Weather Witch

Philadelphia and Rowen might be a fine horseman, but neither meant he spent much time in the stables themselves. That was the place for grooms and staff.

Jonathan took him by the elbow and leaned in close to whisper, “I see no grooms. The place seems deserted for now.”

“Excellent,” Rowen said, his eyes adjusting to the dark. He tripped over the corner of something. His eyes adjusting mostly to the dark … “Let’s look at our options.” His arms still loaded with his personal gear and saddlebags, he tried adjusting it all to turn on the lantern he took off the wall.

It was a frustrating, fumbling minute in the dark.

“You should take my old coat,” a voice said, and Rowen and Jonathan jumped at the noise.

Light oozed out of a strangely pierced pattern as a tin lantern glowed to life. Gregor Burchette sat on a hay bale, watching his son and faithful servant of more than a decade prepare to steal the horses under his care.

“Father,” Rowen mumbled. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

Burchette nodded. “Rumor spreads faster than western wildfire. And you, dear son, are predictable.” He grunted and patted a bundle at his side. “The coat’s old and far less than the spectacular fashions you’re accustomed to, boy, but it served me well in the militia and, if I reckon right, where you’re going you’ll be needing something serviceable far more than something fashionable.” He rose with a groan and tossed the bundle to Rowen, who caught it awkwardly, balancing his own scant supplies and light.

Jonathan made a tsk-ing noise and helped relieve Rowen of his burdens.

“You know…”

“That you’ve come to steal horses for the ride to your ill-advised duel?” The corner of Burchette’s lips dug deep into his chubby jowl and pushed his cheek nearer his eyebrow on the left side of his face. “Of course. Do I support the potential ruination of our family’s good name because you are in love with Jordan Astraea?”

Rowen began to sputter, “I am not in—”

But his father gave a look and Gregor raised his hand for silence. “Save your protests for the day you try to explain these actions to some low-born girl you finally marry.”

Rowen’s eyes went wide and his cheeks puffed out.

Still his father talked on. “Love is a strange thing. Often not recognized until it is far too late. And for you, dear boy, it is far too late.”

“I do not love Jordan!”

“Of course not. It is not as if you’ve been lost in your cups each night since she was taken.”

“It is not as if I haven’t been drunk before,” Rowen said.

“Not so frequently, nor so solidly,” his father pointed out. “And smelling of the cheapest smoke that has ever assaulted my nostrils…”

“It was all that’s been offered.”

“Then buy your own if you must. And you have not shaved. You look the villain’s role.”

Rowen rubbed the stubble shadowing his jaw so the move was audible. “I am about to steal two military- grade horses and do my damnedest to kill a man. Certainly not the actions of a hero.”

“I’m afraid you are due to learn that heroism is all a matter of perspective, dear boy. The winner writes the story in the end.” Burchette slapped his hands together and the nearest horse snorted. “Well, have at it, why don’t you? Which two are you intent on stealing?”

Rowen swallowed hard, seeing the look in his father’s narrowed eyes. He straightened his back and strode to the first stall. Giving the horse a quick look, he said, “This one will do.”

The old man snorted. “I daresay you’re wrong. Copper develops a soft left hind frog after a three-mile gallop. He’ll lame up on you if he’s pushed much beyond that. And you need a firm and fast five miles between you and the trouble you’ll be making here today.”

Rowen clenched his jaw and stepped to another stall. He glanced at the horse inside, holding his stormlight high, and then stepped away.

Gregor grunted approval.

The third stall held a tall bronze-backed steed. The horse arched his neck and shook his mane out at Rowen, his nostrils flaring as he stomped a broad black hoof.

Rowen stepped away.

“No,” his father said sharply. “Bold choices require bold companions to back them. Ransom is a bit of a handful, but he’ll be more than sufficient for your needs.”

“Ransom…?” Rowen adjusted the height of his stormlight to better see the nameplate hung on the stall’s door.

The horse snorted in response.

“As in King’s Ransom?”

“The same.”

“Do you want me dead, Father? This is Stevenson’s prize stallion.”

“There’s a reason for that. Ransom’s a damn fine beast.” Gregor shrugged. “Why go halfways about something? Commit fully to your actions. Doing a thing halfways only ever gets you halfways to your goal.”

Rowen swallowed. “Jonathan…?”

His father spoke again. The man barely breathed without riding the air out of his mouth with some thought he obviously had to share. “No. Saddle him yourself. You do this thing and you might as well be riding to war. But you will have no army behind you and little to speak of in the way of family, either. You know how your brothers are. If you are going to do this thing, then take all the steps yourself. Steal him, saddle him, own him as you do the choice you make here and now.”

Rowen stared at him.

The stallion shook his head and whinnied.

“Or will you write the letter?” Burchette asked, his voice soft and low. He took a step toward his youngest son. “Will you undo this thing before it goes too far?”

Rowen’s fingers twitched on the lantern’s handle.

“Will you write the letter, man down, and ask for Catrina’s promise as your mother desires? Will you, by this”—he thrust out his bearded chin toward Ransom’s stall door—“inaction prove you are correct about not loving Jordan?”

Rowen’s eyes widened. He stretched his head back on his neck and rolled his shoulders. “I. Do. Not. Love. Jordan. But I did set this duel. And you have said many times that a man is only as good as his word.”

“No, I have not.” He snorted. “I most certainly have not said that.”

Rowen’s eyebrows lowered and a small crease appeared between them before he blinked and banished it away. “Well. Someone did. Repeatedly. And I must agree with whoever it was and act accordingly.”

With that he strode to the tack wall and tugged down the bridle and reins, slapped them across a saddle, and grabbed a blanket. He picked it all up, looked at his father, nodded curtly, and slid into the stall with Ransom.

There was far less fighting than any of them expected, although Rowen strung some choice words together. In a smart six minutes, Rowen led Ransom from his stall. And only had a few bruises as a result. He looked at Jonathan. “Can you…?”

“Choose and saddle my own horse?”

Rowen’s nod was a slow move.

“Of course. Unless,” Jonathan said, turning to Burchette, “his lordship would like to recommend a suitable steed to me…”

“Of course. You have been a faithful servant and a friend to my youngest son. Take Silver. He’ll serve you well. Here,” he added, heading to the tack wall. “I will gladly assist you.”

Rowen let a groan escape his lips and rolled his eyes. “Thank you ever so much, Father. Do not assist me in the slightest in the saddling of the devil you recommend I ride, but do help the help…”

Gregor rounded on his son, his eyes sharp, saddle in his arms. “You have been babied far too long. As my youngest everyone has provided you with everything you might ever want for and—I daresay—a bit more. But you have chosen a path of your own. Finally. Now grow into it. Grow up and do things yourself.” He turned with a huff and bustled into the stall ahead of Jonathan.