“Is my mother with you?”
“Sometimes. The spirit world is clouded. She’s forgiven me and we’re happy.”
“Why didn’t you show up before now? I can see spirits, you know,” Clark hissed.
“You were doing well. Now I think it’s time for you to get back those inventions.”
Clark blinked. “Huh? How?” Could this man really be his father?
Did it matter so long as he took weapons from Horan?
“I’ll tell you where they are and how to work them. You’ll do it?”
Garth Treasure had taken him in out of loyalty to Eric Grisham. No wonder Georgette wasn’t upset about her husband’s infidelity—he had been faithful to her.
Amethyst wasn’t his sister. He didn’t need to feel guilty for finding her attractive.
The Treasures had welcomed him, made him a part of their family even though his bastard status besmirched their name. He should punish Horan for them and avenge his father, help heal his mother, who’d suffered from Eric’s death. “I will.”
he door to Clark’s bedroom opened in a smooth whoosh. He stiffened beneath the blankets. Night remained in the room, but from the corner of his eye he spotted a figure slip inside. A skirt swept her legs. Amethyst?
He slid his hand beneath his pillow to grip the knife he’d left there.
Heels clicked the floor in quick steps before the figure paused at his nightstand. Amethyst always skipped.
He whipped around, kicking the blankets off, and seized the figure’s arm. He twisted the intruder around and pressed the knife against her throat. “Explain yourself.”
She screamed. “Saints protect me! Master Clark, I beg your pardon.”
Desiree, the young Bromi slave who helped Georgette and Amethyst with their wardrobes. She had enough to worry about without him attacking her. Her throat moved beneath her black velvet choker as she gulped.
He stepped back, wishing he’d stayed in bed rather than leap up in his cotton long johns. “I beg your pardon,” he said in Bromi. “I didn’t recognize you.”
She coughed, fidgeting with her white apron. “Miss Amethyst wanted me to bring you cologne as a surprise.”
He accepted the glass vial she handed him as she went to his window to fling back the curtains. The bottle had a green tint, with a styled stopper. He set down his knife to pull out the stopper, sniffing sandalwood.
“She brought it with her from New Addison City,” Desiree added. “Said she meant to give it to Zachariah, but thought you deserved it more. It was supposed to be a surprise for when you woke up.”
He’d never worn cologne—it cost too much. At least sandalwood was a gentle odor. “Tell her thank you.”
Desiree nodded before backing from the room.
“Amethyst is nice.” Eric shimmered into existence in front of the door Desiree had shut. “She reminds me of her mother. Strong. Kind.”
“You’re not going to follow me into the washroom?” Clark set the bottle on his bedside table. She must’ve gotten up early to give it to Desiree for him.
“Today we start taking back my inventions.”
Clark opened his wardrobe doors. The clothes Georgette had ordered for him would arrive soon. Would he feel uncomfortable wearing them? “What are the first?”
“I invented helmets that would let you talk to each other. Riders could communicate.”
Clark pulled a black and red plaid shirt from the wardrobe. That actually sounded interesting. “Where is it?”
“Horan’s brother keeps them at his ranch.”
Clark forked the last bite of sausage off his plate into his mouth. It would seem impolite to leave during the meal, but once he finished, he could skedaddle.
“You shouldn’t eat that.” Amethyst’s voice cut to him from across the table.
He looked up mid-chew, remembered to close his mouth, and gulped a hunk of the sausage flavored with hot peppers.
She sipped her apple juice and lifted her waxed eyebrows. “A poor little animal died for that, you realize.”
Garth, sitting at the head of the table, ceased his conversation with Jeremiah beside him. Across from Jeremiah, Zachariah set down his newspaper. Georgette, seated at the other head of the table, rested her spoon against her bowl of oatmeal.
“Amethyst,” she said. “Please refrain from improper dinner conversation.”
“This isn’t dinner. It’s breakfast.” Amethyst smirked over her drink. “Besides, Clark won’t know if he doesn’t learn.”
