A Bride for the Wrong Brother (Preview)

Chapter One

Silverton, Colorado, September, 1881

Blair Street was lined with numerous saloons, and Zach and Abel Swift chose to amble inside the Golden Gulch Saloon. The piano man clanked on the old out of tune piano, struggling for attention over the chattering and hooting of the patrons. The saloon owner, Chett Hayfield, an easy-going, but diligent man, stood behind the counter chatting to those seated at the bar and serving drinks.

“Why’re we here, Abel?” Zach said, returning the glares from men seated around derelict wooden tables, and some had broken chairs and stools. Smoke and liquor filled his nostrils. He could barely breathe.

“Ya know why,” Abel said, shooting a look of annoyance at his younger brother. “I got a contest to square up.”

“Yeah, I know.” Zach sighed, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t see the point of it.”

All this trouble for a pebble-sized golden nugget found in Animas River. His brother, along with a group of friends, had been gold panning near the river and found the golden nugget. The fight over the prize almost ended with gunfire. Fortunately, no one had any bullets. It was the dice that decided Abel should carry the nugget, and he considered himself lucky.

“I’ll git the money here, I’ll bet.”

“That’s the problem. You bet too much.” Zach’s brows furrowed, staring at a familiar face near the poker table, and jabbed his brother in the ribs. “Hey, ain’t that Peter Donelly?”

“Well, I’ll be,” said Abel with a short chuckle. “Let’s go over once I’ve won this nugget fair and square.”

Zach followed his brother’s nervous gaze as Jack White, Luke Webster, and Andy Harrison entered. Their heavy footsteps synchronized on the hardwood floor, hands in their front pockets. Jack’s eyes narrowed into slits, Luke’s jaw circled like a cow chewing cud, and Andy stared at the lady doves moving between the tables.

“Gentlemen,” Zach said, greeting them with a nod, and they did the same while removing their hats. “There’s an empty table in the corner.”

Zach grimaced, watching Jack spit inside the spittoon; a clump resonated from the bottom. Jack’s face stretched into a broad smile. Taking a step forward, he gave a hearty pat on Abel’s shoulder.

“Why so serious? Let’s order some drinks and get going, huh?” Jack jerked his head toward the table. “Andy,” he called out, “You can play with the ladies later. Go git some drinks. I think firewater’s best, don’t ya think so, fellas?”

“I’ll have a beer, thanks,” said Zach, pushing back his shoulders in response to the sour expression from Jack, who then grinned.

“Yeah, sure. Git the man a beer.”

Andy scuttled to the bar and the rest of the men claimed seats at a table.

“How’re we gonna do this?” Luke said, his jaw still moving.

“Let’s make it quick,” Jack said, leaning back in the chair. “No dice,” he added, shooting a dark look at Abel.

“Fine, you decide,” Abel said, folding his arms over the table’s surface.

One of the doves accompanied a red-faced Andy to the table with a tray of drinks, and a smile spread across Andy’s face. “Enjoy boys,” she said in a sweet voice with a wink, placing the drinks on the table, and dashed away.

“Oh no, you didn’t?” Jack said, shaking his head with a lop-sided grin. “You ol’ dog.”

“She’s gonna meet me later,” Andy said with a proud grin, dragging a stool closer to the table. “I still got it,” he guffawed, pointing at his chest with his thumbs.

Zach grabbed his beer and sat back in a chair watching them play the Classic Brag, a three-stake game, where the last one standing wins all, which he thought was stupid. All gambling games made no sense to Zach; to win money you have to lose money. He noticed two of the soiled doves giggling as they made eye contact with their patrons. One sat on a table talking to a man, and Zach took a swig of his beer, shaking his head.

Gambling, drinking, and playing around with the ladies of the saloon did not appeal to Zach. If love was what the men were seeking, it best not be with a soiled dove. His mind clouded, reminiscing over the love between his parents. They’d been happy, and all they’d spoken about was love and happiness for him and Abel. At thirty years old, he knew love had escaped him. Most of his friends had shifted to other places after being married. He’d decided by this time in his life, he’d have settled with a wife, and some kids dashing around, spending the rest of his life in a loving home.

Cussing and pounding on the table told him who the winners and losers were. Zach left the table, walked to the bar, and sat on a stool, ordering another beer. Depending on whether there was a tie, the game could go on for hours. He turned his face to the poker table and noticed Peter Donelly, a long-time family friend, had disappeared.

