A small toddler, with skin darker even than Hattie’s, was clinging to her skirts.
“Good morning, Victoria,” Hattie said, smiling. “Kijab has been chattering about coming to your house since yesterday afternoon. You spoiled him with all those cookies last time.”
Victoria was delighted. It gave her a certain sense of community when Hattie brought Kijab over to stay with her for the afternoon. Even if she was unable to leave the house, at least she could be helpful in other ways. She beckoned them both inside, and meandered down the hallway as Kijab reached for her. “Victa!” he squealed, tossing his chubby arms around her neck. “Cookie?”
Victoria laughed and snuggled her face into his neck, breathing in the sweet, babyish smell of him. “Of course!” she exclaimed, beaming for the first time in days. “Shall we make them together?”
Kijab nodded vigorously, and Hattie thanked her over his head. Victoria turned towards the kitchen as Hattie shut the door softly.
They spent the morning in the kitchen, and while Victoria might have burnt the first batch of cookies and the second one might have come out rather more like dough, by the third batch they were able to enjoy their cookies with a glass of milk.
Victoria had tugged back all the curtains this morning, and the sun was blazing through the largest window in the dining room. Kijab was sitting there, staring out into the back garden, his little round face smeared with chocolate.
“Out there?” he suggested, pointing with his pudgy little fist.
“You want to go outside?” Victoria looked doubtfully out at the sunlit back garden and opened her mouth, preparing to give Kijab the same answer she had already given him countless other times. But when she attempted to say, “Not today, darling,” what she heard herself say instead was: “Alright, shall we wash up first?”
Moments later, Victoria stepped out onto the back porch. Kijab’s little fingers were clutching tightly to her own. She glanced at the place, just feet away, where Luther had wrapped her in his arms and made her look up into the stars. “Go outside,” he had told her as he left. “Live for me.” His voice had carried a quiet sort of desperation, and she believed that—for his own inscrutable reasons—he had truly left to spare her some sort of pain. From what exactly, she couldn’t fathom, but even though he had told her that he would not be coming back… she couldn’t help holding out hope that one day, she might open the back door and see his charming, crooked grin. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap him or kiss him, but one thing was for certain, she hadn’t finished with Luther Garrison, and she had a mind to let him know it.
Virgil Donahue had been persistent in his pursuit to court her, stopping by the house every other day with wild flowers, and to provide Victoria with further information on the elusive Mr. Foswick. She had told him that she wasn’t prepared to accept an engagement to a man she had only just met, but that she was interested in getting better acquainted with him. Was she stringing him along? Should she accept his suit? But what if Luther came back? What if he came home? Not to the house, but to her?
Kijab tugged Victoria down the back steps and into the garden. “Pretty!” he said, indicating the patch of yellow roses there. Victoria agreed, realizing as she did so, that her roses were in dire need of pruning…
Elena arrived in the sitting room just as Victoria was lying Kijab down for a nap on the settee.
“Isn’t he Dr. Richards’ ward?” she asked softly, and Victoria smiled and ran a gentle finger across the child’s forehead, brushing back his dark hair.
“I’m not sure she would call him that, but she’s taken responsibility for his well-being.” She glanced up at her friend. “I’m watching Kijab while she goes about her duties in town.”
Victoria sighed. She had always wished for children. Although she and Jaxsom had been married for several years, they had never had that happy miracle occur. She often wondered if having children would have made losing her husband easier, or if it would have been difficult to see Jaxsom’s features on their children.
She straightened up and turned to Elena, who was gazing down at the sleeping Kijab with an unusual expression on her face. Victoria’s sharp eyes fell to Elena’s hand. “What’s this?” she asked, but Elena did not respond. Victoria cocked her head to the side. “Lena?”
Her friend blinked. “What did you say?” she asked, emerging from her thoughts as though she were swimming up from the bottom of a deep lake.
Victoria indicated the letter and the package in her hand. “Did you receive a response to your advertisement?”
Elena looked down at the letter. “I’m not sure,” her voice shook slightly. “I haven’t opened it yet.”
