Page 19

Everett hunkered down next to an area of flattened prairie grass about five hundred yards northwest of the manor.

His jaw clenched as he recognized the pattern.

He'd seen it before. When he and Alex had attended shooting competitions at the Creedmoor Rifle Range on Long Island.

The thick rectangle where the prone shooter's body pressed into the earth.

The two off-set circles where his elbows rested as he aimed his rifle for a long-distance shot.

The bullet that took Lightfoot down hadn't come from a reckless kid or an incompetent sportsman. It had come from a sharpshooter. Which meant the shot had been deliberate and targeted. Targeted at whom, though? Lightfoot or him?

Everett stood and squinted across the distance to the manor.

He could make out the front door, but with his poor depth perception, he struggled to bring it into focus.

He and Lightfoot were of similar height and size.

Lightfoot was perhaps more slender and definitely better dressed, but could someone differentiate those details from so far away?

The question ate at him all the way home.

After praising Spartacus for his good work in chasing off their invader, Everett stepped through the back door and into the kitchen. He glanced around the room, taking stock of who was there.

"I shooed Miss Rosenfeld back to the library."

Apparently, a hole in the arm hadn't hampered Lightfoot's ability to discern Everett's thoughts.

"After letting her spoil me a little first."

Sitting at the table nearby while she snapped string beans into a pot, Mrs. Potter huffed out a breath full of skepticism.

"A little? That girl fetched you a pile of pillows, a footstool, and a clean pair of trousers then sat at your side and mopped your brow while you just sat there drinking in all the attention. "

"Well, I am injured, you know." He glanced pointedly at his bandaged arm. "And as much as I adore your starchy bedside manner, Mrs. Potter, Miss Rosenfeld is a tad more solicitous."

"The girl's too young to know better."

And too kind to change even if she did learn such a lesson, Everett thought.

Mrs. Potter set aside her pot and rose to her feet.

"Now that Mr. Griffin's returned, I'll let him assist you into the trousers you wanted so badly.

" She wiped her hands on her apron and walked the long way around the table so she could come alongside Everett and whisper a warning.

"He's putting up a good front, but he's weak and in a lot of pain. "

Everett nodded, noting the strain lines around Lightfoot's mouth and the pallor of his skin. "I'll be gentle with him."

"I hear you whispering over there, you know."

Everett flicked away the grumbling accusation with a wave of his hand. "We're swapping recipes. Nothing to concern you."

"Uh huh. And I'm the king of England."

"Congratulations on your promotion." Everett set his rifle against the wall and strode to where his friend sat in a regular kitchen chair near the wall, pillows behind his back and head and one beneath his right arm.

Both feet were propped on the library ottoman.

A glass of water sat on the ledge of a nearby cupboard to Lightfoot's left, within easy reach.

Not a bad throne, all things considered.

He lowered himself into the vacant chair next to Lightfoot, the place Miss Rosenfeld had likely occupied prior to his return. He took care not to lean back and rumple the pair of perfectly pressed trousers hanging over the chair back.

"Embarrassed to see the doctor in dusty trousers, are you?"

"A gentleman must uphold his standards."

A gentleman must also wait for a lady to leave the room before discussing darker matters. A notion both men adhered to as they waited for Mrs. Potter to cross the threshold and tug the kitchen door closed behind her.

"What did you find?" Lightfoot asked in a low voice the moment the housekeeper left.

"Not much," Everett hedged. "Whoever the shooter was, he didn't stick around to be discovered."

"But you found something." Lightfoot jabbed him with a pointed stare. His valet had an uncanny ability to sense when Everett was holding back. A rather obnoxious skill when one was trying to protect his friend from worry. "Spit it out, Griff. A man can't solve a problem by hiding from it."

Another obnoxious skill was his ability to spout irrefutable wisdom at the drop of a hat.

Everett exhaled a beleaguered breath. "Spartacus led me to a patch of flattened grass.

Gave the impression of a man shooting from a prone position.

One who had likely lain there quite a while, judging by the matted nature of the grass. "

Lightfoot frowned. "So, someone targeted me?"

