him.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’d be pleased to share the story and ‘unfortunate choice.’ That is, if you are all certain it’s worth your time?”
Assurances poured forth. Hart drummed his fingertips on his chair’s arm. The group surrounded Mercy, the gentlemen pulling up chairs for their ladies and taking positions behind them. From the rapt expressions of Baron Coffey’s sons Hart expected them to flop like hounds at Mercy’s feet. Somehow they managed to restrain themselves.
“Well, then,” Mercy began, “I had returned at my father’s behest from my Boston school to our ranch, the Circle Bar. It is in one of the most uncivilized sections of the Texas territory, a place known as the Panhandle.”
“Uncivilized? There are red Indians?” breathed Beryl.
“Oh, my, yes.” Mercy nodded. “But the native population was not nearly so deadly nor so dangerous as our fellow Texans. Greed, I am afraid, will cause men to do any number of despicable things.”
He waited for her to spear him with a telling glance, but she continued on, ignoring him. She was, he realized in surprise, not referring to him. He frowned, puzzled.
“What was to become my father’s land had been used for years by other ranchers. Instead of purchasing the land themselves they made free use of it to graze their herds. With my father’s acquisition of the Circle Bar, the free range was no longer available. They thus determined to drive my father off his ranch.”
“How?” a pretty, dark-haired woman asked. Doubtless it was the inquisitive Carr woman.
Mercy lowered her voice dramatically. “By hiring a gang of unscrupulous and murderous blackguards to rustle our cattle and terrorize our wranglers. Indeed, a full eight of our men were wounded at the hands of these scoundrels.” Sorrow lowered her voice. “Two died.”
A gasp arose from the listeners. Baron Coffey’s sons looked as if they were about to dash off in search of dueling pistols.
For a moment it seemed Mercy was not going to continue her story. She sat silently, her knuckles white in her lap, her face stark with remembered tragedy. Hart took a step forward. This had gone on long enough.
“And one of these blackguards shot you, Miss Coltrane?” Nathan Hillard’s indignant voice rose above the flurry of consternation. He placed his hand briefly on Mercy’s shoulder, a small comforting gesture, and Mercy looked up at him. Hart quelled the desire to strike Hillard’s hand from her shoulder. What matter to him if she encouraged the advances of a man nearly old enough to be her father?
“Did they?” Acton repeated Hillard’s question.
Mercy had best close her mouth, thought Hart, watching her gaze rest on Hillard’s damnably handsome face. There were flies in the room.
“No,” she said, returning her attention to her listeners. “The ‘bodyguard’ my father hired to protect our family shot me.”
“What?”
Mercy nodded complacently.
“And why would he have done that?” Hart asked dryly.
“Was the bastard—excuse me, Miss Coltrane—was this creature bribed into switching his allegiance?” demanded Hillard.
Hart’s fingers ceased drumming. His hands rolled into fists on the arms of the chair. “Well?”
Mercy glanced at him as if just realizing his presence. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Your Near Grace. I didn’t mean to hold you breathless.”
He held back a retort. The rest of the party were looking at him curiously. A few of the women—including the wretched Beryl—tittered.
“As for your kind concern, Mr. Hillard, having given your suggestion its due consideration I must say I do not believe a switch in loyalties can account for this person’s actions.”
“Well, why on earth would he have shot you?” asked Acton. Hillard scowled.
“I cannot say, or ever suggest I could begin to understand the mind of such a man.”
“I should hope not,” averred Acton. Hart narrowed his eyes on him. He might have toreevaluate
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’d be pleased to share the story and ‘unfortunate choice.’ That is, if you are all certain it’s worth your time?”
Assurances poured forth. Hart drummed his fingertips on his chair’s arm. The group surrounded Mercy, the gentlemen pulling up chairs for their ladies and taking positions behind them. From the rapt expressions of Baron Coffey’s sons Hart expected them to flop like hounds at Mercy’s feet. Somehow they managed to restrain themselves.
“Well, then,” Mercy began, “I had returned at my father’s behest from my Boston school to our ranch, the Circle Bar. It is in one of the most uncivilized sections of the Texas territory, a place known as the Panhandle.”
“Uncivilized? There are red Indians?” breathed Beryl.
“Oh, my, yes.” Mercy nodded. “But the native population was not nearly so deadly nor so dangerous as our fellow Texans. Greed, I am afraid, will cause men to do any number of despicable things.”
He waited for her to spear him with a telling glance, but she continued on, ignoring him. She was, he realized in surprise, not referring to him. He frowned, puzzled.
“What was to become my father’s land had been used for years by other ranchers. Instead of purchasing the land themselves they made free use of it to graze their herds. With my father’s acquisition of the Circle Bar, the free range was no longer available. They thus determined to drive my father off his ranch.”
“How?” a pretty, dark-haired woman asked. Doubtless it was the inquisitive Carr woman.
Mercy lowered her voice dramatically. “By hiring a gang of unscrupulous and murderous blackguards to rustle our cattle and terrorize our wranglers. Indeed, a full eight of our men were wounded at the hands of these scoundrels.” Sorrow lowered her voice. “Two died.”
A gasp arose from the listeners. Baron Coffey’s sons looked as if they were about to dash off in search of dueling pistols.
For a moment it seemed Mercy was not going to continue her story. She sat silently, her knuckles white in her lap, her face stark with remembered tragedy. Hart took a step forward. This had gone on long enough.
“And one of these blackguards shot you, Miss Coltrane?” Nathan Hillard’s indignant voice rose above the flurry of consternation. He placed his hand briefly on Mercy’s shoulder, a small comforting gesture, and Mercy looked up at him. Hart quelled the desire to strike Hillard’s hand from her shoulder. What matter to him if she encouraged the advances of a man nearly old enough to be her father?
“Did they?” Acton repeated Hillard’s question.
Mercy had best close her mouth, thought Hart, watching her gaze rest on Hillard’s damnably handsome face. There were flies in the room.
“No,” she said, returning her attention to her listeners. “The ‘bodyguard’ my father hired to protect our family shot me.”
“What?”
Mercy nodded complacently.
“And why would he have done that?” Hart asked dryly.
“Was the bastard—excuse me, Miss Coltrane—was this creature bribed into switching his allegiance?” demanded Hillard.
Hart’s fingers ceased drumming. His hands rolled into fists on the arms of the chair. “Well?”
Mercy glanced at him as if just realizing his presence. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Your Near Grace. I didn’t mean to hold you breathless.”
He held back a retort. The rest of the party were looking at him curiously. A few of the women—including the wretched Beryl—tittered.
“As for your kind concern, Mr. Hillard, having given your suggestion its due consideration I must say I do not believe a switch in loyalties can account for this person’s actions.”
“Well, why on earth would he have shot you?” asked Acton. Hillard scowled.
“I cannot say, or ever suggest I could begin to understand the mind of such a man.”
“I should hope not,” averred Acton. Hart narrowed his eyes on him. He might have toreevaluate
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