Victoria settled herself in the drawing room at Nob House. She'd just finished a superb meal hosted by Lady Anne Devereaux and her brother, Charles. It was a delightful evening, and Victoria was thoroughly enjoying herself. She watched Anne pour sherry into two crystal glasses. There was a smile on the young woman's face as her older brother recounted a story to Nick and Jarrod - something about a humorous encounter he'd had with the Governor that morning, and a runaway horse disrupting a political meeting.

Victoria smiled to herself. She liked Charles. He was warm, witty, and amazingly self-effacing as the tenth Duke of Ebbingshire. Indeed, he wore his noble title as gracefully as his large, muscular frame provided form for his impeccably tailored clothes. She looked up to see Anne standing over her, extending a glass towards her.

"Thank you, Anne." Victoria took a sip of the liquid, enjoying the sensation as its sweetness bathed her palette in biting warmth. "This is very good. The perfect thing after a wonderful meal."

"You should like it." Anne was smiling broadly as she sank into an embroidered chair next to the older woman. "It's the best vintage ever produced by the Barkley vineyards, in my humble opinion."

Victoria returned her smile, and raised her glass in a tiny salute to Anne. "Thank you for the compliment. Your wine racks here at Nob House are filled with Barkley bottles, I trust?"

"Absolutely. Charles and I only collect the best."

"Thank you, again." Victoria paused, looking at the younger woman closely. She was resplendent in a simply designed deep blue silk evening gown. A thin strand of sapphires and diamonds sparkling at her neck matched small drop earrings. It was a beautifully designed ensemble, yet simple and unassuming -- the elegance and expense evident in its fine cut, not in ostentatious display. In keeping with the spirit of the evening, itself. Beautifully produced, yet relaxed, natural, graceful.

She felt Anne's green eyes upon her, a quizzical look in them. "This has been a lovely evening, Anne. Your dinner was marvelous. The veal ... heavenly."

"I'll be sure to tell Henri you said so. That dish is his creation, and he's very proud of it. As we are of him."

"Charles mentioned that Henri worked in Ebbingshire, as a cook in your ancestral home, before coming to America."

Anne nodded. "He was a young man who showed promise in the culinary arts. My father sent him to the best schools so that he could learn his craft. He became our chef at Nob House several years ago." She paused, as if considering her next words. Smiling slightly, she went on, "We consider our staff part of the family. My father's influence on Charles and me, it seems. If we can identify talent, nurture it --" she shrugged. "Then, we all benefit. Some would call this attitude paternalistic."

"What are you ladies discussing with such intensity?" Jarrod joined the women in the corner of the drawing room.

Victoria watched Jarrod and Anne exchange smiles, the warmth of their shared emotion strong and vibrant, radiating between them. She'd watched them closely throughout the evening. They must have been aware of her scrutiny, but had not appeared to resent it. Casual touches, knowing glances. Easy patter. What had struck her as particularly notable, was their familiarity with one another. Anne knew what Jarrod drank, and had served him scotch with the ease of time and habit, briefly resting a hand on his shoulder as if she'd touched him there a hundred times. In turn, he had actually finished a few sentences Anne had started, filling in her pauses as if they shared a single mind. That too, had seemed routine to the pair. Their love for one another was so obvious, so real. And the questions surrounding them, as obvious and real.

"We were discussing servants and wonderful food," Anne said to Jarrod.

"The Devereaux's are renowned for the excellence of both," Jarrod bowed slightly in Anne's direction.

"What did we do, now?" Charles asked as he and Nick joined the group.

"Nothing onerous, big brother," Anne smiled at him. "Victoria was impressed with Henri."

"Your doing, my dear," said Charles. He turned to the Barkleys. "Anne has a way of bringing out the best in people. Especially our staff."

"Florence would certainly agree with that," Nick said with a twinkle in his eye. "I think you're her hero, Anne. She'll serve you with undying gratitude for the rest of her days."