Clark wiped his mouth on his linen napkin in case food stuck to his lips. “Won’t know what?” The morning meal had been progressing smoothly. Of course she would have to set everyone on edge—but it made the day come to life. She was always so…unexpected.
“That an innocent creature died in the making of that disgusting sausage.” She wrinkled her nose. “You people are vulgar. You think you’re wonderful as you eat your pets.”
Jeremiah snorted. “We have to eat meat. Why else do we raise pigs?”
She tossed a curl over her shoulder. Her crimson bodice hung low in the front, causing the swells of her bosom to bounce. She wasn’t his sister. Clark imagined kissing the pale swells to sense their softness. That stray curl tumbled back over her bare shoulder. “People in New Addison City have pigs as pets.”
“People in the city don’t have to work,” Jeremiah snarled. “I need the energy.”
Clark ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth. He’d often wondered the same thing: what gave a human the right to eat an animal? Animals had feelings, families. He’d never be able to surrender to her morals, though, when all that stood between him and starvation was a hunk of beef jerky.
“I can never reason with you.” Amethyst rolled her eyes.
“You don’t know what ranch life is like,” Jeremiah hissed.
“Clark.” Georgette lifted her voice. “You seem to be in a hurry this morning.”
He folded his napkin beside his plate. “I was hoping to explore the countryside.” Namely, the Horan Ranch. “If I’m going to live here, I need to know everything I can.” That shouldn’t sound too much as if he overstepped his boundaries. They had offered him their home. “When I return, I’ll help anyway I can,” he added to Garth.
Garth lifted his hand. “Please. Take your time. It is important you know the landscape better.”
Superb, a word he’d learned in one of the seamstress’s novels back when he’d read them aloud to Mable. “If I may be excused?” Clark nodded to his empty plate. If he could, he would’ve licked it. His stomach hadn’t felt that full since the holidays back in Tangled Wire.
“By all means.” Garth extended his hand toward the window. “It looks like a wonderful day for exploring.”
With the sun bright and the sky cloudless, it would be wonderful for exacting revenge.
His hands in the pockets of his new denim slacks, Clark hastened his steps through the Treasure apple orchard. On the other side, lay the Horan Ranch. Sunlight baked through his clothes. The leather satchels he’d brought bounced against his legs. Huge, empty satchels didn’t appear suspicious. He snorted.
His father, Eric Clark Grisham the Third, floated beside him. “Stay in the orchard. It won’t look suspicious. You’ll be overlooking your new inheritance.”
“I’m not stupid. I know how to look inconspicuous.” Brass glass, he smirked. Blast it all. Clark tried to rub the smirk away, but it clung to his lips. For his entire life, he’d wanted a father to give him advice. Sure, Garth had been his father for a short while, but Garth had been calmer, serene. Garth knew he wasn’t Clark’s blood relation, so he oversaw rather than guided. This Eric Grisham guided.
“This must be done with precision.” Eric flapped his pallid hands. “Study the trees while looking at the ranch. There shouldn’t be too many people near the orchard.”
A man actually wanted to teach him. A folly on it all. Clark grinned broader.
Soil crunched beneath his thick boots
. Weeds had been plucked from around the apple trees, spaced to avoid the branches from mingling too close together. Workers in denim slacks cuffed to the knees and white blouses with the sleeves rolled to the elbows strolled a few rows down inspecting the trees. They placed mechanical beetles the size of fingernails on the leaves that had been nibbled by real bugs. The machines would kill the bugs to keep the trees healthy.
He’d helped in a harvest once, a year ago, up north. The harvesters played a high-pitched note on a special flute that called the beetles back into leather satchels. The harvesters then plucked off the fruit to place into baskets. Despite the heat and aches in his back, Clark had loved seeing the fresh fruit, feeling the supple flesh.
“You’ll be fetching my helmets,” Eric said.
“Sure thing.” Clark glanced at him. Had Eric mentioned more while his thoughts wandered?
“This is important,” Eric snapped. He must’ve repeated himself a few times. Clark shrugged to make it seem as if he didn’t care. Shoot, his father deserved more respect. Eric hadn’t chosen to abandon them. Sure, he could’ve shown up in his ghostly form, but he hadn’t picked death.