Darn Abel. He thought. It would have been something to catch up on old times. Peter dreamed of a better life and had said he’d get rich someday. When he moved away to work at the mines, they lost contact.

A hard clap on Zach’s back forced him forward, spilling beer over his shirt. He rotated in his seat and before he could utter a word, his brother’s eyes sparkled with joy and his smile lit up the room. Zach glimpsed at the table and three men sat with slumped shoulders. Luke darting heated stares at Abel.

“Told ya I was lucky,” Abel said, his voice full of enthusiasm. “Sorry ‘bout that drink, I’ll git ya another.”

“Y-You won?” Zach stared at him wide-eyed. “Knock me over with a feather. I don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I, but I did,” he gushed. “Fair and square. Now, I have some gambling debts to pay off with this nugget, then I wanna hit the poker table a bit, and—”

Zach lifted his hand and silenced his brother. “No, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Pay your debts and let’s get home. No more gambling, okay? If you want to double your money, then fold it and put it in your pocket.”

“Now, see here. I can do what I like with my money,” Abel said, protesting. Jutting out his hip with his left hand on it, and with his right hand poking his forefinger against Zach’s chest. “My friends over there, see, they’re all depressed now. I’m gonna cheer them up.”

“That’s a bad idea, Abel. You’re biting off more than you can chew,” Zach responded, placing his hand over his brother’s shoulder. “It’s best you come home with me.”

How could he get some sense into his brother? His friends would’ve run off with the nugget.

“What? You ain’t coming?”

“You know I can’t. I’ve already lingered for too long. Noah’s waiting for me,” Zach said.

Abel rolled his eyes, and shaking his head, said, “The kid ain’t even yours, so why do ya care?”

Anger welled within Zach’s chest, and he drew in a deep, staggered breath. “Now that’s uncalled for. If you want to spend your money, go for it, but don’t blame me when you come home with nothing.”

“Fine, your loss,” Abel said with a dark look and spun on his heels, turning his back on Zach.

A lump formed at the back of Zach’s throat, watching him stomp toward the table where his friends were still sitting and drinking.

He gulped what was left of his beer and slid off the stool, thanking Chet for the drink, and strode toward the door. As his hand gripped the doorknob, he grimaced at the cheers from the table. Despondent at leaving his brother behind, he opened the door and left the saloon.

***

The Swift Ranch was conveniently located three miles from Silverton City. Zach dismounted Ace, his stunning bay stallion. Its brown-reddish coat was complemented by a black mane, tail, hare ears, and black from its lower legs to the hooves.

He gazed at the late afternoon sun high above the San Juan Mountains surrounding the ranch and smiled; a sensation of tranquility drained the tension he’d bottled up since the saloon. Jagged mountain peaks pierced the sky, a sea of trees with green and yellowing leaves cascading from the rocky mounts to the foothills, enfolding rolling hills like the gentle swells of the creek. He observed the thin trails in the distance; Ouray to the north and Durango to the south. Slivers of light reflected the rivers and lakes parted by the hills and valleys.

“Pap, Pap,” he heard a young boy’s voice. He turned and grinned, watching Noah’s wavy light blonde hair caught up in the breeze dashing toward Zach with his arms wide open.

Zach scooped him into his arms, lifting the boy high in the air, enjoying his musical giggles.

“You weren’t causing trouble while I was gone?” Zach said, pretending a dubious look on his face.

“Uh-uh,” Noah said, responding with a nod. Brushing his tiny hands over Zach’s stubbled chin, he added, “I got the firewood, five at a time.”

“That so?” Zach said, ruffling Noah’s hair as he walked toward the ranch house, listening to him chatter away. Zach breathed in the earthy smell of the ranch that could only come from the fusion of lanolin, grass, and livestock that defined the nature of the ranch. How could love with a woman feel better than this?

The neighing and whinnying horses made him reflect on his brother, who should be working with them. From a young age, Abel immersed himself in working alongside their father with the horses. He was a genius at rallying, taming, and breaking in horses. However, Zach recognized the hired hands had everything under control, with the guidance of his foreman and best friend, Norman Parker.

Zach placed Noah on the ground, who kicked dust into the air as he scampered up the steps onto the wraparound porch. His stomach growled at the aroma of sweet apple pie floating through the air.

