Her words obviously weren’t meant to soothe him. He felt his nerves jangling and a tightness in his belly that was not abating. She was right. He wasn’t a superstitious man or one who put much stock in the heebie-jeebies or that whole supernatural thing, but there was definitely a strange, dark energy in the air tonight.
He couldn’t understand it, let alone explain it. But he felt it all the same. And as he looked over at Chenoa sitting a silent sentinel over his son, he had never been more thankful for her than he was in that moment.
He walked back out to the main room and found Mark waiting for him.
“Anything?” he asked.
Harvey shook his head. “The place is clear.”
“All right, let’s make one more sweep of the grounds.”
They both grabbed up one of the lanterns and headed back outside, making a circuit of all the outbuildings around Harvey’s house before going back down the small rise to Mark’s property.
When they’d searched the smaller outbuildings, they stood together in front of the barn. Harvey cut a glance at the house to see Isabelle silhouetted by the light from the open doorway. She was standing there with a rifle at the ready, watching them and the night beyond.
“Your sister is a determined woman,” he chuckled.
Mark looked up and noticed her for the first time and sighed. “She was never very good at following directions.”
“She wants to protect this place. I can’t fault her for that.”
A rueful grin touched Mark’s lips. “No, I suppose I can’t either.”
Holding the lanterns aloft, they knelt down and studied the dirt at the entrance to the barn. Harvey looked closely at it, a blossom of fear beginning to take root in his chest.
“Footprints,” he said. “I count at least half a dozen different sets.”
Mark frowned. “Could be old. Maybe from the field crews.”
Harvey shook his head. “No, these are fresh. Whoever made these just passed through here.”
“How can you be sure?” There was a note of tension in Mark’s voice.
“Wind would’ve scattered dirt through older prints already. There’s no scatter here.”
Harvey stared at the footprints a while longer, a feeling of unease stealing over him. There was something in his head that wasn’t ringing quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it could be. There was just something up there, some niggling little thought, that was troubling him. He tried to conjure it, force it out of the dark recesses of his mind and into the light, but it remained opaque to him.
Mark’s big dog Wolf padded over to them, his hackles still raised and his body tense. Harvey reached out and idly scratched the big dog behind the ears. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Isabelle was behind them − it seemed that from the day she arrived, Wolf had not left her side. Where she was, Wolf was sure to be.
I have to envy the dog for that.
Harvey silently kicked himself the moment the thought passed through his mind. Not only was the timing terrible, he knew the thought itself was inappropriate as well. He knew he should not be thinking on romance right now. Not with his own unresolved feelings about Amy and most certainly not with everything that was happening right now.
“What did you find?” Isabelle asked.
“Footprints,” Mark replied.
“They didn’t attack the house. Or my house for that matter. What were they after?” Harvey wondered aloud.
“That is a good question,” Mark replied.
“The distillery,” Isabelle gasped. “Did you check the distillery?”
Harvey and Mark exchanged looks. They had focused their search on the buildings close to the house. Because the distillery was situated out behind the house, butted up against the orchards, Harvey had not thought to check there. Out of sight, out of mind or something like that. Plus, Isabelle had seen the intruders in the front of the house. She didn’t say they had come from the rear of the property. But he gritted his teeth and tamped down his irritation with himself − he knew he should have thought of it.
“I suppose we should go check,” Mark said.
“Suppose so,” Harvey replied.
“I’m coming with you,” Isabelle added.
Mark’s grin was wry. “Of course you are.”
Wolf raced ahead of them, melting into the shadows of the orchard as they headed for the distillery. Harvey let out a breath. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew what they were going to find once they got there.
Maybe he was picking up on that dark energy Chenoa said was hovering over them all.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Even by the dim light of the lanterns they carried, Isabelle could see the devastation the moment they stepped through the door. The cloying stench of fermenting apples and sharp astringency of the alcohol was thick in the air around them, making Isabelle cover her mouth with her hands.
As Mark walked deeper into the distillery, she could hear the glass crunching beneath his boots and her heart hurt for him. At the far end of the former barn, she heard the sound of chains rattling that was followed by a long, high pitched squeal.
She squinted through the darkness and saw the desk against the far end of the barn. It had been overturned and papers were strewn about. The stacks of crates against the wall closest to her had been knocked down and apples, many of them squashed, lay all over the floor. And everywhere she looked, the light cast by their lanterns glinted off shards of glass.
“How could they have done this much damage without us hearing?” she asked.
“The barn muffles most of the sound,” Mark said. “The trees that sit between the house and the distillery would have screened out the rest.”
“Unbelievable.”