Victoria thought back to Anne's easy manner towards her servants throughout the evening, especially Florence, the teenage girl who had helped serve the dinner. It was her first formal occasion, and Florence had been nervous. At one point, she'd dripped soup across the table cloth as she served Anne. Florence had frozen in horror, the heavy tureen tipping precariously in her hands.

Anne had taken the tureen from her and placed it on the table, before putting a comforting arm around her waist. "It's all right, sweet. The stains will come out," she had whispered to the mortified girl. "You're doing just fine." She'd taken her napkin and wiped tears from Florence's cheeks. "Can you continue, or would you like Mary to take over?"

Florence had bobbed a quick curtsey. "Oh, Lady Anne. Please let me - - " She'd finished serving the soup without spilling another drop. Victoria had watched the girl's confidence grow throughout the evening, bolstered by encouraging smiles from Anne, and gentle teasing by Charles.

"Florence deserves a chance," said Anne. "She's had a difficult time of it in her short life. Charles and I found her wandering the streets one night, eight years ago. Just outside this house, as a matter of fact. She was only seven years old at the time - orphaned, homeless, hungry. And sick. I'm just glad we were able to help her."

"She's certainly come a long way," said Victoria. "If it hadn't been for your intervention she might not be alive, today." The older woman turned to look at her two sons standing next to each other by the chairs on which she and Anne sat. Her gaze softened as she studied the handsome pair, her thoughts turning to a time in the past when the two had held out their own helping hands to a youngster in need. "You know, Anne," she went on, her eyes fixed on her sons. "I don't find your attitude towards those needing assistance paternalistic, at all. In fact, I know of a horse trainer who owes his life and career to a pair of men in this room." Nick and Jarrod exchanged smiles. "Big brother, do you have any idea who our mother is talking about," Nick said.

"Perhaps that good-for-nothing renegade, Renaldo Diega." Jarrod's tone was affectionate.

"Renaldo Diega! He's one of the most respected trainers in the country," said Anne.

"Indeed, he is," said Victoria. "Because of Nick and Jarrod."

"That's overstating the case just a bit, don't you think, Mother?" said Jarrod.

"Well, you've piqued my curiosity," said Charles. He turned to the Barkley men. "How do you know Diega?"

Jarrod bowed to his younger brother. "Nicholas? Would you care to satisfy His Grace's curiosity?"

"Delighted, Counselor." Nick smiled and turned towards the Devereaux's. "It all started with my new saddle. Let's see, I was thirteen years of age at the time. Which meant Jarrod was . . ."

"I was seventeen."

"Now, who's telling this story? Yes, Jarrod was seventeen. Anyway, I had received this saddle for my birthday, and couldn't wait to try it out. My older brother, in an attempt to escape Latin, as I recall --"

"I was translating Virgil's Aeneid. Very slow-going."

Nick glared at Jarrod. " . . . in an attempt to escape his Latin lesson, the good Counselor over there, decided to ride with me."

Nick thought back to the April afternoon when he and Jarrod had mounted their horses and headed toward the foothills. A warm sun had beat down on them, the brilliant light casting a lustrous glow on the greening pastures and the graceful clumps of burr oaks around them. Nick remembered how he had savored the humid air swirling around him as he rode, how it had held layers of smells that were indelibly imprinted in his memory -- the musk of rich, moist soil warming and drying in the sun after a morning rainfall, the sweetness of spring violets, the pungent needles of the silver pines digging into the ground, and overlaying it all, the ambrosia of new saddle leather.

His gloved hand had touched the high saddle pommel as he looked down at his gift. It was a type of California saddle - the newest version of the classic -- light, strong, compact. When he'd strapped it on Fireblood, it had rested in position firmly, and he felt that nothing could have removed the thick sole leather from the pony's back. It was comfortable, and because of the way the stirrup leathers were set, gave him a secure seat and good control over his arms and the horse. He'd felt pride surge through him - the pride of coming to age, of being trusted to shoulder the responsibility of owning something this special. And then, he'd felt embarrassed by his emotion, and looked around to see Jarrod riding several paces behind him.

