The Inheritance (2 page)

Nicholas Calloway hunted men for a living.

Nicholas smiled, a small, cynical tilting of lips that was almost a sneer. He had become a bastard in deed as well as by birth. At least bounty hunting was an honest job, if not a respected one. It was more lucrative than riding line for some ranch, albeit a sight more dangerous.

Nicholas welcomed the danger. The risk made the job more exciting. He wouldn’t mind dying, if that was to be his fate. The chances of that weren’t as good now as they had been ten years ago, after the War Between the States, when he had begun this sort of work. He had learned how to stay alive. How to kill before being killed.

Nicholas had a good idea who might be out there in the darkness. He had come to Abilene in search of Vince Tolman. The
REWARD
poster in his pocket promised $1,000 for Vince’s capture, dead or alive. Vince had started rustling cattle in Victoria, Texas, but had ended up shooting cowboys. The cattle rustling was enough to get him hanged. The killing had put a bounty on his head and set Nicholas on his trail.

Nicholas believed in letting a man know, through talk around town, that he was being hunted. It invariably
made him nervous. And nervous men made mistakes.

Nicholas didn’t kill if he didn’t have to, but he wasn’t above goading a man into a draw. It was easier to account for a dead man than to bring in a live one, and he had no sympathy for the hardened outlaws he hunted down. He didn’t delude himself into thinking they would come in peaceably. Not after the first time, when he had nearly been killed by a man he had been bringing back to stand trial.

His eyes had adjusted to the dark, which wasn’t as dark as it had seemed when he awoke. There was no moon, but there were stars, and he could make out the bare outline of a Stetson topping the figure of a man. Nicholas had his gun in his hand and an easy target. But there was just the chance it wasn’t Vince. He didn’t want to kill some fool who was wandering around lost in the dark.

He rose slowly and waited for the stranger to realize he was standing there. “If you’re looking for a cup of coffee—”

“Goddamn you, Calloway! How the hell—”

It was Vince all right. Nicholas threw himself out of the way as the outlaw’s gun spat fire. He rolled, and when he came to a stop fired once into Vince’s body. Vince’s hands flew reflexively outward, and Nicholas heard, rather than saw, the outlaw’s gun land in the dirt some distance away.

Brush crackled as the outlaw fell, and he swore a muffled “Goddamn!” before all was silent.

Gun in hand, Nicholas walked over to the fire, squatted down, and stirred up the ashes, looking for some embers. He threw a bit of grass into the ring of stones and saw it flare from the corner of his eye. He
didn’t look directly into the light, knowing that otherwise he would be blind when he needed to see into the darkness again.

The fire bit greedily into the few sticks he added. Vince Tolman was lying ten feet away. Nicholas watched for movement but saw none.

“You still alive?” Nicholas asked.

“Yeah.”

“Where are you hit?”

“Belly.”

“Too bad.”

“I was thinkin’ the same thing myself,” Vince said with a harsh laugh. The laugh ended in a hiss of pain. “How long you figger I’ll last?”

Nicholas left the fire and crossed to the dying outlaw. He lifted the man’s vest and shirt aside and looked at the wound. “Daylight maybe.”

There was a silence while Vince digested this news.

“I was gonna offer you the thousand to let me go,” Vince said at last.

“Wouldn’t have taken it.”

“Yeah. I heard that. Thought I’d try, anyway.”

“Any kin you want notified?” Nicholas asked.

“My ma,” Vince said. “Martha Tolman in Seguin.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Vince exhaled a deep breath. Nicholas recognized the sound. He reached over a moment later and shut the dead man’s eyes, knowing it would be harder to do it in the daylight.

“Guess I was wrong,” Nicholas said. “Guess you didn’t live to see another day.”

He took Vince into Abilene to have him identified
by the sheriff so the authorities in Victoria could wire the reward money to him. Then he sent a telegram to Martha Tolman in Seguin.

He didn’t sign it. It would be too easy for the woman to find out he was the one who had killed her son. He didn’t want her sending some relative to hunt him down. He didn’t know why he had asked Vince about his kin. He hadn’t done anything like that before, mostly because his first shot was usually deadly. Nor was he sure why he had followed through and sent the telegram. It wasn’t going to be much comfort to Martha Tolman.

