A Season Beyond a Kiss

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Raelynn searched her mind. “Perhaps, as you say, Cooper Frye discovered the compartment during the voyage and took whatever it contained.”

  “We’ll have to ask him about that. As for Lord Marsden, he was at our ball. Perhaps he was even in our bedroom when Nell came to the house to threaten me. He may have killed her just to keep her quiet. As we’re both aware, this man is partial to knives.”

  “He stabbed Rhys, too.”

  At that precise moment, Deputy Charlie came huffing and puffing around the corner of the house with a large pistol clutched within his grasp. Becoming suddenly aware of the pair of shadowed forms in the yard near the house, he settled into a stance with legs splayed and then clasped the butt of his weapon in both hands, taking aim. “Hold there!”

  “Put that damned thing down, Charlie, before you blow somebody’s head off,” Jeff barked.

  “Mis-Mis-ter Bir-ming-h-ham?” the deputy stuttered in confusion, letting his arms drop to his sides. “I-I thought w-we left ye locked up at the jailhouse.”

  “I let myself out,” Jeff informed him succinctly and indicated the unconscious man on the ground. “Tie this bag of bones into a bundle, Charlie. I’m going into the house to see about Rhys. My wife said this devil knifed him.”

  “K-Knifed S-Sheriff Townsend?” Charlie’s voice held a note of weakness that conveyed his sudden concern.

  Jeff gestured toward the senseless man. “If this heap of dung moves while you’re watching him, kindly lower the butt of your pistol upon his head with enough force to send him into the netherworld. You’ll be doing us all an enormous favor.”

  Half-turning, he laid an arm about his wife’s shoulders and drew her close against his side. “Tell me, my love, are you all right?”

  “Yes, just a bit shaken, that’s all.” It was so very nice to be safe within her husband’s arms once again, but she couldn’t hold back the sobs as she fell against his chest. “Oh, Jeff, that horrible man . . . he . . . he would’ve killed me if you hadn’t come. I tried to warn Rhys after he came into the house. I had a pistol in my hand, but by the time I managed to get it cocked, it was too late. Lord Marsden threw a knife at Rhys, and I saw it sink into his chest. He might even be dead now.”

  “Let’s go see about him, my love,” Jeff urged thickly and then hurriedly cleared his throat, trying to force back the emotion that welled up within him. It threatened to rise to the surface again as he thought of the close camaraderie he had enjoyed with his childhood friend throughout the years. He knew Rhys’s death would be a hard loss for him to bear.

  Jeff solemnly closed the kitchen door behind Raelynn before stepping ahead to pick up the fallen chair. Settling a hand upon the small of her back, he guided her toward the dining room door by way of the meager glow radiating from the small, flickering fire in the kitchen hearth. Moonlight streaming through the parlor windows aided their progress around the dining room table. They were just stepping beyond that piece when a familiar voice bellowed from the parlor.

  “Damnation, where is everyone?”

  In the shadowed gloom, Jeff and Raelynn looked at each other in surprise. Curiosity spurred them on, and they rushed into the front parlor where Rhys had managed to prop himself up against the arm of a chair.

  “You’re alive!” Raelynn cried with a joyful laugh.

  “Of course, I’m alive!” Rhys rumbled, clasping a hand to a bloody area below his shoulder. “Though no thanks to that fellow who knifed me.” He turned a suspicious squint upon Jeff. “How the blooming devil did you get out, may I ask? I left you locked up hard and fast!”

  “Not so hard and fast,” Jeff countered with a chuckle. “I’m here to prove that.”

  “That damn fool Olney get away, too?” Rhys demanded angrily.

  “Nope, he’s safe in his cell. At least, he was when I left, and unless he’s a contortionist, I would imagine he’s still there.”

  “Good thing for you. I’d have chewed your as . . .” Catching himself abruptly, he eyed Raelynn through the meager light and cleared his throat sharply before rephrasing his threat. “Chewed your head off, that’s what I would’ve done.”

  “How bad is your wound?” Jeff asked in anxious concern, kneeling beside him.

  “Bad enough to have thrown me on my rear,” Rhys grumbled and then winced sharply as Jeff sought to remove his coat. “Don’t be in such an all-fired hurry to see the damage! It’ll still be there even if you take your time gettin’ to it.”

