Treasure, Darkly (Treasure Chronicles Book 1) Page 6

  Jeremiah ground his teeth as he ran his fingers through his dark blonde hair. “The Horans threatened the Smiths if they didn’t sell the land to them.”

  “What?” Georgette shrieked. “They mustn’t. The Horans will pay them mere pennies for what they bought it. The Smiths don’t have anything except that farm.”

  She hadn’t become so flustered when her driver had been shot. The Horans had to be worth something.

  “Jim Smith was over here an hour ago. The Horans said that if they didn’t sell, they’d burn the farm and kill them in it.” Jeremiah snorted.

  “The sheriff—” Georgette gripped the lapels on her son’s leather jacket.

  “You know he’s scared of the Horans.”

  Clark jumped down to the driveway. What kind of people could the Horans be if the powerful Treasures couldn’t stop them?

  “Father’s already there with Zachariah. I’m heading over now.” Jeremiah nudged his mother toward the mansion. “Stay here with Amethyst.”

  “Let me go too.” Clark rested his hand on his pistol. “You’re family now. I might not be a hired gun, but I can shoot.”

  “Yes, take Clark,” Georgette said although Jeremiah scowled. “The more against the Horans will show better.”

  “You better know how to ride.” Jeremiah stormed toward the stables.

  “I’ll bring my bike.” Clark jogged after him. If he could prove himself, he wouldn’t have Jeremiah’s distrust. If the young man didn’t accept him, he might sniff at his past, and those facts had to stay buried under the dust.

  Clark had stood against enemies before. The Horans couldn’t be too chilling.

  eremiah leaned into the smooth gait of his horse. The hooves pounded the dry dirt with precision; Password never missed a step. Jeremiah grinned. Password fit his name perfectly. The one who rode him had to know the code of obedience to get the roan’s respect.

  A second horse followed a half-mile behind. When Jeremiah glanced over his shoulder, he saw it as a dappled speck.

  Let that bastard urchin struggle with leather reins. He couldn’t drive his fancy bike over unmanaged terrain. Maybe Jeremiah should’ve let him try. It might prove funny to see him struggle with that machine. Give Jeremiah an animal any day over steam and wires.

  The field stretched toward the road and Jeremiah urged his mount to jump the fence. They flew, the wind streaking over them, lending ultimate power, and the horse struck the dirt road. Jeremiah turned him toward the right and kicked his sides to coax the animal to regain speed.

  If Clark couldn’t make the jump, too bad on him. He could follow the fence to the opening a mile down on the left. Jeremiah hadn’t asked him to come along, so it was up to Clark to keep up.

  Jeremiah’s horse lengthened his strides, pounding along the deep-rutted dirt road. Soon, they might start to pave the streets with gravel or cobblestone, if more farmers moved in. Jeremiah gazed at the rushing hillside. Mountains rose in the distance, and between him and them lay fields with a few trees. The forest kept closer to the mountains.

  If more farmers did move in, houses would ruin the view. Horses couldn’t speed over cobblestones sleek with rain and dust. Yards would ruin the fields.

  Jeremiah glanced back to where Clark followed, his mount galloping now. At least the kid could keep up. Jeremiah smirked. Kid would be a perfect name for that poser, let him know Jeremiah wouldn’t accept him as a half-brother. They might share a bit of the same blood, but that didn’t make them equals.

  Jeremiah continued the gallop for another half-mile until the Smith barn rose into view, the sides glowing a brilliant red in the fading sunlight. Flowers lined the porch of the one-story cabin beside it. Stephen Smith stood on his front porch brandishing a pitchfork, the center tine bent sideways. His wife leaned against the porch, clasping her bonnet strings beneath her chin.

  Stephen waved to Jeremiah and marched down the dirt walkway to the road. Jeremiah reined his horse and jumped down. Late spring dust puffed around his boots.

  Soot smeared Stephen’s face and chest. He’d taken off his shirt, so he only wore overalls. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air.

  “What happened?” Jeremiah pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to his friend to clean himself.

  “My son still at your place?” Stephen panted as if he’d been running.

  “He’s in the kitchen.” The little boy had trekked far since that morning when his father had sent him for help. Not that Jeremiah would ever send his son to get help, but sometimes parents faced desperate situations.

