His Sword

by Holly Hart

  They both open their mouths, obviously ready to fight, but I cut them off. I hear Marco sigh in the corner. No action for him.

  “Now you know that was the wrong assumption,” I say. “My country is, indeed, a bank. However, I only gamble with my personal fortune, and I can be a real bastard. I hope you take this as a lesson to trust your instincts next time, and to not be fooled by appearances. Otherwise, the people in Monte Carlo will eat you alive.”

  With that, I toss a pair of $100,000 plates towards them, and a $10,000 chip to Karel. The Aussies stare at me blankly, mouths open.

  “Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” I say, standing and buttoning my tux jacket. “Karel, please have my winnings added to my account.”

  Emilio joins me and we head out of the VIP room into the main area, Marco following at a discreet distance. I imagine the combined wealth of the people in this building at the moment would be equal to the gross domestic product of a dozen emerging nations.

  “Feel better?” Emilio asks, plucking a pair of champagne flutes off a passing tray.

  I know him well enough to recognize the rebuke hidden inside the question. Luckily for me, Emilio is one of the few people I can actually be myself around.

  “Kindly kiss my hairy ass,” I say. “I needed a distraction.”

  Emilio raises an eyebrow. “A distraction from what? You still haven’t told me why we’re here. All you said on the plane was you needed to get away.”

  Should I tell him? I’ve avoided it so far because it almost feels like, if I were to tell him, it would somehow make it real. As long as I keep it to myself, I can pretend it’s just some crazy nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

  Stop it. That’s not how a prince is supposed to think.

  Besides, Emilio is an intelligent man. He’s been to Oxford. He actually did a few peacekeeping tours during our time in the military, while I spent most of my time flying helicopters over nude beaches in Cyprus.

  Maybe he has an idea. Any idea.

  “Fine,” I say, leaning in close so as not to be overheard. “I need a distraction from the fact that I could very well lose the monarchy if I don’t marry a virgin in the next two weeks.”

  I drain my champagne in a single gulp. It’s bland on my tongue. Everything in here is bland tonight. The women all seem plain and uninteresting. I’m sure it’s because of my mood.

  One woman didn’t seem plain today, a voice in my mind whispers. She got your attention like no woman has in a very long time.

  Amanda. Those pale blue eyes…

  “Very funny,” says Emilio, snapping me back into the moment “I expect better jokes from you, Dante. Now really, what’s the problem?”

  “I just told you,” I scowl. “What part didn’t you understand?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  I tell him what Carlo told me. His eyes grow wider with each passing moment.

  “That’s… astounding,” he says when I finish.

  “That’s one way to put it. I prefer the term ‘royally fucked up.’”

  He snorts a laugh, then suddenly remembers the gravity of the situation.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Couldn’t help it. That was actually funny.”

  “Yes, my life is an absolute riot.”

  We stand there in silence for several moments, taking in the room. For a moment my pulse quickens as I see a mane of red hair on a woman in a blue dress, who’s standing over a roulette table. Could it be…?

  Then she turns and I can see she’s got a deep suntan, and that the hair color isn’t natural.

  It’s not Amanda.

  Don’t be stupid, Dante – how would she have gotten here?

  “She could be a nun,” Emilio says.

  “What?” I turn to look at him. He’s gripping his chin, deep in thought.

  “Find a nun, sweep her off her feet and marry her,” he says. “Simple. Italy is rife with convents, how hard could it be?”

  I glare at him until he starts to shrink under my gaze.

  “What?” he snaps. “It’s a good idea!”

  “Oh yes, brilliant,” I say. “Hello, Sister, I’m the local neighborhood prince. Would you mind divorcing the big guy and marrying me? I need to defile you so I can keep my family fortune.”

  He frowns. “I don’t see you coming up with any better options.”

  “Use your brain,” I say. “How would it look if I showed up at my birthday-cum-wedding with a nun on my arm? ‘Surprise, this is the woman I chose to be my royal bride, your new princess! Yes, I’ve recently decided to repent after my many years of wantonly bedding supermodels, and settle down with this little lady. Nothing suspicious to see here!’”

