Through the front window, Rand saw the animal land awkwardly in the busy street. He started for the door, but a carter hit the cat before he was able to reach it.
The half-grown cat stood up and shook itself, but one leg gave way. Rand ignored the shouts of wagon masters, who had to stop or go around him, and scooped up the beast, gently carrying it to the side where he could check it over carefully. The noise, the stench, and his reason for being there all faded away when he concentrated on the animal and its sad eyes. The broken leg appeared to be the extent of its injuries and could be splinted.
“We’ll fix you right and tight,” he soothed, running a finger lightly on the cat’s head between its ears. He stroked that spot until the cat purred and closed its eyes, in spite of the injury.
“My dear, Mr. Wheatly. Take care lest the beast infest you.”
Brinkman peered out the doorway, a patch of white linen hanging from the neck of his shirt and resting on his round belly. Rand examined the kitten cradled in a crook of his arm. Its matted fur confirmed a hard life on the streets. Bald patches testified to an attempt to control fleas. A torn ear attested to a violent confrontation with another angry feline.
“Infest me? Hardly. There’s nothing wrong a bath won’t cure. That and some lavender oil and vinegar.” Rand tucked the animal inside his jacket. “I think our business will have to wait while I take care of this little lady.”
Brinkman frowned and pulled his serviette from his collar. He appeared more disappointed than angry. “Wait a moment while I pay our shot.”
Rand leaned against the building and petted his little companion restlessly. “You’re my first decent acquaintance in this blasted town,” he told it. “I suspect you hate it as much as I do, but you don’t know any better, hmm?” The cat gazed back with tragic eyes.
Brinkman came out with an impatient glare that transformed into an eager businessman’s smile when he saw Rand. He hefted a box tied in twine. “Our sweets,” he said.
“You can eat mine,” Rand replied. “I need to deal with my new friend.”
Brinkman’s smile wavered. “Shall we continue another day?”
“Certainly. But you needn’t accompany me to my hotel,” Rand said, setting out in that direction. He assumed the proprietor would let him wash his newfound friend in the muddy yard he had spied behind the building. At least, he would for a price.
“It’s nothing, Mr. Wheatly,” Brinkman sputtered, trotting along beside him. “It isn’t out of my way. I have a thought.”
“Yes?” Rand glanced down at him without breaking stride.
“Perhaps you could join me for dinner tomorrow. Wandelaer usually joins me on Thursdays. We could go over the terms we discussed then.”
More dinner in the guise of business. I don’t know why Brinkman is dragging his feet, but he is. At least if Wandelaer is there, I may move them to a decision.
“If Wandelaer will be there, I will come,” he said.
Brinkman rocked on his heels in delight. “Excellent, excellent, Mr. Wheatly. My wife puts on an abundant table. She will be pleased to have a guest.” He paused, and Rand saw something—calculation perhaps—flit across his face. “My daughters will, of course, join us. Lovely girls the pair of them.”
Daughters! No wonder he’s keeping me on a string. Daughters. Horse-faced the both of them, no doubt, and lying social climbers. Rand Wheatly had had his fill of scheming females and dishonest dealings long ago, enough to drive him across an ocean, enough to keep him in well-protected solitude. He owed many things to the Earl of Chadbourn, but his life was not one of them. He refused to be trapped by some grasping merchant into a winter in New York and having to side step some ambitious debutantes and their grasping mothers until the spring thaw broke up the river ice, and no power in hell would trap him into marriage. Still, he had given his word to attend. If Wandelaer’s presence didn’t get them to agreement, he decided he would revisit the other offers.
A little house in the Rideau River watershed, the prettiest piece of private paradise in Upper Canada, called to him. This cat and I have to get out of here and be on our way while we still can.
Rand rode doggedly on through driving rain, his mind fixated on his home, his haven of healing and peace. The last ten miles took him along a dirt path hardly worthy of the word road, while the temperature dropped and the rain turned to sleet.
When he passed the village of Gibb’s Mill at noon, he pushed on without stopping. He didn’t need the curiosity of shopkeepers and goodwives. I’ll have to fetch supplies, but not today. His home called to him, and the solitude of the trail suited him better than the city, even in the biting wind. It suited his feline companion, too, safe from the wind in a leather bag slung from his saddle, its nose poking out periodically to peer around.
“Almost there, Cat.” He still had no name for it. He thought about letting that stick, although his sister Catherine, the countess, might not like it. They had a kitten once, long ago. When he tried to name it Cat, she told him, “Nothing so close to ‘Cath’ for any animal, if you please.” He smiled at the memory. Catherine was the family member he missed most.
He had tucked a note for her into the packet he sent to her husband, the earl, at Chadbourn Park with the finished contract and an assessment of their new shipping partners. It had taken him two weeks and some harsh words, but he got what he wanted from Brinkman and Wandelaer. He left on a packet up the Hudson to Albany on the morning they signed, certain his investors in England would be pleased. Now, he wanted only his solitude and his peace, for he had earned it.
