A note from North.

The hope that shot through Beck was pathetic.

“You’ve had some news?” Ethan asked as he resumed his place beside Beck.

“Probably a note of condolence.” Beck eyed his drink but didn’t pick it up. He slit the seal rather than wait until he was alone in his guest room. A slashing backhand scrawl took up exactly two lines.

Reston, get your lordly little arse back here. Trouble’s afoot.

North.

PS: Sincere condolences on your loss.

Seven words: Get your lordly little arse back here. They rocketed into Beck’s awareness from two directions. First, worry suffused him, pushing past the grief and restlessness. If North said trouble was afoot, if North asked for reinforcements, then Sara might be in danger.

“You looked pleased,” Ethan observed. “Fierce, but pleased.”

“I am.” The second tangent of Beck’s reaction to the note was more than relief, it was soul-deep satisfaction at the realization that Three Springs was where he wanted to go. The place wasn’t nearly restored to its former glory, and North’s summons—it was nothing less—suggested Beck still had a contribution to make there. “I’ll be heading south again.”

“I see.” Ethan studied the decanter. “As it happens, I have business south of Town myself. I’ll ride out with you in the morning, and we can call on our new sister-in-law together. You are leaving in the morning, aren’t you?”

“At the very first light.”

Fifteen

“They’re all dead.” North regarded the scattering of feathers and chicken parts at his feet. Old Angus scowled alongside of him and bent to wrap a length of twine around the culprit’s neck.

“I’ve seen this one in town,” Angus said. “He begs at every door, poor blighter. Somebody set him in the henhouse, knowing he’d be so hungry he’d get them all.”

The dog’s hide was filthy and matted, crisscrossed with scars and sporting clumps of burrs. The damned beast was as stupid as he was huge, sitting docilely at Angus’s feet, as if he’d no clue what had befallen his dear, late friends, the chickens.

“You want I should shoot him, Mr. North?”

The dog seemed to like that suggestion, lapping eagerly at the back of North’s hand and giving a pathetic little woof of enthusiasm.

“Miss Polly will want him dead. She serves up a chicken regularly,” North fumed. The dog cocked his head, regarding North curiously.

“Have the boys toss him in the warm end of the pond,” North said. “Scrub the daylights out of him, and brush out those burrs. If we feed him some regular meals, he might turn out to be a decent watch dog.”

“Save us digging a sizable hole if he can manage that,” Angus said. “I’ll see to the chickens.”

“And I’ll fetch us more in town this afternoon, but the first time he digs into the coop, he gets taken into the woods, Angus.”

The dog woofed again and capered around happily, nearly tugging Angus over in the process.

North aimed his scowl at the chicken coop, which showed no sign of forcible entry, no sign the dog had dug under the fencing, no sign of a loose board or post. Angus had the right of it: somebody had kindly unlatched the door to the coop and set the starving dog among the chickens. And the beast had been in the pen for some time. The water in the chickens’ bowl was gone, most of the eggs in the nests had been broken, and the dog had been resting contentedly among his trophies when North came upon him.

Sleeping off a chicken drunk, North thought with a reluctant smile.

His smile faded as he reflected that Beckman Haddonfield had better get himself back to Three Springs, lest the ladies be left defenseless when North departed.

* * *

The old earl had been wise to send Beck on far-flung errands, because travel gave a man time to think as nothing else could.

After spending long, hard hours in the saddle—the Downs were becoming very familiar to him—Beckman concluded he was not simply returning to Three Springs to finish an errand for Lady Warne.

He also was not resuming the simple dalliance he’d enjoyed with Sara previously. He wanted more, and she likely did not. This put him again in the position of the odd man out, the extra brother, the intemperate son who had to be kept busy elsewhere, the little boy listening at keyholes, hoping for notice from those he loved.

Beck considered his options and decided those secondary, shabby, minor roles were no longer good enough. He’d offer Sara marriage—again, but without leaving her the option of turning it into a joke—and she would have two choices. She could be his bride, the mother of his children, and most important woman in his future, or she could become a bittersweet memory, one of the happier parts of his past.