  “It wouldn’t have to be that way. You could pull it off, I’m sure.”

  “You know the Crown Council and National Council have the power to essentially end the monarchy. A stunt like that would be more than enough to trigger the chancellor to hold a referendum and boot me – and by extension you – out of the palace for good.”

  “You really think the people would vote you out?”

  “I’m not exactly in their good books as it is,” I sigh. “My reputation precedes me.”

  Emilio puts a hand on my shoulder. “We both know that’s not the real you. Well, not completely the real you, anyway.”

  I’m tired of thinking about this. I recognize a nearby server and signal her with a raised hand. She nods, meaning she’ll bring me my usual – a bottle of their finest Russian vodka and a sliced lime.

  “Are we actually going to drink it this time?” Emilio asks.

  He’s referring to my habit of ordering drinks and then leaving them sitting in various places around the party – behind potted plants, on leftover trays – so that it looks like I’m putting them away like a frat boy. It’s a trick I stole from Frank Sinatra.

  “Yes,” I say. “I don’t want to think about anything else for the rest of this night.”

  I turn to Marco. “I’ve finally got something interesting for you to do.”

  He snaps to attention. “Sir.”

  “Keep an eye on me and make sure I get back to my room tonight. Until then, I plan to get spectacularly drunk and make an ass of myself. Make sure nobody kills me during the process.”

  He fetches a heavy sigh.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Six

  6. AMANDA

  “You have to hit the little camera thing.”

  “The what?”

  I sigh. “It’s at the bottom. It looks like a movie camera, it should have a red stripe through it.”

  A pause. “Okay, yup.”

  “Click on it.”

  An instant later and I’m staring through my dad’s mustache at his nostrils.

  “Dad, you have to hold the screen up to your face! I’m looking up your nose!”

  “Oops, shit,” I hear him grumble. The room behind him – he’s in the kitchen of our old farmhouse – tilts and spins as he adjusts his iPad. Finally, we’re face to virtual face.

  “There’s my pumpkin!” he beams as we look into each other’s eyes for the first time in months. As always, he’s three days past needing a shave, his push-broom mustache is probably a full inch over the top of his mouth, and his iron-grey hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat from the brim of his Stetson.

  As far as I’m concerned, he’s the handsomest man in the world. Sam Elliot, except bigger and stronger.

  “So,” he says. “You look great, sweetie. You’re pretty pale, though. You need to get outta that vault more. See some sights!”

  I grin. Some things never change, thank God.

  “I’ll have you know that I haven’t been in that vault for over two weeks,” I say.

  “That’s right!” he says with a snap of his sausage fingers. “Your email said you got a job. What’re you doin’? You said you wanted to tell me in person, well here I am. Sorta.”

  I’m so excited I might bust. Dad has spent a lot – I mean a lot –
of money on my education, and this is the first real job I’ve had in my field. I’ve decided to take Maria’s advice and feel proud of myself for a change, instead of letting him do all of it for me.

  “Well,” I say with a grin. “You’re looking at the official planner for the 30th birthday celebration of – wait for it – Prince Dante of Morova!”

  His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open.

  “You’re kidding!” he gasps. “Well, that’s fan-friggin-tastic, pumpkin!”

  I allow him to stare at me like that for a full five seconds before letting him off the hook.

  “Morova is a principality on the shores of Lake Orta, Dad. It’s near Malta, where the vault is.”

  “I knew that,” he says. “Lake Orta. Sure. And for Prince Dante, y’say?”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I chuckle. “I know you’ve never heard of him.”

  “What d’ya mean? I know about him! He’s at the checkout at the Bi-Rite in Shelby all the time.”

  The prince of Morova is at the – ? Oh, I get it.

  “In the tabloids, you mean.”

  “Yeah. He’s quite the playboy, by the looks of things.”