Victoria tugged back her heavy skirts and sat down beside Kijab on the settee. “You won’t find out if you leave the letter unopened, will you?”
Her friend nodded, and her fingers trembled as she tugged the letter open. Victoria was hard-put to contain her curiosity, but she sat very still and observed Elena’s eyes as they flicked back and forth across the parchment. At last, she could stand it no longer and she stood to read the missive over her shoulder.
To 45852,
I am writing to acknowledge I accept your terms to a marriage of convenience in exchange for my skills as a blacksmith. Should you choose to accept my proposal, I shall arrive in Silverpines by next week. I look forward to your response.
Yours,
Tobias Clayborne
“It seems strange that this Mr. Clayborne would be so ready to make his move to Silverpines so quickly,” Elena said.
Victoria thought about Virgil Donahue. She hadn’t told Elena she had written an advert, she hadn’t told Elena about the sudden and unexpected arrival of her new suitor, and the truth was, until Elena had said it, Victoria hadn’t thought about the strangeness of the situation at all. “Perhaps not,” Victoria replied, trying to inject a confidence into her voice that she did not feel. “Look at the return address. It shows a boarding house in Astoria. It’s not too far from Silverpines.... It’s strange that he has no desire for a real marriage.” She reached for the letter and Elena relinquished it without protest. “Why do you suppose that is?”
Victoria looked up at Elena to see her friend toying with her black hair.
“What if he is hideous?” she said suddenly, thinking aloud. It had certainly been one of her concerns when she had sent her own advertisement in.
Her friend’s expression darkened and Victoria opened her mouth to apologize but Elena said, “If he is ugly, I’ll welcome him with open arms,” and Victoria understood that her friend did not care what her new husband looked like, as long as he was capable of protecting her from a marriage to Mace Thorne.
She shut her mouth. She had wandered over to Kijab as he muttered in his sleep and was stroking his hair back from his face once more. “Are you going to respond to him? Or are you going to wait to see if another letter comes?”
Elena didn’t respond; instead, she made her way over to the writing desk and dipped Victoria’s quill into the ink pot once more.
Mr.Clayborne, Victoria was informed by an excitable Elena, arrived in town shortly after that. As there was no preamble or need for romance for their “marriage of convenience,” Elena insisted— against Victoria’s protests— on marrying Mr. Clayborne straight away.
Victoria had not even had the chance to meet the man, and so it was with a begrudging smirk that she sent a wedding gift to the unlikely pair by way of Jackson Hershel.
∞∞∞
Three Weeks Later
The acrid smell of cigar smoke caused Luther’s eyes to water as he stepped into the saloon. It wasn’t what you would call a classy establishment, and he thought vaguely of what Victoria might say if she could see where he was now.
He motioned to the barkeep to bring him a whiskey and turned to observe the room. He sighed. A quick glance at each of the tables was enough to tell him that his cousin wasn’t among the saloon’s patrons.
He peered at the upstairs balcon
y, where a handful of women of ill-repute were plying their customers with their wares. Luther grimaced his thanks to the barkeep and tipped back the whiskey. It seared at his throat as it went down and seemed to burn the briefest moment of awareness into his system. He smacked his lips in appreciation and turned to the man on his left.
“Say,” he said, “You don’t happen to be a frequent customer hereabouts, do you?”
The man’s wavering gaze focused on Luther with what looked to be immense difficulty. “What’s that, chummy?” he said, concealing a burp behind a grubby fist.
“Are you—familiar with the regular clientele at this establishment?” Luther asked, wondering as he did so, if the man was too deep in his cups to carry on a conversation.
“E’rey Tuesday and Sednesday,” the man replied with a drunken titter. “And often a few days in between.” He raised his glass of beer to Luther. “Right, fine-o drinkin’, I do think so, myself,” he finished on a slur.
Luther thought he might as well give it a try. The man wasn’t likely to remember their conversation the following day. “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” he said slowly and clearly, keeping his voice low. “Man by the name of Mace Thorne. He been in here a time or two?”