  “Sorry,” Jeff murmured in chagrin and proceeded more slowly.

  Raelynn had fetched swabbing cloths and towels for Rhys’s wound and then hastened to light several lamps in the parlor. She placed one on the table beside Rhys as Jeff eased the sheriff’s coat off and spread the bloody shirt to examine the wound. The puncture was located beneath the lawman’s shoulder, safely away from his heart and lungs, but deep enough to require a physician’s care.

  Jeff sat back upon his heels and grimaced. “Doc Clarence will have to tend to this, Rhys. Did you bring anyone besides Charlie with you?”

  “Yeah, there should be a few more deputies out front somewhere. At least, that’s where I left them when I came inside to check on things here in the house. The rest of my men are at Fridrich’s warehouse. That’s where I was when Elijah finally located me. After seeing a cloaked man entering through the front door of this place, he rode out to find me, but he had to follow my trail from the jail. If not for the man who had gotten his throat slit at a boardinghouse, I’d have been here a damn sight sooner.” Remembering the kinship between the dead man and the young woman, he lifted an apologetic gaze to her. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Raelynn, but the man who was killed turned out to be your uncle.”

  Jeff and Raelynn both stared back at Rhys in stunned surprise. Finally Raelynn managed to clear her throat enough to ask, “Cooper Frye, you mean?”

  “Aye, Cooper Frye. I had a gut feeling Fridrich was somehow connected with his murder. Earlier in the afternoon one of Fridrich’s men turned up dead, and after finding Frye, I figured some chicanery had been going on, like maybe Fridrich had sent his men out to finish Frye off. Going on that premise, I swore in some deputies and launched a raid on the warehouse. This time we caught the bald-headed demon red-handed with crates of stolen rifles and supplies in his possession, which we cheerfully confiscated. Now we have all the proof we need to hold him on several charges, at the forefront of which will be the murder he arranged for Frye. Lord only knows how many more he has had killed for this reason or that, no doubt for his own gain. As for the smuggled firearms, it seems that he has been selling them to various customers with bad reputations for some years now. I saw that much from Gustav’s records.” Rhys chuckled. “The man just happened to be working on them when we broke in, so there was no hiding them this time. After what we’ve already discovered, we’ll be able to send Fridrich to the gallows in short order.”

  “In the meantime, Rhys, we’d better send someone over to fetch Doc Clarence for you,” Jeff insisted, pressing a towel over the wound. “Hold this tightly in place while I go find someone to send.”

  Taking a lamp with him, Jeff stepped to the end of the porch just as a shirtless Farrell came sprinting up the walk on bare feet. It was rare indeed to see the couturier dressed so casually. Only when he was involved in a little boxing practice did the man dress down. This time apparently he had considered his appearance far less important than Raelynn’s safety.

  “Jeff!” he cried, coming to an astonished halt on the front steps. “Tizzy said you had been arrested and that Raelynn was here by herself with an intruder in the house. Is she all right?”

  “Aye, but Rhys has been wounded.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Our cloaked assailant returned, tried to do away with my wife, and knifed Rhys instead.”

  “Is Rhys seriously hurt?” Farrell’s voice had lost some of its strength.

  “According to Raelynn, our hooded adversary, Lord Marsden, tried his
best to kill him, but Rhys should be all right once Doc Clarence closes the wound.”

  “Lord Marsden,” Farrell said in stunned amazement. “Why . . . ?”

  “It’s a long story, and I’ll tell it to you when I’ve got more time.”

  “Did Marsden get away again?”

  “No, this time he got caught. Charlie’s watching over him in the backyard. I’ve got to send somebody back to relieve him and another rider to fetch Doc Clarence for Rhys. His men are supposed to be out here someplace. I hope they’ll be showing their heads as soon as they recognize us.”

  Farrell waved Jeff back into the house. “I can find them. Just go back in there where you’re needed.”

  “Thanks, friend.”