The dim ambient light of the night beyond flooded into the barn as Harvey pushed the large door open. A match flared to life and a moment later, Mark had several lanterns lit and going. They cast a soft light that chased away some of the shadows but left much of the distillery in gloom.
But even in the semi-darkness, Isabelle could see that the people she’d seen running by the outbuildings in front of the house had tried to destroy Mark’s business. Harvey walked from the barn door − which was thankfully helping to air out the stench inside − over to where Mark was.
Isabelle looked at her brother, squatting down among the shattered glass, broken stills and barrels, smashed baskets of apples − the wreckage of his business. Of his life. He looked so upset. He looked so lost. He had worked so hard for so long to build this new life for himself − for her − and it broke Isabelle’s heart to see him like that. To see all that had been taken from him.
But who had done all of this damage? And why?
She glanced over to see Harvey picking something up out of a pile of debris. He walked it over to where Mark was and together, they looked at it by the light of the lanterns. Isabelle drifted over to see what they were examining and felt her curiosity piqued when she saw it was an Indian tomahawk.
“Indians,” Isabelle gasped. “They’re raiding again.”
“Or somebody wants us to think they are,” Harvey said.
Mark nodded. “Seems careless to leave something like that behind.”
Harvey nodded. “That was my thought.”
Isabelle had the same thought. She thought it was awfully convenient that an Indian weapon had been left behind for Mark to find. Too convenient.
“So if it is not Indians, that means it has to be Mr. Alford,” Isabelle chimed in. “Right? I mean, who else could it be? Who else would stand to gain from hurting your business, Mark?”
Harvey frowned. “It’s entirely possible −”
“It’s highly likely,” Mark interrupted, his voice tight with anger.
“Probably. But we don’t have anything in the way of actual evidence. Nothing we can take to Sheriff Waits anyway,” Harvey continued. “It’s entirely possible an Indian dropped this while they were wreaking havoc in here.”
Mark rolled his eyes and Isabelle frowned. She knew that technically, it was possible. Harvey was not wrong about that. But Isabelle highly doubted it was Indians. She doubted they would be that careless. And besides, they had nothing to gain by vandalizing Mark’s property. They gained nothing by damaging his business.
In her mind, the only person who stood to gain anything − Elmer Alford. She growled softly, knowing that Harvey was right. They had nothing they could take to the Sheriff. All she saw was shadows running around outside. She never saw the faces of the intruders.
They had nothing substantive.
“There’s not much more we can do until we can actually see,” Mark said.
“We’ll get a full accounting by the light of day,” Harvey agreed.
“Yeah. Let’s lock it up and I’ll come back when the sun comes up,” Mark says, his voice tinged with the sound of defeat. “I’ll see what, if anything, I have left of my business.”
Harvey clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll do it together,” he said. “You’re not going through this alone.”
It made Isabelle’s heart swell to see what a good friend Harvey was to her brother. Mark gave him a small, grateful smile but she could still see the pain in his eyes. The idea of losing everything he had worked so hard to build was more than he could bear.
All she could do was hope that once the sun crested the horizon tomorrow, things did not look nearly as bad as they did by the dark of the night.
After a sleepless, restless night, the damage done to Mark’s distillery actually looked worse by the light of day. The darkness of the night had hidden most of the devastation. Or had at least masked it. But now that the sun had just crested the horizon, spreading its golden fingers of illumination, the true horror of it all was revealed.
“My God,” Mark said. “I don’t think there’s anything they didn’t smash or break.”
His tone was tight. Angry. Miserable. And defeated. They were all those things and more, all at once. And when she looked into Mark’s eyes, she could see the defeat in his face. She could see that he was on the verge of giving it all up as hopeless. That was the last thing she ever expected − or wanted − to see in her brother.
She liked this new version of himself that he had created. She liked the changes that living in this open country, in this hard land, had wrought in him. He had carved out a niche and a new persona for himself − one that suited him. Right down to his boots it suited him.
So to see that new persona and the new life he had carved out for himself threatened − and to see him on the verge of letting it all collapse − bothered her more than she could say.
Isabelle walked around the interior of the distillery, shaking her head and feeling worse with every indignity she found. Boxes of bottles had been smashed to bits, shards of glass sprayed everywhere.
The large kettles and metal tubing he used to heat and ferment the apples were smashed, dented, and had metal spikes punched through. The wooden casks and barrels he used to age some of his product had been reduced to kindling. And the ground was soaked through with the batches of wine and whiskey he had been in the process of producing.
Whoever had come tearing through this place like a tornado had been thorough.
“It really looks like whoever did this was intentionally trying to put you out of business,” Isabelle said.