"Hey, big brother! You gonna kick that nag of yours out of a crawl, or should I just ride on alone?"

"Whatever you say, birthday boy," came the good-natured response.

"Well, old man, this boy can sure outride you!" And Nick had spurred his Indian pony into a quick gallop, the plucky animal covering the ground with long sweeps of finely muscled leg.

He heard Jarrod coming up quickly on his right. As Jarrod's sorrel pulled alongside, Nick urged Fireblood to a faster gait, matching the pace of Jarrod's horse. The pair grinned at each other as they rode side by side, sweeping across the ground. As they drew closer to the foothills, rocky outcroppings became numerous, and the trail narrowed until the pair were forced to ride single file.

"Big brother will lead the way, my boy." Jarrod grinned as he pulled ahead of Nick and settled his horse into an easy gait.

"Age before beauty, you mean!" Nick called out. He noticed that Fireblood's ears had pricked forward and his head had risen. The pony started snorting and then, suddenly, he felt Fireblood feint violently to the right, nearly unseating him.

Nick called out to him as he struggled to stay in the saddle, but the horse was panicked and continuing shying, sidling towards a line of boulders. Nick pulled the reins as Fireblood danced nervously, trying to keep the pony clear of the rocks.

"Easy boy, easy," Nick said in soothing tones. But the animal was not to be so easily calmed, and its hindquarter scraped against the rocks before Nick could rein him to a halt.

"What happened?" Jarrod had turned back and now reined in his sorrel next to them.

Nick had dismounted, and was stroking the anxious animal's muzzle. "Something spooked him back there. Hold him for me, will you? He rubbed up against those rocks - I think he - yeah, he did scratch himself. He's bleeding across the thigh."

"How bad is it?" Jarrod said, struggling to keep Fireblood from taking off down the trail. Nick pulled at a bandanna that was coiled around his neck, unfurled it, and lightly ran the cloth over the cut. "Doesn't seem real deep. Bleeding's stopping." He ran gentle hands over the nervous pony. "Hey, fella. What's the problem? Haven't seen you like this since that bolt of lightening scared you in the pasture last month."

"Light reflected off something shiny up there."

Jarrod and Nick turned quickly at the sound of words heavily coated with a Spanish accent, to see a dark-haired youth standing behind them, his stance calm and assured. He was pointing towards a pile of rocks to the left of Fireblood. "Must have shown right into your pony's eyes. If he's had a scare with lightening recently, that would be enough to spook him good."

The young man approached them, his black eyes focused on Nick's pony. In a whisper he began to speak to the animal, running his hands across the horse's flank. Instantly, Fireblood quieted.

Nick and Jarrod exchanged looks of surprise.

"You certainly have a way with him." Nick's voice was gruff, his words a mixture of relief, awe, and a tinge of jealousy.

"Where did you come from?" Jarrod's words were courteous, careful. Curious. "We didn't see you back there."

The stranger walked around Fireblood towards the pair, a wide, charming smile stretched across his swarthy face. "Well, you were occupied."

"It's just that this is a lonely stretch of ground. It's unusual to run into someone," said Jarrod.

The stranger bowed to the brothers, one hand resting on Fireblood's shoulder. "Of course. I must have startled you. I apologize for my bad manners. My name is Renaldo Diega. I was resting my own horse away from the sun's rays, and so was sitting near the rocks when you passed by. I didn't mean to intrude, I just thought I could be of assistance. I've been told I have a gift with horses."

"I'd agree with that," said Jarrod, watching Fireblood nuzzle Diega's back. "You certainly calmed him fast enough. So, are you on a long journey?"

"Long journey?" Diega's voice was guarded.