He skirted a swampy area and came up over a rise. “Almost there, Cat. If you look to the west, you can see—”
A thin wisp of smoke rose above the trees, swirling high on an updraft. Rand could smell the scent of a wood fire from where he stood, high in the stirrups, frowning at the sight. Try as he might, he couldn’t fight one conclusion.
That fire is coming from my house!
A hated but familiar feeling of violation, born of memories he tried to forget, rose up from his belly and exploded into a surge of rage. He reached down and felt for his Collier pistol, which was safe in its holster against his saddle. He urged his horse forward.
Interlopers will pay, and pay mightily, before I turn them out and set them on their way—if they are still able to walk away.
Chapter 3
Meggy knelt and added wood to the cook stove. Soup simmered on top of the marvelous device. She had seen stoves before and knew how they worked, but after years of cooking over open fires, the opportunity to use one thrilled her. It was one more luxury she could never repay. The simple task of making comfort for her children gave her peace as little else did.
Peace didn’t last. She heard no warning sound before the kitchen door slammed against the wall and a voice spewing anger demanded, “Who the hell do you think you are?”
The Englishman has come back! God help me.
Her heart stuttered as she turned, still on her knees, to see a tall man aiming a pistol at her. Fear, raw and primal, clawed at her, fear for herself in that first second, and then greater fear for her children drove out all other thought.
Will Drew hear? Will he have the sense to get Lena out a window? She held her hands out in front of her as if she could ward the man away. “Please, I—”
“You what, woman? Give me a reason I should not shoot you where you kneel for the trespasser you are.” Rage blazed in the tall man’s gray eyes. His grim mouth pulled his face into sharp planes, the very picture of hell.
I’ll find no mercy here. Dear God, give Drew the sense to run.
“Well?” he demanded, gesturing with the pistol.
“Please. My children.” She rose to her feet slowly, hands still outstretched.
“Liar. I see no children.” His eyes bore into her.
>
“I am not a liar. I’m a mother, and my—”
“Here to wheedle my charity? You’re a fool then. I have none.” He stepped into the room. His eyes darted around, but his aim remained steady. “How much have you taken already?”
“Nothing! That is, we removed nothing. We needed shelter. We ate what we found in your larder, and we used wood and candles. That’s all, I swear.”
“‘We?’ Oh yes, the children. Are you raising a new generation of little thieves?”
“I am not a thief! I’m a mother trying to feed her children.”
He did not appear to be convinced, but Meggy thought his hand on the pistol relaxed and his aim dropped a few inches. She closed her eyes in relief. It was a mistake. An iron grip seized her arm, and she found herself being dragged toward the door to the outside. She stumbled to keep up with the stranger’s long stride. “Get out of my house and off my land before I change my mind about shooting you,” he growled.
“Please,” she begged. “Let me gather my things, and we’ll be gone.” She kept her eyes on the pistol, still held in his other hand but pointed at the floor.
“Ah yes, the children.” His pace didn’t slacken. “I suppose one is a cripple and the other simple. Isn’t that the story you all tell? If they actually exist, I’ll toss them out with you.” He kicked the door open and dragged Meggy over the threshold. “And if I find anything of mine missing, I’ll hunt you down!”
“Please—” The door slammed shut before Meggy could say any more. She shivered in the driving sleet, immobile for a moment before throwing herself at the door and pounding on it. “My children,” she wailed.
“What have you done to my mama?” Drew’s voice through the door shocked her. “Off me, you damned whelp,” the Englishman shouted, adding a string of curse words as bad as any she had heard in the army camps. “Off me, or I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.”
A single gunshot exploded in Meggy’s ears, and she fell to her knees, both hands covering her mouth to stifle her screams.
Rand cursed and struggled to dislodge the hellion wrapped around his leg, crying out when his attacker bit him. He grabbed the boy’s collar with his left hand and held the gun above his head, pulling the thrashing body away from his. One of the boy’s flailing arms caught Rand’s right, and the gun went off just before his assailant screamed and went limp.
Rand let the boy down gently and put the Collier pistol high on an upright chest to prevent further damage. The lad lay on the floor hugging one arm. Rand searched frantically for blood but saw none.
Terrified eyes met his when he stooped to examine his assailant. The shot had missed, but the boy’s pallor and pinched expression told Rand the pain was real. Whatever he has learned from his conniving mother, this pain isn’t an act.
When the little one tried to scoot away, Rand pulled him back, and the boy screamed.
“Easy there,” Rand said in the same tones he might use to reassure an injured animal. In his estimation, the boy probably wasn’t that much different. “Let me see to you.”
He ran his hands down the boy’s body. When he came to the left arm, the boy screamed at the gentlest of touches. Pounding on the door resumed.
“What have you done to my mama?” the boy demanded as Rand pulled up the loose sleeve of his shirt. A splint, neatly tied with white linen, covered the boy’s right forearm.
