by Betina Krahn
“My whole life,” Arnett said when he could speak without coughing. “They just burned my whole life.” The enormity of it hit him and he swayed, looking like he might be sick. Then he spotted the two men who lay bound at the edge of his burning farm—the men responsible for destroying a lifetime’s worth of work. With a cry that came out of the deep wound they had inflicted on him, he bolted up and rushed to vent his pain and fury on them. He got in several savage kicks before Arthur and Red managed to subdue and restrain him. They dragged him away and held him until he was calmer.
One of the Betancourt men approached, carrying two cloth bags, and set them down by Arnett’s feet. “We found the things they took.”
Arnett’s shoulders drooped and he looked like there might be tears in his eyes. He looked inside one of the bags and drew out a silver plate that clearly meant something to him. He clutched it to his chest and when he looked up, Arthur saw the light from the man’s burning house reflected in his eyes. “My ma . . . the last duchess give it to her before she died. For her service.”
No one spoke for a few moments, respecting Arnett’s grief.
“The others?” he asked, looking up. “They got away?”
“What others?” Arthur and Red exchanged looks.
“There was four of ’em. I swear it. An’ the one what give orders to fire my barn and house . . . he was dressed like a fancy gent.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Betancourt House vibrated with tension as the female contingent of Betancourt tried to settle in for the night. The women spoke in quiet tones and tried to distract themselves with talk of stitchery, quilting, and preserving the harvest of their gardens. The children packed into the breakfast room grew restless in their unfamiliar surroundings.
Elizabeth recalled seeing some books in the library that she thought might have stories to divert the older children. Daisy helped her pick out a few books and they gathered half a dozen older children in the library for Elizabeth to read to them. Daisy and Sarah found some colored picture books for the younger ones, and Daisy organized the mothers to hold their young children while she showed them the books and told them Wild West stories for each letter of the alphabet.
For the few children who could not sit still for stories, Sarah found some dominoes and encouraged them to build things on a tabletop. A couple of enterprising older girls located some slates and chalk for other children to draw.
Through it all, riding Sarah’s thoughts were the memories of the mill fire and the dangers Arthur and Red and the others would face in battling both flames and outlaws. She paced and checked again and again with the servants about the placement of the rain barrels in strategic locations around the exterior of the house and the ladders they had stationed near windows to help with evacuation in case the doors were blocked.
The expectation of danger was as exhausting as the danger itself.
She fetched a shawl and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. However, truly fresh air was in short supply. A light wind had carried the smoke from three different fires to Betancourt’s doors. As she stood on the steps, the breeze carried more than noxious smoke, it brought the sounds of anxious and frightened horses. Alarmed, she headed for the stable. Horses had sensitive noses, and apparently closing and latching the stable doors wasn’t enough to keep the smoke from them.
She found the center door standing open and stepped into the center alley. Nellie’s box was empty and so was the chair where Old Harley passed many evenings with a concertina he used to serenade his charges. The smell of smoke was almost worse in the stable than outside. She quickly realized why: The big doors that opened onto the pasture stood wide open. The sound of horses whinnying and thudding against the sides of their stalls echoed down both wings of the stable. Where was Harley? Eddie knew better than to leave these doors open—she had told him they needed to keep them closed and he said he’d already latched them. Why were they open? And where was Eddie?
A bad feeling crept up her spine as she turned toward Fancy’s stall and heard him neighing frantically and pawing the floor. She began to run.
“There you are.” George Graham stood just inside Fancy’s stall, crop in hand, with an icy smile on his face. Behind him, Fancy had backed into the far corner of the stall with his ears back and his eyes wide and anxious. “I wondered how long it would take for you to come and check on your beloved horse.”
“What are you doing here?” Sarah said, instinctively keeping her voice calm and level.
“I thought perhaps I should check on Betancourt’s precious horseflesh. It cannot have escaped your notice that these animals are worth a pretty penny.” His eyes were dark and strangely emotionless. They sent a chill down her spine. “And you may have noticed—there are bad things happening on Betancourt tonight. It would be a shame for your stables to catch fire, trapping these fine animals . . . destroying a significant part of Betancourt’s burgeoning wealth.”
“Where is Eddie?” She looked around, knowing now that his absence was no accident. “What’s happened to him?”
“Oh, he’s around here somewhere,” George said, glancing around with a hint of amusement that made her wonder if he’d been drinking.
“And my dogs . . . where are they?” She only now realized that Nero and Nellie—the puppies—were missing.
“They bark, you know, and we can’t have that tonight. A couple of fellows who came with me are not overly fond of dogs. In fact, they’ve met your big dog before. They’re renewing their acquaintance as we speak.”
“What have you done with him?” Sarah was losing the battle to control her reaction. He had brought men with him and they’d done something with Eddie and Harley—now had Nero and Nellie. God knew what they would do to dogs that had gotten them into trouble before.
“I came to protect you, dear Sarah.” His face warmed a degree or two. “I feel a responsibility to make certain that the vicious band of outlaws plaguing Betancourt doesn’t harm you or the stately heart of my family seat. At least that is my plan.”