He was virtually certain she’d turn him down again, but he deserved more than the occasional furtive coupling, and—quite relevantly—so did she.

The question was, could he convince her of that?

* * *

“Haddonfield.” Gabriel North approached from the barn, his expression more forbidding than usual. “Glad you’re back.”

There was an entire lecture in North’s green eyes, but likely because Allie had pelted straight for Beck’s arms and was at that moment barnacled to his back, North mustered his version of discretion. “Polly will want to feed you. I’ll take your horse.”

But Beck didn’t let him off so easily.

“I’m glad to be back.”

This provoked North to a twitch of the lips. “Allie, introduce Mr. Haddonfield to your latest portrait subject. Those of delicate sensibilities shouldn’t come upon such a beast all unawares.”

Beck lingered with Allie, admiring the enormous brindle-coated canine named Boo-boo, then admiring the filly, who had indeed grown even in Beck’s short absence. He admired the new chickens as well, and paid his respects to Hildegard.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Allie asked, swinging his hand. “We haven’t had a single batch of muffins since you left.”

Suggestion hung heavily in the air. The sun was dipping closer to the horizon, and there was nothing in the house to dread. A man was entitled to get his bearings though—before facing the woman who held his heart in her hands.

“I could use some sustenance,” Beck allowed. Allie dropped his hand and headed for the back of the house at a dead run, the dog woofing and bounding along beside her.

“So you came back.” Polly’s greeting was not what Beck expected. She eyed him up and down, the dispassion in her gaze a trifle unnerving. “I expect you’re hungry, so you’d best wash your hands.”

She disappeared into the pantry with a swish of her skirts. North came in from the hallway, smelling slightly of horse.

“She’s gotten more fierce,” Beck said. “One can hardly conceive of it.”

“She and Sara are feuding over some family issue.” North went to the sink and washed his hands. “And Allie’s birthday approaches, so the household is in a state of high anticipation. Allie has, after all, acquired a puppy, so what other wishes might come true on her birthday?”

And where was Allie’s mother, so that Beck might endure her less-than-enthusiastic greeting as well?

Polly emerged from the pantry, bearing a plate stacked with sandwiches. She set it down on the counter then untied her apron. “I’m off to help Allie sketch Boo-boo. Wash up when you’re done, because it’s Maudie’s half day.”

North watched her depart with the sort of wistfulness that the dog—another simple beast—reserved for its supper.

“And just how did Allie acquire her adoring friend?” Beck asked, taking the sandwiches to the table.

North followed, and judging from the way the man took his seat, his back was at least no worse than when Beck had left for Belle Maison.

“I found him in the chicken coop, nigh insensate from his excesses.” North picked up a sandwich and regarded it for a philosophical moment. “That beast is a force of nature akin to a Channel storm in the form of a dog. He ate all the chickens.”

Beck paused midreach for his own sandwich. “He ate all the chickens? And you didn’t put a bullet in his canine excuse for a brain?”

“Considered it.” North chewed thoughtfully. “A dog on the property is not a bad idea.”

“A chicken-eating dog?”

“Any dog will eat chickens if he’s starving and enclosed with a sufficient quantity of them.” North offered no further explanation but shot Beck a questioning glance.

“We’re alone,” Beck said, and wasn’t that just a fine state of affairs when a man traveled two days over hill and dale in the broiling sun on the strength of seven words that had yet to be explained? “Your note—a monument to literary subtlety, by the way—mentioned trouble.”

North, being North, had to finish chewing then take his bloody damned time selecting the exact perfect next sandwich.

Beck waited. Even knowing he had yet to face Sara, something in his gut was glad to be… home. To be here, rather, where his lordly arse might be of some use to people he cared about.

“My note got you back here,” North observed. “The dog wasn’t the first incident. Someone put him in the chicken coop, knowing he was so underfed he’d wreak havoc. Before that, the smokehouse went up in flames, which might have spread, except Angus and Jeff had just drained the cistern to scrub it out, and the entire back side of the barnyard was sopping wet as a result. You know about the harrow that mysteriously loosened its own bolts, and we found a length of tin relieved of its nails on the barn roof.”