Legacy of Secrets. Sara Mitchell

other men at the table, the man tossed down his cards and started toward the bar.

      “Uh-oh.” Dan glanced from Gray to the oncoming poker player. “Want us to take care of him for you, buddy?”

      “Yeah, we’ll settle it,” Carl chimed in, slamming his drink down on the bar. “Shame for you to go visit your folks sporting a black eye.”

      Weary to the bone, eaten up with a bitter sense of shame that would not leave him alone, Gray was tempted to give in.

      Pride, and a sense of fair play, wouldn’t allow him. “I could go home wearing a blasted three-piece suit from Paris, with a carnation in the lapel, and the reaction would be the same as if I sported buckskins. And a black eye.” As casually as he could manage given his none-too-steady knees, Gray stiffened his back and shifted his stance. “My family condemns me for my actions.” Almost as much as he condemned himself.

      The poker player stopped a yard away. “Got no use for rude drunks.”

      “Me either,” Gray responded, flexing his hands. “Didn’t mean to stare. Sorry to cause offense and all that.”

      Carl and Dan made a poor job of stifling laughter.

      The stranger’s face burned brick-red. “Seems ta me you and your drunk friends need someone to teach you a lesson.”

      “Ah…mm…” Gray struggled to retain a hold on his slippery temper. “Been out of school a while now.” He tucked his thumbs into his waistband and propped his elbows on the counter behind him. “I don’t want a fight, mister. Why don’t you go on back to your table and try to teach your friends a lesson. From the looks of it they need schooling more than we do.”

      The man’s head lowered and he took another step forward. “You don’t want to make sport of me, you drunken lout.”

      “Nope,” Gray cheerfully agreed. “Matter of fact, we were just leaving, weren’t we, boys?”

      Grinning like maniacs, Carl and Dan nodded.

      “And,” Gray repeated more softly, “I don’t want a fight. This isn’t the West, you know, friend. There are laws against public scenes.”

      “I ain’t your friend. And if you weren’t angling for a broken jaw, ya shouldn’t have stared at me.”

      Without warning, the man swung, coming in with a left hook that might in truth have broken Gray’s jaw if the blow had connected. But Gray read the action in the man’s glittering eyes, and in a few swift moves rendered the astonished fellow immobile, sweating with pain. Both men knew the slightest pressure could break either a wrist or an arm; only Gray knew how thin the thread keeping him from losing control was. He blinked, fighting the tremors and volcanic emotion that stretched his body as taut as a man on a rack.

      “When you live around pigs too long, the stench tends to cling.” Sucking in a sobering breath, Gray released his victim except for a punishing hold that kept the man’s right hand at an angle that ensured his continued compliance. “If you knew me, you’d know better than to provoke a fight I don’t want. Now go on back to your poker buddies, and leave me alone.” With a contemptuous shove he released him.

      Silence hovered throughout the room as the routed card player slunk between tables. Men shifted their gazes as he passed by.

      Feeling lower than a snake’s belly in a deep pit, Gray muttered a curse beneath his breath. “Let’s get out of here. I’m sick of feeding fodder to the Faulkner gristmill.”

      But as he stalked out, flanked by Carl and Dan, Gray lost the battle against the penetrating voice warning him that he was the perpetrator of the gossip, not the victim of it. For years he’d fought to free himself from suffocating familial chains, only to discover that in his determination to escape he’d trapped himself inside a cell without a door. He might as well wish himself on the North Star as to wish he could repudiate the Faulkner name, or change the person he had become.

      Wouldn’t it be a fitting cosmic joke if Neala Shaw were right after all? Grayson Faulkner, youngest son of a prestigious family whose honor and philanthropy dated back four generations, was a misogynist. And on the way to becoming a public punching bag as well.

      Isabella Chilton Academy

      Tucked fifteen feet up in the notch of a massive oak, screened by branches and a cluster of leafy maples, a man watched the wiry Irishman and the girl—who should be dead—explore the edge of the cliff. Still as a hoot owl, he watched them discover where he’d patiently chipped the base of the boulder until one hard shove sent it over the cliff. Of course he’d been canny enough to wipe away the boot prints, so he wasn’t concerned with discovery. They would assume he’d climbed down the cliff and escaped in a boat up the river, or vanished into the forest. People were predictable and seldom thought their way beyond the obvious.

      Nonetheless, the unpleasant truth scraped his mind like a hacksaw blade: Neala Shaw was still alive. Instead of preparing for a funeral, someone had decided to investigate. And even a brainless dolt would realize the significance of their findings. Sure enough, moments later he clearly heard the windblown voices, heard them reach the inevitable conclusion. The Irishman—Liam, he heard her call him—vented his spleen in a loud mixture of Gaelic and English.

      “…and ye can be sure as St. Patrick’s cowl I’ll no’ be standing back fer that dunderhead of a sheriff. The black-hearted jackanapes who’d be after harming Miss Isabella’s girls will be answering to me, see if he don’t.”

      “Liam…”

      “Now, missy. You got eyes, and a brain underneath all them curls. You know same as me the way of it, here.”

      Temptation cascaded through his veins; he wanted to finish her off now, right now, not even caring that he’d have to kill the Irishman as well. He wrapped his arms around the thick tree trunk to keep from giving in to the urge.

      Frustration knotted his stomach and set his head to throbbing like a wound. The boulder hadn’t even struck the right girl. All his careful preparations, every second of his meticulous planning, the dark nights he’d sweated through preparing the site to ensure the supposition of an “accidental” death…and still she was alive. She might as well be rubbing his nose in the dirt, gloating over his failure.

      How could he have known they’d change cloaks? Why had they done so? It wasn’t fair! It was not to be allowed!

      He closed his eyes and struggled to remember his ultimate goal. Over the past several years he’d experienced other failures, but in the end patience and persistence always yielded success. Neala Shaw would be no different. And this time, the final act of retribution would bring about the final victory.

      When he reopened his eyes, Neala and the Irishman had vanished. He could hear nothing but leaves scuffling in the breeze, and his own ragged breathing. Panic raced over his skin, freezing cold, like sleet in January. Then his ear caught the faint sound of voices. Ah. They were returning to the house, then. Not searching the woods or the path down the cliff to the river. He was still undetected, still safe. Still in charge of destiny, theirs as well as his own.

      Carefully he climbed down the tree, dropped to the ground, then set off after them. Through binoculars he watched as they crossed the lawn and entered the main house.

      Nothing to do now but wait. And maintain the watch.

      For the next two days he prowled, a silent onlooker stoking resolve with a blend of righteous anger and bitter frustration. They knew the boulder was deliberate—but was there enough evidence to point to Neala Shaw as his target? The sheriff hadn’t put in an appearance, but that might be because the old woman who ran the school didn’t want to broadcast such disquieting news: either a student had been singled out for elimination, or the intent had been to kill whoever was on the path at the time.

      Every now and then he wanted to laugh. Delicious temptation goaded him to ignite a whispering campaign, for the pleasure of watching all the other students flee like roaches escaping a fire. The hoity-toity Isabella Chilton Academy’s