"Yes, you said you were resting your horse. I just assumed that meant you'd been riding for some time ..." Jarrod's voice trailed off, as if inviting Diega to continue his story. Instead, Diega turned to stroke Fireblood's velvety muzzle, saying, "All journeys seem long to me, Senor ...?"

"Barkley. I'm Jarrod. This is my brother, Nick."

"Senor Barkley. Yes. All journeys seem long when you're looking for yourself. But, a good horse under you can make the trip bearable." Turning to Nick, he continued, "This is a steady horse, that I can see. His shying as he did . .. I wouldn't be concerned about it. We all have events from our past that can come back to haunt us. Lightening is a fearsome thing for a horse. What happened is perfectly understandable."

"Yes, well, Senor Diega," Nick grasped the bridle and gently pulled Fireblood away from the Spaniard's hands. "My brother and I appreciate your help. We should get on our way."

"Of course," Diega bowed again. "Ah, before you go --" He pulled a round tin from his coat pocket. "This is a liniment for the cut on your horse. My own concoction of linseed oil, tincture of aloe, and tincture of catechu. May I?"

"Catechu?" said Nick.

"It's extracted from the wood of the Acacia tree. It's a useful astringent, works well with the aloes to hasten healing of wounds."

Nick looked towards Jarrod, who nodded in response to the unspoken question. He turned back to Diega. "Sure, go ahead." As he watched the young man apply the salve in quick, gentle strokes across Fireblood's thigh, Nick studied him. He looked to be Jarrod's age. Tall, dark, elegant and graceful in his movements - the girls would call him dashing, Nick thought. If Audra were a little older --

"Thank you, Senor Diega," said Jarrod as the stranger finished attending to Fireblood.

"Yeah. Thank you." Nick swung into his saddle and gathered the reins. Faintly, in the distance he could heard the sound of horses approaching. A large number of horses, he guessed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Diega start to back away, towards the rocks from whence he had come.

Turning Fireblood around, he saw that the young man had his eyes glued on the trail, looking in the direction of the horses, a panicked expression on his face. Panic mixed with fear. Jarrod must have seen Diega's reaction as well, because Nick heard him say, "Senor Diega? Is there anything wrong?"

"No . . no Senor. It . . . it's time for me to move on, as well."

The riders arrived at a fast gallop. They halted their horses before the two brothers, sending dense clouds of choking dust billowing down on the Barkleys.

Nick strained to see the horsemen through the thick air. Ten of them. Strangers to Nick. He looked back to where Renaldo had been standing. The young man had disappeared. He heard an accented voice reminiscent of Diega's speech pattern. "Senors! We wonder if you could help us, please. Have you seen a man, a young man, riding an albino?"

Without missing a beat, Jarrod said, "No. Sorry, we haven't seen anyone near here."

"Are you certain? It's very important -"

"I'd remember an albino," said Nick, taking his cue from Jarrod. "Don't see many of those. Has this fellow done something, or ...?"

The spokesman exchanged a quick glance with several others in the group. It was a cold look that sent shivers down Nick's back. He didn't like these riders. Not one bit.

The man bowed to the brothers, a wintry smile on his face that was perfunctory, arrogant. "If you'll excuse us."

And they swept passed the Barkleys, disappearing around a curve in the trail.

"Why did you -" Nick stopped speaking when he saw Jarrod's hand raised, cautioning him to silence.

Jarrod started walking towards the rocks near the spot where they had first seen Renaldo Diega. "You can come out now," he called in quiet tones.

Diega stepped into the trail. "Thank you," he said. "You have no idea what you just did for me."

"Maybe you'd like to tell us," said Nick, curiosity lacing his words.

"First, I must ask you -" Diega turned to Jarrod. "As your brother started to say, why did you lie for me? You don't even know me. Or them."

Jarrod's blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. Nick could tell from his expression that his older brother was sizing up the young man. And seemed to be impressed with what he saw. "I don't know why I lied, Senor Diega. Instinct, I guess. I didn't like them. As for you, well there's something about you I like."

