When Clara stepped into Anders' clinic, neither of the two occupants noticed her at first.
At the far end of the room, near the woodstove, she saw Anders sitting on a chair facing Bethany. He was leaning over her hand, which was resting on his knee, as though about to kiss it. Bethany leaned forward also, her lips almost touching his hair, and her expression was so unguarded that Clara was sure she had intruded upon something intimate. She paused, surprise widening her eyes. Anders and Bethany?
Then Clara saw the blood-spotted rag that Anders was using to dab at the cut on the back of Bethany's hand. "Bethany?" she inquired as she moved toward the pair. "Are you hurt?"
Both heads swiveled toward Clara, startled. Anders' face lit up in a bright smile. "You're back!" he exclaimed. She could see the relief in his eyes as he quickly scanned her for evidence of injury. Seeing none, he beamed up at her, still holding Bethany's hand.
Bethany also smiled warmly. "Sister," she greeted. "How was your trip?"
"Interesting. I'll have to tell you all about it, but," Clara frowned at Bethany's bleeding hand, "what happened to you?"
"Oh, just a scratch," Bethany waved her free hand dismissively. "I was chopping some vegetables for soup and, well, you know how clumsy I am…"
Clara stared at her sister skeptically. She knew nothing of the sort. Bethany was always methodical and graceful, never clumsy. Why ever was she behaving so strangely?
Bethany's breath hissed through her teeth as Anders poured some liquid from a small dark bottle over the cut. "Sorry," he murmured. "The antiseptic does sting a bit. Here, hold this in place while I get the bandages." He positioned Bethany's free hand on top of the clean cloth he had placed over the injury.
As he passed Clara on his way across to the cabinet where the bandages were stored, he paused beside her and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. "I'm glad to see you back safe," he whispered. Before he moved on, Clara saw his eyes rest on her mouth for just a moment, and she wondered if he was thinking of the brief kiss they had shared on the night before she had left.
She turned to Bethany, who wore a determined, innocent expression. What? Nothing out of the ordinary here.
Clara raised her eyebrows at her sister. You and him?
Bethany shrugged and glanced pointedly away. I admit nothing.
Clara thought she understood now. Anders and Bethany, except only one of them knows it.
She caught Bethany's eye again, and then jerked her head questioningly toward Anders, who was still rummaging in the cabinet, muttering to himself. Want me to say something to him?
Bethany firmly shook her head and glared at Clara. A moment later, Anders returned to his seat and took Bethany's hand again. He began to wrap it in a clean white bandage.
Bethany said in a bright voice, "Have you been home yet, Clara? Mother will want to see you right away."
"I haven't, no," Clara answered. "I have a few things to take care of in town before I go home." The foremost of which was finding a new home for a strange Indian girl whose own people had cast her out for consorting with evil. Right now, Merrill was over at the jail with Aveline. Clara had left her there while she made some inquiries into available rooms in town.
If I can't find a place for her, I suppose I could always take her home with me, she thought tiredly. We have Carver's old room, not to mention the bunkhouse. She briefly wondered what her mother would think.
Bethany was experimentally flexing her bandaged hand. She smiled at Anders. "Thank you, Anders," she murmured.
"I think it's my fault, actually," he remarked as he got up to put away the first aid supplies. Bethany and Clara both glanced quickly up at him. "If I hadn't mentioned a craving for stew, you wouldn't have been fixing it for me, and you wouldn't have gotten cut."
"Well, why wouldn't I make it for you?" Bethany teased gently back. "You can't cook."
Anders put on a feigned hurt expression. "I will have you know, I can make excellent biscuits." His tidying complete, he turned back to Clara. "So, tell us about your trip, and don't forget to scoff at me for being so worried about your safety."
"I will, but I think I need a drink first. You two want to come over to the Hanged Man with me?"
Anders agreed, but Bethany said gently, "Not me, thanks. I still have stew to finish."
"Look, Beth, you don't have to do that just for me-" Anders began, but Bethany hushed him.
"I don't mind a bit, and it's already begun. And after that, I wanted to step over and visit with Goldanna for a while. She's still getting over that illness and needs some help with all the laundry. If she doesn't get it done, then she doesn't get paid, and she's barely making it by as it is." Bethany, knife in hand once more, began shuffling purposefully around the stove again. "I picked up some candy for her children yesterday. They'll be so excited." She smiled as though thinking of their happy little faces.
