by Betina Krahn
Sarah’s eyes widened and she said out of the corner of her mouth, “Which one of us you think she’s talkin’ to?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Evening was coming on—the sun had finally fought its way through the clouds to paint a glorious tapestry of color all over the western sky. Tea had been served earlier in the parlor and there was time before supper for a walk out to see the horses in the pasture. Ashton and Arthur led the way and Daisy, her boys, and Sarah followed. They stopped by the pasture fence and Sarah called the foals over for carrots the boys held, while Ashton and Daisy climbed the fence for a closer look at Dancer’s progeny.
“They’re beautiful!” Daisy called, approaching one black beauty that wore a halter. “Easy girl, easy. I’m your granddaddy’s best human friend.” Soon she was petting the young filly and running her hands over a perfect, near-Thoroughbred form.
“Twelve of them,” Arthur said as he strode out to join her and Ash. “Twelve coal-black ones. Sarah says that Dancer’s offspring breeds true.”
“I’ve kept Dancer for riding, mostly—haven’t ever used him for stud. He covered several of Betancourt’s mares when we were here,” Daisy said.
“I seem to recall,” Arthur said with a wry grin.
Daisy looked at Ashton. “Maybe when we get home, we ought to find a few good mares and see what he produces.”
The boys ran to their parents across the pasture, enjoying the freedom they were allowed. Sarah followed, making sure they didn’t get too close to the horses and directing them around the occasional horse pile.
Daisy picked up Wild Bill and Ash picked up Little Red so they could pet the horse, while Arthur settled beside Sarah and put his arm around her.
She looked up at him and found him gazing at her with pleasure that was heart-melting. She smiled back and leaned a fraction of an inch closer to him, appreciating his heat and maleness with every part of her. Her heartbeat quickened and for a moment she thought she was hearing . . .
A bell? Arthur tore his gaze from hers and looked off across the pasture and trees, toward Betany.
“Is that a church bell?” Daisy asked.
“It can’t be,” Sarah said, listening. “It’s ringing too fast . . . and a single tone.” She had heard Betany’s church bells each week for the last seven months. There were three bells in the tower, pulled in different sequences by practiced ringers. They always played in a melodic order . . . never just one bell and never so frantic. She grabbed Arthur’s arm.
“Something is—”
“Wrong.” He not only finished her thought, he interpreted it. “It’s an alarm. I’ve never heard it rung before, but I remember hearing talk about it.”
“Let’s go,” Ashton said, heading for the fence. “Back to the house.”
Arthur grabbed Sarah’s hand and they headed back. “Today is Saturday. Do they still hold market in Betany each week?”
“Yes,” she answered, sharing his growing concern as they reached the fence and he helped her over. “Farmers and tradesmen set up stalls. It’s a local market . . . mostly garden produce, leather goods, and soap made in farm kitchens. A tinsmith sets up, there’s a hardware man to repair equipment, and sometimes a scissors grinder.”
Arthur took Little Red out of Ash’s arms so his brother could help Daisy across the fence. Meanwhile, the bell continued to ring frantically, joined by odd pops and bangs that, under other circumstances, might have been mistaken for Christmas crackers. Sarah froze, listening. She looked to Arthur, who met her gaze with his assessment.
“Gunfire.”
A shiver went through her. There was trouble in the village. Bascom said the ruffians had caused problems there before, wrecking stalls and ruining market goods, breaking house and shop windows, terrorizing the villagers. If they had brought guns this time . . .
He handed Little Red back to Ash, and then turned to Sarah and pulled her into his arms for a moment.
“Get to the house and get your medical supplies ready.” Regret filled his eyes . . . as if he had much to say and no time left to say it. “There may be injuries. I’ll send for you when it’s safe.”
“No, you won’t,” she said with a stubborn tilt to her chin, “because I’m going with you.”
“Sarah—”
“No arguments,” she said, slipping out of his arms. “I’m going. If people are hurt, the sooner they get treatment, the better.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a halt. With a bittersweet smile, he gave her a short, fervent hug and then took off at a run.