Noah stopped at the front door and turned to Zach with a grin. “I helped Amy make apple pie. I pinched crust.” His face broadened into a mischievous grin. “It don’t matter, she wasn’t looking.”

Following Noah inside with a light chuckle, Zack considered himself lucky to have a friend married to a baker.

“More. More,” Noah said, yelling as he stamped through the house and into the kitchen. Zach caught up to him with long strides.

“No, this is for after supper,” Amy said, tapping Noah’s hand as he tried to poke the pie with his forefinger.

The kitchen table and floor were covered with flour, bits, and pieces of crust, and apple peels. Zach guessed the chaos was Noah’s doing.

“There’s roasted coffee, if you like,” said Amy, lifting the pie out of Noah’s reach. “Help yourself. I’m going to take this rabble-rouser with me to milk the cow.”

“Ah, shucks no,” Noah groaned. His arm was limp at his sides with a massive pout on his face. “You always make me do it and I get wet.”

“Mind your tongue,” Amy chastised.

Zach roared with laughter as he dug into the cupboard for a mug. “Listen to Amy, I think you need to do something else than make trouble.”

“Pap, can’t we go to the spitting rock? I’ve been practicing.”

“Nope, go on with Amy. I’m gonna finish my coffee and meet up with Norman. We have work to do with the cattle and fix the boundary fence. We’ll get to the rock some other time, I promise.”

Sulking, Noah picked up an empty pail and followed Amy, moaning as she lectured how he would help her clean the kitchen afterward.

***

Left to his thoughts, Zach sat on the porch in the rocking chair, nursing a steaming mug of coffee between his hands. He stared at the dark canvas above him dotted with bright lights. Thanks to Amy, Noah fell fast asleep while she read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, a rascally boy who loved adventures.

Trotting of hooves interrupted a certain tranquility that could be perfect for a night of romance, soft birdcalls, chirping crickets, and distant noises from the cattle. He stared at a chestnut horse approaching, which he knew had a diamond on its snout, Flapjack; his brother’s stallion.

Through the darkness, Zach observed his brother’s slumped shoulders, and his head lolling against the horse’s neck.

Zach put his mug on the table beside him and jumped to his feet. Dashing to his brother as the horse came to a halt, Zach caught him before he fell to the side.

“Easy does it,” Zach said, and a mix of irritation and worry overcame him. After Zach managed to get his brother to his feet, he grabbed the horse’s lead and tied Flapjack to a hitching post.

“Yoo…rii…” Abel mumbled, swaying as he sauntered toward the porch steps. Zach hurried after him and propped his brother’s arm over his shoulders, helping him up the steps. Sheer willpower kept him from gagging at the stench of malt and whiskey from Abel’s breath.

“You’re soaked. What happened?” Zach said with disappointment in his heart. Heaving his brother’s body step after step was like carrying dead weight. When they reached the top, Zach helped his brother into a chair, and he returned to the rocking chair.

“Take my coffee,” Zach said, handing the mug over to Abel, who welcomed its warmth. “Sober up, I’ll be back.”

With a deep sigh, Zach entered the house. The floorboards were creaking louder than usual when he made his way to the kitchen. Thankful the brick stove was still hot; he found a mug and filled it with coffee and sugar.

Glancing around the kitchen, he noticed Amy had dried the dishes, and everything was in its place. The kerosene lamp on the kitchen table created flickering shadows from the pots and skillets hanging against the stone wall. Guilt racked through him. It wasn’t her responsibility to do these things. If Abel spent more time at the ranch, he imagined things would be different. Maybe a housekeeper would help, but money had been tight for a while.

Joining his brother on the porch, he noticed Abel was still and appeared calmer, but his face was forlorn and he shook his head.

Exhaling a wistful sniff, Abel said, “Gone. It’s all gone. I should’ve listened to ya.” He sipped from the mug. Then, with anger in his voice, he said, “Those maggots took everything from me.”

“No, Abel,” Zach said. “You did this to yourself. It’s about time you grow up. You’re thirty-four and is this how you want to spend your life? Dad would be disappointed.”

Abel’s head whipped up and glared at his brother with fury, but remained silent, sipping his coffee.

“You’re better than this,” Zach said, his voice pleading. “You have prize-winning horses wasting away.”

“Hmm,” Abel returned with a shrug, and his eyes darted to the floorboard. “I met up with Peter, ya know. He’s doing good.”

Surprised at his brother’s sudden change of behavior, Zach frowned. “Yeah, so? What’s he doing in Silverton, anyway?”

