Copyright© 2018 by Josephine Blake
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Prologue
Luther Garrison wheeled his horse about as a resounding gunshot rang through the silent night. His heart was throbbing in his ears.
Vern Hannon looked around, an oily grin slinking up his pale face. Luther could see the yellow of his teeth in the gleaming sunlight as the man crossed his forearms against his saddle horn.
“You’re awful shifty, Garrison.” A woman’s scream tore from the house, and his smile broadened. He fixed Luther with a belligerent stare. “What’s eatin’ ya?”
Mace Thorn’s laughter reverberated inside Luther’s clenched jaw. Luther scowled around the homestead, trying not to hear his cousin’s voice as it echoed across the yard from the front door.
The woman screamed again.
Something inside Luther snapped taut. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he spat. In one swift movement, he yanked his rifle from its scabbard and leapt off his horse.
“Mace!!” he bellowed, lifting the barrel of the gun and pointing it at the front door of the tiny house.
There came the sounds of scuffling, and then the loud SLAP of knuckles hitting flesh. Luther prowled through the front gate, his gun still raised, calling out once more, “Mace! That’s enough!”
His cousin didn’t answer him. Luther was two steps away when he heard the woman’s horrified entreaty swell through the still-open door. “No! Please!” Her voice was thick with tears.
The second gunshot split the night in two. The birds in the surrounding trees went silent, and Luther felt fury explode in his chest. He darted across the threshold, and a scene of total devastation met his eyes…
His cousin, Mace Thorne, a notorious outlaw in these here parts, grinned at Luther from beside an overturned armchair.
“Had some fire in ‘er, that one did,” he remarked on a chuckle. He knelt to tug the woman’s bloodied hair back from her face. “Shame and a pity, that.” He gestured with his pistol at the two bodies on the floor. “Left me no choice, they did.”
Luther blinked, feeling the blood drain from his lips. “You killed them.”
His cousin shrugged. “We best be on our way now. Tell the boys to take the horses. I’ll have a look see ‘round in here.” He wiped his hand over his trousers, leaving a streak of red behind.
The gun in Luther’s hands was shaking. He raised it and pointed it at Mace. “I didn’t sign up for this, cousin,” he breathed again. “What’ve you done?”
Mace’s dark eyes flickered. “Put that away, boy,” he hissed. “I practically raised you.”
Luther let out a disgusted snort and spat onto the floor. “Thankfully,” he said, “That isn’t anything close to true.”
Mace cocked an amused eyebrow. “That so? Who you got to thank for that fine North Carolina education, cousin?”
Luther’s eyes narrowed, but Mace threw back his head, laughing. “I’d of thought you’da made something a bit finer of yourself, considering,” he added. “Suppose this sorta’ life is in your blood.”
“I’m leaving,” Luther stated boldly. “I want no part in this. We’re through.”
The amusement slipped from Mace’s face as though it’d been sloughed off with a sponge. “We’re through when I say we’re through,” he spat. He stood up and jerked his collar straight.
Luther didn’t lower his gun as his cousin stomped across the room, kicking aside fallen tables and books. He pointed a dirty, yellow-nailed finger in Luther’s face. “You owe me,” he hissed. “You owe me everything.”
Luther felt his left finger twitch on the trigger, and a sick, twisted desire rose up inside him—borne, no doubt— by the atrocities he had seen committed by Mace Thorne and his ilk. He wanted to end Mace. He wanted to put a stop to the violence.
He took a deep breath as his cousin’s eyes found his. “If you don’t do it,” Mace whispered, “you better hope your ole’ nag can outstrip the rest of us, ‘cause we’ll be comin’ for you.”
Luther lowered the gun. He saw his cousin’s eyes flash with brief satisfaction before Luther swiveled it around and brought the butt smashing against the side of his skull.
With a howl of rage and pain, Mace dropped onto his knees, clutching his head, as Luther spun on his heel and bolted out the door.
There were six men sitting astride their horses just outside the garden gate. Luther shot past them and jammed his rifle back into its holster.
“What’s happened?” bellowed Dan Grayson.
“Where’s Mace?” spat Vern.
Luther ignored them, flinging himself up into the saddle.
“Garrison?”
“Garrison!!!” Mace’s voice lacerated through the gang’s confusion, louder than gunfire in his fury. Luther looked back over his shoulder as he kicked his horse forward and saw his cousin stumbling over the dew-drenched grass, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead. “Shoot him!!” he bawled. “Shoot that traitorous son of a—”
The rest of Mace’s words were cut off as a bullet whizzed past Luther’s ear. His horse’s hooves thundered over the earth, and he could hear shouts behind him. They were giving chase.
Luther clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from jarring and willed his horse to go even faster. They were over the fields, heading for the cover of the trees.
“Go, go, go,” he chanted.
More shouts. More gunfire.