Harvey nodded as he righted an overturned kettle and set it back on its mounting. He surveyed the steel, running his hands over the large dents in the sides. He frowned and looked over at Mark. She saw the concern in his face − he was as worried for her brother as she was. Perhaps he too saw the defeat in Mark’s eyes and wanted to help him stave it off.
“It’s a good thing you’re not the quittin’ kind, Mark,” Harvey said.
“Everything’s gone Harv,” Mark replied, his voice soft. “They destroyed everything.”
“That’s not true. Everything’s banged up, sure. The bottles are broken. Casks too. But those can be replaced,” Isabelle said. “I obviously do not know how your operation works but the kettles and tubing all seems to be intact. Nothing important − meaning, nothing critical to your operation − seems to be destroyed.”
Harvey nodded. “I like the way she thinks,” he grinned. “Yeah, you lost a batch and it will take a little time to produce the new one. But that’s the thing − you can still produce a new batch. Isabelle was right about that.”
Mark sighed − he clearly was not yet on board with the positive thinking train. He was still caught up in the throes of his personal agony and sense of loss. Isabelle understood that but was not about to let him wallow in it.
If there was one thing she knew, it was how easy it could be to let yourself wallow until you believed the negativity in your own mind. And once you let yourself believe the negativity, it became all too easy to justify letting yourself just give up.
And Isabelle was not about to let her brother give up on this − on himself.
“Listen up, Mark,” Isabelle said. “I understand how much this must hurt. I imagine seeing the destruction in here must be gut wrenching.”
He nodded, a distant look in his eyes. He pursed his lips and looked away, unable to meet Isabelle’s gaze.
“This is nothing more than a setback. I am certain it feels like a kick in the gut, but it is one you can recover from,” she pressed. “This doesn’t have to be the end of all you have accomplished, Mark. I will not let it be. You have worked too long and too hard to build this. And I will not let you give up on this − or on yourself.”
“I’m with her, my friend,” Harvey said. “I’ll be standin’ right behind you, kickin’ you in the backside to keep you movin’ forward.”
Mark ran a hand through his hair, the frown still on his face. He was skeptical, that much Isabelle could see. But she was glad to see that some of the despondency that had painted his features a moment ago had lessened. They were doing it. They were pulling him back from the ledge. It was a realization that made Isabelle glad. But they still had work to do yet.
“I just don’t know how to fix all this,” Mark said. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“You start at the beginnin’. Where did you start when you first got this operation off the ground?” Harvey asked. “Seems I recall you not even havin’ half this fancy stuff here and yet, you still managed to produce somethin’ everybody in town loves. You did it through sheer gumption and will, Mark.”
“You did it once and you can do it again,” Isabelle said.
Mark blew out a long breath and shuffled his feet, kicking at some of the glass shards on the ground. They skittered away with a musical tinkling sound. But she was glad to see that the frown and look of despair on his face had evaporated and an expression of steely resolve took its place. When he looked up at Isabelle again, she could see that her brother was back − the one who had become as tough as the land around him.
“Tell you what,” Isabelle seized on the opportunity, “why don’t you and Harvey go down and talk to the Sheriff −”
“Isabelle, we don’t have any evidence to bring him,” Harvey said. “I don’t feel comfortable accusing Elmer without −”
“I am not saying to accuse Mr. Alford. I’m just saying this is something the Sheriff should be made aware of,” she said, her voice even. “I think it is important that the authorities be made aware of this vandalism. That way, if it happens again, at least he will know. And if we are able to conjure up some evidence if anything like this ever happens again, it will be on record and the correct person can be punished.”
Harvey nodded. “That makes sense. I get that.”
“Yeah, I get that too.”
“And while you boys are gone, I’ll get to work cleaning this place up,” she said, wrinkling her nose, the stench still acrid. “The sooner we get it clean, the sooner you’re back up and running.”
Mark walked over and gave her a small kiss on the cheek and flashed her a smile.
“
Thanks, Izzy,” he said. “You’ve always been my rock, and I’d be lost without you.”
“And you have been mine,” she said. “We are a good team, you and I.”
Isabelle gave her brother a small smile. “Now go. The sooner you go, the sooner you can get back and help me with this mess.”
They all shared a laugh and then Harvey and Mark turned and walked out of the distillery, leaving her alone with the mess. As they went though, Harvey turned and cut a glance at her over his shoulder. Their eyes locked for a long moment and Isabelle felt her breath catch in her throat. Her stomach roiled and a warm feeling started in the center of her and spread through her body.
A Healing Love for the Broken Cowboy: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 15