“So Morgan threw away his pea-shooter and ran?” Rafe suggested, working it all through his mind. “And now he poisons the woman who saw him?” That didn’t fit what he’d learned so far, but he had to keep an open mind.
Walker uttered expletives. “We still have those rags he shed. I'll have the dogs leashed and send out another search party. Rafe, you'll lead?”
Rafe had trained the manor hounds as he'd trained his own. Hunting men was little different than vermin. “Two packs, if we can,” he suggested. “One starting at Kate’s, converging on the middle.”
But Morgan could be well outside any perimeter he chose by now. They could only search so far in a day.
“If he's mad enough to kill old women, no one is safe. Maybe we ought to gather everyone at the inn and surround it with armed guards.” Walker’s normally stoic demeanor barely hid his rage and disgust. He had a child to protect now.
“Not a completely reasonable solution.” Meera picked up their son. “But I think we'll be sleeping at the manor until Morgan is found.”
Rafe wouldn't argue with a mother's need for security— But he’d seen Morgan’s tattered boots. That had not been his footprint in the muck.
Twenty-three
Fletch
The normally well-mannered lady slammed her hoe into a patch of weeds as if they were a snake's head. “No, No. No. I have given it much thought and the answer is still no. We cannot partake of Rafe's hospitality without paying for it. We will stay here.”
They’d heard the news about Mrs. Young’s death. No one had cried murder, but as far as Fletch was concerned, Rafe sending out two hunting parties said it all.
“Stay with Brydie and Damien, then,” he argued, using a rake with one arm to scrape beheaded weeds from the garden row. With Lynly and Rob only a few rows over, he couldn't shout Hugh is killing women! But his head was exploding with the need to yell at this contrary, stubborn female.
A civilized, responsible female who had hosted the most eccentric dinner party he'd ever attended, while wearing a smile of delight, as if she were in the grandest company society had to offer. While he’d wanted to crawl under the table and bite ankles like the rabid dog he was.
Civilized or not, he still couldn’t accept Kate’s dangerous objections. Her sheltered existence did not allow any understanding of the perilous world he’d lived in for too long.
“Brydie and Damien have only two upper rooms, and they're newlyweds. Certainly not. Rob, Lyn, time to wash and finish your homework.” The insensible female finished the row and removed her gloves to brush strands of her auburn hair from her neck. The feminine gesture nearly paralyzed him.
He diverted his prurient thoughts by realizing she’d kept the children from complaining about homework—by making it more pleasant than the task at hand.
Once inside, with the children out of the kitchen, Kate washed at the sink and donned an apron over her distracting curves. Bringing out the remains of the meat pie and cheese, she glared at Fletch as if he were the offender. “We ate mushrooms Saturday night. No one died. I am heartbroken to lose Mrs. Young. She was a lovely lady and a pleasure to work with. I hate that she died in pain. I hate that we are helpless to prevent illness and suffering. But I see utterly no reason for Hugh to murder her. I will not waste my life behind locked doors, living in fear of what might happen. That’s idiocy and cowardice.”
Fletch pinched the bridge of his too-broad nose. No shouting, he reminded himself. Ladies did not respond well to shouting. “You will not live at all if he kills you. He wants this house. He has moved in, threatened you, pushed a woman who looked like you downstairs, used a pea-shooter on mules in an attempt to kill you, and now he has murdered an old lady, probably because she'd seen him carrying out his dirty deeds.”
He held up his hand when she started to object. “He wants this house. He’s lurking, watching, stealing from your garden when he thinks the place is empty. If you stay in the village, he'll move in, and we'll have him trapped. Rafe and his hounds have caught his scent but it’s everywhere. We can’t trap him any other way.”
He couldn’t believe he was arguing with the fool woman. She bustled about the kitchen like a mere servant but disagreed with him as if she knew more than an army major. He had no responsibility for her. He should keep his head down, do his work, and shut the hell up. What the devil was wrong with him?
“Perhaps he's gone,” she said stubbornly, slicing bread. “Has anyone considered that Hugh is a lunatic who may have wandered off, and that's why the hounds can't find him?”
“He was here yesterday!” Fletch finally shouted. “Sorry.” He grabbed plates and set the kitchen table. “I am not good at protecting civilians. I need to sleep in the yard with my rifle and shoot things.”
She offered a wobbly smile that almost slayed him on the spot. “I understand. I am not accustomed to people yelling at me. We both must adapt to others.” Then she ruined the moment by adding in a more pointed tone, “I will learn to listen. You must learn to talk.”
He accepted the admonition. He knew he was a surly bastard. It had never really mattered before. Clock parts and horses didn’t care. He rubbed a hand on his unkempt thatch of hair, reined in his temper, and asked as civilly as he was able, “Why do you believe Hugh is gone?”
“The hounds and two search parties cannot find him. He’s wily enough to know they’re after him, but he's simply not smart enough to know one mushroom from another—do you? I don't.” She arranged the cold platters on the table, added greens and pickled carrots, and rang a bell to bring the children down—because ladies didn’t shout like fishwives.
Fletch had to concede her point. “Mrs. Young knew the difference,” he couldn't resist adding.
“Then she was ill. People die of illness, as we know too well.”
As Kate knew too well, Fletch understood. She'd nursed parents and husband. Perhaps, this once, Meera was wrong. The village had seen too much suspicious death and it biased their thinking. He wanted to believe in Kate’s impossible fantasy world.
Rob and Lynly arrived and conversation took more pleasant—although not necessarily less controversial—directions.
“Miss Kitty said she might teach me to play the piano,” Lynly announced. “You and Aunt Brydie don't have time anymore.”