  A PAIR OF HOURS PASSED BEFORE CHARLIE DROVE Dr. Clarence, his bruised lordship, and a bandaged Rhys to the jailhouse. The latter had refused to go home until he had made sure that everything was as it should be at his office. By the time they arrived, the other deputies he had recruited had locked Gustav Fridrich and his men, including the pair who had killed Frye, in the cell Jeff had earlier vacated. For the sake of his own skin, Olney had chosen to keep his distance from Fridrich, but he was nevertheless wide-eyed with curiosity as Rhys and Charlie entered with their newest prisoner. Another bunk was brought in from the back room and placed in Olney’s cell. It was upon this that the still dazed Lord Marsden carefully reclined before Dr. Clarence bent to the task of treating the cuts and bruises that marred his face.

  “Find another place for those keys to hang, Charlie,” Rhys bade his deputy. “I don’t want Fridrich or any of his men pulling the same trick that Mr. Birmingham did.” Grinning, he peered at Gustav as he drawled, “Though I can’t rightly imagine that whole company of brigands having anywhere near the wits my friend has.”

  Gustav snorted in rank disgust at the situation in which he found himself. “Yu’re the dummkopf, Sheriff Townzend, if yu zhink yu vill keep me here. I am a very rich man. I vill hire zhe best lawyers . . .”

  “Considering what you’ve stolen, Mr. Fridrich, most of your money will go toward reimbursing your victims. You won’t be allowed to keep it.”

  Gustav showed his yellowed teeth in a snarl of rage. “Yu cannot do zhat to me!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be doing it to you myself, but I’m sure the judge shall, once I give over all the evidence that’s now in my possession. In fact, if you’re still living past the end of this year, I’ll be surprised.”

  The normally florid tones of the German’s face waned to a much paler hue, and shakily he went to a corner of the barred cubicle where he lowered himself with some difficulty to the floor. It was the only place where one could sit . . . and think.

  Turning, Rhys pressed a hand to his injured shoulder as he allowed himself a grimace of pain. He went to his desk where he poured himself a small draught of whiskey from a small jug he kept handy for the purpose of flushing minor wounds and easing the pain of injuries, of which he had had his share throughout his years as a sheriff. Opening a side drawer, he fished through its contents until he found what he sought and closed his hand around the small item that he had placed there for safekeeping a number of weeks ago. He winced again at the searing discomfort in his shoulder and realized that his strength was fading and that he wouldn’t be on his feet much longer. Still, there was one more thing he had to do before he went home.

  Making his way to Olney’s cell, he waited outside the door until the deputy who had entered with the doctor came to unlock it. Then he crossed to the cot where his lordship was presently being treated. “How’s your newest patient, Doc?”

  A perplexed frown creased his brows as the physician straightened. “I don’t know, Rhys.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? His lordship has a few bruises and scrapes on his face. What’s so confusing about them?”

  “Lord Marsden is running a high fever.”

  “You mean he’s sick?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Too bad,” Rhys replied blandly.

  Detecting the lawman’s sarcasm, Lord Marsden cocked a split and swollen brow at him, but winced in sudden regret. “Have you come to gloat, Sheriff?”

  “Whatever makes you think I’m gloating?”

  His lordship snorted in disbelief. “You were wounded by my hand, were you not?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you are Birmingham’s friend, are you not?”

  “That I am.” the sheriff acknowledged, immensely proud of that fact. “The very best, you might say.”

  “Why wouldn’t you gloat?”

  “You’ve got a point there,” Rhys rejoined.

  Marsden sneered. “You colonials are all alike. Addlepated bastards, the lot of you.”

  Dr. Clarence and Sheriff Townsend exchanged a meaningful look before Rhys quipped, “I suppose that’s a site better than being an arrogant dunderhead.”

  Lowering his gaze thoughtfully to the floor, Rhys grew suddenly intent as he peered at a spot. Though it cost him much pain, he bent down and made a pretense of scooping something off the floor. “What’s this?” He held the item up for the doctor to see. “This yours, Doc?”

  Lord Marsden snatched the snuffbox from the sheriff’s grasp. “That’s mine, you callous oaf. I must have dropped . . .” Suddenly realizing his error, he stuttered and reached out to return the porcelain box to the lawman. “I’m sorry, I was mistaken. It isn’t mine at all.”

  “Oh, but it is, your lordship,” Rhys countered with a wry grin. “You dropped it in Birmingham’s bedroom the night you took Nell out to the stables and stabbed her.”

  Dr. Clarence gasped in surprise and looked at the Englishman in sudden distaste. Coming to alert attention, Olney sat up on his bunk.