“He came to finish up business with the mines,” he said, sipping his coffee. “He’s married to a rich woman. Just like he said he would. He’s high-ace now, said he’d be rich someday.”

“Good for him. As long as he’s happy, that’s—”

“Ya missing the point.” Abel shook his head again. “I wanna be rich. Where can I find a rich woman?” He turned his head and stared at Zach.

“You don’t know what you’re saying. Got to love a woman more than gambling to be a decent husband. She won’t care whether you’re rich or poor.”

“What do you know? Marriage for money happens all the time.”

“Don’t need to be rich,” Zach scoffed. “Listen to yourself. You’re still off the bender. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Nope,” Abel said with a defiant look in his eyes. “I ain’t, I’m thinking clear. I’m gonna find myself a rich woman like Peter did.”

Abel gulped the rest of his coffee and banged the mug on the table. He rose to his feet and mumbled “goodnight” leaving Zach to care for Flapjack still hitched to the post.

Chapter Two

Buffalo, New York

Grover hid in the shadows of the lamppost in Aberdeen Street, off Dorchester Street. The lack of cloud cover did little to conceal him from the moonlight. He shivered, lifting his coat collar to cover the back of his neck. Leaves, dirt, and litter gusted across the streets and the rustling trees wailed against the might of the wind.

For weeks, he kept watch on the Carthington House and knew the occupant’s habits as if he were a part of the household. The servants woke up early and settled late at night. Albert Penn, the butler, was usually the first to walk out the front door to ensure Mr. Carthington’s carriage was ready for his departure. Every Thursday, his sister, the widowed Mrs. Wilma Goodwin, would accompany him to the bank until noon.

Willow never left the house, which irked him. His desire to see her grew stronger each day, and it was her father that stood in his way. Grover refused to accept the denial of their betrothal. He was determined to make Willow his wife, and he’d access their fortune, committing her to an asylum if she did not acknowledge him, but he required an heir.

A sinister smile crawled over his face. His plan was flawless and no one would be the wiser. The Victorian-styled house would belong to him. He’d entertain guests in the ballroom boasting about the exquisite décor in every room, as Daniel had done for every occasion. The mahogany furniture and the wall-covered bookcase in the study would be at his disposal. He’d discard the horrendous painting of the Carthington family in the hallway, replacing it with one of his own.

As far as anyone was concerned, he’d left Boston en route to Pennsylvania, hiding behind the guise of a wealthy insurance company that he’d inherited from his father, Philip Thompson. His lip curled in disgust. His father had been a fool and run the company into the ground, leaving him with no prospects; a poor, helpless pauper.

Once the light in the attic vanished, Grover crept from behind the lamppost, sweeping between the shadows toward the back of the mansion where the coach house was located. He’d discovered the servants’ entrance would give him easy access to it. There was a second level to the coach house, which the driver, Malcolm, occupied. Grover knew he was a deep sleeper, particularly after a glass or two of whisky.

The clouds finally hid the moonlight, and he was able to move freely through the back garden and slithered into the coach house. He shuddered at the echoed snoring emanating from the second level.

Searching between the three carriages, he smirked as his eyes landed on Daniel’s carriage. He approached the carriage ready to be hitched to two horses in the morning. Digging inside his coat pocket, he pulled out a set of tools he’d bought from a merchant. He sat on his rear and lay down on his back, edging his body underneath the carriage, and found the axle.

He bit on his lip to soften his chortle as he loosened the nuts connecting the axle between the wheels. Sliding from beneath the carriage, he dusted off his coat, and loosened the hubs at the center of all four wheels.

“Flawless,” he whispered to himself with a menacing smile. It was almost a shame for him not take to credit for what was about to happen. In his excitement, he forgot about the tools on the floor and kicked one, sending it sliding across the floor and slamming against the wall near the staircase.

Swearing in silence, Grover heard the snoring halt and movement from the second floor. He gathered the tools, except for the one that had slid across the floor, and scurried out of the coach house as Malcolm thumped down the staircase.

***

Willow sat in her room near the window with a book on her lap and waved her father goodbye as he climbed into the carriage. Despite being on the second floor, she noticed the grim expression on Malcolm’s weathered face. Studying the carriage. He walked around, inspecting the wheels. She smiled, knowing her father was in safe hands. Malcolm not only maintained the carriages, but he fixed everything else that needed repairing in the house.