Diega bowed. "I am honored, Senor Barkley. And I do owe you an explanation. You see, you just saved my life."

Nick remembered how Renaldo had told them he was running from those men. They were thieves. They were his family. Born and raised to a life of crime, Diega had always wanted better for himself. He had grown to detest the cruelty of his early life, the dishonesty, the constant running. He had vowed that when he was old enough to support himself, he would leave his family and make his own way in the world. Since he'd always had a knack with horses, he'd wanted to build his new life around this talent. What he hadn't taken into consideration was his importance to this criminal family, and the fact that running from them was considered by them to be a traitorous act that must be avenged. During the long weeks he'd endured eluding them, he'd learned their rules - either he'd return with them, or die.

Nick and Jarrod had thought there was another option available to Diega. They had taken him back to the ranch, and introduced him to their parents. They had pleaded his case to them, urging them to help Diega begin a new life away from his family.

Tom and Victoria had listened to every word they'd said about Diega, Nick remembered. And at the end of a long family conference, the decision had been made to find Renaldo work in the valley. One of their new neighbors, who was establishing a horse farm, and agreed to hire the boy. And that was the beginning of a productive career and a new life for Diega.

"We've stayed in close touch with Renaldo over the years," said Nick. "He's a good friend."

"Actually, we consider him part of the family," Victoria said, smiling at her son. "And certainly you did far more than stay in touch with him, Nick. You and Jarrod introduced him to a whole new world. And supported and loved him as he adjusted to it. Without the two of you, he never would have survived outside of his family."

"To the Barkleys," Charles said, starting to raise his glass in tribute. He was interrupted by Justin appearing in the doorway.

"Yes, Justin?" he said to the butler. "What is it?"

The butler bowed. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, but this just arrived from the Palace Hotel for the Barkleys. Seems hotel staff failed to give it to them before they left for the evening. Once the error was discovered, a messenger was dispatched, and it was delivered here. The establishment was afraid it might be important."

Jarrod took the envelope from the man, and pulled out a sheet of paper. He scanned it, and handed it to his mother, frowning.

"What is it, Jarrod?" asked Nick.

"Message from Eugene. Serious problems at home. He's asking us to take the first train back to Stockton." hapter 10      Audra lay in the white softness of her bed, fragile and still. She was almost as pale as her sheets except for the ugly bruises darkening her face, Jarrod thought as he and Nick approached her bedside. He watched Victoria for a long moment as she hovered over her only daughter. He could see concern etched deeply into her face as she placed a damp washcloth on Audra's brow.

Jarrod reached down to smooth the sheets by Audra's side, brushing his fingers down an arm that stretched across the bed, limp and vulnerable. He turned to his younger brother, who leaned against the doorjamb of the bedroom drooping in fatigue. "It happened yesterday, Eugene?"

"Yes. In the morning. I wired you in San Francisco right after I found her and got the doctor over here." Eugene shook his head, closing his eyes for a long moment. "She was lying next to a pair of slaughtered cows. White as a sheet. Unconscious. I was afraid she was dead when I first saw her - - " he broke off, his voice choked with repressed emotion. He took a deep breath. "She'd been out there for at least an hour."

Audra moaned, a hollow echo of her voice, stuffed with pain. Agony.

"Is the doctor sure it's just cracked ribs?" Victoria's eyes never left her daughter's face as she spoke.

"Yes, ma'am. That's the worst of it. Appeared to me that she'd taken a serious fall from her horse. We found the mare close by. But, that's just a guess. There's no question -- it was no accident. Not with the cows . . . and all. It's very . . . strange. I sure would like to know what really happened, but when she's come to, she's been in such pain I've been afraid to question her. And her words haven't been very clear so I can't piece anything together. Doctor said she'd be better today, but - - " "God knows what she endured to sustain those injuries." Jarrod's word were cold, furious.

"Whoever put her through this is a dead man!" Nick's gruff voice echoed Jarrod's anger. He took a ragged breath.