“Protecting Betancourt?”
“Of course. That’s been my plan all along . . . becoming the conservator—the guardian, if you will—of Betancourt. But I learned three days ago that my petition to the courts has been rejected. They will not even give my evidence and arguments a hearing since word has spread of the duke’s ‘resurrection.’” He stepped out of the stall to confront her. “Most unfair. What has happened to English jurisprudence, that a gentleman of consequence cannot even get a hearing before a magistrate?”
“You wanted to be appointed conservator of Betancourt?” she said, seeing pieces of the puzzle dropping into place. “Like your father was.”
“Not like my father.” A flicker of anger appeared in his otherwise cool demeanor. “He was greedy and foolish and he paid for it—I paid for it. He drained what he could from Betancourt, but gambled and frittered it away. At the end, he had nothing to show for his years of legal larceny.” He advanced on Sarah with a new light in his eyes.
“I, however, know that the secret to wealth is to create, not destroy. I will be a true guardian to Betancourt. With my care it will flourish and provide wealth for generations yet unborn.”
“Your generations,” she charged, wishing she could take it back as soon as she said it.
He only smiled.
“That goes without saying. With the one duke dead and the other never present, someone had to take over Betancourt. That someone should have been me.” His expression changed so quickly, becoming a slate of anger, that she took an involuntary step backward. “But then you came along . . . barged in to the estate and started changing things, improving things. How was I to make a case for neglect when you were so damnably competent and attentive to Betancourt’s needs?”
“You honestly thought you could take over Betancourt? But you’d never be the duke . . . there were already successors . . . Ashton’s children.”
“Who needs a title, sweetest, when you ho
ld the reins and purse strings? My old father had that part right. He raised a duke who knew nothing and did nothing. And I could have done the same . . . I still can.” He backed her against the opposite stall. “Fires are so capricious in their destructive force. It wouldn’t be the first time a pair of brothers were orphaned at a tender age and given into the hands of an attentive relative.”
“You’re mad.” Her heart pounded with anger spawned by fear. He knew about Daisy’s boys! Those fires were meant to draw Arthur and Ash out into the countryside and into danger—to make their deaths a plausible accident. “You intend to kill Arthur and Ashton?”
He pulled out his watch and smiled at what it said.
“It’s probably already done. The question, my luscious little chatelaine, is whether you are smart enough to join me and become a mother to your two orphaned nephews.”
“They’re not orphans. They have their mother, Daisy.”
“Not for long.”
Dear God, was he so warped and inhuman that he thought that she might join his quest for power over the dead bodies of her family? Never in her life had she felt such revulsion, such gathering hatred toward another human being. She had to do something—had to stop him somehow.
He read the change in her face.
“No? A pity. You’re a tempting slip of muslin.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol. As he cocked it, he leveled it at her face. “We would have made splendid partners.”
“Nah,” came a deep voice from down the alley. “She’s not yer type, yer lordship.”
Sarah went weak with relief at the sight of Steig standing a few yards away, his back against a box stall. His arms were at his sides and his feet were crossed at the ankles.
“You.” George glared at him. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting for you—I have a special job for you tonight.”
“I work here, you know,” Steig said, pulling out the large knife she had returned to him only hours before and using its tip to clean his fingernails. “Have to make it look like I’m the duke’s man.” He gave a dark chuckle. “When I really am . . .”
“Mine,” George claimed, lowering the gun a bit. “Well, here is your next job.” He turned to her with chilling anticipation.
Sarah looked between them, stunned, unable to credit that they knew each other . . . were working together. The treachery of it gripped her throat, denying her a protest. Steig . . . their Steig . . . was working with George?
“Miss Bumgarten won’t be joining us in our new regime,” George continued with elegant malice. “Unfortunately, that means she will have to suffer the same fate as her precious horse.” He threw back the tarp on a wooden case of bottles that had rags stuffed in their necks. A faint odor of kerosene wafted out.
Sarah gasped, realizing what he planned. “No . . . nooooo . . .”
“You’re a cold man, yer lordship,” Steig said, shaking his head.
“A clever man,” George said, grabbing her as she tried to dodge him and run for the door. “No, no, duchess.” He smirked as she twisted in his grip, and when she freed herself unexpectedly, he lashed out with the pistol and struck her viciously.
She staggered and fell back against the stall, holding the side of her head. Her vision swam and she could barely get her breath. She tried to force herself upright, determined not to cower, but sank to her knees instead. A strange dark cloud started to close around her consciousness. She looked at her hand, having the feeling that it belonged to somebody else.
“You should have shown me more respect,” George snarled. “But you liked playing the almighty duchess too much. When that muscle-bound buffoon appeared, you decided he was a better get than a mere baron.”
As George raised his pistol to strike her again, there was an odd whoosh of air above her head. The gun clattered on the concrete floor and a slow-building cry of pain and disbelief welled out of George. She looked up, sensing Steig rushing toward them and saw George holding his bleeding arm and gasping in horror. The big knife lay across the alley on the floor.
