Harnessed Passions (3 page)

"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 wobbly
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
."

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; having 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.

It must be around lunch time which meant
Margie was setting his meal on the table for him just about now. He
sure didn’t relish the idea of going home drunk and hoped the walk
would help sober him up enough to feign illness and go to bed for a
few hours. As much as he hated lying to her, he hated the situation
Turner had placed him in more.

The only good thing about this day was
Daniel's absence. He had gone to Graves County on business and
fortunately, he wouldn't return until the day after tomorrow. No
doubt, he'd be back out at the old man’s stables come Saturday
morning as always, but Harold knew Turner wouldn't say anything
about his plans. He was determined to keep his transaction a secret
until his death. Good God! If Daniel knew, or even suspected what
the old man had done, he would be furious beyond words! The whole
idea was insane, even if it was legal. If only Daniel hadn't turned
the man over to him, Harold growled again, staggering in the
direction of home.

Walking was very difficult since he could
barely feel the street beneath his feet, but he managed to move
forward without stumbling and falling even once. Harold prayed he
could walk off enough of the alcohol’s effects to appear semi
normal, before he confronted Margie. If he thought being locked in
a room with the mighty Turners all morning was rough, just wait
until his wife, now six months pregnant, got a whiff of the whiskey
on his breath. Hell had no fury, like the wife of a drunken
lawyer.

The air was warm, and the wind blew gently
across the tall wild grass of the open meadows. Daniel sat on the
back of his steed, Roustabout, looking out over the land and
watching nearly a hundred horses as they grazed the thick green
fields.

He loved this place and had always felt
content here, ever since he first set foot on this property. It was
as though he were one with the vast contentment of the land. Daniel
untied the ribbon restraining his hair back from his face, allowing
the longer-than-style strands to blow freely in the breeze. He
unbuttoned his frock coat and slipped it off his shoulders, laying
it across his horse’s hind quarters. He knew he shouldn't have worn
such a heavy garment, but the mornings were cooler this week, than
last. At least the afternoon held the warmth he had always longed
for.