Blood Blade Sisters Series (2 page)

Chapter Two

Cilla and Lucy rode right into the wide open doors of the barn and jumped off their horses.

“Oh,
Dios mio
, what have you done now?” Miguel, the only ranch hand who hadn’t deserted the sisters after their father’s death, hurried over to the girls.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Cilla insisted.

Miguel tilted the man’s face into the light of the lantern and peeled one of his eyes back before letting his head drop again. “Uh-huh. You better go get Carmen.”

Cilla cringed. Miguel’s wife was the housekeeper, nurse, cook, and overprotective mother hen of the ranch, and while she was dearly loved by all, she was a holy terror who even Frank tried not to cross.

“Frank’s on his way, we don’t have time for that right now. Just help me.”

Cilla and Miguel dragged the man’s body off her horse, doing their best to break his fall. He still hit the packed dirt of the barn with a thud. Cilla put her ear to his chest, thankful to hear his heart beating loud and strong. She stood and helped Miguel drag him into one of the stalls.

Miguel went to tend to the horses. Lucy stood beside Cilla with her hands on her hips, staring down at the stranger with a frown on her face.

“What do we do with him?”

Cilla shook her head. Damned if she knew. But they couldn’t let Frank find him, that was for sure. She bent over and Lucy helped her get the man’s coat off. His arm wasn’t bad, thank goodness. Just a scratch. Cilla tore a strip of cloth from her shirt and bound the wound. Then she covered him with his coat and threw several armfuls of straw over him, covering him as much as possible. It was all she could do with Frank hot on their heels. She turned her back and prayed the man didn’t snore…and that Frank would stay out of the barn.

Miguel tossed a rag at Cilla. “There is blood on your saddle, but not much. See if you can get it off.”

She grabbed a rag and wiped it as best she could. It would pass a quick inspection, she hoped.

“The horses are dripping wet and muddy,” Lucy said.

“So are you,” Miguel observed, taking the small leather pouch containing the night’s haul from Cilla. “You let me deal with this. And the horses. Go take care of yourselves.” He turned and ran down the length of the barn, gathering all the lanterns as he went.

Lucy laughed and grabbed the two that hung near the doors.

“Can’t suspect what they can’t see,” Cilla said, smiling as she took the lanterns from Lucy so her sister could shut the barn doors.

They had just made it to the porch when the faint whinny of a horse sounded from behind the hill leading to their property. The front door flew open and Carmen yanked them inside, grabbing the lanterns from Cilla’s grasp.

“Give me those! I’ll deal with them. Quick, get into the parlor and off with your clothes!” Carmen managed to juggle the lanterns and still get Lucy’s coat off. Cilla batted Carmen’s hands away when she moved to grab hers. She hurriedly peeled it off and ducked into the parlor with Lucy.

Carmen hustled toward the kitchen, calling to them over her shoulder. “Your nightshirts are by the fire. Move!”

Cilla heard the door to the cellar being thrown open as she and Lucy yanked and peeled sodden clothing off their chilled bodies. A sound of splashing water came from the kitchen. A moment later their older sister Brynne came in, her hair wrapped in a towel with several wet tendrils escaping down her back.

She tossed a towel to each sister and gathered their soaked clothing. She glanced around the room for a place to hide them, but the sound of several horses riding into the courtyard seemed to spur her on.

“Quick! By the fire!” Brynne motioned to the hairbrush lying on the hearth and Cilla smiled, amazed by her sister’s quick thinking.

With a look of triumph, Brynne lunged at the wood box and shoved the clothes inside. Cilla looked down to make sure she was decent and noticed a smear of blood on her hand. She scrubbed at it, removing some of it, but doing so left a red stain across the palm of her other hand.

There was a heavy-handed banging at the door. Cilla quickly ran her hand through her damp hair to remove the bit of blood left on her palm.

The fist hammered again. Lucy slid to the floor, making room for Brynne as she took her place at the hearth and started attacking Cilla’s damp hair with the brush.

When Frank burst into the room, he found his three half-sisters, drying and brushing their hair by the fire, looking for all the world as though they had spent the evening grooming each other. His two bottom-feeders marched in after him. Cilla’s squeal sounded almost as convincing as her sisters’ as they grabbed at quilts to cover their nightclothes.