The man’s gazed refocused on Luther with an unprecedented sharpness. “You lookin’ to die pret soon, chummy?” He coughed. “You ought to keep yer nose in. Ain’t no good gonna’ come from mixin’ with the likes of that lot.”
Luther’s heart gave a leap. If he could have a lead, any lead. He’d been combing all of Astoria for weeks now, and the last bit of solid information he had had on his cousin was that Mace had slapped around a few of the women at the Dockhouse two weeks ago. Rumors of his cousin’s doings outside of the seedier parts of town had reached him too, but always too late for Luther to catch up with him. Where was he now? Where was he hiding?
“Have you seen him, then?” he insisted, pushing another drink into the man’s hand.
The man took the drink Luther offered him with a belch of thanks. His foul, drunken breath spilled over Luther’s face, and Luther turned his cheek to avoid inhaling further.
“Yeah, I seen Mace,” said the man. His cheerfulness had evaporated. “He was in ‘ere las night, he was. Kickin’ up a stir… Bad blud in that one,” he said. “Yer can’t see a soul behin’ dem eyes.”
Luther nodded in agreement, his head bobbing in excitement. “Last night? Just last night? Did he say where he was heading next?”
“Now tha’ be the ting, see? I thought it was sorta’ odd, see? That man…” he took a massive slurp of his beer and Luther saw a few drops spill down the front of his stained shirt. “That man was in ‘ere and yellin’ that it was time for ‘im to get back home to ‘is wife. Can you ‘magine? A man like ‘im? With a wife? Pfft.” The man snorted. Luther rather thought he saw him swallow one of his own rotting teeth, but a scalding wave of igneous terror had gripped him. Mace was heading back to Silverpines.
He was off his seat and half way out the door before his drunken companion had realized that he had moved.
“Oi!” he shouted after Luther. “Yer be careful with all that, ye ‘ear?”
Luther did not respond. His mind was so completely focused on his new information that he nearly missed the scene unfolding on his left.
“Foswick!! You’re a blasted cheat!!!”
Luther dodged out of the way just in time. The group of men that had been sitting at the table nearest him had all drew back and scattered as the largest man stood, seized his chair, lifted it from the ground and brought it smashing down onto the top of another man’s head. In his wild swing, he only just missed concussing Luther with the back of the chair, but Luther’s ears had perked up at the name ‘Foswick’.
He turned around to see a rather mole-like individual raising his hands to cover his balding head from another crashing blow.
“Hold it!” Luther bellowed, striding over to grab the man’s fist. Large as he was, Luther was still a good six inches taller and broader than him. He saw the man’s eyes narrow with fury.
“He’s a lousy, no-good, rotten cheat!” the attacker spat into Luther’s face.
“Here,” said Luther, and he dropped a stack of coin onto the table. “Your winnings,” he said, snagging the man called Foswick by the back of his coat. “Rest assured, he will be dealt with,” he growled, glowering down at the dazed expression of the little man, who was peering up at Luther through a pair of thick spectacles. “He’s got quite a few crimes to answer to, actually.”
Chapter Twelve
Luther purchased a large and rather astoundingly inexpensive mule, onto which he placed an ill-fitting saddle and a still-dazed solicitor by the name of Abernathy Foswick.
He tied the man back to front and stuck his legs through the shortened stirrups so that there was no possibility of his escaping, and they set off.
By the time the sun had risen, his captive solicitor was howling for a lawyer. “You’ve no right to treat people this way!” he squalled at the top of his lungs. “Release me, I say!”
Luther chuckled as they slid through the shadows of the trees around them. “I am a lawyer,” he said. “Would you like me to represent you?” He turned in his saddle to peer at the back of the solicitor’s head and was not at all surprised when he immediately fell silent. After a few moments, he asked, “What is it that you want with me?”
Luther turned back to face the dirt road before them. “First,” he said, inhaling through his nose. “You’re going to return the money you stole from Victoria Rhyan, and then you’re going to return the rest of the money you stole from the town of Silverpines.”
“I ain’t got none of it left!” bawled the man. “If I did, you could have it!”