Anders smiled fondly at her. "You're such a darling, Bethany."
Bethany quickly turned back to the stove, hiding her face, but Clara was sure she could see a blush tinting her earlobes pink.
"After you, my lady," Anders said, and Clara preceded him outside into the early afternoon sunlight.
At this hour of the day, the Hanged Man was nearly empty. Isabela stood behind the bar, washing glasses, and Varric lounged at one of the tables nearby, his boots propped on the tabletop, reading aloud to her from a battered book. Only two other people were present. One was Oghren, seated at his usual place, his face buried in his arms on the table and emitting loud uneven snores. Clara wondered if the man ever went home. It was common knowledge in Kirkwood that his wife had left him, but as far as Clara knew, she hadn't taken the entire house with her.
And at the end of the bar, exactly where Clara had first seen him, was the man with the scarred hands. He had removed his hat and had placed it on the bar in front of him, and Clara could see that his hair was indeed white. He's so young though, how can that be? He wore the same black clothing and red neckerchief that he had been wearing before, and his demeanor was much the same. He stared straight ahead and did not look around, although Clara had the distinct feeling that he had marked her and Anders' entrance.
Clara felt a strange satisfaction at seeing him again, and wasn't sure why she was so pleased. He was obviously not friendly, and he might even be dangerous. Clara studied him surreptitiously as she made her way up to the bar with Anders. In the daylight, the scars on his hands appeared skeletal.
"Well, the Hawke has returned!" exclaimed Varric when he looked up from his book and saw her. "Hawke, listen to this." He began to read. "'Cailan grasped Anora roughly by the hair, his eyes wild with fury and desire, and forced her to her knees in front of him. Her breasts heaved enticingly inside the tight bodice of her gown, and her lips were flushed dark red, but whether with anger or lust, Cailan couldn't tell. "I'll show you what it means to defy me," he snarled, and his other hand fumbled at his belt, anxious to free his-'"
"For God's sake, Varric, what on earth are you reading?" Clara asked, scandalized.
"It's erotica, Hawke," Varric answered easily. "This one is rather good, don't you think, Isabela?"
"Oh, absolutely," Isabela answered, with a wink at Clara. "I'm a bit jealous of Anora right now…"
"Number two thousand and five on the list of things I didn't need to know about Isabela," Anders commented. Isabela blew him a kiss.
"To be continued," Varric said. He placed a marker in the book and set it aside.
Isabela placed earthen mugs full of beer in front of Anders and Clara. "Drink up, my friends."
Clara seated herself on a barstool, and shifted uncomfortably at the sensation of something poking her in the side. Putting her hand to the spot, she felt the corners of several envelopes that were sticking out of her pocket. The mail, yes. She had shoved the letters into her pocket right before going into Anders' clinic.
She pulled the envelopes out and sifted through them quickly. "First Bank of Denerim" was emblazoned across the envelopes of all but one of the letters. Her stomach turned at the sight of them. Delinquency notices, she was sure. And there were so many of them. She set them aside, not willing to face facts right at the moment. Later, when she was alone, she would open them. Then she could cry where no one would see her.
The one remaining envelope was also addressed to her, but there was no return address. It was nice quality paper, too, thick and creamy. Curious, she ripped it open, slid the single sheet out, and began to read.
Varric's topic of conversation had moved on from erotica to Oghren. He and Anders were discussing how soon he would fall off his chair in his sleep, as he had begun to lean precariously to the left. Anders, obviously disregarding the patient's confidentiality, had begun to list the various ailments and maladies that Oghren had been to see him for, and if Clara had been listening, the recitation would have been enough to make sure she made a wide detour around his table in the future.
"Varric," she interrupted, swiveling around on her barstool to face him. "You've traveled around some. Have you ever heard of a man named Danario Chavez?"
"Danario Chavez?" Varric repeated thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. Let me think a minute…"
"How about you, Isabela?" Clara turned back to where Isabela stood behind the bar, stacking the clean glasses on their shelf. She caught a glimpse of the scarred man as she turned. He had frozen in place with his whiskey glass lifted halfway to his mouth. A moment later, he set it down again stiffly. Clara paid him no attention, too intent on questioning her friends about the mysterious letter-writer.
