Rowen gave him a small bow of acknowledgment. “I do tend to agree. Although, if Mother insists, we could at least give her a good show…” Rowen bent his knees, widened his stance, and put his arms out at his sides in a braced position, a sharp smile on his lips.
The square’s bell struck the quarter hour.
“As much as I agree regarding the value of a good show, I fear if we pause too long we will miss your date with destiny. And quite possibly muss your outfit. Or your hair.”
Rowen straightened suddenly at that thought. “I do intend to look my best. Less to be done in burying me.”
Lady Burchette stomped her foot. “Stop this madness at once.”
Rowen paused, the sly expression slipping off his face for a moment.
“I have no choice. I said I would do this thing. My word is attached to this—my oath—my value as a man.”
“You were drunk,” Catrina snapped.
“Shut your mouth, Catrina,” Rowen advised, his tone a low rumble.
She did, and he briefly marveled at the fact.
“Mother,” Rowen continued. “I am a man. This is one of the things that matters to a man such as myself. You must respect my decision.” He turned back to the door.
“You are mine,” his mother snapped. “I love you,” she whispered.
Rowen stopped dead at her words. He turned back to her. “It is for that reason that I must go. Because I am your son and I represent our shared name.” He watched her for a moment, and then a strange expression crossed his face and he bounded over to her and laid a kiss on her forehead before settling his hat on his head and pushing the door open.
The bold stride Rowen had adopted to leave his family home became a sliding creep as soon as he and Jonathan had stepped off of the Burchette estate. Together they moved quickly and quietly in any of the areas the morning light flowed across and then slunk through the remaining shadows on their way to the stables.
They paused beneath the shade of a tree and Jonathan raised one finger to his lips before leaving Rowen to walk toward the large sliding double doors that opened on parade days and the smaller worker’s doorway.
Jonathan looked about and, spying no one to raise questions about his presence at the stables, tried the door.
It opened easily and, startled, Jonathan flashed a grin over his shoulder at Rowen. He disappeared inside a moment, and then stuck his head and one arm back out just enough to signal his young lord.
Rowen hurried across the yard and slipped into the darkness of the unlit stables. He rubbed his nose at the pungent smells of warm horseflesh, hay, and straw. His father might be in charge of the military stables in Philadelphia and Rowen might be a fine horseman, but neither meant he spent much time in the stables themselves. That was the place for grooms and staff.
Jonathan took him by the elbow and leaned in close to whisper, “I see no grooms. The place seems deserted for now.”
“Excellent,” Rowen said, his eyes adjusting to the dark. He tripped over the corner of something. His eyes adjusting mostly to the dark … “Let’s look at our options.” His arms still loaded with his personal gear and saddlebags, he tried adjusting it all to turn on the lantern he took off the wall.
It was a frustrating, fumbling minute in the dark.
“You should take my old coat,” a voice said, and Rowen and Jonathan jumped at the noise.
Light oozed out of a strangely pierced pattern as a tin lantern glowed to life. Gregor Burchette sat on a hay bale, watching his son and faithful servant of more than a decade prepare to steal the horses under his care.
“Father,” Rowen mumbled. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Burchette nodded. “Rumor spreads faster than western wildfire. And you, dear son, are predictable.” He grunted and patted a bundle at his side. “The coat’s old and far less than the spectacular fashions you’re accustomed to, boy, but it served me well in the militia and, if I reckon right, where you’re going you’ll be needing something serviceable far more than something fashionable.” He rose with a groan and tossed the bundle to Rowen, who caught it awkwardly, balancing his own scant supplies and light.
Jonathan made a tsk-ing noise and helped relieve Rowen of his burdens.
“You know…”
“That you’ve come to steal horses for the ride to your ill-advised duel?” The corner of Burchette’s lips dug deep into his chubby jowl and pushed his cheek nearer his eyebrow on the left side of his face. “Of course. Do I support the potential ruination of our family’s good name because you are in love with Jordan Astraea?”
Rowen began to sputter, “I am not in—”
But his father gave a look and Gregor raised his hand for silence. “Save your protests for the day you try to explain these actions to some low-born girl you finally marry.”
Rowen’s eyes went wide and his cheeks puffed out.
Still his father talked on. “Love is a strange thing. Often not recognized until it is far too late. And for you, dear boy, it is far too late.”
“I do not love Jordan!”
“Of course not. It is not as if you’ve been lost in your cups each night since she was taken.”
“It is not as if I haven’t been drunk before,” Rowen said.
“Not so frequently, nor so solidly,” his father pointed out. “And smelling of the cheapest smoke that has ever assaulted my nostrils…”
“It was all that’s been offered.”
“Then buy your own if you must. And you have not shaved. You look the villain’s role.”
Rowen rubbed the stubble shadowing his jaw so the move was audible. “I am about to steal two military-grade horses and do my damnedest to kill a man. Certainly not the actions of a hero.”
“I’m afraid you are due to learn that heroism is all a matter of perspective, dear boy. The winner writes the story in the end.” Burchette slapped his hands together and the nearest horse snorted. “Well, have at it, why don’t you? Which two are you intent on stealing?”
Rowen swallowed hard, seeing the look in his father’s narrowed eyes. He straightened his back and strode to the first stall. Giving the horse a quick look, he said, “This one will do.”
The old man snorted. “I daresay you’re wrong. Copper develops a soft left hind frog after a three-mile gallop. He’ll lame up on you if he’s pushed much beyond that. And you need a firm and fast five miles between you and the trouble you’ll be making here today.”
Rowen clenched his jaw and stepped to another stall. He glanced at the horse inside, holding his stormlight high, and then stepped away.
Gregor grunted approval.
The third stall held a tall bronze-backed steed. The horse arched his neck and shook his mane out at Rowen, his nostrils flaring as he stomped a broad black hoof.
Rowen stepped away.
“No,” his father said sharply. “Bold choices require bold companions to back them. Ransom is a bit of a handful, but he’ll be more than sufficient for your needs.”
“Ransom…?” Rowen adjusted the height of his stormlight to better see the nameplate hung on the stall’s door.
The horse snorted in response.
“As in King’s Ransom?”
“The same.”
“Do you want me dead, Father? This is Stevenson’s prize stallion.”
“There’s a reason for that. Ransom’s a damn fine beast.” Gregor shrugged. “Why go halfways about something? Commit fully to your actions. Doing a thing halfways only ever gets you halfways to your goal.”
Rowen swallowed. “Jonathan…?”