"How were the cattle killed, Eugene?" asked Jarrod.

"Their throats were slit. I imagine they bled to death. Sheriff said he'd never seen anything like it. I thought maybe the Valley was being hit with rustlers. Audra might have surprised them, and paid the price for seeing them. But, Fred says there's been no report from any of the other ranches about anything like this. He's looking into it, of course. He hasn't turned up anything so far."

Jarrod stared at Audra for a long moment, then touched Nick's arm and turned to Eugene. "Mother has the situation well in hand, here. Let's go downstairs." He turned to Victoria, a silent question on his face.

She nodded, smiling slightly. "I'll let you know if there's any change."

A few minutes later, Jarrod closed the library door, and drilled Eugene with piercing eyes. "All right, Eugene. What didn't you want to say in front of Mother?"

The younger man's eyes dropped, and he shook his head slightly, his mouth turning up into a wry expression. "Nothing ever escapes you, does it, Jarrod?"

"Nor Mother. Once Audra's better and Mother has a chance to think about what you said, she'll be asking you the same questions."

Eugene rummaged in his pocket pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. He handed it to Jarrod before he sank into an arm chair by the fireplace, dropping his head into one hand. "What I didn't say in front of Mother is that you're caught up in this, too, Jarrod. We found this note . . . with the cattle. About you."

"That's crazy!" exploded Nick.

Jarrod flashed his brother a silent plea to remain calm as he smoothed the sheet. He could feel the dried, caked blood crack and fleck under his fingers. Swatches of the dull brown substance scrambled across the paper's surface. The stationary was thick, expensive, something cattle rustlers would neither appreciate nor use. He scanned the elegant script. And felt shock rush through his veins, cold and deadly. He handed the note to Nick, then flung himself into a chair behind his desk, struggling to organize chaotic thoughts.

"This really is crazy!" Nick paused a moment. "Isn't it?"

Jarrod smiled at the hint of doubt in his younger brother's voice.

"You've made your share of enemies over the years. Taken on some rough clients, but, this - -" Nick handed back the paper to Jarrod.

The lawyer looked down at the lines of script:

"This is your only warning. Jarrod Barkley is to stop working in the Dark. Watch the blood spill from his loved ones if he doesn't heed these words. Remember the fate of the father."

"Jarrod. Do you have any idea what this is about? Working in the 'Dark'?" Eugene's voice was soft, troubled.

"Yeah. That is strange, Jarrod," said Nick. "And mentioning 'the father.' Our father, do you suppose? What does it all mean?"

Jarrod's words were even, measured. "I'll look into it, you can be sure of that. As for --"

A hasty knock preceded Silas hurrying into the room. "Pardon, Mr. Jarrod, but Mrs. Barkley wants you all upstairs right now. Miss Audra's awake, sir! She's come back to us!"

Jarrod smiled at the wan greeting from his little sister as he entered her room with his brothers. "You certainly gave us a fright, young lady!" he boomed as he reached for her hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was . . . run over by . . . a herd of cattle." Audra whispered, wincing as she shifted in the bed.

Nick grabbed her other hand. "Broken ribs'll do that to you. I must say, good to hear that sweet voice of yours, even if it is a little faint."

"When . . . did you get back?"

"We took the late afternoon train from San Francisco. Arrived in Stockton a few hours ago," said Jarrod.

"The negotiations . . . are over?"

"Yes. Your big brother scored another coup." Jarrod grinned at her, then sobered. "Audra, do you feel like talking about it?"

"Jarrod, she needs rest," said his mother.

"No, Mother. I'm up to it, really." Audra's voice was stronger.

Jarrod flashed her a quick smile. "That's my girl. So, what do you remember, honey?"

"I had taken Glory out toward the foot hills. Beyond the north range. It was a hot morning, and I stopped by the pond to give him a drink."

"You were sitting on the bank?"

