Page 60 of The Dravenhearst Brides

Ruth,

I thought about what you said. I’ll do it, but only the birth certificate. Not the will. I’ll make private allowances, set up an account. I don’t want Merrick to know.

We won’t speak of this again; we’re in agreement on that. Even still, I hope you stay. You and the child will always have a place here.

Hellebore House is yours.

Sincerely,

Richard

Margot was well used to fighting—every day, a war of attrition against her ghosts—but never before had she truly understood what it meant to fight for her life.

Never before had she stared into the eyes of another human and known, with absolute certainty, they intended to kill her.

Ruth seized her.

Margot stumbled, battling over the threshold of the rickhouse, but the woman was strong. Ironclad grip born from holding reins. Powerful legs from riding astride. In the span of a single heartbeat, Margot knew she couldn’t win this fight. Not this way.

No. Like everything else in her life, Margot Dravenhearst would have to work outside the confines of the box.

A secret smile rose to her lips as a plan formed. A little dastardly, a little mad.

Her favorite kind.

Ruth gave a massive tug, expecting counterpressure. Margot didn’t give it; she capitulated, vaulting into Ruth’s arms, gripping her.

“Please. Stop,” she gasped, fluttering her eyes. “Please. I feel…”

Her eyes rolled back, and she faded to deadweight, feigning her own trademark—unconsciousness.

Ruth stuttered, then dropped her to the ground. Margot landed in a puddle of liquid limbs, one eyelid barely cracked, just enough to survey the scene.

“Well.” Ruth brushed her hands on her pants and doubled over, catching her breath. “That was slightly easier than last time.”

Margot withheld an angry shudder.

Ruth hooked her hands under Margot’s armpits and gave a solid yank. Another. Dragging her lifeless body across the rickhouse. Moving deeper, toward the beams of the second-floor catwalk. Closer to the discarded noose.

Margot allowed it to happen, biding her time. She let her head roll, slack and heavy.

On the fourth pull, she was finally close enough to act. She was beside the first tasting barrel. She waited until Ruth turned to grab the length of rope. The rope that had ended the life of two prior Dravenhearst brides.

Margot would not be the third. She would, indeed, go down swinging.

Quite literally.

She moved. The copper whiskey thief was just there, atop the barrel. Solid and deadly in her hands. Margot gripped it tight.

And she swung.

She swung hard.

She swung with the fury of three generations of Dravenhearst women behind her.

She swung for Eleanor, bruised and battered, broken beyond repair.

She swung for Babette, betrayed by the hand of someone she loved.

She swung for herself, haunted by the past but no longer a prisoner to it. The master of her own fate at last. Strong enough to bear it.

Margot’s arms rippled as she brought the whiskey thief down, directly onto the back of Ruth’s head. The woman’s hands slackened, dropping the noose. She crashed to the ground with a rippling shudder, then lay still. A tiny puddle of blood trickled to the floor.

Margot released a huffing exhale. She stared, cataloging the blood but also the shallow rise and fall of Ruth’s chest.

Not dead then. Not yet.

A sharp clap pierced the silence of the rickhouse. A single beat. Another. And another.

The utterly hair-raising and altogether misplaced sound of hands coming together.

Margot tracked the noise to the shadows as she emerged. Tall, haughty, proud—Babette, still in her bridal gown. Clapping her hands for Margot. Slow and steady.

“Brava!” Babette cried, smiling. Full teeth. Gleaming eyes. “Oh, brava, Margot darling!”

Margot swallowed hard, her gaze flickering to the catwalk overhead, where another vision appeared. Eleanor sat on the overhang, dangling her legs in the open air. Her bridal veil hung down, flapping like a sail.

“How far you’ve come, fledgling. How far you’ve proven you will go for us.” Babette prowled closer. “For your Dravenhearst sisters.”

Margot didn’t reply. She watched the faint rise and fall of Ruth’s chest. Her breaths were growing less frequent. Death was coming.

Babette was inches away now. She brushed her knuckles down Margot’s cheek. Instead of the usual chilling, phantom-like whisper, her touch was corporeal. Flesh meeting flesh, tinged with warmth.

Margot shuddered, recalling Ruth’s warning. “Spirits are never stronger in our natural world than at the places where they lost their lives.”

“There’s only one thing left,” Babette said, her full lips parting. She walked around Margot, dragging her fingers down and around her neck, pausing to whisper in her ear from behind. “You know what to do, Margot.”

Eleanor giggled and dropped to the floor, landing with a solid, squelching thud. Fully human, the sound of that fall. No longer spirit, now flesh and blood, she crossed the floor and picked up the rope, the end sticky with Ruth’s growing puddle of blood.

“One of us,” Babette continued whispering, completing her circle. Her heels tapped on the wood floor, every step. She settled in front of Margot. “It’s what you’ve always wanted, to be wanted. We want you, Margot.”

She couldn’t look away if she tried. Distantly, a ruckus rose beyond the walls of the rickhouse. A yipping. Very faint.

“Forever. With us.” Babette took the rope from Eleanor and handed it to Margot. She reached out, curling Margot’s fingers around it. “Once haunted, forever haunting.”