This time, at least one of his companion’s hands was steady. A searing pain clawed through Luther’s back. He doubled over with agony, his vision flooding with color. His very flesh was on fire; he couldn’t breathe. His horse kept moving, and as Luther slumped forward, he saw that the creature’s eyes were wide with terror.
“Go on, Georgia,” Luther gasped to his horse, feeling blood drizzling down his back and soaking into his shirt. “Go on, girl. Get us out of here.”
Chapter One
Victoria pressed the tips of her fingers against the cool glass of the upstairs window, staring out across the narrow street to the park, where she could just see a group of school children playing a game with a little brown ball. Their laughter echoed up to her as they darted between the trees, and for a moment, the corners of her mouth turned up in a small smile. The expression felt stiff on her face, as though her lips had forgotten how to display amusement of any kind.
Children were such resilient little things. They galloped around the rubble of fallen limbs, skipping over large trees whose roots had been uprooted and now danced against the sky. The devastation that had cascaded over the town of Silverpines when
the quakes had struck was more than substantial. Sturdy buildings still lay twisted on their sides, their beams having tumbled. Narrow cracks in the dirt roads had had to be smoothed over so that carts could pass by. Shattered windows. Toppled walkways. Dust and debris. She ran her forefinger over the hairline fracture that had split the glass in the frame before her. Devastation. Silverpines was still attempting to heal.
Her hazel eyes flitted around the street outside for another long moment, and then she tugged the heavy gold drapery back into place. Shadows slid back into their accustomed positions as Victoria negotiated her way carefully through the guest room and back out onto the landing. A photograph hanging against the far wall caught her eye. It sat at the top of the stairs, so that it would be clearly visible to any visitors that happened to call, looking down on the entry way with a sort of vacant, bitter-sweetness.
The black and white image showed a rather austere couple dressed in fine wedding attire. Victoria’s gaze focused on the man, whose bristling beard gave the impression that he was hiding a wide smile. He was taller than the woman in the photograph, with a pair of spectacles perched at a jaunty angle on the end of his nose. His chin was pointed, and his jawline was narrow, ringed by an intricately trimmed beard that looked as though he might have trimmed it using a measuring rod.
Victoria stared at his jawline, and her eyes found the lips to which she had pressed countless kisses. Her gaze clouded over. She seemed to hear the sound of her own giggles echoing from the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall.
“No, Jack. No. You mustn’t dare. Ahh!” Victoria snorted as her husband pounced at her. They landed on the bed in a tangle of laughter. Their bedroom was full of sunlight, and the windows were open, so that the gauzy white curtains blew inwards with the breeze.
“Shhh,” mumbled her husband, muffling Victoria’s giggles behind his fingers. “Do you want the entire town to know of our impropriety? They shall all think their mayor is a scoundrel.”
“They would be right,” grinned Victoria around his hand, and she bit affectionately at him. “Quite the scoundrel indeed, Mayor Rhyan.”
He chuckled and leaned his handsome head against her own. Victoria closed her eyes.
A hard rapping sounded from downstairs, jolting Victoria from her reverie so forcefully that she gripped the banister for support. Someone was at the front door, knocking to come in. She cast a final glance at her husband’s portrait and the soft, happy expression on the face of the woman next to him. The woman had long brown hair tucked up into a chignon at the top of her head. Her face was round-cheeked and full of a child-like innocence. Her hazel eyes were bright and gleaming with happiness.
Victoria shook her head.
That woman was no longer her. She was no longer the wife of the Mayor of Silverpines. She was his widow, and no one would soon let her forget it. Widowed and alone in the world at nineteen years old… She was nothing more than one of the many hundreds of tragic stories that had plagued Silverpines since the accidents.
Before the accidents, Victoria had been the wife of the mayor, set on course to become one of the most respected women in the small town of Silverpines— much to the displeasure of her parents. Now, she was little more than a standing joke. The woman who could not set foot outside her house, for fear that the world would once again tremble and shake and destroy something else that she held dear to her heart. There was so little left to her now… her pride and dignity had all vanished like her husband, buried deep in the depths of the silver mine.
Victoria made her way down the stairs, peering hesitantly at the blurred silhouette she could make out through the rippled, amber glass.
With a nervous flutter of her fingers, she reached forward and tugged the door open. Elena Somersville tumbled over the threshold. Her dark curls had come loose from their pins, and a few escaped tendrils had plastered themselves to her forehead. Her eyes looked a little wild.
“Victoria,” she gasped, stumbling forward to grip her shoulders. “Thank heavens!” and she flung herself into Victoria’s arms.
Victoria stood stunned for a moment, teetering as her friend gripped her. Her eyes were nearly blinded by the glare of the bright afternoon sunlight. It danced across her white front porch and over the shop windows across the way, making the street outside look as though it had been set ablaze. A chill crept down Victoria’s spine. She reached out behind Elena and shut the door quickly.
“Lena! What on Earth is it?!”
But Elena was crying so hard into Victoria’s shoulder that her response was muffled in the fabric of her dress.