"He could have thought you were me. We are similar in build." Everett shrugged, trying to minimize the chilling thought. "I'm sure there's more than one person who wouldn't mind ridding the area of the local monster."

"You know my feelings regarding that term," Lightfoot scolded.

"Yes, well, your opinion fails to match the majority of our neighbors."

"You could change that, you know. If you let them get to know you."

Everett swallowed the growl rising in his throat. "Now's not the time to rehash that old argument. Someone is taking shots at the people under my roof, and we need to figure out who."

Lightfoot nodded. "And why." His brows suddenly arched high on his forehead. "You don't think . . .? No, surely not. No one's that petty."

Everett leaned forward. "What?"

Lightfoot shifted in his chair and winced.

"That fellow who was bothering Miss Rosenfeld a couple weeks ago.

What was his name . . . Patton, maybe? No, Batton.

Ambrose Batton. Remember? I told you how she complained about him.

She said something about meeting him on the stagecoach.

He'd tried to impress her with tales of his hunting exploits.

The last two Sundays, I've made a point not to leave her side after services.

It's possible he views me as some kind of impediment to his courtship.

He could have followed us home last Sunday, made note of our location.

Returned later to eliminate the man standing between him and Miss Rosenfeld.

" He shook his head, disregarding his theory.

"I'm letting my imagination get away from me.

This sounds like the plot to some gothic novel.

No rational man would shoot another just to gain access to a woman who's already made it clear she doesn't desire his company.

Especially with so many other women vying for his favor. "

"I'd wager Miss Rosenfeld's beauty could rival Helen of Troy, and we know how irrational men became over her.

" Everett rubbed the side of his face where scarred, puckered skin abraded his fingertips.

"We can't rule out a twisted mind just because the man carries himself normally in front of others, either.

I made that mistake once before. I'll not make it again. "

Especially if the man was after Callista.

Callista . He'd not allowed himself to think of her in such familiar terms before.

She was an employee, after all. But she was also a woman under his protection, an artistic colleague, and—dare he consider it—a friend.

He looked forward to the afternoons they spent together in the library, seeing her smile, hearing her hum softly while she worked, and watching her eyes light with satisfaction and appreciation each time she pulled a finished volume from the book press.

"It might be best for all of us to stick close to the manor for a while," Everett said. "Especially you and Miss Rosenfeld."

Lightfoot glanced down at his bandaged arm.

"I doubt I'll be up to the task of driving to town anytime soon, but it might be wise to warn our guest. She's gotten to where she enjoys a nice stroll about the yard each afternoon.

" His eyes took on a fierce light. "We've all grown quite fond of the dear girl and would be devastated if any harm befell her. "

They weren't the only ones. For the first time in half a decade, Everett was finally becoming comfortable in his own skin.

His mangled, disfigured skin. And all because a woman whose spirit was even more beautiful than her breathtaking face saw him instead of his scars.

She'd given him back a piece of himself he'd thought never to reclaim, and in the process, stolen his heart.

Not that he would ever admit to such a thing.

As kindhearted as she was, he couldn't expect her to love a beast.

Everett stood and clapped his hands together. "I guess we better get you in these clean trousers, then, so I can go have a chat with my book binder."

Callista worked her paring knife outward along the margins of the leather she had cut for the next book in the collection.

The edges of the leather had to be thinned where they would fold over the boards to reduce their bulk and create a smooth surface once the endpapers were pasted in.

Usually, she found the rhythmic scraping of the knife soothing, but not today.

Not with Mr. Lightfoot nursing an injury from a gunshot that could have killed him.

Thank you for sparing his life, Lord. Grant him healing and ease his pain.

"Miss Rosenfeld?"

She jerked slightly at the sound of her name, the razor-sharp blade digging into the leather a little too deeply. Glancing up, she spied Mr. Griffin walking toward her, and she immediately set her blade aside and rose to meet him.

"How's Mr. Lightfoot?"

Mr. Griffin offered one of his half smiles, the kind that proved Mrs. Potter correct in calling him a charmer. "Much better now that he's wearing a fresh pair of trousers. I swear that man cares more for his clothes than the skin they were designed to protect."