There was a beautiful symmetry in that. Margot looked toward the rafters, noose in hand. The noises outside grew louder.

“That’s it,” Babette encouraged. “You know what to do. You’ve dreamed of it. You belong to us, Margot. Belong with us. With Elijah. He’s waiting, only a crossing away.”

Elijah.

A ripple passed through her, a sharp whip of pain. Her body was conditioned, so long a glutton for it.

But the pain was the place where healing began. The rope was in her hands, yes, but it was time to let go. Not hold on.

“No,” Margot said, raising her eyes to Babette’s.

“No?” Her beautiful face contorted into something ugly, something unforgiving.

“No.”

The door to the rickhouse ripped open, slammed with enough force to nearly tear it off its squealing hinges. Merrick skidded inside, revolver in hand, Beau howling at his heels.

“Margot,” he cried, gaze clocking the scene. Her wedding gown. Her grip on the noose. He raised a shaking hand. “No. Don’t. Please. I love you. I’m in love with you, Margot. Please don’t do this—”

“Do it!” Babette screeched, flying forward.

The gun fired.

Margot gasped and dropped the rope.

The bullet streamed by her, landing in the center of Babette’s chest. Directly over her heart. Blood bloomed, spreading in crimson rivulets down the bodice of her wedding gown.

Merrick fired the revolver again. A second bullet pierced Babette’s stomach. Then a third.

He can see her, Margot realized with shock. Finally. Here in the rickhouse.

Babette shrieked, looking at her son in disbelief.

“You’re not welcome in this home anymore,” he roared, the gun still raised. “I don’t know how to possibly make it more clear.”

“You can’t kill what’s already dead, son,” she replied. Blood trickled down her skirt.

“I can sure as hell try. I will try, because you have no place in our lives.” He reached for Margot, dragging her to his chest. “Your power here, your power over me, is gone.”

Margot stared Babette down, tucked inside her son’s arms. Gently, very gently, because his fingers were shaking, Margot pried the revolver from Merrick’s grip. She pointed it at Ruth, who was lying a foot away, barely breathing.

“You can have her, a third Dravenhearst mother,” Margot said. “But not me. She’s the one you want anyway. The one who loved and betrayed you.”

She fired the gun. More blood bloomed on the floor, and Ruth’s labored breathing ceased.

Babette wavered, growing paler and paler with every passing second. She dropped to her knees and grabbed Ruth’s hand. Her mouth opened, but whether to lament or lash out, Margot would never know. Before she could say a word, Babette vanished.

There was still one Dravenhearst bride in the room. Eleanor. Several paces away, hands pressing into the veil over her mouth in shock.

“Eleanor.” Margot stepped forward, lowering the gun.

“I live here because I died here,” Eleanor whispered, tilting her head to look into the rafters. Her voice was tremulous. “Not all at once, a little bit every single day.”

“I know,” Margot murmured. For Babette, she felt anger. Her haunting was selfish, righteous and power drunk. But for Eleanor…

For Eleanor, Margot felt sorrow. And beneath that, forgiveness. It was a release.

It’s not your fault, nor is it mine.

Eleanor’s gaze turned to Merrick. “Did you mean what you said—do you love her? Truly?”

Merrick didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Eleanor continued to stare. “More than a child? More than the drink? More than the distillery?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it,” Eleanor said, beginning to fade. “Prove it, and I will finally rest.” She looked at Margot one final time. “Thank you for listening…thank you for listening and not looking away.”

And then she was gone.

Merrick exhaled, long and shaky. He started moving, approached the five tasting barrels, lined up in a row. He dropped them to their sides, one by one, then grabbed the first and started rolling. The seams of wood leached something red and sticky from within, leaving a trail across the floor.

Blood.

“What are you doing?” Margot asked.

“What I should have done a long time ago.”

Margot followed him outside, around to the back of the rickhouse. He slammed the bloody barrel into the dirt, just at the edge of the sinkhole, where the back wall was crumbling into the earth.

Four more rotting, rancid barrels rolled out, lined up.

Merrick called for Beau and tucked Margot under his arm. He walked them around the edge of the sinkhole, standing a safe distance away. He lifted the revolver, taking aim.

“Wait!” Margot cried, grabbing his hand. “There’s still bourbon in there.”

Half full, the upper levels…

“I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t give a flying fuck about the bourbon, Margot.”

She released his arm.

“As long as that rickhouse stands, those ghosts will be tethered to this place. It’s where they died. Blood mixed with bourbon, that’s the real family legacy. I should have destroyed it years ago. Should have faced it.”

The crack of the gunshot rang through the night. The first barrel exploded, followed by the rest, blowing out the wall of the rickhouse. Flames reared, licking inside. The earth gave underfoot, the sinkhole expanding with the force of the explosion. Hungry.

They watched together as Rickhouse One was consumed by flames. As the shell of the building went up. As the fire engulfed the roof. As the walls caved in. As the sinkhole devoured the remains, the earth reclaiming all that was lost.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

That which had once lived here—had festered within—was now, finally, dead.