“Which he gave to me.”
“Just because you ride him all across this bloody estate does not make him any more yours than mine. You think you own everything, don’t you? Just because you’re older. Just because you inherited. You think you can—”
“The horse will be dead, Horace.” William clenched the gun and worked the muscle in his jaw. “There is little point in arguing it now.”
“I shall argue it if I bloody-well please. Mother shall hear about it too. Get back here, William!”
A glass smacked the door as William reached to open it. Red port dripped down the wood, but he pulled the knob and crunched over broken glass to exit the room.
He turned a deaf ear to Horace’s inebriated curses and railings and threats of what his mother would do to William when she heard about this.
He would endure his aunt when he returned.
Right now, he must bury his horse.
William found the gardener where he always found him. Among the flowers, shrubbery, and stone urns, his weathered hands patting soil around a struggling plant.
If anyone could bring the plant back alive, Shelton could.
“Ahearn is buried.”
Shelton glanced up at William. A slight tinge of sadness warmed his brown gaze before he turned and nursed his plant again.
William sat on the wrought-iron bench next to him, his clothes reeking of sweat and horse. All his life he’d been coming here—sitting on the bench, or kneeling in the dirt next to the old man, or helping pluck brown leaves from green plants. As a child, William had told him everything. His secrets, troubles, and hurts.
Like the endless times Horace had lied about him. Or the injuries his cousin had inflicted. Or those long, wretched days when his aunt had locked William in a black room because he had finally fought Horace back.
Most of the time Shelton listened and didn’t say anything. Most of the time, that was enough.
But not now.
Not today.
“Tell me I imagine these things, and I shall ask you no more.” William’s pulse quickened. “Tell me they are accidents. I shall believe the words from you.”
Shelton angled his face away from William.
“Then tell mewhythey are happening.” William stood again, his forbearance draining. “Surely you can tell me that.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know.” Shelton sighed and brushed his hands together, dirt flying. “Perhaps you should go away from here—”
“I shall not run from my own land, nor my troubles.”
“For a time, it may be best.”
“There will never be such a time.” William pulled his sweaty hands into fists. “I intend to live and die on Rosenleigh grounds, and whoever thinks they can frighten me away may have to follow through with their ‘accidents.’ ” He started down the path.
“William?”
He turned.
The old man opened his lips, hesitated, then pressed them shut before any words escaped. With sagging shoulders, he returned to a cluster of purple columbines.
Pressure—and hurt—built inside William’s chest as he headed for the manor. Shelton was holding something back. Something that could cost William his life.
Why?
William had no sooner washed and changed when a knock came to his door. He swung it open to find fifteen-year-old Ruth on the other side, hands clasped and already blushing.
