would do well to remember that.”
“And you would do well to remember that I know about your visits to a certain shack out by the corn-fields. Father would disown you if he ever discovered you are cavorting with a darky.”
Jace seized her wrist. “Don’t you ever threaten me, you hear?”
“Oh, please,” Priscilla said in contempt, and pulled free. “We each have our secrets, brother mine, and neither of us will betray the other.” She smiled at Fargo and walked off, her hips swinging invitingly.
“Damn her!” Jace grumbled. “Damn all women. We should lock them in chains and keep them at the foot of our beds, like dogs.” He glanced at Fargo. “What do you think?”
“I think I need another whiskey.”
8
She was late.
Fargo had snuck out of the house shortly before ten and had been waiting at the maple tree for almost half an hour. Priscilla had yet to appear. He began to wonder if she had changed her mind, or if something had come up to prevent her from keeping their tryst. He hoped not. He was looking forward to treating himself to her charms.
The farm lay quiet under the stars. The field hands had long since retired to their shacks, marked by tiny squares of light in the near distance. The wide stable doors were shut and barred for the night, the chicken coop closed, the hogs and sheep in their pens. In a pasture beyond the stable cows dozed.
The air had cooled with the setting of the sun, but it was too muggy for Fargo’s liking. He preferred the dry air of the mountains and the desert to the humid East.
From inside the great house music wafted. Margaret was playing the piano. She had treated Fargo and Draypool to a recital after supper, and it had been all Fargo could do to stay awake.
Shifting, Fargo leaned against the trunk. He would wait five more minutes. If Priscilla did not show by then, he would turn in. He could do with a good night’s sleep in a soft bed.
Off in the woods an owl hooted. A cow lowed as if in answer. In the stable a horse whinnied. Ordinary sounds in an ordinary night in southern Illinois.
Fargo sighed and shifted his weight, and spotted Priscilla, framed in a ground-floor window. She was beckoning him. Amused by her antics, Fargo hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and ambled to the back door. She opened it just as he reached it, grabbed his arm, and practically yanked him off his feet pulling him inside.
“Thanks for keeping me waiting.”
Priscilla put a finger to her lips and ushered him into a small sewing room. She shut the door and whispered, “Don’t blame me! I was on my way out when I saw him.”
“Who?” Fargo found it hard to concentrate with her warm, lush body so tantalizingly close.
“The one who has been spying on you. He’s over by the shed where we store the plow and the harrow.”
An icy chill that had nothing to do with the temperature rippled down Fargo’s spine. “Describe him.”
“I can do better than that. It’s Bryce Avril, one of Arthur’s bodyguards.”
“Is he still out there?”
“I think so. I saw him run from the far corner of the house to the shed, and he never reappeared. I imagine he has been there the whole time, watching you.”
“Wait here,” Fargo said, and opened the door a crack.
Priscilla brushed against him, her hand rising to his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t like being spied on.” Simmering with anger, Fargo bent and began removing his spurs. Avril had to be acting under Draypool’s orders. No doubt they had been keeping an eye on him the entire time, which begged the question, Why? Was Draypool afraid he would change his mind and leave? Or was there more involved? He would sneak out a window and circle around to the shed. “Here.” He handed his right spur to Priscilla.
“I’ve always wanted to wear a pair of these. But I thought the kind they use out west have bigger rowels.”
“Some do,” Fargo confirmed, “but they’re more for show than anything else. A good rider doesn’t need to rip his horse to ribbons to get it to go.”
“Oh, I would never do that to a poor animal,” Priscilla said. “I like the rowels because they are shiny and bright.”
“The big rowels,” Fargo teased. “Don’t forget you like them big.”
Priscilla giggled and jangled the spur. “You are worse than naughty! You are deliciously wicked! I am sick to death of the stodgy sorts I must put up with around here day in and day out.”
“A girl your age?” Fargo had the other spur off and held it out to her.
“Before young gentlemen can call on me, they must pass my mother’s muster,” Priscilla explained. “And my mother’s standards are not the same as mine. They are the complete opposite, in fact.”
“Whoever courts you must keep their hands off,” Fargo guessed.
“Whoever courts me must not even think of touching me because if Mother catches us, I will never see him again,” Priscilla lamented. She brightened and raised a finger to his cheek. “You have a lot of missed opportunities to make up for.”
Fargo was about to say he was glad to oblige when they both heard the sound of the back door opening. Covering her mouth with his left hand, he peered out. None other than Bryce Avril had just slipped inside. Fargo guided Priscilla to one side and whispered, “Don’t move.”
Avril came down the hall as if treading on eggshells. He was staring toward the far end, evidently wary of being caught.
Fargo let him go past the sewing room, then silently opened the door and stepped to the middle of the hall. “Looking for someone?”
Avril nearly jumped out of his shoes. Whirling, he streaked his right hand under his jacket. “You!” he blurted. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. You’re liable to get yourself shot.”
“And you shouldn’t spy on people who don’t care to be spied on,” Fargo said. “You’re liable to get yourself hurt.” And with that, he slugged Avril in the gut. He did not use all his strength, but the blow still doubled the man over and left him sputtering and clutching the wall for support. “Tell your boss that if I ever catch you spying on me again, I won’t be nearly as nice about it.”
A scarlet tinge spread from Avril’s neck to his hairline. He coiled, with his right hand clawed to draw. “You son of a bitch! No one does that to me!”
“Try,” Fargo said softly, his own hand next to his holster.
Something in his tone caused Avril to hesitate. “You had no call to hit me. I was only doing my job. Zeck and me are supposed to take turns watching you.”
“Not anymore,” Fargo said.
“But Mr. Draypool was quite specific,” Avril disclosed. “We’re not to let you out of our sight. He’s worried something might happen to you.”
“Tell Draypool,” Fargo said, still speaking softly, “that if I catch Zeck or you anywhere near me, something will happen to him.” Indulging in threats was childish, but in this instance Fargo could not resist.
“Mr. Draypool won’t like this. He won’t like it one bit.”
“You must have me confused with someone who gives a damn,” Fargo responded. He wagged his fingers. “Off you go.”
Simmering with resentment, Avril backed away. “All right. I’ll do as you want. But if Mr. Draypool orders us to watch you anyway, that’s exactly what we’ll do, mister.”
Fargo did not move until the man in the frock coat had disappeared around the far corner. Then he slipped into the sewing room, closed the door, and turned, nearly colliding with Priscilla.
“You were magnificent.”
“I was mad.”
“No, really,” Priscilla gushed breathlessly. “You put him in his place. He was scared of you. I could see it on his face.”
Fargo put his hands on her hips. “Now that he’s gone, we can make up for those missed opportunities of