  “Not him,” the younger man argued. “He can’t even walk straight, an’ he’s slow as molasses in a hard winter.”

  “Perhaps he is now,” the sheriff agreed, “but several weeks ago he was fast enough to almost catch you when he chased you out of the stables.” He gestured casually to the older scab on the man’s hand which was very close in size to his most recent wound. “You see this? I gave this to him when he was trying to knife Mrs. Birmingham almost a week ago, so this is the same rogue I tried catching. He was certainly fast enough to leave me in the dust, but since then, he has been more or less hindered by a wound inflicted upon him by Mrs. Birmingham.”

  A look of sudden dawning swept over Dr. Clarence’s face as he remembered Farrell laughing his head off about the long hatpin that Raelynn had jabbed into their assailant’s backside. Lowering a frown upon the man, he urged, “If you’re having problems with that injury, my lord, you’d better tell me now. A tainted sore may be what is causing your fever, and if not treated, you could die.”

  In swiftly advancing alarm, Lord Marsden shrank back upon the bed. His voice had dwindled to barely a whisper as he acknowledged, “My hip is swollen.”

  “Any known reason why it should be?” Dr. Clarence prodded.

  “I sat on a pin,” his lordship snapped.

  Dr. Clarence made no effort to deny the man’s claims. “Would you mind letting me see your backside?”

  Marsden reluctantly complied by loosening his trousers and very carefully turning facedown upon the cot. He did so with a great measure of discomfort, not knowing at this point which gave him more anguish, his front side or his backside. The Birminghams had left him extremely tender in both areas.

  Dr. Clarence pulled the man’s pants down and smothered a gasp of surprise when he saw the red streaks flowing outward from the blackened, pus-filled wound. On further examination he found that the man’s right buttock and thigh were noticeably larger than his left. Indeed, from all appearances, the doctor had little choice but to believe that the infection was of a serious nature. In his years as a doctor, he had amputated many a limb, but severing a buttock was something he had never done before.

  “We’ll have to put a poultice on your hip to try and draw out the poison,”
the doctor mused aloud. “But I must warn you, it may be too late.”

  “You’ve got to do something!” his lordship insisted. “You can’t let it continue to fester. Why, I could die!”

  “I’ll do what I can, my lord, but I can’t promise anything.”

  Rhys was on his last legs and wearily bade Charlie to take him home. By the time he was ready to leave, Dr. Clarence had finished applying a poultice to Marsden’s rump. That was all he could do for the time being and begged a ride home. When they stopped at Rhys’s house, he went in to assure Mary that if her husband’s wound didn’t fester, he would be going about his duties in a week’s time, whereupon Rhys promptly told the physician that he didn’t have that much time to waste. It was the soft-spoken Mary who quietly promised the doctor that Rhys would rest as much as was required to expedite a proper healing.

  IT WAS MIDMORNING BY THE TIME THE HARLOT, TRUDY Vincent, found her way to Elizabeth’s residence and delivered a small packet to Raelynn Birmingham. Amid tearful sniffles, she explained to the dumbfounded girl, “Yer Uncle Coop told me if’n somethin’ bad happened ta him, I was ta give ye this here package ta ye an’ ta tell ye he found it in yer pa’s coffin or some such place, an’ that by rights, it belongs ta ye. He said somethin’ ’bout the missive bein’ able ta clear yer pa’s name an’ convict the real scamps what did him dirt.”

  Raelynn clasped the precious envelope to her bosom. “Thank you most kindly, Miss Vincent,” she replied, tearing up from sheer joy. Begging a gold coin from her husband, she paid the woman for her trouble. It was the very least she could do for such a wonderful gift.

  The strumpet had never earned a gold coin in her life and, though she hadn’t been of a mind to be generous with her information when she had first arrived, she was now grateful enough to relate the rest of the message that the man whom she had known as Oliver Fenton had bade her to give to the girl. “He also said ta tell ye that it were Lord Marsden what killed Nell an’ that yer real Uncle Coop was drowned at sea when he were but a mere lad. Ol’ Coop sailed wit’ him then. That’s why he knew so much ’bout him. He’da’ve written all this down for ye himself, but he weren’t especially handy wit’ quill an’ ink. He did all right when he had ta, but writin’ out words weren’t somethin’ he was especially fond o’.”