“What does Horan plan to do with the helmets?” Clark asked. “Talking to each other while you ride doesn’t seem that dire.”
“It does when you’re planning heists. A plan crumbles when you can’t communicate freely.” Eric floated close. “Wouldn’t you rather own the helmets?”
A new cycle helmet would be helpful. His had a crack in the back from when he’d been thrown in a chase. If it weren’t for his mates, the army might’ve caught him.
“They should be yours by right of inheritance,” Eric whispered, as if he could be overheard.
Clark licked his lips, wishing he’d brought along a canteen. “You tell me where they are and I’ll get them.”
Eric grinned. The dimples in his cheeks made breath catch in Clark’s throat. He had those same dimples.
The orchard ended with a wooden fence. Below the sloping hill lay a pasture with grazing horses and a four-story brick mansion. Beyond that stretched fields and fences.
“Horan Ranch?” Clark guessed. The building itself reminded him of the Treasure home, but Georgette kept flowers along the pathway and the garden in the back. This mansion’s yard had only a colored patch, probably of herbs.
“See that brick shed out by the barn?”
Clark squinted until he located the outbuilding. “Gotcha.”
“Horan keeps the helmets in there with his other riding gear.”
“Locked?”
“Do you know how to pick locks?” Eric countered.
Clark didn’t blink. “Of course.”
Eric grinned. “Me too. I love obscure hobbies.”
Loved. Clark winced. If Eric still lived, they would’ve had a different relationship than what Garth shared with his sons. They wouldn’t carry on casual conversation at the eating table. They would do things.
“Since its morning, most of the hands will be working around. Tell anyone who sees you that you’re hired to fix Horan’s cycles. You can tinker, can’t you, if anyone looks on?”
“I can keep ‘em running.”
“I’ve built cycles, so I’ll walk you through any difficult steps.”
“Awesome.” Clark glanced over his shoulder, but the harvesters with the beetles strolled onward. He grasped the top of the fence and swung his legs over. The unkempt grasses reached his shins and the horses glanced his way. A dappled gray whinnied. They would be used to people and he knew how to handle livestock.
“You sure no one will look this way?” Clark kept his voice low. “I can come back on my cycle with some tools. Make it look more realistic.”
“If you show up on a cycle, it’ll draw too much attention,” Eric said. “This way, you have a chance of slipping in and out without anyone seeing you.”
A brown mare nickered. Sometimes spirits upset animals.
“They better not shoot me.” Clark scanned the ranch as he lumbered through the weeds, avoiding pockets of manure. As long as he didn’t hurry, he wouldn’t look too out of place.
Clark hopped the fence and rested his hands on his sacks, one hanging off each shoulder, as if they weren’t empty. The four helmets Eric claimed existed better fit inside them. Eric had promised they would be sufficient.
Clark kept his eyes forward and whistled his mother’s favorite saloon song as he headed toward the shed. A woman in a green dress weeded the patch of herb garden without looking up, and a stable hand walked a calf across the yard by a rope. The other workers would be in the main fields or herding the cattle to a new grazing patch. Far away. Hopefully.
The man with the calf glanced his way and Clark nodded, smiling. He widened his eyes to appear innocent. The man nodded back without pausing.
Clark reached the brick shed and dropped his bags as if they were heavy. He studied the area, but the woman weeding appeared to be the only one. Clark tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. He ran his finger over the lock; he would have to pick it. Still whistling, Clark peered over his shoulder as he slipped the lock picking kit from his jacket pocket.
The weeding woman stood at the fence staring at him, wiping her hands on her apron. Brown streaks smeared the white linen.
“Can I help ya?” she called in a thick, Bromi accent.
Clark waved with his free hand and caught himself before he answered in Bromi. “Just fixin’ the cycles, ma’am!”
She shook her head. “Door’s locked. I’ll go get Pete.”
lark parted his lips to look dopey. People considered a dopey person innocent. Inside, his heart beat faster. Brass glass, he didn’t need help. He couldn’t tell the Bromi woman he could get into the shed, though. It would take him a few minutes to pick the lock.