“There. Come now. Calm down,” she coaxed, gently peeling Elena’s tear-streaked face away from her shoulder. “What is all this, now?” she whispered.
Elena Somersville was very pretty, even when her eyes were swollen and puffy. She had dark hair that she usually wore styled in thick curls, and pale porcelain skin that seemed to glow in the dim entryway.
“I cannot! I won’t!” she was muttering. “There must be a way…”
“What on Earth are you speaking of, Lena? What has gotten into you?”
Elena took a deep, shuddering breath. “My brother,” she said through trembling lips. “He’s dead. Mace Thorne is coming for me.”
Horrified understanding crashed onto the top of Victoria’s head. “What happened?” she breathed, her fingertips rising to her mouth.
Haltingly, and with many pauses in between while she attempted to control her crying, Elena told Victoria about her brother’s debts, and about the promise she had made to Mace Thorne, the notorious outlaw. As she talked, Victoria felt a spasm of disgust erupt within her gut.
“There’s no other way,” Elena whispered suddenly, finishing her story. She looked up into Victoria’s eyes. “He’ll come for me. He’ll find out that Bo has died in the mine, and that he won’t ever be able to pay the debt. I need help.”
“I will certainly do everything I can to protect you,” Victoria declared, reaching for Elena’s hand.
“No.” Elena’s voice was sharp. “What can we possibly do? You’ll only put yourself in danger.” Elena untangled herself from Victoria’s grip and drew her arms up around her ample bosom, as though to shield herself from the indignity of marrying a man like Mace Thorne.
“Go to the Marshal!” Victoria squawked. She took Elena’s elbow and led her into the sitting room. “Marshal Sewell must be accustomed to handling this sort of thing.”
But Elena was shaking her head. She sank down onto the ornate settee beside the empty fire grate. “Marshal Sewell is only one man,” she murmured. “Mace Thorne runs with a gang of six. How could he ever stand a chance against them?” Her voice was dejected, and as Victoria watched, her friend seemed to melt into the cushions a little.
Victoria swallowed roughly. “There is a way out of this, Lena,” she murmured. “There just has to be!”
Elena let out a dry sob.
There came a small tap-tap from the front door and the two women jumped.
Elena looked around in panic.
“Shh,” muttered Victoria, standing up and straightening her skirts. “It is only Mr. Foswick.” At Elena’s look of confusion, she added, “He has come to review Jaxsom’s accounts with me today. Of course,” she smiled sadly. “My husband’s—,” she broke off and cleared her throat. “My late husband’s solicitor would not usually make house calls, but under my… present circumstances.”
She saw Elena nod once, avoiding her eyes.
“Shall I ask him to come back in an hour?”
Elena’s fingers were already busy straightening her hairpins. “No. I can come back. I—.”
“Oh, please do stay,” Victoria cut her off, and then she lowered her voice. “We need to discuss a plan of action.”
Elena paused for a moment, and then nodded sharply once more.
Victoria smiled her thanks and went to answer the door.
“Mr. Foswick!” she beamed, ushering the squat, balding man over the thre
shold. Victoria had met her husband’s solicitor only on one other occasion. There had never been any need for her to meddle in the town’s finances, of course, as Jaxsom had so rightly said. Now, however, it seemed prudent that she should be made aware of her current financial state. She knew that Jaxsom had likely made provision for her. He knew that she could never return to her family in Portland, after all.
“Missus Rhyan,” said the solicitor, peering up at Victoria in a rather mole-like way, as though he was staring into a bright light. “It is lovely to see you again. I do wish it was under more pleasant circumstances.”
Victoria smiled woodenly and gestured Mr. Foswick towards the sitting room.
“Thank you very much,” he yammered, tugging out a handkerchief and dabbing at his shining pate. “Those stagecoaches are a rather bumpy way to travel, I must—oh!” Mr. Foswick stopped short at the sight of Elena perched on the edge of the settee. “I am so terribly sorry,” he floundered. “I did not realize that you would have guests. I am afraid that the matters we must discuss today will be… of a sensitive nature.”
“Elena is my very dearest friend,” said Victoria firmly. “I would be very grateful if she could remain a little while. I assure you, she is very discreet. I am not ashamed of my husband’s financial affairs.”
Mr. Foswick hesitated. “Very well,” he said at last. He stepped smartly into the room and set his briefcase down on the coffee table.
Victoria felt the tension in her back ease slightly as she settled herself down on the settee beside Elena. She glanced at her friend, attempting to communicate her apologies without words. Elena’s face was composed, although her eyes were still puffy. Her hair was once again pinned back from her face, and she greeted Mr. Foswick with every appearance of cordiality.
Victoria could not help but feel rather impressed.
Mr. Foswick sat his plump bottom on one of the vacant chairs across from the women and fixed Victoria with his squinty eyes. “Before we begin,” he said, reaching forward to unclasp his briefcase. “Missus Rhyan, I must ask you a personal question.”
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