Carmen immediately bustled into the room. She marched right up to Frank, wagging her finger in his face and cursing at him in Spanish. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Cilla would have laughed as Frank stumbled back a few steps under the housekeeper’s fury.

“Calm yourself, woman!” he shouted, his hands raised as if to show her he came in peace.

“Don’t you ‘woman’ me, Frank Richardson. Your poor papa would turn over in his grave if he knew you were being so disrespectful to your sisters. Bursting into their house in the middle of the night with these…these
matones
,” she said, gesturing to the two goons who were wisely hovering near the door.

“Now, Carmen, I have every right to check on my sisters and make sure everyone is where they are supposed to be. These are dangerous times and—”

“They’re only dangerous because of you!”

Frank’s anger burned off whatever residual fear he had of Carmen. He glared at her. “Enough! You’ve said your peace. Now get out of my way.”

“It’s all right, Carmen. We’ll be fine,” Cilla assured her. “Why don’t you go find Miguel?”

Carmen pushed passed Frank, spewing Spanish profanities as she went.

“What is the meaning of this, Frank? Get these men out of here, this instant!” Brynne glared at him.

Frank took in the scene, a million different emotions flitting across his pasty face. He nodded at his men and they trudged back out the door, slamming it behind them.

Cilla focused on her half-brother, waiting to see if he suspected anything. He might have been handsome once, with his dull copper-colored hair and deep brown eyes. The dance hall girls certainly seemed to like him. But all Cilla saw were the years of drinking that had sucked the life from his features. The angles of his face were too sharp. His eyes held the remnants of a miserable life, full of bitterness and cruelty instead of warmth.

Cilla might have been tempted to feel sorry for him had he ever shown any sign of common human decency. But by the time their father had discovered his existence, the product of a drunken night with an opium-addicted prostitute, every ounce of compassion and morality had been beaten or starved out of him. Their father had believed there was still good in him. But no matter how much love and attention he had lavished on his only son, Cilla didn’t think there was anything redeemable left.

“Sorry to intrude.” Frank’s sneer conveyed just how unapologetic he was. His bottom lip bulged with tobacco and Cilla cringed, dreading the moment when he’d need to spit the disgusting juice from his mouth. “A carriage was robbed tonight and we have us a few witnesses that saw the good-for-nothing bandits comin’ this way.”

Cilla squared her shoulders. She’d gotten good at lying to Frank over the years, an unfortunate side effect of their father’s untimely death. “Ah, and you thought you’d come by to check on us? Why, how brotherly of you,” she purred, trying not to lay the sarcasm on too thick.

Frank glared at her. “The thieves made off with Mrs. Langley’s prized ruby brooch, and roughed her up some as well.”

“What?” Lucy straightened up, her face blazing with indignation.

Cilla patted her sister’s leg, giving it a warning squeeze beneath the soothing gesture. “We’re very sorry for any trouble that has befallen the Langleys, of course, Frank. But why are they traveling about in the dead of night? It’s not a surprise that they ran into mischief.”

“Is it not?” Frank said, his dark eyes wandering over the room. They focused for a moment on the wooden box and Cilla risked a quick glance. Her blood ran cold when she saw a small puddle forming near the edge. Frank took a step toward it. Cilla threw off the quilt she’d been holding to her chest, tossing it into a heap at the foot of the box. She moved to stand in front of him.

“While we appreciate your…visit, we really must insist you take your men and go. We are in no state to be entertaining company.”

With a glance at her, Frank started to step around when the front door crashed open again. Jed, one of Frank’s men, stumbled in, shaking his dripping hat all over the rugs and furniture. He held one hand tight against his chest.

“Did you search the grounds and the barn?” Frank asked. Cilla held her breath, hoping Frank didn’t hear her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest.

“Searched the grounds. Didn’t find nothin’. Can’t see any tracks with all this floodin’. And can’t see nothin’ in the barn. I can hear them horses all right, but couldn’t find a lantern nowhere. Lit a match and tried to take a look but one o’ them damned animals bit me!”

Cilla had to bite her cheek to keep from smiling. Good ol’ Maynard.

Frank sighed and dug into his lip, extracting a lump of tobacco that he flung to the corner. He spit a few times, emptying his mouth of tobacco juice all over their polished wood floor.

Jackson strolled in. He stopped next to Frank, his one good eye roving over Cilla. She looked down and stifled a gasp. In her haste to dress, she had forgotten to button her nightgown all the way and was showing a good bit of cleavage. She clutched her gown together, planting her feet to keep from taking a step backward.