Malcolm climbed into the driver’s seat and tugged on the reins. Within minutes, her ears were filled with the sound of crunching wheels grinding on cobblestones and trotting hooves. Her father had given her strict instructions not to leave the house or visit the beautiful flower garden with its leafy gazebo and trimmed bushes, but she could admire them from her bedroom or the drawing room.

Some days, she’d sneak to the back garden through the servant’s entrance. The cook would secretly prepare a picnic basket where she read, embroidered, or tried her hand at sketching; discovering she had no talent for it.

There was a soft knock at the door and one of the maids entered.

“Miss Willow, would you like the cook to prepare a basket for you?”

Willow shook her head and said with a sweet smile, “I’ll stay inside today. It feels cold these days. Thank you, Jane.”

The maid bobbed her head and turned to leave, but Willow stopped her. “Jane, do you know why Malcolm was melancholy this morning? Usually, he and my father would wave goodbye, but this morning he was…different.”

“Yes, he was concerned about the center hub wheels. I think that’s what it’s called. I don’t know much about carriages, but I heard he found them loose and had to spend extra time tightening them.”

Willow’s brows knitted and her heart beat faster. “That is odd,” she responded and stared out the window. A strange sensation tickled her skin, and a knot formed in her stomach.

“Are you all right, Miss? You look pale.”

Offering a forced smile, Willow nodded and said, “Yes, I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be down shortly.”

She heard the door close as she stared out the window, hoping to see her father one last time.

***

It was late in the afternoon and Willow sat in the drawing room, embroidering a new handkerchief for her father. She’d noticed the dark circles under his eyes and a taut expression on his drawn face, indicating he’d been working hard lately.

In a fortnight, he’d arranged another party to find suitors for her betrothal. She giggled. It didn’t escape her attention that when he hosted parties, widows and younger women fawned over him with words of flattery, wearing dresses with low necklines. She couldn’t help but wonder whether the party was for her or her father.

Time droned on and she gazed out the window expecting the carriage, but there was no sign of it. Was her father working late? She didn’t like eating alone.

The sound of footsteps from the hallway caught her attention, and she flashed a cheerful smile, hoping it was her father. Her smile faded as Albert entered the drawing room with a grim expression. His hands were behind his back and he lowered his chin.

“Miss Willow,” his voice warbled. “A police officer has arrived who wants to speak with you. He’s in the hallway.”

Breath seized in her chest and fear struck her as she pushed the handkerchief aside. She rose to her feet. Where was her father and why would a police officer visit her at this hour?

“Please send him in,” Willow said, telling herself to calm down that it was most likely a courtesy call.

Albert dipped his head and disappeared, returning moments later with the officer, who’d removed his helmet. He appeared young with brown disheveled hair, dressed in his pressed dark blue uniform and shimmering black boots.

He licked his lower lip, eyes darting around the room as if avoiding eye contact, his fidgeting hands were clasped.

“Miss Carthington,” he said with pity in his eyes. “I’m Sergeant Ronald Moore. I regret to inform you there was an accident while your father, Mr. Carthington, was on his way home.”

Willow’s body tremored as the world spun around her, and she stared at Sergeant Moore in shock. “What do you mean, an accident? Is my father all right? Can I see him?”

He swallowed and continued taking a quickened breath. “Your father has passed away. The axle gave way, and the carriage lurched forward. The driver and your father were thrown out of the carriage. The driver landed on the horses, and they sped away, of course—”

“Please spare the details. Can’t you see she’s distraught!” Albert said in a rough, heightened tone, his eyes dampened, gawking at the sergeant.

“No, carry on, please,” Willow sniffled, tears streaming down her cheeks. This can’t be true. “I need to hear the rest of it.”

Sergeant Moore cleared his throat and shifted his feet. “It happened over a hill and your father, well, he died instantly. He didn’t suffer. The driver is in bad shape at the hospital.”

The world stopped, but the room began spinning as the floor disappeared beneath Willow’s feet. Sturdy, warm arms wrapped around her. Wailing, she shook her head. “No, no, how could this happen?” She choked over her words, tasting salt. “He was fine this morning. Malcolm… he checked… the carriage…”

“We suspect foul play,” Sergeant Moore’s voice dropped. “The axle in the front appears to have been tampered with, but we’re still investigating. The blacksmith will give his report in a few hours.” His voice was full of compassion as he continued, “I’m sorry for your loss and forgive me for asking, but if you will allow it,” he paused, shifting his feet again, “We’d like to investigate your coach house.”

