A Brother's Price

Chapter 13

Jerin’s father liked to say, “Over. Done. Gone.” It settled many fights between his siblings, with no lasting hard feelings. They all struggled to meet their father’s high expectations. With maturity Jerin realized that you needed that release from anger, to put it behind you. in order to work ahead. As children, his parents forced them to put the hurt aside. As an adult, he had to find the power to decide he had raged long enough, that his anger had served its purpose, and move on.

The news that Keifer’s infidelity had left no lasting harm helped. And the serial prenuptial sex worked wonders. So the next morning, at a cheerful breakfast with his wives on the balcony, he decided it was time.

The novelty of the husband quarters was wearing off, and he noticed now how shabby they were. The carpets were threadbare. The divans were battered from the princesses’ roughhousing on them. Sun rot and moths tattered the drapes. The ceiling needed paint where damage from roof leaks had been repaired. Some of the ivory had been picked off the keys on the grand piano. Even the wallpaper was worse for wear, grubby from tiny hands as high as a child might reach, and peeling at the very top at every point the water damage had reached. What surprised him most was that Keifer hadn’t made any changes.

Odelia shrugged it aside when he mentioned it. “He was lazy.”

“He liked to make himself pretty,” Trini said. “He didn’t care about how the room looked.”

Lylia pointed out, “Father didn’t want the fuss of redecorating, and Keifer died only a few months after Father.”

“Keifer came up with some plans before he died,” Ren said. “It would have bankrupted the country. He wanted to gold leaf the ceiling.” She took a bite from her toast, thinking for a moment before continuing.

“And to tear out the floor and put new marble in- and mirrors over the beds. He and Eldest would have screaming fights over it, and he’d lock her out of the quarters.”

“So he could be with his lovers” echoed between them without being said.

“If you make a list of what needs to be done,” Ren said, “and give it to Barnes, she’ll line up the workers.”

“It would be expensive,” Jerin said.

“Don’t plan on gilding the ceiling, leave the floors be, and I’m sure it will be a reasonable amount. It needs to be done, love.”

Jerin gazed through the windows to the massive set of rooms. “Are we going to do all the work ourselves?”

“Good gods, no!” Ren laughed. “The workers will be closely supervised, though, and you’ll have to stay someplace else. It would take forever if we tried to do it on top of our other work.”

“I can paint-” he started to offer, but Ren put fingers over his lips.

“I don’t want you up on the tall ladders it would take to paint the ceiling or hang the wallpaper. Besides, with a crew of ten or twenty women, the work would be done shortly. Think like a commander, love, not a private.”

He kissed her fingers. “I’ll try.”

Barnes knocked on the door an hour later. He looked out the spy hole, saw her and the guards that bracketed his door, and undid the lock.

“I just finished,” he told Barnes while they stood in the doorway. “I think it would be nice to go with the yellow silk, like in the guest room. It’s very cheerful. That wallpaper wouldn’t stand up to children well, though, so I was wondering, could we put in wainscoting?”

Barnes looked puzzled a moment, then nodded. “Ah, refurbishing the suite. Yes, wainscot is certainly doable.”

“The drapes could be the yellow silk, but the divans and carpets should be something darker, so they don’t show dirt. I was thinking green.”

“I could have samples sent up for you to choose from.”

Jerin winced. He was hoping to avoid anything that resembled his time with the tailor, looking at dozens of fabrics that all seemed fine to him, and needing to chose one. “If I must.”

“I will try to make it as painless as possible,” Barnes assured him.

“Let me get the list.” He left her at the door to fetch his list. Their conversation had already covered most of the main points. “The piano needs work. I-I would like to learn how to play it.”

“You don’t play?” Barnes seemed surprised, then looked as if she regretted letting it show.

“We didn’t own a piano,” Jerin told her quietly.

“I see. Arrangements can be made, with the Highnesses’ permission.” Barnes slipped an envelope out of her coat’s breast pocket. “A letter came for you from your sisters.”

