Page 3 of The Problem Child (Emerson Pass Historicals 4)

I jerked my head up to look at him. “What have you heard?” There were rumors of bootlegging. I wasn’t sure of Flynn’s involvement in the making or distribution of product, only that at the very least he flirted too closely with danger. Our family all knew of the speakeasy in the basement of the lodge, but none of us knew where he and Phillip got the gin. Mama didn’t want to know. If Papa was privy, he never said a word. Instead, Flynn acted as if the Barnes family were somehow exempt from ordinary rules.

“Not much. I worry, though. So does Isak.”

My insides softened to match my pudding legs. His sincerity and love of my brother were irresistible. “I wonder if there are those of us in the world without hope of peace?”

“Are you speaking of yourself or Flynn?” Viktor asked softly.

“Both of us, I suppose.”

There was a restlessness and ambition in my brother I knew only too well. He would stop at nothing to become the richest man in town. Richer even than our father, who had continued to increase his wealth by buying property from Boston to Los Angeles. What had been a small fortune when he came to America from England as a young man had become a large one. I suspected Flynn wanted to surpass him as a way to prove his worth to the family. Who could blame him? His twin was a brilliant scholar and now the town’s beloved doctor.

“Do you know what you want?” Viktor asked. “Is it wealth, like Flynn?”

“No, it’s not that.” I pulled the collar of my coat closed. My fingers remained there, clutching the thick wool fabric as if it were necessary for remaining upright. “We both want to win. And we want everyone to know we’ve won.” I hadn’t meant to be quite so honest, but Viktor had a way about him that made my weaknesses seem less sharp. Less shameful.

“There’s nothing wrong with ambition.”

I lifted my gaze to meet his. “But there’s no point in wishing for things that can never happen.”

“Never give up on your dreams, Cymbeline Barnes. If anyone can do the extraordinary, it’s you.”

I wasseven years old when the Flying Countess soared through the air in Austria for twenty-two meters. My baby sister and I stared at the photograph in the newspaper for many minutes, amazed that she seemed to be suspended in the air as if by magic. Her real name was Paula von Lamberg.

When my brothers built a ski jump as part of their recreational tourist attraction, I’d immediately tried it. The first time I flew through the air, I couldn’t get enough.