"No, up on the rise overlooking the pond. One minute I was watching Glory, then everything went dark. My next memory was Mother bending over me, calling my name."

"You didn't see or hear anyone approach you?"

"No, I didn't see anyone. As for hearing . . .you know how it is up there, Jarrod. Under those pine trees, needles everywhere. You can't hear a horse galloping down that stretch, much less someone walking up to you."

Jarrod studied his sister for a long moment. "So it wasn't a mounted figure who approached you. You think it was a person, even though you didn't hear footsteps."

Audra looked confused. "Yes. A person. I suppose so. I would have been aware of a horse behind me. I think."

"What about . . . creaking of leather chaps, a metallic sound, anything."

Audra shook her head.

"Smells? Perhaps liquor or . . . sweat . . .."

"I'm sorry, Jarrod."

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder as her eyelids began to droop. "Thank you, honey."

"Boys, let's give Audra some peace and quiet," Victoria extended an arm to the door, directing her sons out of the room. She followed them, pausing in the doorway to look back at the bed.

"Coming, Mother?" Jarrod took her arm and guided her into the hall. "She'll be right as rain in no time, you'll see," he whispered in her ear.

Long after his family had gone to bed, Jarrod sat by the fire in the parlor sorting through all that had transpired that day. Fighting the rising panic in his gut. He wished he could talk to Anne. He needed her insight. Her support. He shifted in his chair, impatiently. They had decided she should remain in San Francisco. Wait for calm to be restored to the ranch before she visited. If that ever occurred. In light of the circumstances surrounding Audra's attack, Jarrod doubted if his home would ever be the same.

The enemies of Dark Watch, those who always hovered around the organization waiting to strike the merest hint of weakness, had reached into his home. Had injured one of his loved ones. Of this he had no doubt. It had been obvious the moment he'd read the note found with Audra. The author hadn't even tried to be subtle.

Jarrod understood the reason for the attack on Audra. For the note. He and the Devereaux's were close to uncovering the Confederate conspirators. They were on the brink of learning the dangerous knowledge that had killed their fathers. Their last meeting with one of his operatives had told him this. It had occurred on the same day the Barkleys had boarded a train for Stockton.

It had been dark, hours before dawn, when Jarrod had met Anne and Charles in front of the tiny, neglected house that crouched along Sansome Street behind San Francisco's Cosmopolitan Hotel. Waist-high weeds washed over remnants of a picket fence and along the front walkway, obliterating any trace of a garden. Lush, overgrown vines blanketed a clapboard cottage which seemed to glower at them through the shadows.

The trio from Dark Watch walked their horses around to the back of the house, sweeping the area with sharp eyes, alert to movement. Securing their mounts to a shrubby oak tree, they approached the ramshackle abode. No sign of life to be found anywhere they looked. A tense silence permeated the house, as if it held its breath waiting for trouble to break out.

The three exchanged looks as they entered a tiny enclosed porch clinging to the cottage like a drowning man clutches a life saver to his breast.

Jarrod pushed open the back door, only to grab it before it crashed to the porch floor. Someone had removed its hinges. He braced it against an exterior wall and pulled out his gun. He could hear echoing whispers of metal brushing across polished leather as Anne and Charles readied their sidearms.

They plunged into the darkness of the house, coming to an abrupt halt as a flash of light speared the deep shadows. A person was walking toward them holding a lantern.

"Stand down, friends. It's just me." The soft voice of Jarrod's operative rode the waves of gloom, washing against them like a gentle ripple in a vast sea. "Don't want you to trip over our unexpected guest, here." The lantern left Peters' face and dipped toward a body sprawled across grimy floorboards.

Anne crouched next to the motionless man, searching for a pulse.

"Don't bother, Lady Anne. He's dead."

"What happened here, Peters?" Jarrod's tone reflected his tension. Impatience. "Let's talk in here." The informer turned on his heel and entered a cramped back room, the three following him. When the trio had settled in creaking wooden chairs around a small table, he set his lantern down and began pacing the tiny room.

