Holmes on the Range (28 page)

“Where nobody'd ever heard of Dr. Edwards's Feminine Regulator.”

“Or so she hoped. She dragged her son this way and that across the Continent trying to make connections with the right sort of people. Utterly without success, I might add.”

Brackwell snorted, obviously disgusted by such hubris and pleased that it had come to naught. Before then, he'd struck me as a gentle-souled sort of fellow, but I could see now that his gentility didn't apply where Edwards was concerned. The young nobleman didn't just resent or dislike Edwards—he hated him.

“Boston's old families have long-standing connections of their own throughout Europe,” Brackwell went on. “All it took was a whisper here and there to dash the Edwardses' chances for social climbing. That is, until they met Old Dickie. In Monte Carlo, of course.”

“Yeah, I suppose the Duke would feel right at home there—except I'm bettin' nobody's written any songs about his luck in the casinos,” I said, referring to a tune that had been all the rage in the music halls a year or so before—”The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.” Apparently, it had been popular over in England, too.

“I can assure you, the Duke was far from breaking the bank,” Brackwell said. “Quite the opposite, in fact. And he was already quite close to broke to begin with. He'd gambled away much of his wealth, and his holdings in the West had seen devastating reversals.”

“Sure. The Big Die-up hit all the ‘cattle barons' hard.”

Brackwell blinked at me as if I'd taken to speaking backward.

“The winter of ‘87,” I explained. “The year all the stock froze to death on the range.”

Brackwell shook his head and shrugged. For a fellow who'd been sent to inspect a cattle ranch, he sure didn't know much about ranching.

My thoughts must have showed themselves in my expression, because Brackwell set about explaining himself.

“You must understand—in 1887, I was at a preparatory school in Hallamshire studying Latin, maths, and sonnets. I had little contact with my family and I certainly wasn't privy to updates on the status of
our various speculations. Which was perfectly acceptable to me. . .on both counts.”

Brackwell looked embarrassed by his own words, and he waved one of his long hands in the air, dismissing what he'd said.

“In any event, Edwards and the Duke became fast friends—all the faster after Edwards began backing Old Dickie's wagers. With such men, the talk inevitably turns to finance sooner or later, and it didn't take long for the Duke to secure an eager new investor for the Sussex Land and Cattle Company. So the old man and the board gained an infusion of new capital, while Edwards gained access to—though not necessarily the acceptance of—England's highest social circles. It was what I learned in school to call a
quid pro quo
.”

“Sort of a one-hand-washin'-the-other type of deal.”

Brackwell smiled. “Yes, that sums it up just as neatly.” The smile faded quickly. “Except Edwards and the Duke aren't satisfied to leave it at that. They both wish their connection to become even more. . .formalized.”

“What do you mean? They wanna get married?”

I'll admit that my jokes are frequently something less than hilarious, but it's not often they cause actual physical pain. Yet Brackwell grimaced as if I'd just punched him in the gut. And in a way, I suppose I had.

“You can't mean. . .
no
,” I said, probably grimacing a bit myself. “A fine woman like Lady Clara yoked to a crap pile like Edwards? It wouldn't be right.”

Brackwell nodded sadly. “I couldn't agree more with your assessment. Unfortunately, the lady has few options when it comes to matrimony.”

He paused, clearly reluctant to spell out just why that should be so. But he sighed and continued before I had to do any further persuading.

“There's little chance she could make a match with a respectable man. Clara is thirty-three years old—well past her prime, as the bounders
and shrews in London see it. And what's more, she's been touched by scandal.”

“You mean Mr. Holmes's ‘Noble Bachelor' case? When the Duke tried to hitch up one of her brothers to some rich American gal? Why, it ain't fair to splash any of that mud on her. She had nothin' to do with it.”

“I'm afraid Clara has a scandal all her own, Otto—though one, I'm glad to say, that Dr. Watson never had reason to write about.”

Brackwell's shoulders drooped, and he sort of melted across the Ottoman, suddenly looking exhausted.

“It was a man, of course,” he said, stretching out his beanpole legs and staring up at the ceiling with dreamy distraction. “Nathaniel Horne. I even met him once. I can't say I blame Clara for succumbing to his charms, no matter what the cost. He was tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed, smooth-skinned. More than handsome. Beautiful. He could have had the pick of any woman in his class—or below it. But certainly not above it. Not so high as
her
.”

“Didn't have himself a fortune or a fancy title, huh?” I huffed, sympathizing with this Horne fellow.

Brackwell coughed out a short burst of weary laughter. “Oh, it was much worse than that.” He brought his gaze down to meet mine again. “He was the Duke's
secretary
.”

I tried to imagine how the old man would react to the proposition of an employee becoming an in-law.

“Ohhhhhhh my,” I said. “So what happened to this Horne? Was he hung or burned at the stake?”

“Sacked. And blacklisted to boot. Dickie saw to it that he couldn't gain employment as so much as a stable boy in all England. Horne probably had to go to Canada or Australia or even here to America to find a respectable position again.”

Of course, that very day the Duke had promised to have me and Old Red blackballed in much the same manner. It put a mighty tight
knot in my stomach to realize the old man wasn't just blowing smoke when he made such threats. I tried to untangle that knot by focusing my thoughts on misfortunes other than my own.

“I suppose word got around about Lady Clara's little fling.”

Brackwell nodded. “The family name had already been tarnished by her brother Robert's escapades—as if his disastrous attempt at marriage hadn't been bad enough, he'd become entangled with a dancing girl at the same time. There have been other. . .indiscretions, as well, and the St. Simons found themselves with a reputation for dabbling with those born beneath them. Clara managed to remain above it all until her flirtation with Horne came to light. After that—”

“No ‘respectable' gent would have her.”