"Never heard of him," Isabela quickly answered, not looking up from her task.
"I think I do know who he is," Varric said. "Cattle rancher, right? Owns tons of land, way out past Antiva. Probably the richest man in the territory, if I'm thinking of the right guy. Why do you ask?"
"Because," Clara answered, gesturing with the letter she held, "he wants to buy Rainesfere. Listen."
She began to read. "To Miss Clara Hawke, Rainesfere Ranch, Kirkwood: I have never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, yet your reputation precedes you as an intelligent and determined businesswoman, and breeder of fine horses known even in Antiva. I send my most sincere salutations along with a genuine hope of a future business relationship. It has come to my attention that you have found yourself in an unfortunate financial situation, and your ranch, Rainesfere, is in danger of repossession. I am greatly interested in purchasing your ranch, and I am prepared to make a most generous proposition: full current value of your land in cash, plus all legal fees with regards to transfer of ownership. If you wish to sell your horses and livestock as well, I am sure we can agree upon a mutually satisfactory arrangement. I find it necessary to insist upon a swift reply to this letter, as our business must be concluded before the Bank of Denerim takes possession of Rainesfere. I am sure you will agree that my offer is quite generous, and with the proceeds from the sale of your ranch you will find yourself with plenty of means to purchase another property elsewhere. Please consider, and forward your response as quickly as you are able. Cordially, Danario Chavez, Minrathous Ranch, Antiva."
A few moments of silence followed the conclusion of the letter. Then Anders said, "So he wants to buy the ranch from you, and then he'll have to pay off the bank if he wants to keep it. He'd be buying it twice. Must be nice to have that kind of money."
"Hawke, are you actually considering this?" Varric asked, confused. "I thought the whole point was to keep the ranch somehow. Have you changed your mind?"
"No, of course I want to keep it. I would give anything to keep it!" Clara declared. "It's just…maybe this Chavez would be willing to make a different deal. Perhaps he would lend me the money and I could pay him back with interest. He's a cattle rancher, right? He'll need horses. Maybe-"
"You are a damned fool."
The deep, growling, yet melodious voice from behind her made gooseflesh break out on Clara's back. In the shocked silence that echoed throughout the bar following this pronouncement, Clara swiveled slowly around until she faced the scarred man. She found herself staring into a pair of startlingly green eyes, narrowed into a glare by the brooding black brows above them. The scars on his chin appeared as brightly white as those on his hands. The gooseflesh spread onto her arms, and she resisted the urge to rub them vigorously.
"Excuse me?" she asked quietly.
"I believe you heard what I said."
"Oh, silly me!" Isabela suddenly interjected, in an oh-my-goodness-where-are-my-manners voice. "Clara, may I present Fenris Jones? Mr. Jones, Clara Hawke."
Neither of them glanced at Isabela or acknowledged that she had spoken. So Isabela knew his name. Apparently he had deigned to speak during her absence from town. Clara, staring into his eyes, began to feel distinctly like a mouse being hunted by a…well, a hawk. She didn't like the feeling.
"Well, then, Mr. Jones," Clara said, pleased to hear that her voice sounded perfectly calm. "Perhaps you would like to enlighten me? You heard me read the letter. Do you happen to know this Danario Chavez?"
"It doesn't matter whether I know him. I'm referring to your own obtuseness, Miss Hawke. I thought this place might be different, but it's the same everywhere. Someone with money and power shows up, and everyone goes out of their way to hand him more of both, and the entire world bends to his will. Intelligent businesswoman, indeed. You're already prepared to lick his boots if you think it will get you what you want." He was practically snarling at her, his lip curled in a sneer.
Clara felt her face flush. Her heart pounded in her chest. Behind her, she could feel Anders bristling with outrage. He had gotten to his feet, but she reached back and touched his arm to keep him still. She said coldly, "Do not presume to think that you can judge me when you know nothing of me or my problems. I'll thank you to keep your uninformed opinions to yourself, Mr. Jones."
"Perhaps I shall," he shot back at her. "God knows, my 'uninformed opinions' have never made a damn bit of difference before. Why should now be any different?" He grabbed his hat from where it lay on the bar, and with a last withering glance at her, stalked out of the Hanged Man.
