Hannibal Rising

“I don’t mean to.” Samantha paused. “The truth is, my father was one of the most coldhearted men to ever draw breath. You can’t tell it to look at that painting but he was mean to his core.”

Fargo’s interest perked.

“He wasn’t always that way. Before Charlotte was born, I remember him being just like any other father. He spent most of his time at work but when he was home with us children he was gentle and considerate.”

“What changed him?”

“Our mother died giving birth to Charlotte,” Samantha revealed. “The whole week after that, Father shut himself in his bedroom and wouldn’t come out. When he did, he was a changed man. Something inside him had died. The milk of human kindness, some would call it. From then on he treated us as if we were somehow to blame for Mother’s death.”

“How old is your little sister?”

“Charlotte is twenty-two. I’m thirty-one. Between us came the four boys. Tom Junior, then Roland, then Charles, and finally Emmett.”

“Your father treated all of you bad?”

“Actually, no. He treated Tom even worse. He never said why, but I think it’s because he suspected Tom wasn’t the fruit of his loins.”

“I noticed he doesn’t look like any of you,” Fargo mentioned.

“It soured our father on us even more. Our entire lives were spent under his heel. One evening at supper some months ago, he told us that we were vultures waiting around for him to die. He said he was glad none of us had given him grandchildren because they would be vultures, too.”

“How many of you are married?”

“None of us.”

That struck Fargo has peculiar. “There’s six of you and not one has ever had a hankering for a hearth and home?” He didn’t, but then he wasn’t like most people. His wanderlust was too strong. It would be years, if ever, before he was willing to give up the saddle for a rocking chair.

“I can’t speak for the others but I’ve just never met the right man.” Samantha frowned. “In a way I’m glad. Our father grew to hate children. Not just his own but all children. They reminded him of our mother. They reminded him of his loss. Grandchildren would be more reminders.”

Fargo regarded the portrait in a whole new light. “From what you’re telling me, your father sure was a son of a bitch.”

“You have no idea. He did all he could to make our lives miserable. I could recite you a list as long as your arm.” Sam stopped. “One incident should suffice. Roland met a woman once and was thinking about marrying her. Do you know what our father did? He drove a wedge between them. Insulted and belittled the poor woman until she wouldn’t have anything to do with us and broke up with my brother.”

Fargo’s estimation of Roland rose several notches.

“Then there’s poor Charlotte. She fell in love only a year ago or so. Our father had her beau investigated and one evening had him invited to supper with the rest of us and then proceeded to inform Charlotte that the man she had given her heart to was in fact seeing another woman behind her back. It broke her heart.”

“He ever do anything to you?”

“All sorts of things I refuse to talk about. But the worst of his spite was reserved for Tom. He was convinced Mother had slept with someone else even though she had insisted she hadn’t. Father always called Tom his ‘little bastard.’ Father insulted him mercilessly, and always went on about what he saw as Tom’s many flaws. I tell you, it got so bad, many was the time I cringed inside at how terribly Father was treating him.”

“How did your brother take it?”

“You saw him. He hates Father for the abuse he suffered and he hates us for not defending him.”

“What about Charles and Emmett?”

“Charles avoided Father as much as possible. He spends most of his time at the men’s club in town. He hardly ever associates with women. As for Emmett, he’s young yet, like Charlotte, and just as innocent.”

“That leaves you.”

“I’m the oldest. I have a sense of responsibility. I’ve always felt I needed to look after them and protect them. I admit I didn’t do enough to help Tom but there wasn’t much I coulddo given how much Father hated him. I devoted myself to running the household and spent all my nights alone in my room.”

Fargo had one last question. “Why have you told me all this?”

Samantha smoothed her dress, which clung enticingly to her thighs. “I want you to fully understand what you are getting yourself into. I want you prepared for what is to come. Which brings us to why I sent for you.”

At last, Fargo thought.

Just then an older male servant entered and bowed. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I thought you should know.”

“What is it, Jarvis? I’d rather not be disturbed right now.”

“It’s this gentleman’s horse.” Jarvis nodded at Fargo.

“What about it?”

“I was outside when he told everyone not to touch it.”

“And?” Samantha said impatiently.

“Your brother, Tom, saw it out front and is having it taken to the stable even as I speak.”

Fargo was off the divan in long strides. Samantha called for him to wait but he shouldered past Jarvis and hurried down the hall to the front door. Throwing it open, he stepped outside. At the bottom of the steps stood Tom Clyborn, watching a servant lead the Ovaro off by the reins.

Fargo went down the steps three at a bound. His jingling spurs alerted Tom who turned just as he reached him. Without saying a word, without any warning whatsoever, Fargo hit him flush on the jaw.

Down Tom went. More stunned than hurt, he rubbed his chin and looked up in anger. “What the hell?”

“Don’t ever touch a man’s horse without his say-so.” Fargo strode past him and bellowed at the servant, “Hold it right there.”

The servant stopped and looked back.

“Let go of him.”

The servant quickly did and retreated. “I was only doing what I was told, mister.”

“That’s the only reason I don’t bust your skull.” Fargo snatched the reins. West of the Mississippi, taking a man’s horse for any reason was a hanging offense. “Tell the rest that no one goes near my horse but me. Savvy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then make yourself scarce.” Fargo slid the Henry into the saddle scabbard and patted the stallion’s neck. “If I am touchy about anything, I am touchy about you.”

“How dare you?” Tom Clyborn was livid with wrath. His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. “No one strikes me with impunity. Do you hear me? No one.”

“I made it plain my horse wasn’t to be moved.”

“This is our estate. Wesay what will and won’t be done. If I want to put your damn animal in the stable, I by God will!”

Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. “Care to bet?”

“You’re threatening me? On my own land? In front of the servants?” Tom shook with fury. “You miserable lout. You’ve just made the worst mistake of your life.”

“I’ve tangled with Apaches and Comanches,” Fargo said.

“What do a bunch of stinking red savages have to do with this?”

“Compared to them, as threats go, you’re downright puny.”

Tom’s face twitched and he raised his fist but a jasmine-wreathed vision slipped between them and placed a hand on his chest.

“That will be enough,” Samantha said.

“He struck me.”

“Let it pass.”

“Like hell.” Tom glowered over her shoulder at Fargo. “Mark my words, plainsman. You have made a mortal enemy this day.” Whirling, he stormed toward the house. Two servants scurried out of his path but one wasn’t fast