By the time they reached the house, Arthur was issuing orders like a general. They blew through the front doors and shortly Red, Reynard, and Grycel were mobilized and heading for their assignments. Eddie and Old Harley started saddling horses and hitching up a wagon for the duchess. A stable boy ran to the cottages to round up men and bring them to the stables, where Arthur would meet them. Families of the workers were sent to the manor house as a precaution, and the servant hall, breakfast room, and dining room were soon overflowing with anxious women and excited children.
The men on the estate collected at the stables, as previously arranged. The strategy they had settled on—borrowed from the events in the American West—was simple: make the outlaws focus on a force of men confronting them, while a second force came in from behind. Arthur and Red would lead one contingent, Ash and Grycel would lead the other. Reynard, an expert marksman, would go with the local constables to the rooftops to deliver fire from above. Steig was assigned to the wagon, to keep Sarah safe and just possibly to keep her from doing something reckless.
Soon they were racing down the drive and turning toward Betany. Sarah and Steig brought up the rear with the wagon full of workers and medical supplies.
Sarah wished she had at least one of Uncle Red’s guns. Steig was a reasonable substitute, but she determined there and then that she would purchase her own gun as soon as possible. As they neared the village, Steig slowed the wagon to watch the mounted party sweep down the lane ahead of them. Sarah gripped the edge of the seat with white hands, waiting for gunshots or worse.
They heard shouts and banging and the whinnying of anxious horses, then all went quiet.
“Let’s go,” she ordered, giving Steig a tap on the arm.
He slapped the reins, and moments later they rolled along the lane past the Iron Penny and into the center of the village. The small green was littered with broken stalls draped with ripped canvas. Goods and equipment had been dragged off into the lane that circled the green and it was clear that the glass in the few shop windows that faced the green had suffered another assault. Arthur and Red had dismounted and were moving among the stalls, checking on people and asking questions.
Sarah took a deep breath. It wasn’t as bad as she expected. Steig pulled the wagon up to the damage and the men in the back jumped out to begin searching for injured. Soon Sarah had a number of patients, mostly with bruises, small cuts, and the occasional black eye or broken finger. The local constable, Officer Jolly, was among the injured and he told Arthur and Ash what happened while Sarah treated a gash on the side of his head.
A group of four men had come at the end of the market day, and they rode through the stalls wielding clubs. They bashed everything they could reach, laughing and clubbing anyone who tried to intervene. They harassed men and women alike and nearly trampled a few children. The vicar was present and ran to the church to sound the old alarm. Angered, one of the gang produced a gun and fired shots at the local shop windows. When Bascom arrived with his gun and fired at them, the wretches rode off, yelling that they would be back to finish the job.
“Did you recognize any of them?” Arthur asked Bascom, who shook his head.
“Never saw any of that lot before.”
Arthur frowned. “Then they’ve brought in additional men.”
Arthur, Ash, and the workers from Betancourt helped clear some of the shattered stalls and stack whatever goods remained intact so they cou
ld be retrieved. When all the patients had been treated, Arthur sought out Sarah and the rest of the Betancourt contingent.
“I don’t get it,” he said, looking around. “It looked bad at first, but in reality, there was more commotion than damage. Nothing was even taken.”
Reynard leaned his rifle on the wagon wheel, annoyed that he hadn’t gotten to shoot. “You think they could find a better way to get attention.”
The others looked at him and then each other with realization dawning.
“It was a diversion,” Arthur said, snapping straight. “Good God—and we fell for it.”
“That means,” Red said, looking at Reynard and Grycel, “they’re—”
“Somewhere else.” Sarah looked down the village lane toward Betancourt. Her knees went weak at the thought of what and who they had left behind.
“Mount up!” Arthur called, heading for the horses tied at the side of the green.
Steig helped Sarah into the wagon and she waved Betancourt’s workers into the back. In moments they were passing the Iron Penny and giving the horses their head on the road to Betancourt’s gates.