Clara stared for several moments at the doorway where Jones had disappeared. His angry, growling voice still seemed to echo around the quiet saloon. She heard Anders slump back into his seat, and she turned back to the bar. "What the hell was that?" she asked the room in general. "Can you believe-"
She caught sight of Isabela then, standing behind the bar with a knowing smile on her face.
"What are you smiling at?" she snapped, still annoyed at the way the stranger had affected her. Her heart was still racing.
"Just enjoying the fireworks," Isabela explained lightly.
Clara sighed in exasperation. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"That little display just then. I was hoping I'd be the one to get on his…nerves. But I know when I've been beaten. Bravo, Hawke."
"What? Are you crazy?" Clara asked in disbelief. "Didn't you hear what he said? He –"
"Yes," Isabela interrupted, a bit dreamily. "You two just met, and already you inflame his passion. This is going to be so interesting."
"Varric, please tell Isabela she's lost her mind," Clara implored.
"Well, Hawke, we've got to look at the facts here," said Varric easily, propping his feet up on the table again. "The guy's been in here every single day for the last week, and hasn't said five words the whole time. It almost took an act of Congress to get his name out of him. Then you show up, and the guy's suddenly moved to speeches? There's a reason for that."
"Yes, it's called irrational craziness."
"It's a fine line, Hawke." Varric shrugged.
Clara realized that Anders had remained silent throughout this exchange. She turned to him, hoping for a voice of reason, and saw that he was avoiding her gaze. He believes them. Dear God, has everyone lost their minds?
"You two have been reading way too much 'Cailan and Anora'," Clara muttered sourly.
"Speaking of which, read some more, Varric. Hawke made you stop right at the good part," Isabela requested.
"Ah, yes." Varric picked up the book again. "I believe Cailan was about to make her s-"
"Aveline!" Clara cried out gratefully.
The tall red-haired sheriff had just entered the saloon, accompanied by her diminutive charge. Anders, Varric, and Isabela stared in surprise to see the Indian girl, complete with leather clothing, beads in her hair, and tattoos on her face, standing in the middle of the bar, looking around with wonder.
"Is this where everyone comes to get drunk?" she inquired of Aveline. "Are we going to get drunk now?"
"Everyone, this is Merrill. She's part of the story I was getting around to telling." Clara introduced the girl to her friends, and told an abbreviated version of her visit with the Dalish and how Merrill had accompanied them home. She left out the part about Merrill supposedly being the cause of an evil curse among her people, assuming that wouldn't help Merrill make any friends here.
"So anyway," Clara concluded. "I was hoping to find her a place to stay in town, if I could. Do any of you-"
"She is just so adorable," Isabela positively crooned. "Why don't you stay here with us, Merrill? We have an extra room upstairs. It's small, but…so are you."
"You live here?" Merrill asked her, wide-eyed. "In the drunk-house?"
Isabela laughed. "It's called a saloon, Merrill. Yes, I live here. So does Varric, but he doesn't have to pay for his room. He owns the place."
Merrill was suddenly concerned. "How will I pay for my room? I don't have any money."
"Why, you can work in the bar. What do you think, Varric? Can we keep her?"
Varric looked doubtful, but he shrugged. "Sure, we can try it out. The more the merrier, right?"
"Thank you both!" Merrill exclaimed. "This is so exciting. I can't wait to see the drunks!"
"Why wait?" Varric asked. "There's one right there." He pointed at Oghren.
As Merrill moved away to inspect the snoring Oghren, Anders pulled Clara aside. He frowned at her. "You're bringing Indians home now? What are you thinking?"
"I couldn't exactly refuse, Anders," Clara said defensively. "What are you worried about? She's harmless."
Anders looked doubtful. He opened his mouth to argue further, but Merrill had come back, wrinkling her nose. "He's not very exciting, is he?" she asked, disappointed. "And he smells terrible!"
"Don't worry, dear," said Isabela. "He's the only one in town who smells like that. Unless you count Barlin's pigs."
Clara left the Hanged Man a short time later, relieved to finally be heading home. She walked back to the jail, where she retrieved Teagan and the white mare, and rode back through the town toward the road to Rainesfere. She glanced around constantly, her eyes lingering momentarily on each black-clothed figure she saw. None of them were Fenris Jones, and Clara kept telling herself firmly that she would be perfectly happy never to see him again.