Jerin took the letter quickly. “Thank you, Barnes. That will be all.” He ducked back into his quarters, blushing hotly. He had written his sisters shortly after the true depth of Keifer’s betrayal came to light, but before Ren’s announcement of being disease free. Initially he meant it to be a short, politely worded warning that he might be returned to them. His anger and fears, however, had spilled out onto the paper, all the sordid details. It ended with “ Damn Keifer, damn him, damn him,” which, he later realized, might seem deranged. When he gave the letter to Ren to post, even its haphazardly folded, ink-splattered appearance seemed slightly maniacal.

The letter back from his sisters looked so sane and unremarkable compared with what he had mailed out. Its looks, he discovered, were purposely deceiving.

Burn this, it started, once you have read it. You and your wives are in grave danger. We researched the Porters when they offered for you, and came across a piece of information that did not make sense until your letter. Eldest Porter and Kij were born to a husband who died a month after the wedding. The rest of the family was fathered by the Tibler husband. Tiblers apparently have a genetic quirk of eleven toes. According to their birth certificates, half the Porter daughters born to the Tibler line have this quirk. The Porter mothers and, of course, Kij do not. Kij’s daughter, however, has eleven toes. She could only be fathered by a Tibler. The second husband died two years prior to the birth of Kij’s daughter. Kij must have been Keifer’s blonde lover. If the princesses are digging for new information, pushing to find this lover, then the Porters must act. Tell this information to your wives in private. Warn them to be careful. The Porters have proved to be extremely dangerous, and they are being backed into a corner. Do not underestimate them! Do not let the Porters know that you have this information until they can be safely taken into custody! Do not trust the palace guard or even the Barneses with this information; anyone can be bribed. We are coming as quickly as possible. If you need anything before we reach you, remember your aunts are as close as Annaboro. BURN THIS LETTER! Eldest.

He stood, shocked still, his eyes dragged back to the line “Kij must have been Keifer’s lover.” Vividly in his imagination, he saw them in the royal wedding bed, twin blond heads bent close together, Kij’s arms and legs clinging to her brother’s humping body, Keifer’s incestuous seed spilling into his sister’s womb.

Cullen had told Jerin about Kij’s daughter, supposedly a product of a grief-triggered visit to a crib. Did Kij’s sisters know the truth? Had Keifer slept with his other sisters too, with only Kij becoming pregnant? As a younger sister, Kij could have carried a child without anyone outside the family being any the wiser. As Eldest, however, she would be in the public eye, and her pregnancy had to be explained.

And she had explained it well-no one until now even questioned the daughter’s parentage. How well Kij must lie, to baldly claim not to know the identity of her daughter’s father. To claim not to know who was Keifer’s lover!

The letter in Jerin’s hand trembled violently. Ren had told Kij that they knew Keifer had taken a lover!

She told Kij that they wouldn’t rest until the lover was found! If Keifer’s lover was head of the cannon thieves, then Kij was quite capable of murder. Jerin reeled then, realizing that Kij had murdered the entire Wainwright family, and the crew of the Onward, and all the troops shot down with grapeshot in Mayfair’s streets.

Murderous Kij knew that Ren was looking for her! Surely Kij would strike first!

He flung down the letter and rushed to the door, throwing the single lock he normally kept looked, and jerked the door open. The guard turned with surprise.

“I need to speak with Princess Rennsellaer!”

“She’s at court,” the guard said.

“Send a messenger. Tell her I need to see her immediately. It’s urgent!”

“She’ll be back within a few hours.”

“This is critical, I must talk-”

“Surely anything you require could wait until she returns.”

“If you won’t send a messenger, then I’ll go myself!”

That struck home. “Sir, a messenger will be sent.”

Jerin shut the door and carefully threw the entire series of heavy bolts, feeling safer with every clank.

After the betrothal, Ren had returned all of the Whistlers’ weapons, including Jerin’s, as a gesture of goodwill. He had put his in his wedding chest, thinking then that neither he nor any son he fathered would ever have need of them. He retrieved them now, checking over them out of habit. He had unloaded and cleaned the palm-sized derringer when he stored it. After double-checking that the pistol was unloaded, he tested the hammer, trigger, and firing pin. Satisfied it was in perfect working order, he loaded it.