Three days later, as he headed for his ranch in the hill country west of Austin, Nicholas put Vince and Martha Tolman from his mind. He was looking forward to spending some time with his son. Colin was nearly a man himself, already nineteen. All the same, Nicholas was comforted by the thought that Colin wasn’t alone at the ranch. Simp was there with him.

Nicholas didn’t know what he would have done if Simp Tanner hadn’t crossed his path nineteen years ago. Nicholas had been a boy of sixteen when his three-day-old son had been thrust into his arms. He had been sitting cross-legged on the grass in the middle of the southwest Texas prairie, a bawling baby in his arms, when Simp had come along. The weatherbeaten cowboy had immediately taken on the duty of nursemaid to Colin and had hung around to become a part of the family.

As far as Colin knew, his mother had died when he was born, though Nicholas had made no secret of the fact that he and Colin’s mother hadn’t been married. He had never told his son the truth about his mother. That was his secret, and he had no intention of ever revealing it to anyone.

The hundred twenty-odd mile ride home, almost due south as the crow flies over rolling, grassy plains, seemed unending. Nicholas stopped each day only when he knew his horse couldn’t go any farther without rest. He pushed hard and arrived at his ranch house on the outskirts of Fredericksburg at dusk one evening.

He and Simp had built a simple wood frame house with a central hallway leading to two rooms on either side, then added a kitchen on the back. It was whitewashed and had red shutters that Colin had helped paint. Nicholas smiled as he recalled how Colin had gotten as much paint on himself as on the shutters.

Nicholas pulled his mustang to an abrupt halt when he spotted a single rider approaching the house. It was still light enough from his vantage point on a rise overlooking the house to see the stranger glance surreptitiously around as he dismounted at the front door.

Nicholas felt his heart claw its way up into his throat. He had always known there might come a day when someone would come looking for him—a brother or a father or an uncle—seeking vengeance. No one around Fredericksburg knew what he did for a living. He was just Mr. Calloway who had a ranch and ran a few cattle and raised a few horses outside of town.

They didn’t get many visitors at the ranch, and no one Nicholas wouldn’t recognize. But he didn’t recognize the man walking up the front steps to his house. The stranger turned to look around as though he suspected he was being watched. Nicholas noted he was short and thin with a narrow face and small eyes. Oddly, he was dressed in a city suit and wore a bowler hat. That didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t come here with murder in mind. Appearances, Nicholas had learned over the years, could be deceiving.

Nicholas dismounted in the shadows and worked his way around to the porch while the stranger stood at the door, apparently making up his mind whether to knock. Nicholas took the choice away from him.

“Hold it right there,” he said. “Put up your hands.”

The little man started to move, and Nicholas said, “Turn around and you’re a dead man. Drop your gun.”

“I’m not armed, I assure you,” the little man said.

Nicholas was surprised to hear the clipped British accent. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I’m looking for Nicholas Windermere,” he said. “On a matter of utmost importance.”

Windermere had been Nicholas’s last name for the first eight years of his life. He had taken his mother’s name, Calloway, when they arrived in America.

“May I turn around, sir?” the little man asked.

“Go ahead. Just don’t make any sudden moves.”

Nicholas thought the little man was going to faint when he spied the Colt .45 aimed at his heart. His face paled and he swallowed with an audible sound.

“Whom do I have the privilege of addressing?” the little man said.

“First tell me who you are,” Nicholas said.

“Why, I’m Phipps, sir. The Windermere family solicitor.”

“Why are you looking for Nicholas Windermere?”

“Because he is now the eighth Duke of Severn. His father left a letter stating Lady Philip’s destination in America. It has taken me nearly a year to trace the path to His Grace. It led, if I may be so bold, sir, here.”

Nicholas blanched. For him to become the Duke of Severn, his uncle, the previous duke, must be dead, and both his cousins, Tony and Stephen, must have died without male heirs. And his father must be dead. He would never be able to confront him now and ask the questions he needed to ask.

Nicholas felt a tightness in his chest. Surely it wasn’t grief at the news of his father’s death. He couldn’t possibly feel anything for the man after all these years. More likely the pain was caused by the knowledge—the fear—that he would never be able to end the recurring dream that plagued him.

The door opened behind the little man, and a tall, handsome young man with black hair and blue eyes stuck his head out. “Pa? What’s going on?”