“I was worried you might say that,” grumbled Luther. He shook his head. What good would it do Victoria if the thief had already drained every last dime on the tables? He sighed. At the very least, having the man in custody would relieve the blame from her shoulders. “Get on, Georgia. We’re in a rush.”
Dark clouds swirled overhead as they rode, echoing the unrelieved blackness of Luther’s furious determination.
They arrived in Silverpines at a gallop, Abernathy Foswick jolting along backwards and looking utterly foolish. In truth, if Luther hadn’t been so panicked about the fact that Mace was on his way here right now, he thought that he might have rather enjoyed the sight of the balding little man getting a tiny taste of his comeuppance. The people of Silverpines stared shamelessly as they passed. Luther saw mouths popping open in astonishment all around.
He dismounted in front of the Marshal’s office before Georgia had drawn to a halt and tied her reins hastily to the hitching post outside of it.
“Marshal?” he pounded on the door, keeping his eyes peeled for signs of Mace. His cousin was bound to be close by.
Distracted, he didn’t notice when the door of the jailhouse had been pulled open. Still looking around, Luther raised his fist to knock again, and his knuckles thudded against the chest of a man just a touch shorter than him, with dark hair tied back from his face.
“Mar—Oh, my apologies,” Luther took a quick step back. “Marshal?” he spotted the badge on the man’s chest.
“Sewell,” said the man. “Marshal Sewell.”
They shook hands, and Luther saw Marshal Sewell’s sharp eyes dart over Luther’s shoulder, taking in the awkward sight of Mr. Foswick tied back to front on the mule. “Er—What can I do for you?”
“I am afraid that I’m rather short on time to explain,” Luther said. He strolled over to the old mule and hastily removed the ropes binding Mr. Foswick to the saddle. Tugging him to the ground, Luther shoved the solicitor onto his knees. “This is a gift for Mrs. Victoria Rhyan,” he said. “She’ll know what to do with him.”
The Marshal’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “Who—I’m sorry, but who the devil are you?”
Luther grinned and tipped his hat. “Luther Garrison,” he said. He seiz
ed Georgia’s saddle horn and heaved himself back up onto her back. When his gaze found the Marshal’s once more, Luther saw that his eyes had widened in sudden recognition. “And I’d thank you to keep the devil out of it,” he added with a wink.
With that, he spun Georgia around and dug his heels into her sides. As she cantered off, his mind spun in a wild panic. He had to find Tobias. He had to warn his friend that Mace Thorne was on his way to Silverpines.
He took off down the street and tugged Georgia to a halt in front of the Saloon. “I’m looking for Tobias Clayborne,” he said to the handful of women loitering there.
One of the women sitting on a bench outside looked up. Her heavily made-up face was streaked with tears. “Help him,” she begged. “You only just missed him. He rode off after Mace Thorne and his lot.”
Luther’s blood ran cold. Was he too late? Would he be responsible, again, for slaughter and death at the hands of his cousin?
“Which way?!” he bellowed as Georgia pranced her feet.
The woman’s hands were twisting in her lap, but she stood and pointed with a shaking hand down Main Street. “They live on Thornockle. Mace wants to kill him. I heard him say it. Go! Quickly!”
Luther didn’t need telling twice.
He shot off down Main Street like a bullet from a gun and tore through Silverpines, his heart pounding against his ribs. Too. Late. Too. Late. Clouds of dust flew into the air around him. He felt like he was moving in a dream. The world around him seemed to have become thick and slow.
The townsfolk that had witnessed his passing with Mr. Foswick stood just as they had before. None of them seemed to have moved. The only signs of life that existed within them seemed to be the slow turning of their heads. They gaped at him as he flew by. Workers atop rooftops froze in the act of hammering nails into beams. A Barber outside his shop closed his scissors on his client’s beard, creating a jagged line, but Luther was too terrified to take notice. He was moving so fast that he missed his turn and had to double back. There it was. Thornockle. He jerked Georgia’s head to the right and moments later, he was dragging on the reins.
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