Muttering, Mr. Foxcroft waved a jerky hand. “Sit. Need to talk.”
Tom took the edge of the bed. The coverlets were not even wrinkled. Had the man slept?
“How’d you know?”
“I heard the explosion,” said Tom. “Brought my rifle and came. I saw Meg with ye. Knew she was safe, so I took after the blackguards who set off the gunpowder.”
“And?”
“They were already gone.”
“You did right.” Mr. Foxcroft nodded his approval, gaze steady out the window. Birds cheeped outside. “You watched after Meg. You always do.”
“Ye always have too. Until now.”
“Couldn’t help it.”
“Who’s doing this?”
“Don’t know.” Mr. Foxcroft scratched his face. Lines marred his features that had never been there before, and heaviness purpled under his eyes. “Got this two days before the fire.” He patted his pocket. A crinkling sound, like paper.
“A letter?”
He affirmed with a grunt.
“What did it say?”
“Doesn’t matter. Message was clear, though. Same as the others. They want me dead and my girl along with me.”
“I willnae let that happen.”
“Good. Don’t.”
Silence.
Mr. Foxcroft crossing and uncrossing his knee.
The bed squeaking every time Tom shifted.
His heart pounding.
“Sir, I’ve a word to speak with ye.”
“The answer is no.”
“This is not about Meg.”
“Still no.” Mr. Foxcroft sprang from his chair too quickly. He moved to the window. Fidgeted with it. Finally yanked it shut with enough force the room seemed to rattle.
Tom stood and stared at the man’s back. A man he was not certain he knew. “The notes say ye killed them.” His voice scratched. “Some of yer patients. I want to hear it from ye.”
Mr. Foxcroft hurled back a fire-fueled curse.
Called Tom a name that would have made Meg blanch. Then he flung his arm toward the door with a raging, “Get out.”
A hole scorched Tom’s chest as he bolted from the chamber. He was not certain if it was shame because he’d failed to believe in someone he should be trusting.
Or devastation because the letter was right.