The lights in Betancourt’s windows were a welcome and reassuring sight. All was quiet in the front court, the stable yard, and as far as they could see toward the barns. Dusk had settled and the eastern sky was mostly dark, but there still was enough light from the west to provide contrast to a billow of smoke rising to the north.
Ash spotted it first and grabbed Arthur’s arm, pointing.
Arthur uttered a curse and called to the others. “It looks like—”
“Fire!” Red shouted, pointing to the northwest.
Arthur whirled and, sure enough, there was a second plume of smoke.
“Damn and double damn,” he muttered, scowling, thinking fast.
A second later he began giving orders, splitting up their force into two groups and speaking to each. He issued cautions and set priorities: people first, animals second, houses and barns after that. If a structure was more than a quarter engulfed, let it go and concentrate on higher priorities. They could rebuild houses and barns; they couldn’t replace lives.
Sarah watched him calling for shovels, buckets, and blankets, taking it all in hand. He stood with his feet planted, looking strong and confident and her heart seemed to swell in her chest. He was indeed born for this: leading, guiding, and protecting. He hadn’t been able to stop this attack from happening, but he was determined to end it and see those responsible punished.
She was coming from the house with arms full of rolled bandages and wooden splints, when Arthur caught her.
“Where are you going?”
“With you,” she said. “Where there’s fire, there will be injuries.”
“We need you here.” He pointed to one fire, then another . . . then spotted something that made him run to the front steps of the house. Frustrated by his lack of view, he looked over his shoulder at the house and was soon climbing up a drain pipe.
“What are you doing?” Sarah called, running after him. “These drains are old—you’ll get hurt!”
He stopped three-quarters of the way up and looked back over his shoulder. His gaze fixed on something to the direct west of Betancourt House. A moment later he scrambled down the pipe and landed heavily.
“A third fire just started,” he told her. “It looks like Arnett’s place . . . Thomas Wrenn’s and now Elias Ender’s. Each one closer to the heart of Betancourt.” He took her by the shoulders, and she grasped his waist. “I have to go and help them, Sarah. But I need to know you’re taking care of things here. And that you’re safe.”
He kissed her and then buried his face in her hair, inhaling its scent.
“Because I’m so precious?” she said with tears rising. It felt like he was saying goodbye.
When she looked up, his eyes seemed dark, almost haunted.
“Because I love you with all my heart.”
Before she could respond, he turned away and headed for his horse.
“Steig is here to help you,” he called to her from horseback. “Give him back the big knife that’s in my desk. If there’s trouble, send Eddie on a fast horse to Arnett’s—that’s where I’ll start.”
* * *
In a moment they were gone and an eerie quiet descended on the court and house. Daisy and the other women and children who had come out to say farewell to their husbands and fathers stood in silence, some wiping away tears. Sarah straightened and squared her shoulders. She had work to do.
“They’re off and Godspeed to them,” she called out. “Now let’s get inside and do some planning of our own.” She ushered them inside, then sought out Steig and led him to the study and the desk Arthur referenced.
When she opened the drawer and drew out a long, wickedly sharp blade, Steig’s eyes widened and he began to smile.
“The duke wants you to have this,” she said, handing it to him.
He held it, running his finger down the large blade, and nodded.
“He’s a good man, your duke,” he said.
She realized the knife being returned meant a great deal to him.
“He sure as hell is.”
* * *
Elizabeth was astounded by the way the house was inundated by dairy maids, goose girls, mothers with small babies, and matrons with work-toughened hands and fierce eyes. But when she learned what was happening, she had to agree with Sarah that it was necessary.
Soon there were buckets of water in each main-floor room and blankets for wetting in case of a fire. Children were put under the goose girls’ authority and set to practicing evacuating single file and running to the farthest edge of the front lawn. The servants checked windows, locked up valuables, and brought up stores from the cellar so Cook and her helpers could feed the group when the time came.