“Just so. Not that she'd be interested in such a match were it to present itself.” Brackwell's eyes took on a wistful look. “She loved Horne—and she says she has no intention of marrying any other man.”

“Well, good for her,” I said, though my foolish heart was stinging. I knew I had no chance with a woman of Clara's caliber, yet a part of me wished her to be at least tempted by the notion of “dabbling” with someone as miles beneath her as myself. “I wonder if she's said as much to Edwards.”

“Apparently not,” Brackwell grumbled. “Or if she has, he thinks he can change her mind. And . . .well, perhaps he can. She does seem to be warming a bit to—”

And then the inevitable happened. I'd become so wrapped up in Brackwell's gossip I'd forgotten just how inevitable it was, and I grabbed for my .45 before I realized what was going on.

“Of all the damnable insolence!” the Duke howled as he barged into the room. “I'm not some servant to be kept waiting about at your pleasure, you know!”

The old man had worked himself up into such a state he didn't notice that I'd almost put a slug in his considerable belly. In fact, he was so ablaze with indignation he kept on hollering for a good half minute before
he even realized Gustav wasn't in the room. Lady Clara had entered on her father's heels, and she was showered with such a torrent of foul language it was a wonder her delicate ears didn't singe to a crisp and drop right off.

“What's going on here?” the Duke asked once he'd run through his full deck of vulgarities.

The answer didn't come in words—it came as a whistle that turned us all toward the window. Outside, Old Red was ambling up astride Sugar, the calico cutting horse Crazymouth had been riding in the corral earlier that day. Another pony, a top-rail night-horse called Brick, Gustav was leading by the reins.

“Time to go, Brother,” Old Red said. “And don't forget to bring our ‘ill of Sal' with you.”

Any opportunity to distance myself from the Duke and his spluttering was welcome indeed, so I snatched the paper, got through the window, and climbed atop that horse without asking any questions.

“What do you think you're doing?” the old man squawked as I made my escape.

“I'm doin' what I set out to do—catch me a killer,” Old Red shot back. “It just so happens I have to go to Miles City to do it.”

“Miles City?” Brackwell exclaimed.

“Don't you worry, Mr. Brackwell,” Gustav said. He gave Sugar's neck an affectionate rub. “We got a couple of fast mounts here. Plus, we won't be tempted to stop off at any saloons while we're in town, as McPherson's man might. If we ride hard, we can find what we need and still get back here in time to win the bet for you.”

Old Red got his pony moving, so I did likewise. But before we could kick the horses up to a trot, a cry of “Wait!” stopped us. I turned back toward the castle to see Brackwell climbing out the window.

“Please,” he said as he dropped from the windowsill and hurried toward us. “Take me with you.”

Gustav let the young man get all the way to his horse before he
leaned down and spoke to him, his voice so low I could barely hear the words.

“I'm sorry, pardner,” he said, putting a hand on the younger man's shoulder. “You ain't dressed for it.”

Then Old Red straightened up and got Sugar going again without waiting for any arguments. After just a few trot steps, he fanned her to a gallop. It wasn't hard to figure why, for I'd turned to give Brackwell a wave, and beyond him I saw Uly and Spider back at the barn, watching us. It was a sure bet they'd be on our trail before our dust had even settled.

I kicked Brick into as fast a gallop as he could manage—though I knew it wouldn't be speed that would keep the bullets out of my back. It would be sheer
luck
.

Or, I Set Off on a Race but End Up on a Tour

O
ld Red kept pushing
Sugar hard, and poor Brick had a devil of a time keeping up. Although he'd been weighed down with a heftier load to tote—me—Brick had heart, and he didn't let Sugar's backside slip out of sight.

We finally got our chance to catch up after an hour on the trail that winds northwest out of the Cantlemere. Sunday Creek, the little trickle of water that cuts through the spread, was swollen with recent rain. Though still not large enough to require a swim to cross, neither was it a puddle you could take with a standing jump. Gustav was waiting for us as Brick and I reached the edge.

“Here's what we're gonna do,” he said by way of hello. “Ease on out to the center of the creek, then turn and ride with the water. After a quarter mile, the creek'll bend south. We'll hop out there on the far side.”

Old Red's plan made a certain sense, as it would get us off the well-worn trail and force the McPhersons to do some hunting before they
could jump us. Yet there was one respect in which it made no sense at all—it would take us east and south when Miles City lay north and west.

“We ain't goin' to Miles?”

“Nope,” Gustav said, and he pushed Sugar out into the Sunday without another word.

As we were aiming to untangle ourselves from anyone tracking us, we rode Indian fashion—single file and closemouthed. When we were through splashing along the creek, my brother quickly got Sugar up to a gallop again. He headed over a row of hills at the first opportunity, putting some cover between us and the creekbed. Yet we continued to follow its path south, and before long we were a ten-minute ride east of ranch HQ.

We'd come full circle.

Old Red took us down to a trot then, for though the ground wasn't bone-dry, a hard-charging horse might still kick up a trail of dust you could spot a half mile off.

“So what'd Brackwell say after I slipped out to fetch our mounts?”

Anyone watching us would have assumed Gustav's question was directed at a field mouse or a clump of grass, as my brother's eyes were pointed at the sod sliding by beneath us as we rode.

“He said plenty. And I'll tell you all about it . . .if you tell
me
something first.”

Old Red brought his gaze up slowly.

“What do you want to know?”

“Oh, just
what the hell is goin' on
?”