Nearly all of them gave a start. Only Roland, the hunter, who was accustomed to guns going off, and Samantha, didn’t jump or flinch.
All eyes swung toward Fargo and the smoke curling from the end of the Colt’s barrel. “Now that I’ve got your attention,” he said, and twirled the six-shooter into his holster, “someone better tell me why in hell I’m here or I’m fanning the breeze.”
“You have your nerve,” Tom Junior said.
“How dare you.” From Charles.
“I didn’t come all this way to listen to you idiots bicker.” Fargo hefted the Henry and turned toward the hall. “For some of us the sun doesn’t rise and set with you Clyborns.” He took a couple of steps and Samantha’s hand enfolded his arm.
“Wait. Please. I’m the one who sent for you and I would like nothing better than to explain why but first I need to have words with my brothers and my sister.”
“So long as you’re not all day at it.”
“It will take far less time than that.” Samantha smiled and turned and her smile evaporated. “I want all of you to go to your rooms and wait for me to send for you.”
“Who do you think you are, our mother?” Tom snapped. “We can do as we damn well please.”
“I agree,” Charles said. “We’re adults, dear sister, not children anymore.”
“Then act like adults. Mr. Fargo has come a long way to see me. After I’ve concluded my business with him, we’ll all get together.”
“I don’t know why you sent for a man like him anyway,” Charles said.
“I do,” Tom angrily declared. “Our older sister wants to trim the odds so she has a better chance.” He wheeled on a shoe heel. “Fine. Let’s humor her. By Monday morning all this will be over and none of us need ever listen to her again.”
“Unless she wins,” Charlotte said.
Tom swore. “Over my dead body.”
Charles and Emmett followed them out. Roland lingered to ask, “I’m curious, Sam. What will you do if you win?”
“Not now.”
“Father left it up to each of us. I know what Charlotte will do. She’s too sweet to be selfish. Emmett will probably share, too. Charles, I’m not so sure. As for Tom.” Roland stopped and frowned.
“You’ll learn my sentiments if and when I claim the prize,” Samantha informed him.
Roland nodded at Fargo. “Bringing him in might not help you all that much. You could spend a lot of money for nothing.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Roland left, and Samantha indicated a divan. “Have a seat, why don’t you, and I’ll explain what this is all about?”
Fargo sank down, draped his arm across the back, and leaned the Henry against his leg. “I could use a drink.”
Samantha turned to a pull cord in the corner and gave it a hard yank. Within seconds a maid in a long purple dress appeared and gave another of those bows.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“A glass of whiskey for my guest.”
“A bottle,” Fargo amended.
“Which brand? We have Early Times, Monumental, and Sour Mash Copper Whiskey, as I recall.”
Fargo wasn’t particular so long as it went down smooth, but he was fond of Early Times.
“A bottle of Early Times,” Samantha told the maid. “You may dispense with a glass.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Samantha sat opposite him and folded her hands in her lap, her posture as perfect as posture could be. “Now, then. Suppose we get down to brass tacks. Are there any questions I can answer right off?”
Fargo was honest. He had been thinking of one thing and one thing only since he set eyes on her. “What does it take to get you under the sheets?”
Samantha blinked and her red lips parted. “Mercy me. I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. What do you take me for, sir? A common trollop?”
“There’s nothing common about you. You’d be the queen of any bawdy house you worked at.”
Her cheeks blazed red.
“That body of yours is enough to give a man fits,” Fargo pressed on. “You must have a list of lovers as long as your arm.”
“I’ll have you know . . .” Samantha began, and caught herself. The red in her cheeks deepened. “Listen here. I don’t know what you are about but it stops this instant. I didn’t bring you here to titillate me. I brought you here to help me acquire a fortune.”
Fargo put his lust on the back burner of the stove for the time being. “You have my attention.”
“Finally.” Samantha pointed at the portrait. “My father. A pillar of the community. One of the wealthiest men in all Missouri. He attended church every Sunday without fail.”
“You make him sound like a saint.”
“I don’t mean to.” Samantha paused. “The truth is, my father was one of the most coldhearted men to ever draw breath. You can’t tell it to look at that painting but he was mean to his core.”
Fargo’s interest perked.
“He wasn’t always that way. Before Charlotte was born, I remember him being just like any other father. He spent most of his time at work but when he was home with us children he was gentle and considerate.”
“What changed him?”
“Our mother died giving birth to Charlotte,” Samantha revealed. “The whole week after that, Father shut himself in his bedroom and wouldn’t come out. When he did, he was a changed man. Something inside him had died. The milk of human kindness, some would call it. From then on he treated us as if we were somehow to blame for Mother’s death.”
“How old is your little sister?”
“Charlotte is twenty-two. I’m thirty-one. Between us came the four boys. Tom Junior, then Roland, then Charles, and finally Emmett.”
“Your father treated all of you bad?”
“Actually, no. He treated Tom even worse. He never said why, but I think it’s because he suspected Tom wasn’t the fruit of his loins.”
“I noticed he doesn’t look like any of you,” Fargo mentioned.
“It soured our father on us even more. Our entire lives were spent under his heel. One evening at supper some months ago, he told us that we were vultures waiting around for him to die. He said he was glad none of us had given him grandchildren because they would be vultures, too.”
“How many of you are married?”
“None of us.”
That struck Fargo has peculiar. “There’s six of you and not one has ever had a hankering for a hearth and home?” He didn’t, but then he wasn’t like most people. His wanderlust was too strong. It would be years, if ever, before he was willing to give up the saddle for a rocking chair.
“I can’t speak for the others but I’ve just never met the right man.” Samantha frowned. “In a way I’m glad. Our father grew to hate children. Not just his own but all children. They reminded him of our mother. They reminded him of his loss. Grandchildren would be more reminders.”
Fargo regarded the portrait in a whole new light. “From what you’re telling me, your father sure was a son of a bitch.”
“You have no idea. He did all he could to make our lives miserable. I could recite you a list as long as your arm.” Sam stopped. “One incident should suffice. Roland met a woman once and was thinking about marrying her. Do you know what our father did? He drove a wedge between them. Insulted and belittled the poor woman until she wouldn’t have anything to do with us and broke up with my brother.”
Fargo’s estimation of Roland rose several notches.
“Then there’s poor Charlotte. She fell in love only a year ago or so. Our father had her beau investigated and one evening had him invited to supper with the rest of us and then proceeded to inform Charlotte that the man she had given her heart to was in fact seeing another woman behind her back. It broke her heart.”