“Broken?” Rand asked. Someone tied the splint well enough, he thought, but what kind of mother drags a boy with a broken arm into the woods?
The boy nodded, biting his lower lip to manage pain and, unless Rand missed his guess, to keep the moisture in his eyes from spilling over.
“Hurts like the devil,” Rand said. “Have you had willow bark or laudanum for the pain?”
“We don’t have any.” The boy’s grammar and speech surprised Rand. He would have expected a guttersnipe—or the frontier equivalent of that—to say “ain’t got none.”
Perhaps his mother finds cultured grammar more effective in conning marks. For a second, his own harsh judgment shamed him, but not for long. Experience taught him not to trust women. Why should she be any different? She needs to go and take this one with her, pain or no pain.
The pounding continued. “Stop the damned racket,” he shouted. “The whelp is fine.”
“I’m safe, Mama,” the boy added in a trembling voice. “The man hasn’t shot me.”
“Yet,” Rand said under his breath. He ran a hand through his hair, untangling knots in the thick red mess. There should be laudanum in my chest, if she hasn’t already taken it. Maybe I should dose him before I send them on their way.
“Do you have a name?” he asked, as much to distract the kid as any real desire to know. “I’m Drew. My sister is Lena.”
Sister? This just keeps getting worse. The woman didn’t lie about children; she has two of them in tow with winter coming on. She hasn’t the sense God gave a mother sheep, dragging them out here.
He stood up, wrenched the door open, and let the woman stumble inside. Before he could tell her just what he thought about her care for her children, she pushed past and ran to her son.
The boy seemed as disgusted by her dramatic display of affection as Rand was.
“Don’t think this buys you time. I want the pair—or however many—of you out of here now.” Rand crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her. He refused to notice the grace with which the diminutive woman rose to face him or the enticing swell of her curves under the worn dress she wore. He knew them for the bait they were. The boy stood up and slipped under the woman’s arm. He watched Rand with sad eyes.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think those eyes had no expectation of anything. Rand swallowed hard. A child’s eyes should shine with hope and confidence, not dim with discouragement.
“Mama? I’m hot.” The sound dragged Rand’s attention to the stairs. A tiny waif in a patched nightgown held on to the newel post. Even across the room, he could tell she trembled. He was at the child’s side without stopping to think, one hand on her forehead, one arm around her waist.
“This child has a fever,” he roared at the woman. “What kind of a mother are you?”
“One with a sick child,” she spat back, pushing his hands away from the girl. She scooped her up in her arms.
“Oh God,” the woman moaned, “her fever is high again.”
“What exactly have you done about it?” he demanded.
“Cold cloths . . . and I found a warm bed and a roof to put over her head,” the woman said defiantly. “I did what I had to do.” She stared right into his eyes, daring him to remind her she stole those things from him.
Rand glared back. Their eyes held each other for a long moment before his shoulders relaxed. “Then you better get her back up there,” he snapped, “and be quick about it.”
Damn, damn, damn. These people aren’t going anywhere today, but I’ll have them out as soon as I can get that fever down and pack them up—at least as soon as I can do it without feeling like a monster. He kicked the newel post.
Chapter 4
Fear rippled up Meggy’s spine when she heard the man’s feet pounding up the stairs. She tried to tuck covers around her daughter and speak soothing words.
“Just a sip, Lena. Take some water. It will help. There’s a good girl.”
She heard him move in the bigger room across the hall, curse under his breath, and slam a trunk shut.
Meggy knew when he came to the door even without turning around; awareness crept across her skin. Drew came closer, moving his body next to hers and taking Lena’s hand in his good one.
“We will leave as soon as I pack our things. My bag is in the corner.” She gestured with her head toward the empty sack on the floor next to the other bed.
She wait
ed for the brute to inspect it, waited for him to berate her for going through his trunk, waited for him to explode into violence, like Fergus did when crossed.
From the corner of her eye, Meggy watched Drew obey her whispered instructions and approach the other side of the room. He kept as far from the man in the door as possible, picked up his old socks and extra shirt, and stuffed them into the cloth bag.
She wrapped Lena in a blanket and turned to the man. She reached behind her neck and untied the leather thong she wore. A tiny cross of trade silver slipped off the leather into her hand. She spared one long look at the last of her mother’s gifts, stiffened her spine, and held it out to the Englishman.
“I have to add the cost of this blanket to our debt for food and candles. This isn’t much, but perhaps it can be a down payment. I’ll send more when I can.”
“You can’t take that child out in this weather. Night is falling. What kind of a mother are you?” He made no move to take her trinket.
“One without choices.”
The Englishman didn’t reply, nor did he take the cross. He studied her as if she were the village idiot and then went down on his haunches next to Drew. “What is this?” he asked, pointing to something in the boy’s hand.
“I didn’t steal it.” Drew closed his hand over it.
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