“Meet Phipps,” Nicholas said. “The Windermere family solicitor.”

“What’s he doing here, Pa?”

“He came to find me.”

The little man’s eyes widened, and he snapped to attention and bowed low. The gesture was a bit ridiculous because his hands remained high and wide above his head.

“Pardon me, Your Grace. I had no idea it was you I was addressing. May I extend my deepest sympathies, Your Grace, on your loss?”

“It seems a little late for that,” Nicholas said. “You can put your hands down now, Phipps.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“And you can stop calling me that,” Nicholas said irritably. “You’re in America now.”

“Whatever you wish, Your—What shall I call Your Grace if I’m not to call you—”

“Calloway,” Nicholas said abruptly. “My name is Calloway.”

“Yes, Your—Mr. Calloway, sir. If you wish, sir.” But he was clearly unhappy with the breach of etiquette.

“You’ve found me, Phipps. You can go back to England now.”

“But, Your Grace!” Phipps exclaimed, clearly agitated and reverting to the formality with which he was most comfortable. “There’s the matter of the inheritance, Severn Manor, the house in London, the lands, and the titles. I couldn’t possibly leave just yet, Your Grace!”

“What in tarnation’s goin’ on out here?” Simp said, shoving the door open farther and forcing Colin out onto the porch. “Who you yammering with, Nick?”

“It’s a solicitor from England,” Colin explained excitedly. “He keeps calling Pa ‘Your Grace,’ and he says Pa has an inheritance in England.”

“Well, now,” Simp said. “That’s mighty interestin’. Come on in,” he said, grabbing Phipps and ushering—shoving—him inside to the parlor. “Set yourself down.” He pushed Phipps down onto a
worn horsehair sofa. “Now what’s all this about an inheritance?”

Nicholas felt the warmth of homecoming as he closed the front door behind him. The parlor was furnished as simply as the rest of the house with homemade wood and leather furniture. There were no curtains, no frills, no furbelows. It was a male bastion, a bachelors’ abode. It wasn’t always dusted, but it was neat and clean, a peaceful refuge from the other life he led.

He watched Simp fussing over the Englishman. “It’s nice to know you’re glad to see me, Simp,” he said dryly.

“What?” Simp replied. “Oh, good to see you back, Nick. You know anythin’ about what this fella’s sayin’?”

“I might,” Nicholas replied cautiously.

Phipps bobbed up again. “Would Your Grace care to sit down?”

“No, I don’t think I do,” Nicholas said. “But make yourself comfortable.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t sit, Your Grace, if Your Grace chooses to stand.” He remained where he stood at one end of the sofa.

Colin laughed. “He sure is full of ‘Your Graces,’ Pa.”

“Am I to understand you have a son?” Phipps asked as he eyed Colin.

“Yes,” Nicholas replied. “Colin is my son.”

The little man turned and bowed to Colin. “My lord, may I say what a pleasure it is to meet you.”

Colin laughed again. “I’m not lord of anything. Except sometimes I lord it over Simp,” he said with a cheeky grin at the old cowboy. He dropped into a
rocker by the stone fireplace, while Simp settled himself comfortably on the sofa.

“Excuse me, m’lord, for correcting you,” Phipps said, “but as the duke’s eldest son, you are the Earl of Coventry.”

Colin laughed again, only it was a less confident sound. “Pa? What’s he talking about?”

Nicholas sighed and leaned back against the rolltop desk from which he ran his ranch. “I think I can clear things up. I can’t be the new duke,” he told Phipps. “I’m not my father’s son. I’m a bastard,” he said so there would be no misunderstanding.

“Your father never legally repudiated you,” the solicitor informed him. “And your mother and father were legally wed when you were born. Therefore, Your Grace, I’m afraid I must correct you. You
are
the eighth Duke of Severn.”

“Then I renounce the honor,” Nicholas said in a harsh voice. “Let someone else have it.”

“Oh, no, Your Grace!” Phipps said. “I must beg you to reconsider before you take such drastic action.”

“What earthly use could land or a title in England be to me? I’m an American. I have a home here,” Nicholas said.

Phipps eyed him consideringly. His forefinger tapped his chin. “I knew your father, Your Grace, and—”

“Nothing my father said or did could be of any interest to me now,” Nicholas said, cutting him off.