Page 62 of The Burning Passion of a Fiery Lady
Suddenly, something drifted into his mind. A flash, of something, hanging in his vision, like a portrait on a wall.
Black riding boots.
He opened his eyes, puzzled. Why would he remember boots? What significance did they have?
He closed his eyes again to see if they would return.
He cried aloud. Abruptly, as if someone had grabbed him by the scruff of neck and was dragging him down a long tunnel, he saw the night entire.
***
He had been out, checking on the horses. It had been very important to him to do this.
He remembered talking to the horses, one by one. He had gone from stall to stall to make sure that they were all there. That they were present and accounted for.
He had been satisfied that all was well. He had approached the main gate, intending to lock it. And that was when …
He winced, falling forward in the bed, almost feeling like he had been winded.
Black riding boots.
They were there, in his mind. He had seen them, as the rock had connected with his skull, and he had fallen hard onto the ground. The man had been wearing black riding boots.
The man had approached him slowly. He hadn’t known what he was intending. But then, he had hauled him over his shoulders, carrying him, grunting, into the fields beyond the stables.
He had thought that he was going to die.
He gripped his stomach, twisting in pain, as he relived it. It was almost as if he were back there, on that cold night, rather than sitting in this bed, in this warm room.
He had drifted in and out of consciousness, then. But he had awoken when the man had thrown him down onto the hard ground. He remembered looking up at him, beseechingly, as the man peered down at him, gazing at him coldly.
A tall, lanky man, with a long, angular face, light brown hair, and cold, beady brown eyes.
“Say your prayers,” the man had whispered. “That you will meet your maker. You should never have messed with her.”
He had clawed the ground in agony, but the man had turned away. The last vision that he saw of him was those black riding boots and his long legs as he had walked away, leaving him for dead.
He started to tremble, violently, now. It seemed to overtake him completely.
He knew. He knew now, that it had been no accident. He had not slipped on the ground, hitting his head. Nor had he fallen. It had been a cold, calculating assault. The man had lain in wait for him, and when his back had been turned, he had seized his chance.
That man had meant to murder him.
A deep fury swept through him. It had been cold, calculating, and ruthless. It had been a cowardly attack, as well. He had not been given any chance to defend himself. His attacker had waited for his back to be turned so that he could not fight back.
The door opened. His heart was thudding in his chest. He felt sick.
Susannah was by his side, her eyes wide, her brow knitted in concern.
“Jasper,” she whispered, in a fearful voice. “What is it? What is wrong?”
He gripped her hand, feverishly pressing it to his mouth for a moment, before dropping it on the bed, and turning to her.
“I know,” he whispered in a shaking voice. “I know what happened.”
***
Susannah sank into the chair beside him. She simply could not believe what he had just said.