Jackson had been ugly even before the knife fight that had disfigured his face, leaving a thick white scar running through one eye, across his nose, and down the other cheek. Cilla could handle ugly, but Jackson was also just plain mean. Torture-a-puppy-just-for-the-fun-of-it kind of mean. Cilla would geld a bull barehanded before she’d willingly be alone in a dark room with Jackson.

“What about you?” Frank asked him.

Jackson didn’t take his gaze from Cilla. “Didn’t find nothin’.” He licked his lip. “But maybe I can get some information for you anyway,” he said, reaching for Cilla, “if’n you leave me alone here with this lyin’ little bit—”

Frank’s fist smashed into Jackson’s mouth. Jackson dropped to the floor, shaking his head like the wet dog he was. Frank stood over him, his pistol in his hand.

“I’m more than capable of handling one weak little girl, understand?” Frank growled.

Cilla had no illusions that Frank actually cared what happened to her. But he had a mighty high opinion of himself and since she was blood and all…well, if Richardson blood was going to be spilt, Frank would be the one to do it. Not that Cilla would bet on that always being the case.

“Besides,” Frank continued, shooting a nasty look at Cilla before turning back to Jackson, “there ain’t no need for any of that…yet. Got it?”

Jackson dragged his hand across his bleeding lip, his eyes blazing fury. But he wouldn’t stand up to Frank. “Whatever you say…Boss.”

Frank nodded at the door. “Git outside.”

Jackson dragged his sorry carcass out. Cilla didn’t relax her stance.

Frank spun around, the back of his hand slamming into her cheek. She dropped to one knee, the room spiraling so much she nearly crumpled to the ground. Brynne cried out. Lucy jumped up to come to her, but Cilla shook her head. No way would she let Frank see her weak. She took a deep breath and fumbled for the cold metal at her ankle. She came back up with a tiny pistol in her hand.

Frank looked at the gun and laughed. “And just what are you gonna do with that?”

Cilla tensed her arm to keep it from shaking. Her face throbbed, radiating heat from her cheek up into her eye and temple. Her vision blurred but she refused to let him see her flinch. She felt Lucy and Brynne at her back. Brynne’s hand gripped her shoulder and Cilla stood straighter, drawing strength from her sisters.

“Why don’t you just tell us why you’re here, before things get uglier.”

Frank tilted his head in a mocking bow and stuck his hand inside his coat.

“Stop!” Cilla cocked the gun.

“Relax. Just gonna pull out a paper that you’ll want to see.”

Cilla nodded for him to continue, but kept her gun trained on him.

Frank revealed a thin folded paper with a flourish.

“And just what is that supposed to be?” Brynne asked.

“Why don’t we all get a little more comfortable,” Frank suggested. “You’ll want to be sitting down for this.” He grinned at each of the girls, apparently relishing whatever surprise he was about to spring.

Brynne stomped to the chaise by the fire and plopped down with a huff, though she was careful to keep her thick quilt pulled tightly across her, hiding the small mound of her belly that was becoming more and more noticeable. They wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer. Cilla pulled her gaze from her sister, forcing the thought from her mind. They had other things to worry about just then. Lucy followed Brynne to the chaise, sitting on the floor by her feet. Frank looked at Cilla, his eyebrow raised.

“I prefer to stand,” she said, though she did lower the gun. She was almost surprised at her gumption, but the last few years had worn her patience to the breaking point. Eking out a living from the failing ranch by day, raiding coaches by night, watching her sisters toil and struggle—it was enough to turn the sweet nature of any girl…and her nature hadn’t been all that sweet to begin with. Or so she’d been told. And Frank was going to be the tick that sucked her dry. It wasn’t wise to cross him. But Cilla just couldn’t seem to help herself.

Frank grabbed her shoulders and shoved her into a chair. “I said, sit.”

Cilla glared at him, every fiber of her being aching to thrash him within an inch of his life. Lucy’s whimper stopped her from jumping back to her feet. “Spill it, Frank. We haven’t got all night.”

He sat in their father’s favorite armchair. “I think you can make time for this.” He slowly unfolded the paper, clearly enjoying dragging out the suspense. Cilla’s finger itched to pull the trigger, but it would have been a shame to get blood all over their mama’s Persian rug.