so she had endured and would continue to endure.

  Fallon eventually fell asleep where she sat in the frigid house. She dreamt then—dreams of her mother and father and of her blissful childhood when she had been happy, when days had been filled with running through green and fragrant meadows, chasing butterflies in the summer sun. Dreams of loving embraces, which spoke of hope and security, of warm, comfortable beds and kind people. Dreams free of drunken uncles and misery, dreams of beauty and joy. When she did stir from her dreams and wake again, she was depressed and bitterly, bitterly cold. Her muscles ached, and her skin burned from the frigid temperature. She realized then it was an impatient pounding on the door that had awakened her.

  Stiffly, she rose and went to the door. “Who is it, please?” she called.

  “Trader Donavon!” a deep and angry voice answered.
/>   Clumsily, for her fingers were numb with cold, Fallon fumbled with the door latch. The door violently swung open to reveal the towering and snow-covered form of Trader Donavon. Bucketfuls of blowing snow followed after him as he exploded into the room.

  “Mr. Donavon!” Fallon exclaimed. “Are you well? Do come over by the hearth. I’ll build a new fire, and you can warm yourself.” Quickly, she gathered some wood from the woodpile and began making the fire. Her tattered quilt slipped from her shoulders, but she wasted no time in replacing it, for the man appeared to be in a somewhat unstable condition.

  “I was coming back from the Miller’s farm…and this storm overtook me,” he explained as he shivered, teeth chattering. “I was foolish enough to try for my own house rather than turn back to town. I’m very fortunate to have found this place.” His voice was raspy and weakened as he spoke. “It’s not much warmer in here than outside, child. How is it that you are not frozen dead where you stand?” he asked angrily.

  “I’ve made up my mind not to, sir,” Fallon answered as the fire began to burn.

  He crouched down beside her, rubbing his hands together over the warm flames licking the logs in the hearth. Fallon looked at him, staring at the hood he wore.

  She had always been intrigued by Trader Donavon—since the very first day she had seen him and heard the rumors about him. Trader Donavon was horribly misshapen, or so everyone whispered—thus the hood and cape, which he wore at all times. He was a mean tyrant. At least that was the way her uncle spoke of him. Of course, she had never put much faith in Charles Ashby’s opinions. Fallon had always felt drawn to the legendary, hooded man. Maybe she simply sensed something about him that others did not. Maybe it was because she was terribly unhappy and felt a kinship toward him in that regard. No matter what the reason, she found her heart racing and her hands trembling in his presence.

  “Perhaps you should remove your cape, sir,” she innocently suggested. “It’s drenched.”

  “No,” he growled. “But I will accept the warm drink you offered when I was here earlier.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, feeling as if she ought to curtsey.

  Her uncle kept no coffee in the house; it wasn’t his drink. Fallon had managed to save some nutmeg and sugar and used it now to make a mug of thick, warm comfort for the frozen landowner. She handed it to him. A thrilling excitement permeated and warmed her when his gloved hand brushed her arm as he reached for it.

  He stood as he began to consume the beverage. Fallon noticed again he was at least six feet three inches in height, easily an entire foot taller than she. Her heart began to pound within her chest, and an odd sort of elation washed over her at being in his presence. He seemed so strong, so capable—entirely different from her own ensnared existence.

  She watched the mug disappear beneath the hood and then reappear once more as he paused in drinking. Fallon wondered how he was able to see clearly with the edge of the hood forever shading his eyes.

  When he had drained the cup, he handed it to her and said, “That was most soothing, Miss Ashby. I thank you.” He seemed to be studying his surroundings; his head moved about, appearing to scan the room. “Now, it appears I shall be here for some time. Would you permit me to stay here in front of the fire? I am still far from being warmed through.”

  “Oh! Of course, sir. Of course!” she nervously answered.

  Fallon herself always slept in front of the fire. Her revolting uncle had sold nearly every piece of furniture in the farmhouse, and she found it the most comfortable piece of floor in the shelter. She was at a loss as to what to do. There were no other blankets available. Her uncle hoarded them all, and none of the other rooms would provide any warmth for her.

  At last, she decided she would sit at the kitchen table, for it stood only a short way back from the fire. Fallon pretended to be busy for a time until she heard Trader Donavon’s breathing become slow and even. Then she went and stood before him for a moment. As he dozed before the hearth, she surveyed his long legs stretched out in front of him. His arms were folded across his broad chest, and he had braced his back against the wall. She wished she could cover him with her sorry quilt at least, but she needed some protection against the elements penetrating the cabin walls. After studying him for several moments, she sat down at the table, resting her head on its cold surface. It was an oddly secure feeling having him there. Fallon felt safe for the first time in nearly a year and was able to sleep, returning to her happiest of dreams.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Well, well, well. Looky what we have here.” The intrusive words echoed somewhat painfully through Fallon’s barely conscious mind as she tried to wake from her deep and contented slumber. “My, oh my. How folks would talk if’n they could see what I’m aseein’,” her uncle’s loathsome voice chuckled.

