Pemberley Ranch

The three crept along the carpeted hallway, peeking into first the parlor, then the sitting room. It wasn’t until Jones got to the dining room that any sound was made.

“Oh, my God!”

The sheriff and Darcy looked into a scene of horror. The sun shone through the curtains, moving in the morning breeze, the light glowing off the yellow paint of the walls and gleaming hardwood of the table. Unfinished breakfast plates and one overturned coffee cup were on the table. And there was a man slumped over a plate, a dark red substance staining the tablecloth, while the chair at the head of the table had fallen over, partially hiding a woman’s body.

“Cate!” Darcy gasped. Disregarding any danger, he ran to his cousin’s side, knowing all the while he was too late. And he was—Catherine Burroughs had been shot in the torso, her body still warm to the touch.

The sheriff was by the side of the male victim while Jones remained at the doorway. “It’s Judge Phillips,” Lucas said. “He’s dead—shot in the chest.” He looked over. “Miz Burroughs, too?”

“Yes,” Darcy croaked, his emotions a whirl. He had had his disagreements with Catherine, and he couldn’t say he actually liked her, but to see his cousin’s murdered body was a shock. He glanced at her face. Now, only in death, had her dour face relaxed into something other than the hard woman he had known all his life.

Anne! His mind screamed. Darcy stood with a jerk. “They’ve been murdered, and my cousin, Anne, may be next. Come on.”

The three dashed out of the room, heedless of the noise, heading for the stairs. Before Darcy reached the first step, he heard shouting—several voices, Fitz’s among them. A second later, there was the explosion of gunfire. Darcy tried to run as fast as he could, fear almost overwhelming him. Am I too late again?

He turned at the landing to see three men crouched at the head of the stairs. Fitzwilliam! They glanced down at them, guns pointed, before lowering them. Just as Darcy and the others reached them, they stood. Darcy didn’t wait—he pushed through the group and down the upstairs hallway.

He got only two steps before coming to a dead halt. A man lay prone on the floor before what he knew to be Anne’s room. Darcy turned to his foreman, the obvious question on his face.

“Not me,” said Fitz. “The shot came from inside the bedroom. He fell as if someone shot him in the back.”

“Who’s there?” came an uneven female voice from the bedroom.

“Annie! It’s Will! I’m here with help!”

“Will!” the woman screamed. Darcy and the others ran forward, stepping over the body and into the bedroom. There, against the far wall, was a terrified Anne Burroughs. There was another person in the room, or rather, in her closet, a smoking double-barreled shotgun in his trembling hands.

“Bartholomew!” Darcy cried, hands up in the air. “Don’t shoot! It’s me!”

“Mr. Darcy. Oh, thank God! Thank God you’ve come.” The aged butler lowered his weapon as Anne dashed over to support him.

Anne spoke as the two made their way to a chair, Darcy helping them. “He… he was trying to get in… We heard gunshots… We hid. Mother? What happened to Mother? Is Mother all right?”

Darcy struggled to speak, but it wasn’t necessary—his face told all. Anne went white, and Darcy had to hold up his distraught cousin as Bartholomew half-fell into a chair. It would be some moments before Darcy could leave the room. He found the others looking at the dead man, his body showing the results of taking a load of buckshot at close range.

Sheriff Lucas looked around. “You think this is the only intruder?”

“Why don’t you go find out, you old fool?” Fitzwilliam spat.

Darcy sighed. Well, that good feeling didn’t last long. “Why don’t you and the others check out the house, Sheriff? Fitz, you go with him. I’ll stay here with… who is it, Fitz?”

Fitz turned the dead man’s face to the side. “Pyke. It’s Pyke.” Fitz stood and, sharing a relatively friendly look with Lucas, set off down the hallway.

Fifteen minutes later, the group assembled in the study, Darcy taking care that Anne did not look into the dining room. There were signs that the room had been ransacked, but Catherine’s safe was still locked.

“If I had to venture a guess,” Lucas said, “it seems Pyke ki… er, did away with the others before he came in here, lookin’ for money. He must’ve been panicked, seeing how he, umm… did that,” he gestured toward the dining room, “afore he come in here. He didn’t get the combination first. Stupid.”

Darcy grimaced. He knew the oaf was trying not to upset Anne, yet he kept talking anyway.

Anne stopped sobbing into a handkerchief. “We… we heard arguing before two gunshots. That’s what gave Bartholomew time to get a gun and get me in my room. That man… came up after a few minutes, shouting for money, saying I’d be all right if I did as he said. But I didn’t believe him. He broke in the door—Bartholomew was in the closet—I thought that man was going to kill me.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” the butler said in his usual unperturbed manner, now that he had time to compose himself. “I was trying to ‘get the drop on him,’ I think it’s called. Mr. Fitzwilliam’s distraction was most timely.”

Darcy walked over to shake Bartholomew’s hand. “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved Anne’s life for sure.”

A flicker of emotion passed in the butler’s eyes. “Seeing to Miss Anne has always been more than my duty, Mr. Darcy. She’s been, well, like the daughter I’ll never have. I only ask to go with her wherever she lives.”

“I can assure you of that,” Darcy promised him. He then ordered Fitz and the others to prepare a wagon for Anne and Bartholomew. He knew he needed to get them out of the house as soon as possible—and inform the undertaker he had more business ahead.

“My God,” breathed Tom Bennet as he and Darcy shared a drink in the study at the Bennet farm. “What will happen to Miss Anne now?”

Darcy sat in an armchair across from the farmer, Beth seated next to him, holding one of his hands in hers. “I don’t know. We’ve sent her to Pemberley, she and Bartholomew both, and Charles is seeing to her. She’s got a home with me as long as she wants. I don’t know what’s to become of her, except I can’t figure she’d ever want to go back to the B&R.”

“Will Charles be able to do anything for her?” asked Beth.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I guess he’ll give her something to help her sleep. That’ll help tonight, but tomorrow and afterwards? At least Charles has been able to report that Ethan was out of danger.”

Bennet glanced at Samuel’s photograph, a bullet hole next to it. “Death of a loved one is never easy. If we can help in any way, just call on us.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “I heard there was a run on Rosings Bank.”

Darcy nodded. “Everybody heard about the shootout here and that Collins was involved. The bank’s cash couldn’t make good on the claims and Rosings failed. Sheriff Lucas had to close the place by one in the afternoon, which didn’t make the folks still in line too happy.” He looked at Bennet. “Don’t you worry, Tom. I’ll make good on any money you had in there.”

Bennet put down his glass. “Son, you don’t have to do that. You’ve done so much already.”

Darcy grunted. “Forgive me, but my promise isn’t just for you. I’m going to make good for everybody. You see, Anne was Cate’s only heir, and like I said, she’s got no use for either the B&R or Rosings. We’ll work out a deal—sell land or cattle, pledge future income, something—and use that to settle with everyone.”

“But won’t Miss Anne lose everything?”

Darcy sighed. “She might, but she’s got family back east. We’ll see. As for the landowners that were forced into foreclosure, we’ll try to give them their land back.”

Beth thought about that. “Most of those folks have moved on. How are you going to let them know about their property?”

“We’ll send letters after them, or to their next of kin. If we get no reply after several years, we’ll sell the land and put the money in trust for them or keep the land untouched—a park for the people.”

Bennet eyed his future son-in-law. “You’ve done a bit of thinking about this.”

Darcy shrugged. “Yes, well, I had to do something waiting for the undertaker to show up at the B&R.”

Beth shuddered. “That’s pretty cold, son,” Bennet observed.