Afterward, he sat on his wedding chest, heart pounding as if he had run a race. Why was he so scared?

He was perfectly safe. It was his wives who were in danger.

Am I, he asked himself, or am I not a Whistler? He might be a man, but he was also trained by the best spies the country had ever known. If his wives were in danger, he had to act. If Ren took his summons no more seriously than the door guard, then she might put off her return for hours. Surely every minute he delayed gave Kij Porter a minute to act without suspicion.

And if he waited for Ren to ride to the palace, hear what he had to say, and act upon his news, then Odelia, Trini, and Lylia-still at the courthouse-would remain in danger.

He had to go to Ren himself, and tell her about Kij.

The royal tailors had made him a walking coat to replace his old brown robe. However, it was nearly as revealing as the formfitting trousers he currently wore. Nor did it have any pockets. He changed quickly into his old walking robe, and slipped the derringer into the pocket designed to hide the pistol’s bulk. His stash pouch, with lockpicks, matches, money, and other emergency needs, he strapped up under his robe, snug to his waist. Only the most thorough of searches would find it. He also strapped the shin sheath to his right leg, fluffing his robe so it would resettle around his ankles, hiding the knife. He stood looking at his deceptive reflection, a picture of mildness.

He started for the door, and then spotted Eldest’s letter lying open on his writing desk. What an idiot!

Kij had defiled the sanctity of the husbands’ quarters once. If she or one of her agents found the letter, all was lost. He burned it, crouching before the fireplace.

It was the slightest noise that made him look up.

A strange woman stood in his bedroom door.

Their eyes locked in mutual surprise, and then the sharp, weasel-faced woman gave a smile full of evil promises, and came at him at a run.

Jerin yelped in surprise and terror, and half scuttled, half stumbled back and up.

There were other strangers, not one a Porter sister, coming out of the bedrooms. Five, all running toward him.

He shouted as he ran for the entry door. As he fumbled with the locks, he heard his guards calling on the other side of the door. Then the weasel-faced woman caught him by the hair, jerking him backward, out of reach of the locks. It felt like his scalp would rip from his skull. He screamed in pain, and spun. The woman wasn’t expecting him to fight, and went down to his punch.

The others, however, took him like a flood.

Ren had dithered.

It would shame her to the end of her days, that the man she loved had sent for her, and she hadn’t hurried to him, almost ignored his message completely.

Ren found the palace in chaos, the guard bristling with weapons, charging across the grounds. Barnes hurried out to meet her as she dismounted, pain filling the old woman’s face.

“Your Highness, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We tried. We could hear him calling for help, but we couldn’t get through the door. I’m sorry.”

Ren stared at her in horror, trying to understand, but it was like hearing a foreign language; the words wouldn’t take meaning. “What?”

“We broke the door down, but by then-” Barnes spread her hands helplessly. “We were too late.”

“No.” Nothing could have happened to Jerin. She just saw him this morning. She was coming to talk to him. “No.”

Then her legs started to run, taking her racing through the palace before she even knew where she was headed. She was calling his name.

The door to the husband quarters lay on the floor, the doorframe in splinters where the hinges had been pulled out. She paused in the doorway, suddenly fearful of what she’d find. The room was tomb silent.

An overturned divan was the only sign of violence.

Footsteps ran up behind her. “Your Highness.”

“Where is he?” she whispered.

“They took him.” Barnes’s voice cracked, and she worried her hands together. “They must have come in through the bolt-hole, caught him, and taken him out. I delivered a letter from his sisters around ten. A few minutes later he sent for you. The messenger had no more than ridden off when he started to cry for help. The guard heard other voices in with him. We broke down the doors-but it was too late.”

“He’s not dead!” She clutched at that. It was nearly one now-he had been gone for less than three hours.

“They’ve gotten clean away. We’ve sent messengers to the Queens Justice. We’re starting a citywide search.”