  “The Horans came this morning before we was up.” Stephen shook his head at the handkerchief. “They done burned our outhouse. That thing stunk. Said if we don’t sell, they’ll burn the barn next, then the house.” Stephen narrowed his eyes. “I can’t sell, Jere. This here is all I’ve got. He only wants to buy it off me for a little bit. I can’t live off that.”

  Jeremiah clapped his shoulder and squeezed. Even though Stephen was six years older, Jeremiah stood a foot taller. “Don’t worry, chap. We’ll handle this. Where’s my father?” Scanning the yard, he didn’t spot Garth’s dappled stallion.

  “He went to get help in town. Start a posse.” Stephen spit at the grass, browning from lack of rain. “Why the Horans gotta mess with us? What we done to them?”

  The Smiths had something they wanted. Stephen’s paltry ten acres didn’t stand up to the Horans’ four hundred, but it was something they didn’t have. Plus, Smith’s pond served as a good watering hole for livestock.

  “They gonna burn it down around our heads.” Stephen jabbed the handle of his pitchfork into the ground.

  “No one will do that.” Jeremiah tightened his fist around the reins. The Horans would try, though. Without Treasure protection, no one would stand against them. The Treasures had more land, more wealth—if they fought for the Smiths, the Horans might back down. Eventually.

  Clark reined his horse in beside Jeremiah. Smooth, swift motions. He might not have been raised in the saddle like Jeremiah, but he knew what he was doing. At least he wasn’t a complete idiot.

  Jeremiah scowled. No, he was an idiot. The idiot secret brother his father should’ve never recognized. How was that going to look in the news?

  Clark slid to the ground. “What’s the plan of action?”

  Stephen nodded toward him. “Who’s that?”

  My father’s bastard. “He’s….”

  “Clark Treasure.” Clark pulled off his leather gloves and held out his hand.

  “Stephen Smith.” The farmer shook before he glanced at Jeremiah. “He your cousin?”

  Maybe he could pass Clark off as that. Jeremiah opened his mouth to agree, but remembered his father would be there soon. “Brother, actually.” He coughed.

  “What can we do to help?” At least Clark didn’t let an awkward silence develop.

  Stephen shifted his pitchfork between his hands. “We fight.”

  “While Father gathers reinforcements, we’ll start barricading the house and barn.” Jeremiah pulled his horse by the reins toward the house. “They won’t get to your buildings.”

  Darkness oozed like a slug over the fields. Jeremiah stood beside the front door, Stephen at his side. Purple and orange seeped with the sun to slip beneath the edge of the world. With the loss of day, the darkness thickened. Jeremiah wiped sweat onto his jacket sleeve; it shouldn’t still be so hot that his forehead perspired.

  Garth leaned against the railing. The twenty men he’d found in town scattered around the house and outbuildings. The livestock had been left in the barn, but unharnessed in case they needed to flee. Someone only needed to unlatch the double doors.

  A light flickered on the road. It grew brighter into two, then three, becoming a dozen, multiplying into closer to fifty red flickers.

  “Ready yourselves.” Garth straightened from his crouch.

  Calm froze over Jeremiah’s skin. Fifty torches and lanterns. The Horans had brought a te
am.

  Jacob Horan stopped his horse in front of the cabin. The rest of his men fanned out across the yard, surrounding the farm. They’d brought horses, so they expected terrain, not just roads. Jeremiah rested his fists over his pistols strapped to his leather belt.

  “This fight isn’t with you, Treasure.” Jacob removed his dark glasses. Gold teeth flashed in his mouth. Gaudy fool. Chains hung from the top hat strapped to his head. More chain hung off his leather-fringed jacket and matching slacks. Polished boots reached his knees.

  “It is when you threaten my friend.” Garth took one step forward, hands hanging limply at his sides.

  “Well now.” Jacob’s gray beard shifted when he spoke. “Stephen Smith, you here, boy?”

  “I ain’t surrenderin’ to you,” Stephen yelled.

  Jacob laughed. “I offered you money, boy. One hundred dollars. That’s more than you’ll get anywhere else.”

  “I ain’t sellin’ nothin’ to you or nobody,” Stephen snapped. “I work this land. I’m keepin’ it.”

  Jacob whistled. “Bad, bad move, boy.”