Holding Willow in his arms, Albert glared at him, appalled and said enraged, “What’s the matter with you? Give her time to grieve.”

Willow pulled on Albert’s sleeve and whispered, “It’s fine. Let them do it. If it’s foul play, I want to know. I want justice for my father.”

Albert faced the sergeant, his jaw tense, “You heard Miss Carthington. Go on with your investigation and let her know at once when you find anything.”

Sergeant Moore bowed his head. “Very well, Miss Carthington. Thank you for your co-operation. Again, I’m…we’re all sorry for your loss. Your father was a kind man.”

Neither Albert nor Willow heard the sergeant as he said, “I’ll see myself out.”

Without her father, how was she to find a suitable match? Grover ruined everything. If only he hadn’t entered their lives and tricked her father. She was confident by now she’d be married to an esteemed gentleman. One who’d love her and they’d live in happiness; like her parents.

Night after night, listening to the stories of the happy fairytales her nannies would read, she believed such a fairytale could come true for her. But now she was trapped under Grover’s influence. With her dreams dashed, she doubted she’d ever find love.

Chapter Three

The days drifted in a daze and Willow wished it was a horrible nightmare that she’d wake up and find everything was normal, but it wasn’t. It was real. Her father was gone and nothing would bring him back. Pain consumed her heart, stealing a piece of herself and leaving her empty, feeling alone. She was lost and confused. What was she to do now?

After the burial, she’d holed herself inside her bedroom, refusing visitors who wanted to offer their condolences. She couldn’t face the world, one without her father.

Every night she clutched her pillow, sobbing for the man she loved most. The blacksmith’s report indicated foul play, and the police were stumped. A strange tool was found in the coach house that Malcolm did not recognize, one that only a blacksmith would possess. It became a mystery. Her father was an honest banker, and no one held a grudge against him.

The only person that came to her mind was Grover, but he’d been in Pennsylvania, and the police inspector confirmed his alibi. Her instinct told her otherwise. He had to be involved, but there was no proof.

There was a soft tap on the door. “Miss Willow.” It was Jane’s voice. “Please open the door. We’re worried about you and the doctor is here. He wants to examine you.”

Staring out the window at the street, as if her father would magically appear, she groaned. Would Dr. Willis give her medicine to dull the pain? Nothing could ever take this pain away.

She ambled to the door and for the first time in three days, she opened it.

Jane gasped, and said, “Miss Willow, you look awful. I mean, you’re beautiful, but you’re too thin. The cook has prepared your favorite meal.”

Shaking her head and swiping the tears from her eyes, Willow said, “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“By the way, Miss, you have many letters and gifts,” Jane said.

“I’ll see to them later,” Willow responded. She didn’t care for gifts.

In silence, she followed Jane down the lavishly carpeted steps. Her fingers followed the ornate carvings on the banister and she smiled, recalling as a young girl, her father’s cheery laugh as he chased her around the house; much to her mother’s dismay.

Dr. Cameron Willis had been their family doctor for as long as she could remember. He sat in the drawing room drinking a cup of tea. He stood as she entered and greeted her with a warm but sympathetic smile.

“Miss Willow, I don’t know what to say to make you feel better. Your father was a dear friend.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting opposite him, and he did the same. She noticed his crinkled leather bag at his feet.

“Please drink this, Miss,” said Jane, filling a cup with tea.

“How is Malcolm?” Willow said, glancing at the doctor as she reached for the cup and then stared at the swirling liquid. Guilt tugged at her heart for not visiting him in the hospital.

“He is making steady progress. He won’t be driving anytime soon. His leg is broken, his arm is fractured, and he’s got two broken ribs.” Dr. Willis said, his thick, gray mustache formed a line. “Truthfully, my reason for visiting is he desires to see you. Well, he insists on seeing you.”

Looking at her from head to toe, he said, “I’m glad to have come. Your aunt is concerned. The maids and Albert have told me you’ve not been eating or drinking.” He lifted his bag, placing it onto the couch and unclipped it. “You need to look after yourself.”

A mix of emotions she’d never felt before bubbled over and tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I should do. How can I go on without him?”

Dr. Willis paused. “Your father would want you to live your life to the fullest, wouldn’t he?”