Ren dashed to Jerin’s bedroom and the dressing room beyond. “The gardens. The bolt-hole comes out in the gardens.”

“We’ve searched the grounds.” Barnes stayed at the door out of habit. “There were eight or nine in all.

They split up. Half went over the back wall with him. The rest decoyed the guard away. We were able to kill one. River trash! Common river trash!”

The bolt-hole door stood open. Ren stopped at the sight of it. Surely the guards already checked the passage. Black handprints surrounded the door, as if someone with soot-covered hands had struggled to keep the door closed. Jerin? But why the soot? She looked carefully at the marks. Among the many handprints, the word “Kij” had been hastily written, sooty fingerprints dotting the i and j.

Kij? Kij had taken Jerin? The Destiny had steamed out of Mayfair yesterday, and the palace guards knew her former sisters-in-law on sight.

The consort has something urgent to tell you.

“Barnes?”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“You said a letter came from his sisters?”

“Yes. I handed it to him personally.”

“And a few minutes later, he sent for me?”

“Yes.”

In the fire pit, she found the remains of the letter; a single piece of curled blackened paper remained intact. Very little remained legible… fathered by a Tibler… pushing to find this lover, then the Porters must act. Tell this information to your wives in private. Warn them to be careful. The Porters have proved to be extremely dangerous… Remember your aunts are as close as Annaboro .

Kij? With sickening clarity, she knew then. The Porters had lured the princesses into marriage, and then used Keifer to deal them death. He poisoned her father. He had been the one who demanded they go to a theater filled with explosives. He had been the one who delayed their arrival, preventing any search for danger. The royal family never suspected the Porters-too many of them had died that night too.

Thinking back, now knowing Kij’s ruthlessness, Ren realized that only the feeblest of the Porter mothers had been at the box. Had Keifer known that he had been walking into a death trap? Or had Kij kept him ignorant of it all?

No, Ren couldn’t believe Keifer was innocent. He took too much pleasure in hurting her and her sisters.

Keifer’s and Eldest Porter’s deaths must have been an accident-perhaps Keifer misunderstood the Porters’ instructions and wasn’t supposed to go himself. Certainly the Porters never tried to explain why Eldest Porter had arrived so late, or used the back entrance. Had she been rushing to save Keifer, who wasn’t where they planned him to be?

If Keifer hadn’t died in the theater, who would have been next on the Porters’ list? Her mothers and all the adult princesses, leaving the Porters regent to the youngest? The entire family?

Yes. the entire family. Sisters-in-law inherit an orphaned estate. They were an ancient and powerful family, lacking only a royal marriage, thus Jerin’s kidnapping.

If the Porters planned to marry Jerin, then there was hope. They would keep him alive, and hopefully clean. Logic suggested that they would take him to the Destiny, and from there, upriver to above Hera’s Step to the ducal seat, Avonar. She needed only to catch up with them before they could force the marriage.

And then she had vengeance to wreak.

Jerin woke to female voices arguing. For a moment of complete disorientation, he thought he was home with his sisters squabbling as usual. Then he remembered the attack at the palace, the desperate struggle to leave a warning for Ren as they dragged him from his rooms, the entry door booming like a great drum as the guard tried to force their way in. His attackers had been hampered by the fact that they wanted him unharmed-if they had wanted him dead, he would have never been able to fight free long enough to write his message on the wall.

At one point, though, one of them had whined. “Give it to him, already!” and a needle had jabbed into him like a wasp’s sting. Everything went weird and dreamy after that. A race down a dark tunnel. The garden from an upside-down perspective. A wagon ride with wheels rumbling like unending thunder. It seemed as if the true him had been shrunk down, caught like a butterfly in a glass jar. and was riding in the large shell of his body. That tiny him, unable to act. watched with helpless alarm as they slipped out of the city and took to the Queens highway before sleep finally spared him the agony of witnessing his own abduction.

“Just tell us straight-how did ya know it was us that nabbed the royal mount?” a woman was saying as he woke up.