"Sorry about the mess out there." Peters jerked his head toward the dead man. "Neighborhood just isn't what it used to be. He actually tried to jump me."

"One of the Confederates?" Charles asked in a terse voice.

"Don't think so. They're more polished than that fool. They'd have killed me. No, I think he was just looking for trouble. And found it."

"What do you have for us?" Jarrod asked.

Peters flung himself into a chair at the table. "Got a few items from my Confederate informer I think might interest you. Amazing what you can learn with a decent bottle of whiskey on the table." He straightened in his chair and looked at each of the three Dark Watch operatives in turn. "We've been fed a load of bull . . . apologies Lady Anne . . . . by Miss Julia Saxon. That's for openers. She was accurate when she told Jarrod about a kill list the organization compiled a year or so ago. But most of the names she claimed were on the thing, aren't."

"Nice bit of misdirection." Anne's tone was grim. "As Charles and I use our surveillance resources to watch the wrong people."

"Exactly." Peters nodded. "I was able to get a few names out of our friend before he got nervous and shut up. One of them is none other than the Honorable Hamilton Fish, United States Secretary of State."

"Fish!" said Charles. "He's due to attend a conference here in San Francisco in a few days!"

"He's their next target, isn't he?" Jarrod stared at his man, who nodded in response.

Charles smiled slightly. "Well, I guess I know what our next assignment will be."

"Yes, sir. Looks that way. Oh, and I picked up some information about your fathers." He studied the trio with sad eyes. "Terrible loss, the way they went down. And now I understand why it happened. My man confirms that the Confederate group was behind it. The two of them had learned the identity of an official who works for the group from inside Grant's administration. A real, honest-to-God traitor."

"You said 'works'." Jarrod ground the words out. "That means he's still in place. Yes?"

"Yes. And ranked high in the bureaucracy."

"Who is he?" exploded Charles.

Peters shook his head. "Sorry. My guy was getting cagey. Frankly, I'm not sure he knows. But, he did say that this individual is the organization's lynch pin. You remove this insider, you bring down the whole shooting match." He swept the trio with hard eyes. "You have them worried. You've been too successful, lately. The way you saved Berthemy, brought Julia Saxon down. I'd watch my back, if I were you."

Jarrod rose from his chair and pressed a palm into the polished wood of the fireplace mantel, staring into the flickering fire. He didn't mind exposing his own back to danger. But he'd be damned if his family suffered because of his Dark Watch activities. And yet, that's exactly what had happened. Because of him, the repercussions of Dark Watch rippled through his family like a deadly tidal pool. He clenched his fist in frustration. It was time for action. He'd already set up a cadre of his men to guard the ranch and hunt down Audra's attackers. He had a different hunt to conduct. It was time to find the traitor in Grant's Administration. To destroy the Confederate ring before it destroyed his loved ones.

"Penny for your thoughts." Victoria's soft voice washed over him like a gentle rainfall seeping into parched ground.

Jarrod felt a surge of guilt as he turned to her and forced a smile onto his lips. "Why are you awake at this ungodly hour, lovely lady?"

His mother settled into a chair next to his and extended her arm in a silent invitation for him to sit as well.

"You read the note," Jarrod said in a flat voice.

"Oh, yes. That I did." Her sharp eyes rested on his face for a long moment, probing, questioning. "What does it all mean, Jarrod?"

He looked away from her, turning back to the fire. "That's what I'm going to find out, Mother."

"I think you already know."

Jarrod rose to stand over her, feet apart and braced, hands clenched behind his back. "I know this is expecting too much from you in light of what's happened, but I'm going to ask you not to press me on this, right now. You're going to have to trust me. You have my promise that I will do everything in my power to keep you all safe. And resolve this . . . one way or the other. One thing's certain. Whoever hurt Audra will be brought to justice. I'll see to that personally."

He met his mother's eyes, and felt the warmth of her strength and compassion surge toward him.