She stared into his compassionate face. Lines had formed at the corners of his eyes, and his cheeks were plump.

Sipping the tea, she knew he was right. If her father saw her this way, he’d reprimand her.

He pulled out his stethoscope and a small device she always called a hammer because it resembled a tool Malcolm used when working on repairs.

“Some privacy, please,” said Dr. Willis.

Jane immediately closed the draped curtains and left the room, closing the door behind her.

“Have you had any betrothal offers?” Dr. Willis said, rising to his feet, and walked over to her with his medical equipment.

Willow shook her head, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Father planned to host a party to find suitors.”

“Perhaps you should host the party anyway,” Dr. Willis said as he examined her.

“No, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Other than you’re too thin and in much need of the sun,” the doctor offered a smile. “You’re healthy. If you don’t want to go out anywhere, I suggest the garden.”

“Can I see Malcolm this afternoon?”

“Of course, I’ll let the hospital know. They’ve limited his visitors because, as you’re aware, the police have no way of knowing whoever caused the accident was after your father or Malcolm.” His brows knitted and a sad expression fell upon his face. “Willow,” he said, and she stared at him in surprise. He only addressed her by her name for serious occasions. He leaned forward and clasped her hand, giving her a comforting squeeze. “Please, be careful.”

His jaw tensed, offering a smile, but she thought it was a frown. “I’ll be off now, and if you need anything, come to me. I’ve left medicine on the table. It will help if you feel unwell.”

She stood as he returned to the couch and retrieved his bag.

“Thank you for coming,” Willow said with a small smile. She was happy he’d come. There was something about him that always made her feel better.

Opening the door, he returned a smile and bobbed his head. “Take care of yourself.”

Her stomach rumbled as Jane entered the drawing room. She clapped her hands and said, “Finally, the cook was beside herself that you weren’t eating.”

Chuckling, Willow followed Jane to the dining hall, eager to visit Malcolm.

***

The hospital was abuzz with patients coughing and spluttering. Influenza was spreading. Willow covered her nose and mouth with her handkerchief. At the reception desk, she explained Dr. Willis had arranged for her to see Malcolm.

One of the nurses introduced herself as Nora and led Willow to the second level, where Malcolm lay with his left leg and right arm covered in plaster of Paris. Her heart sank as she hurried to his side.

“Malcolm,” Willow said, staring at his swollen and bruised face. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I was bereft with grief.”

With his left hand, he tapped her shoulder, and his mouth tipped upward. His eyes were moist. “I’m sorry. I blamed myself until the police told me what happened.” His breath was ragged and she held his hand.

“It’s not your fault,” Willow said, enforcing her last words. “You did nothing wrong.”

“I’m thankful Dr. Willis came to see you. There’s something you must know, but I can’t tell the police.”

He looked up at her through wild eyes. “I knew something was wrong. The wheels were loose. I told the police. I didn’t tell them what I heard the night before.”

“What? What did you hear?”

“I can’t sleep, you see. A glass of whiskey does the trick. I don’t get drunk, but I sleep well. I drink half a glass to wake up early. If I told the police, they wouldn’t believe me. There was a noise downstairs. I heard a slithering clanging and banging. I wasn’t sure, so I stayed in bed thinking it was the whisky or I was dreaming. But that tool slammed against the wall woke me up straight.” He heaved another raspy breath. “Again, there was scuffling. The floors are covered in dust and wood shavings. Someone was there, I’m sure of it.”

The air grew tense and rushed her skin like a swarm of flies. Willow gaped at him. Was he admitting someone must have sabotaged the carriage?

“Miss Willow, this was no accident,” Malcolm said with fear in his eyes. “I went down, but I saw only a shadow.”

“Did you see who it was?” She choked, forcing out the words, trembling.

“No, I didn’t.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and she tilted her head. “It’s presumptuous, but I can’t be sure. If anyone had something against your father, I can only think it would be Grover.”

He gasped, breathing heavily.

“It’s all right, Malcolm, please calm down,” Willow said, leaning forward. “I told the police about Grover, but they are convinced of his alibi. We all know he has dealings with shady people. Thank you for telling me. I will see if I can find out anything. Please rest, you must rest.”

He closed his eyes and smiled. Peace fell upon his face. “Now, I can rest, Miss Willow. I had to tell you. I know you miss him. Didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

Before Willow could say anything more, Malcolm had fallen into a deep sleep.