“I guessed,” a second woman answered in a cultured alto that seemed familiar, as if Jerin had talked to her before. “Anyone with two ears and two eyes could see that the Hats tapped you for something big, and then this turns up.”

There was a rustle of newspaper.

“Ya know we can’t read, Miss High-and-mighty.” a third female speaker growled.

“Well, Bert, if you could read anything but Hat cant, you’d see that you now have what the entire Queensland is looking for.” Miss High-and-mighty stated in her strangely familiar voice. “The Hats told you to take him. Fen? Or you just figured to do a little husband raiding while you were in the palace?”

“We did exactly what we were supposed ta do. Take the boy.” Fen proved to be the first speaker.

“Iffen ya want ta know more, ya can ask the Hats when they come for him.”

“What do they want with him?”

A short nasty laugh, and a fourth woman said, “I expect what any healthy woman would want with a man that pretty.”

In the general laughter that followed, Jerin picked out at least seven separate female voices. Seven strangers! Oh, merciful gods, he was lost. He wished he could sink back into oblivion, but now that he was awake, his body was making demands on him. He needed to pee and his stomach was queasy, like he’d eaten too many sweets.

He blinked open his eyes. They were in a shack, large enough for two good-sized rooms with a door between them, but river-trash poor in quality. The walls lacked plaster and whitewash, and were made of roughhewn lumber nailed to framing timbers. Sod covered the roof, pale fingers of grass roots prying at the cracks between the overhead boards. One paneless window, its outside shutters latched tight, a shipping crate standing in as bedside table, a lit oil lamp, and the bed he lay on made up the furnishings of the room he was in. The voices spilled through the open door from the next room; shadows cast by a second lamp moved menacingly across the rough walls. A girl, filthy-faced and feral-eyed, stood in the doorway, a finger digging into her nose.

“He’s awake,” the girl intoned with the same disinterest a kettle of boiling water might raise.

“Get away from him, Dossy,” Miss High-and-mighty said.

“Ya ain’t my sister.” Dossy stared on at him.

“If I was, I would wallop you good for not listening.” Miss High-and-mighty walked closer. “I told you to stay away from him.”

“I ain’t ever seen a man before,” Dossy said.

A hand reached into the room, caught the girl by the scruff, and jerked her back into the other room, out of sight. Miss High-and-mighty muttered softly, “With any luck, you’ll never see another one.” She stepped into the room, a chair in hand. With a hollow thunk, the chair was set beside the bed he lay on, and a black-haired woman sat down on it. She gazed at him with infinite sadness on her face.

Jerin blinked at Miss High-and-mighty a few moments, recognizing the woman but not knowing from where. Then he remembered. She had been at the landing when they arrived at the summer palace. She had stolen a kiss from him. Did this time she steal more than a kiss? “What have you done to me?”

“You haven’t been touched.” Miss High-and-mighty reached out a hand and he flinched away. “Easy. easy, it’s just a towel.” When he held still, she dabbed at his forehead with the damp rag. “Nobody is going to touch you. I promise you.”

“Don’t go giving promises ya can’t keep!” Bert called from the next room, and there was snickering.

Anger flared in Miss High-and-mighty’s eyes, the muscles in her jaw jumping as she gritted her teeth.

She didn’t speak, only continued to carefully clean his face with the gentleness of a mother.

His left hand was caught somehow above his head, the back of his wrist pressed against the cold bars of the brass bed. Twisting his head up, he saw that iron manacles shackled him to the bed. He stared at them with sick dread.

“Easy,” High-and-mighty murmured again. When he glanced at her. she was glaring at the manacles, the anger in her green eyes at odds with her soft murmur of, “Everything will be fine.”

“Who are you?” Jerin asked, shifting slightly until he felt the comforting lump of his emergency stash.

She looked troubled and busied herself at refolding the rag to a clean corner. “Cira.”

“If you take me back to the palace, my wives will pay twice what the Hats offered you.” Jerin struggled to keep his voice firm and authoritative.

“Fen?” Cira raised her voice without turning, ‘it’s a good offer.“

“The Hats are paying us in hard cash and land.” Fen called from the next room. “Them bitches in Mayfair will just string us up to dance by our necks.”