“I’ll just be a moment.” She scurried into the house through the backdoor, still wiping her hands on her apron.
Clark leaned against the door and folded his arms to look bored. This couldn’t take too long. The more he lingered, the more his chances of being caught by Horan, or another authority figure, increased. Who was Pete, anyway? An important man, if he had keys. Clark steeled his face against scowling. Pete better not know the cycles weren’t being fixed. If he were the overseer, he should know what happened on his ranch.
Clark scanned the yard of well-packed dirt. Chickens clucked around the nearby barn. Cows mooed in the field behind the shed, grazing on weeds. The back door of the mansion opened. A Bromi man in denim overalls and a plaid shirt exited, the Bromi woman behind him. Good. A Bromi might not report the cycle fixing. Most Bromis Clark knew hated being slaves. It kept a level of disloyalty in regards to their masters. They loathed being taken from their lands, forced to work without pay, husbands and wives sold to other ranches, all Bromis in captivity forced to wear a cravat around their necks to hide their tattoo branding them for their tribe.
“Need to get inside?” The Bromi man pulled a wide-brimmed straw hat over his balding forehead.
“Gotta fix the cycles. Ain’t runnin’ too smooth.” A common complaint among cycle owners. Making the engine purr had been the first thing Clark learned. People didn’t notice you as much if the engine didn’t roar like a puma in attack.
“You from the cycle shop in town?” The Bromi removed a silver key ring from his pocket and fit a long key into the lock on the door. No accent, so he would’ve been captured as a child, or born to a slave mother.
“Yeah.” Clark shrugged. “New. Hope I can make a living this way.”
“Sure, sure.” The Bromi turned the key and pushed the door open. “Need anything?”
Clark patted his saddle bags as if they were full. “Got it all right here.” Spotting the darkness inside, he whistled. It wouldn’t impede his mission—Eric would tell him what to steal—but it wouldn’t do for the ruse. “Could you get me a light? Looks mighty dark in here.”
“Light’s in the ceiling.” The Bromi pulled a step ladder away from the wall and stood
in the center of the shed to fiddle with a hanging lamp. A flame sparked to life. “That enough?”
“That’ll do. I’ll let you know if I need more.” That should sound realistic. If he were too polite to a Bromi, it would cause questions.
Wooden shelves of tools and cycle accessories lined the walls with four cycles in the center of the dirt floor. Gold buffalo adorned the sides of the cycles.
“These are Master Horan’s own,” the Bromi said. “The cycles for the workers be in the barn. Ya want his private ones, right?”
“The ones he wants in tiptop shape.” Clark grinned. Of course Horan would own four for himself. Did Garth keep as many wasted goods sitting around rotting?
“Since you ain’t been here before, the gold buffalo be his crest. He strong and big, like buffalo. Buffalo he hunts.” The Bromi snorted. Clark turned his head aside to hide his smile. The wealthy idolized the buffalo that roamed across the fields and plains of the west, but they also killed them in massive hunting sprees, as if there would be an endless supply. The Bromis had once lived off following buffalo trails. Of course the man would be snippy.
“I’ll let you know when I’m done so you can lock up,” Clark said. Horan better not punish the Bromi slave. If the heist succeeded, Horan wouldn’t notice the missing helmets until it was too late to remember the Bromi who’d unlocked the door. According to Eric, Horan only rode the cycles when he went on hunting sprees or to threaten his neighbors.
The Bromi man nodded before heading back to the house. Since the woman still pruned the herb garden, Clark shut the door behind him. Eric appeared above the cycles.
“You know your way around a situation,” the ghost said.
Clark averted his gaze from the black, empty eyes. “I’ve survived this long.”
If he sought deep enough, he could blame Eric for not marrying his mother sooner. They might all be a family. Those thoughts wouldn’t be fair, though.
“Where are they?” He coughed in the musty air. The flame in the gas lamp flickered.
“Top shelf in the back.” Did Clark sense regret in Eric’s words?
Treasure, Darkly (Treasure Chronicles Book 1) Page 10