Paxton and the Gypsy Blade by Kerry Newcomb

Forbes, who was never fully satisfied with the state of the house and was always watchful for something else that needed his attention, was still stirring. The hall was lighted by an argand lamp fueled with whale oil and mounted on the wall. Jase lighted a candle and led the way up the stairs.
    â€œDaddy?” Jason mumbled sleepily.
    â€œHushaby,” Colleen crooned.
    Bedtime for played-out boys, a time Jase had missed all too often when his own were the twins’ age. There’d been reasons enough, of course: land to till, a house and stables and barns and outbuildings to raise, businesses to reestablish after the ravages of war. Still, it was a shame that it took a man until he was half a century old to experience the softness of a child’s breath against his neck as he carried him to bed. Candle in one hand, his other arm under Joseph’s bottom, he stepped aside to let Colleen open the bedroom door, then again preceded her and lowered Joseph onto his bed before lighting the bedroom lantern and blowing out the candle. “Growing like weeds,” he said, helping Colleen put Jason down. “I put ’em on the scale at the tobacco warehouse yesterday.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Joseph weighed forty pounds, and Jason thirty-eight.”
    Colleen moved with an economy of motion that some women never learn and others never forget. Shoes and stockings off, then shirts, then breeches. Tiny bodies were lifted and covers turned down, then blankets tucked snugly under chins. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” she said, gazing down at first one and then the other. “Do you remember?”
    Jase moved behind her and put his arms around her waist. “What?”
    â€œOne night when Tom was seven, Benjy was five, and Hope was three. It was late in January, and that steel-gray mare with the black eye that you liked so much had just foaled. I’d put the children to bed and you came in, still covered with blood and smelling like horse, and stood beside me looking down at them.”
    â€œI remember,” Jason Behan said simply. He kissed the top of her head. “You told me I stank.”
    â€œI know. And you stalked out of the room. I was angry because Tom had been impossible and I was tired and you’d been too busy to help me.”
    â€œThose were hard days. I never held it against—”
    Colleen turned in his arms and put two fingers against his lips. “I never told you how sorry I was for saying that,” she said, her eyes moist with the memory. “I should have told you I loved you, but all I said was—”
    â€œThat was a long time ago, Colleen, and I did my share of saying the wrong things at the wrong time.” He nodded down at the boys. “Look at them. Things worked out well enough. You ever see such a fine pair in your life?”
    â€œYou’re partial,” Colleen said with a low laugh.
    â€œNope. That’s all those other grandfathers. I’m making an observation based on …” He paused. “What’s that?” The front door rattled a second time. “Who’d be calling at this time of night?”
    Colleen shrugged. “Forbes is still up. He can answer it. Someone needing directions, probably.”
    They heard the low rumble of an unfamiliar voice, the words indistinguishable, then the sound of the front door closing, followed by the tramp of heavy boots on the stairs. “Stay here,” Jase told Colleen, keeping the alarm out of his voice.
    The hair on the back of his neck prickling, Jase moved quickly around Jason’s bed, snatched the pitcher from the basin on the nightstand, and then, the pitcher half-raised, stopped short and stared into the wide black mouth of a fifty-caliber flintlock pistol. “Who the hell are you?” he asked in a voice harsh with rage and surprise.
    â€œI am Onofre Sanchez, señor,” the man with the gun said. He swept