Jerin scrambled for a better offer. “Then to Anna-boro, I have kin there. They can get you three times what the Hats offer without my wives in the deal. You can buy your own land with it.”

The sister or mother of the girl came to lean against the doorframe. She worked a wad of chewing tobacco between her back teeth. “Boy.” By her voice, he knew her to be Fen. “I’m no fool. No one has that kind of money just sitting around except the nobles, and yer just poor gentry. Everyone says so.”

“They can borrow the money from the bank when it opens. They’ve got a mercantile that they can take a loan against. My wives will pay them back.”

Fen spat on the floor. “Mercantiles? Nah, they won’t beggar themselves on the hopes yer royal bitches will have you back. Everyone knows that those sluts nearly turned ya out once ‘cause they thought one of them caught something riding the wrong horse.”

The truth of her words hit him like a hard slap. Much as Ren might love him, she wouldn’t dare take him back without being sure he was clean. He had to get away from these women, quickly.

“Cira. I have to wee-wee.” He used the baby word and tried to look helpless.

“Who has the key to these manacles?” Cira said.

“He’s a man!” Fen shrugged. “He doesn’t have to get up to piss.”

“What if he has to void?” Cira said.

Fen spit on the floor. “If he has to shit, he’s got room to move around some. I saw to it myself.”

Jerin noted that the loop of steel latched to the bed could indeed ride the bar from straight over his head down to the bed rails. He could get out of the bed, stand, and reach the length of his outstretched arms.

He kept himself from experimenting-no need to let them know how mobile he was.

“This isn’t decent,” Cira growled. “You don’t treat menfolk like this.”

“I really need to wee-wee and poo.” Jerin added the second to buy himself more time. He had to get free before one of them decided to rape him.

“There’s the piss pot.” Fen spit into it to point it out.

“For gods’ sake, give him privacy.” Cira brushed past Fen and went into the next room.

“Fine with me.” Fen caught the loop of rope serving as a doorknob on the crude door. “We were told not to touch him. That’s what they’re paying well for. and I’m not going to nick this deal by not giving them what they want.”

As the door shut, Cira said, “If we take him now. straight from the palace to his aunts’ store, then everyone can count on their fingers and know that there wasn’t time for rides on the side.”

Jerin held still, waiting for the answer.

“We?” Fen’s voice was muffled now, but he could tell that she had brushed off the suggestion without giving it any serious thought. “There’s no ‘we’ here. There’s us and you. Don’t come crowding in here, after the work is done, with yer hand outstretched.”

Jerin lifted the loop of metal, ran it down the headboard to its farthest reach, and slipped out of the bed.

He relieved himself in the chamber pot.

“Who got you out of that mess in Sarahs Bend?” Cira countered. “You would have been hung if I hadn’t bribed the Queens Justice.”

“That’s the only reason,” Bert said, “that I didn’t plug ya dead when ya waltzed in here unannounced like.”

“I’ve seen you shoot,” Cira drawled. “I wasn’t in any danger.”

As the women laughed like baying dogs, Jerin slipped his lockpick out of his stash pack, stabbed the stiff wires into the keyhole, and fished about carefully, while his heart hammered in his chest. All the winter days he and his sisters spent playing thieves, hiding in the shadows, seeing who could pick locks the fastest, and he never dreamed he’d have need for the skill.

“Iffen we’re doing this sister thing,” a new speaker said, making the count of women to be eight, “maybe we should count Cira in too. We could use someone with book learning and smarts like her.”

There was a moment of silence from the other room.

The click of the lock springing open seemed loud as thunder. Jerin paused, listening, poised to fall back into the bed and pretend helpless innocence.

“Sister thing?” Cira asked.

“When we git this land,” Dossy said, “we’re going ta tell folks that we’re sisters.”

“You seven?” Cira’s voice was full of disbelief.

“Mothers did it by tens.” Fen meant that they would claim that their “mothers” had visited cribs to explain how they were all sisters. “Been done before. You interested?”