  His hired men, each dressed all in black with the Horan crest on the front of their jackets, shifted on their horses. Garth’s recruits tightened their holds.

  “Leave him be, Horan.” Garth took another step. “He plans to stay here for quite some time, leave a happy legacy for his children.”

  “Here’s the thing.” Jacob pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He held it to his lips before removing matches. He lit the tip of the cigarette, a spark flaring. “Treasure, you don’t own this land. Smith does. Whatever you say, Garth, doesn’t mean anything. Stephen knows what he has to do if he wants his family safe. Huh, boy?”

  “There’s another option.” Clark’s voice sounded from near the side of the house.

  Jacob blew smoke into the air.

  Jeremiah ground his teeth. Stupid idiot. Clark needed to shut up, let Garth handle it. Horan would back down if he knew anything about stopping a fight.

  “Garth Treasure could buy the land,” Clark said. “For two hundred.”

  Jeremiah snorted. Yup, stupid idiot. Stephen didn’t want to sell. That was the whole point.

  “Then Stephen rents it,” Clark continued. “You could never get the land, Horan. You won’t harm Treasure land. The law will stand up for that even if it doesn’t care about the poor.”

  Jeremiah flipped the straps on his belt to free his pistols. Horan would retaliate if he knew an idiot was arguing with him.

  “Well, Mr. Smith.” Garth turned his back on Jacob Horan. “Looks like Mr. Horan here will keep badgering you, so I’ll have to buy your land back. Three hundred dollars cash. We can discuss rent later on.”

  Jeremiah widened his eyes, his lips parting. His father was going along with Clark’s ridiculous plan?

  Stephen gulped, pale in the flickering light. “Looks like we’ll have to do a deal with that.”

  “What?” Jeremiah snapped. “Ste—”

  “Can’t do that if there’s nothing left.” Jacob waved his cigarette overhead. His men charged, whooping.

  Clark aimed his pistol at one of the men charging toward him, dust flying from around horse hooves. The man fired his assault rifle into the side of the cabin. Most of the bullets would stick in the logs, but some might have gone through to hurt someone. He didn’t know if it had been abandoned.

  Clark fired, his bullet ripping through the man’s throat beneath his leather helmet. Fear might’ve flashed in the attacker’s eyes, but his goggles hid it as he thumped off his horse.

  “Dang,” the farmer next to Clark muttered. “You killed the fellow.”

  Clark cocked his pistol. “He would’ve hurt someone else.” They weren’t here for niceties. Tangled Wire had raised him on gunfights. Shoot first and true, and life continued. The gunslingers who paused were the ones who fell.

  “Dang,” the farmer repeated in a whisper.

  More of Horan’s minions charged through. Bullets ripped into the buildings. Glass shattered as they struck the windows. Clark stayed crouched beside a bush in back of the cabin. A sliver of glass bumped his shoulder and fell into the dirt. Treasure’s recruits fired back at the villains. Men shouted. Horses neighed. Clark swore under his breath. Horan should’ve brought mechanical mounts or vehicles. Real horses didn’t deserve the danger or panic.

  Someone whimpered from within the cabin. Clark glanced up at the broken window. “Brass glass.”

  “You hear that too?” the farmer asked as he aimed his rifle at an attacker. He fired, striking the man in the leg. As he rounded with his assault weapon, Clark aimed for his neck and fired. Body shots were too risky. They might wear armor underneath, or the injury might rile up their blood even more into a killing lust.

  “Someone in there?” Clark dug fresh bullets from his jacket pocket and reloaded.

  “Check, I’ll cover you,” the farmer grunted.

  Trust or not? Clark pressed his lips together. The farmer wasn’t the greatest shot, but he seemed sincere. He risked his life to aid the Smiths.

  “Right.” Clark stood, keeping his body against the cabin, and peered through the window.

  A little boy lay on the dirt floor in blood.

  Stephen’s son must’ve snuck back. Clark recognized him from the quick glimpse at the Treasure ranch. A brave child wanting to be a man. Clark’s heart beat faster as he used the handle of his pistol to knock in the rest of the glass. Gripping the sill with his gloved hands, he boosted himself over.

  Bullets had ripped holes in the back of a chair. The rest of the furniture consisted of a trunk and a table with split log benches.

