“Mr. Wingate, suh,” the brawny one addressed him with a chortle, “you’re ’bout to meet your maker.”
“Fo’ ’gainst one?” a deep voice questioned from nearby, and Ashton felt a measure of relief as he recognized it instantly as Judd’s. “Somehow dat seem a mite unfair, but jes’ a mite, mind yo. How ’bout makin’ it fo’ to two?”
The heavy man gave no pause, but lunged at Ashton. He had been shamed in the tavern and relished the idea of delivering a death stroke to this one. Ashton sidestepped his rush and swung a smarting clout to the man’s head as he passed. The eager one bellowed in pain and lurched around like a wounded bull. Ashton struck again, this time a chopping blow at the arm that bore the bat. The weapon fell to the ground, but the bearlike assailant closed and grasped Ashton in a crushing embrace. He felt his ribs creak with the strain and heaved upward with his arms. The other’s grip slipped slightly, and Ashton heaved again until he found enough space to move his arms. He drove the knuckles of both hands up under the man’s lower ribs and was rewarded by a howl when the fellow staggered back with his arms spread in agony. Ashton followed his retreat and repeatedly slammed his fist into the other’s face, flattening the bulbous nose, then driving a blow into the flabby belly and another to the chin. Still, the man reached out to grasp with those massive arms. Ashton stepped back and, with all his weight behind it, sent a fist straight into the sagging mouth. The man’s head jerked back with the blow, and he staggered away in a daze. He had no time to clear his thoughts before three stumbling forms rushed past. Catching their cohort’s arm, they dragged him along with them as they fled, slipping and sliding down the hill. Ashton turned in wonderment to find Judd grinning broadly. The black man stood in a victorious stance with legs spread and arms akimbo.
“What happened?” Ashton asked in bemusement.
The black shrugged casually. “Ah reckon dey figger de odds was too much fo’ dem.”
“As usual, you took care of more than your share of the battling,” Ashton said with a grin.
Judd chuckled. “Ah ain’t sure what my share shoulda been, so Ah jes’ took what was left over.”
Ashton clapped him on the back and laughed. “Feel perfectly free to help yourself to any leftovers like that you might find.”
Judd gestured down the street at the fleeing rogues. “Yo reckon we oughta go aftah dem? Dere ain’t no short dandy among ’em, but Ah noticed de big one missin’ two fingers.”
“I’ll inform Harvey of their whereabouts and let him drag them in. I don’t have any more fight left in me.” He walked over to the wagon where Sarah was sitting with chin in hand. A cudgel dangled from the other hand, and it was obvious from the small heap of bodies that lay in the mud near the forward wheel that she had used the bat with wicked intent.
“There’s been times in the past year or so,” she muttered, “when I’ve wanted to do something like this, especially when I thought of the brute I had for a husband.”
Ashton cocked a brow at her in amusement. “Madam, I pity the man if you ever lay your hands on him.”
“Humph,” she responded. “I won’t pity him. I’ll probably have him drawn and quartered, not only for what he did to me, but for what he did to my family.” She blinked at the moisture that suddenly filled her eyes and, in some embarrassment, thrust her hand into the pocket of her muddy skirt. Dragging forth a ragged kerchief and applying it to her wet cheeks, she sniffed and composed herself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wingate. I didn’t mean to bother you with my problems.”
“No bother at all, Sarah,” he said and, with gentle concern, inquired, “What will you do now? It will be too dangerous for you to go back to the Razorback Saloon.”
“I don’t know,” she answered quietly. “I have a brother who sailed to the Far East several years ago. I’m not sure when he’ll return, and he was always something of a black sheep anyway. He rebelled against the idea of taking over the business affairs when my father passed on.” She laughed without humor. “Believe it or not, Mr. Wingate, I was born into wealth. My father made a fortune maintaining several general stores and supplying them with goods he shipped in on his own vessels. I used to keep his books for him, so I know he was successful. Now my family has been utterly destroyed. My father is dead, the fortune is gone, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my brother again.” She stared into space, as if her thoughts had taken her far beyond the moment; then she heaved a long sigh. “I think I only exist to see the day my husband receives his due.”
Thoughtfully Ashton wiped a glob of mud from his sleeve. “If you’ve had some experience keeping journals, I can give you work at the office of my shipping business.”
Sarah stared at him in wonder. “You don’t have to feel responsible for me, Mr. Wingate. What I did back there at Razorback Saloon I did out of gratitude. The fight started because of me, and you owe me nothing.”
He peered at her with a slowly spreading grin. “My business has a need for someone with a talent for ciphering and keeping books. If you don’t think yourself capable, I’ll try to find someone else.”
Her thin face took on a glow that nearly equaled the moon shining high overhead. “I’m capable, Mr. Wingate. I know I am.”
“Good.” The matter was settled. “You’d better come back with us to Belle Chêne tonight. It will be safer there. In the morning my wife can take you to get some clothes.” He smiled. “She’s not really from the madhouse, you know.”
Sarah smiled rather sadly. “I know that, Mr. Wingate.”
The hour was late when Ashton paused outside the back door to shed his muddy boots and as much attire as he dared. He had accomplished the first and had shrugged out of coat and vest when he became aware of muffled sobs coming from the kitchen. With worry crowding his mind, he leaped up the steps and entered the room in stockinged feet. Willabelle turned about with a start, clasping the hem of her apron over her mouth. From her eyes streamed a torrent of tears, and the red-eyed stares of Luella May and Bertha convinced him that they also shared in the sorrow. When Willabelle recognized the mud-smeared visage of her master, she drew a deep breath and began to sob with renewed vigor.
“Why are all of you crying?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Miz Lierin, massa,” Willabelle moaned, and the other two dissolved in a fresh spate of sobs and sniffles.
Sharp talons of dread raked Ashton’s heart, and his mind began to race. “Where is she?” he cried. “Has she been hurt?”
Again Willabelle supplied the information as she wept in her apron. “Gone, massa.”
“Gone? Gone where?” He was completely bewildered.
The housekeeper sniffed loudly and, wiping her face with the apron, drew a quavering breath as she struggled for control. “Ah don’ know, massa. Dat Mistah Somerton, he come out here an’ talk wid her for some time. Den Mis Lierin an’ him jes’ up an’ left widout nobody knowin’. Yo grandma an’ Miz Jenny…dey took to deir beds wid a powerful case o’ de mulligrubs.”
“But why?” Ashton asked, confused and hurting. “Why would she go?”
Willabelle lifted her massive shoulders in a helpless shrug. “Ah don’ know, massa. Maybe Mistah Somerton, he worked her into believin’ she was Miz Lenore.”
A great weight descended on Ashton’s shoulders. Of a sudden he was tired, and his body ached from the abuse it had taken. His mind labored to sort out the realities, but he felt the pressing burden of a mountain he could not climb. Blinking at the gathering moisture in his eyes, he turned away and blindly made his way to the door. “I’ll find her,” he mumbled. “I’ll start the search in the morning.” He paused in the portal and lamely gestured toward the back door, remembering that he had left Sarah somewhere outside. “I brought a woman home with me. Take care of her and give her something to wear.”