Jerin stepped quietly to the bedroom window. The shack stood on pier footings, a stone’s throw from the river. A barn loomed against the night sky, some fifty feet away; the soft noises of restless horses came from it.

Cira said, without any real excitement, “Perhaps.”

“We’re not making this offer to everyone,” Fen said. “Greddy’s right, though-yer a sharp one, through and through.”

Jerin wavered at the window. He’d be running blind in an area they knew well. If he just slipped away, the moment they realized he was gone, they’d be on him like a pack of dogs. He might not get any farther than the barn. He needed to throw them into confusion. He turned back to the room.

“You’ll be the Eldest?” Cira was asking.

“Ah,” Fen replied. “So that’s it-ya want to be Eldest? Greedy little bitch.”

“I’ve done second in line,” Cira said. “It doesn’t work too well.”

“Ha!” Bert cried. “Ya got thrown out for back talking to your Eldest?”

“Let’s just say,” Cira said, “that some of the parties involved thought I was usurping my sister’s authority and it would be best that 1 leave.”

As the women howled in laughter, Jerin shoved the limp pillows under the ratty blanket. He unscrewed the top of the lamp and poured its oil out onto the bed. Plucking the hot chimney free of the tines on top that kept the glass from shifting, he carefully he laid the top-lit wick and all-down on the cover.

Hopefully the wick would act as a fuse. He was lowering himself out the window when the bed went up in a soft muffled whoof.

He landed with a jolt that went up his right leg. He folded to the ground with pain, clutching his ankle.

Light and smoke spilled out the window above him. Steeling himself against the pain, he limped as fast as he could to the barn. It leaned precariously, the roof was sway-backed, and the air inside was rank with rotting hay. A dozen horses stood waiting in box stalls, their bridles hanging from pegs. He unlatched all the stall doors and tossed all but one bridle into the dark corners. Back at the shack, the window framed a brilliant blaze-how had they not noticed the fire yet?

Returning to the first stall, he slipped in beside the horse there with the last bridle in hand. Then his escape, which had been going so smoothly, stuttered, as he fumbled with the straps of leather and pieces of metal in the dark.

“Come on. Come on,” he whispered.

A shout went up from the house. The fire had been discovered. Desperate now, he urged the bit into the horse’s mouth and tried to fit the headpiece over its ears, only to discover he had the bridle upside down.

Jerin removed the bit, flipped the bridle around, and coaxed the bit back into the horse’s mouth. As he pulled the headpiece into place, someone stumbled into the stable.

The horse startled forward, forcing Jerin to step backward. Pain flared up his leg. He bit down on a gasp, but not quickly enough.

Cira’s voice came out of the darkness. “Who’s there?”

“I’ve got a gun.” Jerin tried to keep his voice calm as he pulled out his pistol and leveled it at her. It was so heavy for something so small. “I know how to use it. I will use it.”

“Jerin!” Cira cried, and launched herself at him.

If it had been one of the other women, he would have pulled the trigger. He was sure he would have. He tried to tighten his finger, to pull the trigger, to kill her, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. Her acts of respect and kindness flashed through his mind, freezing him in place.

She caught hold of him in a crushing hug, pressing a damp cheek to his. “Oh, thank the gods, oh, thank the gods, oh, thank the gods,” she breathed like a mantra into his ear. Then she was kissing him, a desperate hungry kiss.

He jerked out of her hold, whimpering in pain as he put weight on his bad ankle again. “I’ve got a gun. I know how to use it. Please, don’t make me.”

“I’m not part of them, Jerin.” The flame from the shack gleamed on her pale face. “On my word. I came to save you.”

“I can save myself.”

“I can see that.” Her tone almost seemed like admiration. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t trust you!”

They stood, facing each other, as the fire crept through the shack’s ceiling to feast on the dried sod roof.

“You’re not going to believe anything I say, are you?” she said quietly.

“No.” He motioned with his gun. “Back up.”

She backed up, giving him plenty of room to run. He swung up onto the smooth back of the horse and took it.