  Fallon felt almost intoxicated with warmth. She was warmer than she had been in a long time. It wasn’t a crackling-fire kind of warmth. It was a snuggled-up-in-a-warm-quilt kind of warmth, and she fought full consciousness, afraid the bitter cold of complete awareness would dispel the comfort of it.

  “Wake up, girl! And I’ll give ya credit for being smarter than ya look,” Charles chuckled.

  For a moment, Fallon’s eyes resisted her mental commands to open. Her uncle was crouched down, staring into her face with his wicked smile, revealing the all too familiar rotting teeth. The man was chuckling low in his throat, the sound of triumph somehow, and she had an aching urge to slap him soundly.

  “And you,” he continued, looking past Fallon. “You think just ’cause ya have money and own half of this state, ya can waltz in here and dirty up my niece?”

  Fallon looked down, realizing only then that the comfortable warmth enveloping her were large, strong arms—arms shrouded in black, hands covered in black gloves. As she looked upward, she felt the hem of Trader Donavon’s black hood brush against her hair.

  “What in the—” Trader Donavon mumbled as he too struggled from a deep sleep. “What’s going on here?” he demanded as he pushed Fallon out of his arms and off his lap. He stood immediately. “What’s the meaning of this?” he shouted as he looked first from Fallon and then to her uncle and back again.

  Fallon watched as her Uncle Charles broke into hateful laughter. “The meanin’, sir, is this: either you make an honest woman of my niece and let me stay on this here farm—free of charge, I might add—or I let everyone know what kind of man ya really are! Takin’ advantage of young innocents and the like. Otherwise, I’m afraid the only work left that Fallon will be fit for is over at the saloon in town.”

  Fallon felt confused. “I fell asleep at the table, Uncle Charles. You’re mistaken! How dare you accuse me of—” she stammered.

  Charles interrupted, “Not you, girl. Him and you. The both of ya lyin’ there all tangled up in front of the fire. I know what went on here last night.”

  An evil grin spread across his ugly face, and it was too much. In that instant, all the anger building inside of Fallon reacted, and she slapped the vile relative hard across one cheek.

  “You little—” Charles growled, instantly striking her back.

  His slap caused Fallon to lose her balance, but she was caught in one of Donavon’s powerful arms, rescued from hitting the floor.

  Charles Ashby was entirely provoked. “I’ll teach ya to hit me, girl!” he shouted as he drew back a fisted hand, preparing to hit her again.

  Donavon caught Charles’s fist in his own. “Strike her again…and I will kill you, Ashby,” Trader Donavon growled.

  Charles began laughing. “She’s not fit for anythin’ else now, Donavon. Ya’ve made sure of that, ain’t ya?” He yanked his hand out of Donavon’s grip. “Now, do we deal or not?”

  Fallon turned and looked at the great tower of a man. His broad chest rose and fell with barely controlled anger. He spoke. “Ashby, you are the lowest form of life on this earth. Make no mistake about that fact. I know you arranged this…this situation, but I’ll deal—with
a few of my own terms. I’ll destroy the note to this farm on one condition: you are to send this girl away, some place where she will be free of your vile presence and abuses. She is a mere child and deserves better.”

  Fallon felt her heart swell to near bursting as Donavon championed her, but the vile laughter of her wicked uncle distracted her once more.

  “No deal, Donavon. She marries you—you and that ugly face ya hide! She deserves no better. I want her married to you, ‘Donavon the Dragon.’” Again, he broke into harsh laughter.

  “I should kill you where you stand, Ashby!” Donavon growled, so fiercely that Charles’s laughter ceased. “But I’ve seen enough of that in my lifetime.” He paused, his anger yet apparent by the rise and fall of his massive chest as he breathed. “Very well. I’ll marry the child, and you’ll keep this miserable farm. But if you ever mention this again, you will die…by my own hand.”

  Donavon turned to Fallon, the hem of his hood trembling with his obvious fury. “Miss Ashby, gather whatever possessions you have, and come with me. Know that I’m not convinced of your innocence in this farce. But it would be inhumane to leave you here with this animal.”

  Fallon stood stunned. Had she heard him correctly? He meant to marry her?

  “Marry her, Donavon,” Charles reminded, “before the week’s over.”

  Trader Donavon took Fallon roughly by the shoulders. Turning her to face away from him, he wrapped her thin quilt tightly around her and opened the cabin door. “Ashby, I may be frightening in my own right, but you’re the monster here,” he growled. Swiftly, he scooped Fallon up in his arms, carrying her out of the cabin and into the still-raging storm.

  “Before the week’s over, Donavon!” Charles Ashby called after him. “Before the week’s over, or I’ll tell the world what ya really are and see the girl off to work in the saloon!”