  Maybe not, according to Maria. But now that I officially work for the royal family, I guess I’d best be keeping their secrets. And what I wouldn’t give to have some secrets to keep with Dante.

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “He’s always flying around chasing supermodels, just like you’d expect. He’s in Monte Carlo right now.”

  “I used to have a ’72 Monte Carlo,” he says wistfully. “Had to sell it to buy the hay baler, though. That was back ’fore you were born.”

  Dad gave up a lot for our family, and I know it’s been a hard go for him. My education wasn’t the only expense he had; Mom had cancer on and off for seven years before she finally passed away when I was in middle school. That was a big part of my growing up: taking care of the place while Dad took her to the hospital in Great Falls for radiation and chemo.

  He’s never talked about how much that cost the family, and I’ve never asked.

  It just makes me that much more excited to tell him about the money. But first a tour.

  “Hey,” I say. “You’ll never believe where I am right now.”

  “I’m guessin’ somewhere in, whatchacallit, Morova?”

  I hop off the bed and carry my tablet over to the window of my apartment. It’s not as swanky as Maria’s, but it’s still huge and loaded with priceless antiques. I stand with my back to the window and sweep the room with my screen: the granite walls, the tapestries, the eight-foot paintings of people in fancy getups. If nothing else, I’m sure Dad will appreciate the polished walnut wardrobe and dresser.

  “So this is my apartment,” I say, pretending to yawn. “No big deal, you know.”

  “Ho-lee sheep shit!” blares from the tablet’s speaker.

  “I know!” I squeal. “I’m living in the royal palace until the party!”

  I have no idea where I’ll end up after that, but for now, let’s focus on the fun stuff.

  “There’s a little something else,” I say, turning to face the window and the incredible view of Lake Orta beyond it. “That’s what I get to look at all day.”

  Dad lets out a low whistle.

  “Man, would I love to get my old two-stroke boat out on that baby,” he says. “I bet there’s some damn good fishin’ in there. Bass, maybe.”

  God, it’s so good to hear his voice again. I didn’t realize just how much I missed him until right now. It’s always been too easy to lose touch with him when my head is stuck in a book. Suddenly weeks go by and I haven’t talked to him, then when I do, I get all emotional. Like now.

  “So anyways, Dad, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  “More good news? ‘Cause I don’t know if I can handle it. I’m gettin’ pretty fat, and my ticker’s not what it used to be.”

  I cluck my tongue and shake my head. “You’re not fat, Dad. Now quit fishing for compliments and listen to the rest of my story.”

  “Yes’m,” he says, grinning wide. “Sorry.”

  “Okay, so anyway – ”

  “One last thing.”

  “What?” Grrrr.

  “I’m just so damn proud of you, sweetheart,” he says. “I always knew you were gonna make it big some day, get out of this two-bit life and live with the classy people. And there y’are now, rubbin’ elbows with royalty.” I see pixelated tears shimmer in his eyes on the screen. “Your mom’s smilin’ down on you from heaven right now, that’s a fact.”

  Great. Now here come my own tears. Dad always says he regrets how much he didn’t say to Mom before she passed. He’s been making up for it with me ever since.

  “Thank you, Daddy.” I smile and bow my head. “That means a lot to me. Now stop interrupting!”

  He sucks his lips into his mouth with a comical salute, prompting a giggle from me. I sometimes think he missed his calling by taking over the family ranch – he could have been an actor.

  “That’s better,” I say. “All right, so the best part about this whole royal birthday gig is the pay. Guess how much?”

  He shrugs. “How’m I supposed to know what royals pay for stuff?”

  “Seventy-five thousand dollars to plan a party!” I squeal. I’ve been wanting to tell him this for so long now!

  His eyes go round – well, as round as they can get, anyway. They’re pretty squinty, like Clint Eastwood’s.

  “You’re shittin’ your old man,” he breathes. “You could buy a house in Shelby for that kinda money!”

  “I shit you not.”

  “Well if that just don’t beat all. Honey, that’s incredible. What’re you gonna do with it?”