  Clark lay flat on the ground beside the boy to avoid more gunfire. Blood squished against his leather jacket. The child had been shot in the belly. How long had he laid suffering in the cabin?

  “Brass glass,” Clark swore. Oily black hair matted around the child’s pallid face. Blue eyes stared at the ceiling.

  More gunfire struck the house. A bullet hit the steamer trunk.

  A child didn’t belong in a man’s fight any more than an innocent horse did. Clark pulled off his left glove and pressed his hand over the child’s mouth.

  Live.

  The room shifted into the desert wasteland, where the sand glowed white and the sky vibrated crimson. Smith’s son faced him, a yellow glow around his stick-thin body.

  “I have to help Pa,” he shouted. “I don’t want to die.”

  “You won’t.” Clark grabbed his hand. “Live.”

  The scene shifted back to the cabin. Breath emerged from the boy’s mouth to heat Clark’s palm, and the boy’s eyelids fluttered. Clark yanked his glove back on.

  “You’ll be fine.” He gripped the child’s shoulder. “Stay down.”

  “I…I….” The child blinked.

  “Shh. It’ll be fine. You’ll live.” The wound would still be there, but it would shrink, and if the bullet hadn’t come out his back, it would disintegrate within a few minutes. He’d gotten to save enough people since that day in the mine to know how it worked.

  Since he’d brought someone back, he could take another life away.

  That would require going outside and leaving the boy—keeping him safe was critical. If Clark didn’t touch someone else and think about death, the ability would fade within ten minutes.

  “Stay down. Keep still.” Clark rolled onto his stomach.

  “It hurts,” the boy whimpered.

  “The pain will fade.” He reached out to hold the child’s hand in his. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  Jeremiah ground his teeth as Horan rode away with his five remaining hired guns. He’d left his loyal mercenaries to be buried by the enemy. Jeremiah gripped the porch railing to keep from punching something.

  “Stephen.” Garth clasped the farmer’s hand that was streaked with grime and blood. “My son had a strong idea. I’ll pay you a handsome price, but it will still be yours. I hate to do it, but it seems to be the only way to k
eep Horan away.”

  My son. Not Jeremiah or Zachariah. Clark. Jeremiah ground his teeth harder.

  “It’ll have to be.” Stephen sighed. “I hate this.”

  Men limped around the yard. The doctor would be fetched. Garth had warned him in town, so he would have his supplies packed, awaiting the call. Garth had already sent one of the men into town.

  The door to the cabin opened and they glanced at it. Who’d walked in through the back?

  Clark stepped out with something in his arms. Figured Clark would be the one to go inside. Had he spent the entire fight hiding?

  “Luke!” Stephen pulled away from Garth to bolt to Clark’s side, taking the dark bundle from him. “Blooming gears. Luke.”

  “Luke’s….” Jeremiah trailed away. The boy should be back at the ranch. Jeremiah had left him there in the kitchen nibbling honeyed bread.

  “I heard him in the house.” Blood splattered on Clark’s jacket and denim pants. “One of the bullets knocked some debris off the wall. I cleaned up the cut, took the wood out.” Clark lifted the boy’s shirt, the checkered flannel stained dark crimson. “He should be fine. Lucky thing he was unconscious.”

  “Luke, Luke.” Tears dripped from Stephen’s face as he clutched his oldest son tighter. The boy, only seven, meant more to him than that land.

  The urge to punch something drained away. Clark had tended to Luke Smith. That would mean more to a father than defending his farm.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Jeremiah’s lips, where dirt, dust, and sweat gathered. Clark might be a bastard, a secret Jeremiah never knew, but if he was stuck with the Treasure name, at least he did it proud.

  methyst widened her eyes until the corners ached and moved her mouth into an O. “That is the most beautiful dress I ever did see.”

  “I’m glad you approve.” Her mother stood next to her outside the dress shop window. In Amethyst’s mind, the phrase “dress shop” hung loosely. It reminded her more of her servant’s closet back in the city.

  The dress consisted of an oval neckline, straight sleeves, and a plain skirt. The bodice laced up the front, the only detail in the pale pink cloth. Amethyst pointed at the golden corset she wore over a tight white blouse. Black gears had been embroidered over the gold-hued threads. “It looks like me, doesn’t it?”