Sarah caught Old Edgar wheezing up the stairs with a pile of pristine folded shirts in his hands. “What is that, Edgar?”
“Shirts, ma’am.”
“Whose shirts?”
“His Grace’s.”
She frowned, confused. “Where have they been all this time?”
“Butler’s pantry, ma’am,” he replied as though it were the most sensible thing in the world, “with the silver.” And he trudged doggedly on up the steps to deliver them to the duke’s chamber.
As the house settled into the night, Sarah headed for the roof to assess the state of the fires. Daisy followed her up the stairs and they stood side by side, watching the flickering glow of flames robbed of their menace by distance. Daisy put an arm around Sarah’s shoulders, giving her a squeeze.
“They’ll be all right.”
“I pray so. I’m not sure what I’d do if . . .” Sarah halted, unable to say it.
“I know,” Daisy said. “I feel the same. Ash is the heart of my heart.”
They stood together, praying that there would be no additional flashes of light or blooming spirals of smoke. Heaven only knew what the men were facing out there in the heat and terror of the night.
* * *
Arthur led his contingent into a maelstrom of fire and destruction. Arnett’s place was the first farm set ablaze and the barns and sheds were roaring infernos, beyond help by the time they arrived. They must have fired the house last; it had just started to burn heavily.
He caught sight of a couple of men climbing out of a side window, carrying bags of loot. He shouted above the roar of the flames for Red and the others to look for the Arnetts, and spurred his horse after the two. He ran them down before they reached the horses stashed in the lea of a stone fence. They dodged his horse, but he jumped and landed on one before he could get away. The wretch smacked the ground hard beneath him, but scrambled to his feet as soon as Arthur did and swung the cloth bag he held like a weapon. The other man attacked from behind, knocking Arthur to the ground. Arthur rolled to dislodge the man, and was on his feet in a crouch in seconds. From their movements and clumsy blows, they were not skilled fighters; it was only a
matter of time before they went down.
Then out came a knife. A pitiful four-inch weapon, but in the right hands even a small knife could do damage. Arthur pivoted and went after the unarmed outlaw first, parrying the man’s hard, bony fists while landing quick, sharp punches. He had to move quickly to keep the other man in his sights as well. Then came a perfect opening for his potent uppercut and the first barn burner lay senseless on the ground.
Then he wheeled on the knife fighter and narrowly avoided being cut as the man swung furiously at him. They circled each other and Arthur used his feet, making contact with the second man’s legs, but never hard enough to unbalance him. The arcs of the knife became wider and oddly predictable, betraying the man’s inexperience. Every swing took his arm too far across his body and left him vulnerable for a valuable second or two. Arthur assessed his motion, then caught him with a punch before his backswing gained momentum. The man struggled to regain his balance while stabbing frantically at Arthur.
Seizing the opportunity, Arthur blocked a blow, ducked, and used the power in his legs to explode upward, catching the man’s chin and snapping his head backward. The wretch and his knife went flying in different directions.
He dove at the man and landed on top of him. They wrestled, but after a few well-placed punches, his opponent went slack beneath him. Arthur was pulled up and away from his battered opponent.
“That’s enough, son,” Red declared, panting from having run after him. “He’s done. You got ’im.”
By the time the red drained from Arthur’s vision, the wretches were bound hand and foot. Red told him the Arnetts had fled toward a neighboring farm and were found in a nearby hay field. They had helped Old Bec, Young Bec, and the children to reach Ralston’s place, while Samuel returned with Red to make sure the fire didn’t spread to his harvest-ready fields or nearby stands of cherry and walnut trees.
Sparks from popping timbers and collapsing rafters blew into grass that was dry enough to catch fire. They grabbed blankets, wetted them, and ran to beat out the spreading flames. It was the better part of another hour before the fire had consumed most of the barn and outbuildings and settled into seething coals and red-centered blackened spikes. The men coughed and staggered off to an unburned patch of ground and collapsed.