  I love him so much for not suggesting I come back home. Sure, the line about a house in Shelby was a not-so-subtle hint, but he’d never say it in so many words because, deep down, he knows my path doesn’t lead back to Montana.

  “Well,” I say with a grin. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll give it all to you.”

  His mouth literally drops open, the exact reaction I was hoping for. He’s done so much for me, and I’ve wanted to help him for so long. Now I finally can.

  It lasts all of two seconds, then suddenly his brows knit and he’s shaking his head.

  “The hell you will,” he says. “I won’t take it.”

  I expected this, so I’m prepared. At least I got the initial surprise that I was looking for.

  “Hear me out, Dad. I know how much my education cost you, and I know you’re upside-down on the cattle right now. I haven’t been home in awhile, but I’ve kept up on the drought and how it’s driving the cost of feed through the roof. And your profit margin is razor-thin at the best of times.”

  “Honey –”

  “Let me finish. You always taught me that a person should pay their debts in any way they can. You’ve paid bills with beef more times than I can count. You also taught me that if you can help someone, you should help them. How many of our neighbors have fences because you were out there with them all day in the hot sun, pounding in posts? How many times have you driven to one of their places in the middle of a snowstorm to help them when a cow is having a rough birth?”

  “That’s not –”

  “Shush,” I say with a raised finger. “The money is yours, and that’s that.”

  I give him a look of mock triumph. I won!

  Then I see those wide shoulders droop for the first time ever. He lets out the deepest sigh I’ve ever heard from him. The look on his face – I’ve never seen it before. It’s like he’s been deflated.

  A sudden cramp of fear rises in my belly.

  “You keep that money,” he says quietly. “It’s not gonna do me any good.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “I was so excited to be finally able to help with the bills…”

  “Pumpkin, my bills are beyond even with that kinda money.”

  “But why? What’s wrong?”

  He clears t
he emotions from his throat, but he won’t look me in the eye on the screen.

  “It’s been comin’ for years now,” he says. “Your mom’s medical bills ate up all the equity we had in the land long ago, sweetie. The bank’s owned it since you were a girl. And with the shit-kickin’ the beef market has been takin’ the last ten years, then the drought, well… I figure I’ve got maybe six months before the bank takes everything for auction.”

  My eyes go dry as I stare at the screen, forgetting to blink.

  “I – I don’t understand,” I stammer. “How did you pay for school, then?”

  Dad surprises me by smiling.

  “That was your mom’s life insurance money,” he says. “We agreed before she passed that it was goin’ to your education, not the bank. That you weren’t gonna end up havin’ a ranch work you to death. Best investment we ever made.”

  My heart feels like a wrung-out rag. I knew things were bad, but I never would have guessed that Dad was on the verge of losing the ranch. Suddenly my big surprise seems like a kid offering his Tonka truck to help pull the tractor out of the ditch.

  “I don’t know what to say, Dad.” Tears are flowing freely now. “What are you going to do?”

  He sees my tears and reacts to them the way he always has in the past: he turns into John Wayne, ready to saddle up and take care of the bad guys.

  “Don’t you waste one second worryin’ about me,” he says. “I’ll be just fine. There’s worse things can happen to a man than goin’ bankrupt. There ain’t a rancher for a hundred miles around that wouldn’t hire me in a second. The name Ike Sparks still means somethin’ in Montana.”

  I snuffle back a tear.

  “It still means something in Morova, too,” I whisper. “It means everything.”

  Chapter Seven

  7. DANTE

  Sometimes I want to kick myself.

  Yesterday, I had a problem. Today, after getting colossally drunk last night, I still have the same problem. The only difference is now I get to deal with it and a hangover at the same time.

  And ultimately, all I accomplished was not being home to tuck in the twins.

  I’ve got some serious thinking to do, so I managed to ditch Marco and come down here to the south garden. It’s a labyrinth courtyard of shrubs, trees, flowers, fountains and enough statues to populate a small village.