“I may not be the duke’s man,” Steig said with disgust, “but I’m sure as hell not yours.” He stooped beside Sarah, who shrank from him until the sense of what he said got through to her. “I’m the duchess’s man.”
“Stupid, double-dealing bastard! You’ll pay for this!” George snarled, cradling his damaged arm and staggering backward toward the stable doors. “You too, you worthless whore! I’ll see you dead this night or die trying.” Then he turned and ran.
Steig pulled her to her feet and looked at her head, growling at what he saw. “Gotta get you someplace safe.” He picked her up in his arms and she was too busy fighting down a wave of nausea to resist.
He carried her out into the night as she sank into darkness.
* * *
George stumbled and cursed and wrapped his arm in his handkerchief, cursing even more when the handkerchief soon was soaked with blood, too. He headed for the row of cottages behind Betancourt’s barns that he had designated as the meeting place for his men. If they had finished their task as human torches, there would be twelve of them . . . an unholy discipleship of destruction that George had shaped into a force ready to execute his orders without question. The night called for men with no morals or misgivings to trouble their consciences.
He spotted the group of men in shirtsleeves well before he reached the cottages. He halted, scowling, and thrust his wounded arm behind him. There could be no sign of weakness in the leader of this pack of wild dogs.
He planted himself in the middle of the path and knew they saw him. That brute, Shackleton, was in front, stalking hard and fast, his fists clenched around a massive cudgel. They approached in a phalanx bristling with weapons, and they showed no sign of stopping. What the bloody hell was going on?
“Where the hell is the kerosene?” he demanded with a ferocity that had always brought them to heel. But they came on.
“Don’ know, don’ care,” Shackleton said, slowing only slightly as he passed. The others separated to flow around George and then closed ranks again as soon as they were past. Furious at the slight to his leadership, he charged after them and grabbed Shackleton by the back of the shirt, dragging the man to a halt.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled. “We have to have that kerosene. Barns and stables won’t burn without it, you idiot.”
Shackleton’s soulless gaze settled on his bloody arm and he could see pleasure dawning in the man’s bloated face. “There’ll be time for burnin’ after we’re done.”
“Done with what?” The pain in his arm fueled his fury. “You there—Gil, Mace—go to the stable and get the crate I left there.” They looked to Shackleton and then back at him, but didn’t move. “Are you deaf ?” He smacked Mace across the mouth so hard that his hand went numb.
“We got us a new plan,” Shackleton said with chilling malice. “We’re gonna get paid.” He pointed with his cudgel at the great house. “An’ that’s our paymaster’s strongbox.”
Their intention was suddenly clear. They intended to breach the house and loot it. The animals were going to despoil his future home!
“Imbeciles. You have to stick to the plan—you set the fires and when they go running to deal with the fires, I go in and grab the brats. That’s all I want—those boys. The rest—the horses, the women—they’re yours. Take them, kill them—I don’t care. But you will not loot my house.”
“Your house?” Shackleton gave a nasty laugh. “We’ll do what we damned well want. And what we want is everything in that fancy house.” Shackleton gave him a shove that nearly sent him sprawling in the dirt. He caught himself and drew himself up squarely.
“How dare you?” If he’d had his gun, the brute would be dead.
“We dare because we’ve got these.” Shackleton brandished his club and the others roared agreement and raised their weapons.
George rushed through them to the front doors of Betancourt, desperate to
keep them from stealing him blind. He planted his back against the doors, but they shoved him aside as if he were nothing. That wretched Mace gave him a shove that sent him flying down the front steps. He found himself on his butt in the gravel, dizzy, with his heart pounding strangely. As he struggled to his feet he realized his fine coat and trousers were both red with blood. The fools would ruin everything he had worked for. There was still time—but he would have to do it himself. Damn Steig for turning on him! He staggered back toward the stable once more, just as the women began to scream.
* * *
Arthur was never so glad to see his brother as when they met at Elias Ender’s burning farm. Ashton’s contingent had arrived before him, and after half an hour of fighting to contain the blaze, were sweaty and tired and spoiling for a fight. But, as they soon learned, there was no one to battle. The bastards had ransacked Ender’s modest house, set the place ablaze, and absconded before they arrived.
“You didn’t catch anyone?” Arthur asked, wiping sweat and soot from his brow.
Ash shook his head. “At Wrenn’s place they were gone by the time we got there. The same here.” He growled. “I just want to get my hands on one of them.”
“We caught two stragglers at Arnett’s farm, but they don’t seem to know much. New hires, apparently.” Arthur looked around and spotted the aging Elias holding his sobbing wife, Emma. “Why would they bother with this? They can’t have gotten much of value. It was just . . . a . . .”
“Distraction,” Reynard declared, meeting Arthur’s eyes.
“Damn it.” Arthur turned away grinding his teeth. “A second time!” As he turned back, his stomach knotted and he could see Ash, Red, and Reynard reaching the same conclusion: George’s goal was Betancourt itself.
He selected a couple of local men to stay with Elias and Emma, then ordered everyone else to mount up. Soon they were riding hellbent for Betancourt House.