“Yes, sir.”
“Sheriff—you, Deputy Jones, and I will go in from the other side.”
“What side’s that, Mr. Darcy?”
“The front door, Sheriff.” He turned to Fitz. “We’ll give you a couple minutes’ head start. Y’all best be going.”
The two men galloped off to the west. Darcy watched them until they disappeared behind a ridge, then signaled to his companions to continue to the house. They took their time, holding their mounts to a trot, carefully taking in their surroundings.
“Notice anything?” asked Darcy in a low voice.
“Yeah,” the lawman answered, “where the hell is everybody?”
The B&R Ranch should have been a hub of noise and effort; instead, it was completely deserted. If it wasn’t for the lowing of the cattle, one could easily believe the place had been abandoned.
“Ah,” breathed Darcy. “Look to the northwest.” There, past the low hills, was a faint cloud of dust.
“Sheriff, it looks like everybody done rode off,” said Deputy Jones.
“Rats abandoning a sinking ship,” observed Lucas. “Think they heard about the gunfight?”
Darcy watched the distant disturbance. “Hmm, maybe. I thought we got everybody, but maybe one of Denny’s gang got away. Hell, it doesn’t matter. Keep a sharp eye out, in case somebody stayed behind.”
The three rode in, stopping before the main house. Tied to a hitching post was Judge Phillips’s buggy. “Well, lookie here,” drawled Lucas as he dismounted. “Seems Cate’s pet judge has come for breakfast. We get two birds with one stone.”
The men dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching post. It was then their good cheer ended—the front door was ajar. Without a word, Darcy, Lucas, and Jones drew their revolvers and slowly made their way up the porch stairs to the door. They moved to either side of the opening, looking at each other.
“I’ll go in…” Lucas began when Darcy cut him off in a low voice.
“No—I’ll go first. I know this house better than either of you. Stay close.”
Taking a deep breath, Darcy moved the door open with the toe of his boot, keeping as much of the rest of his body hidden from sight as he could. When the opening was wide enough, he moved like lightning into the ranch house, crouching low, Colt before him. Darcy stopped some ten feet in, hard against the left wall of the hallway while his companions followed, moving over to the right. Without a word, Darcy signaled for them to move deeper down the hallway slowly.
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?”
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