* * * * *
Ritcherd woke with his head pounding like his worst hangovers. It only took a minute to recall that he’d had nothing extra to drink last night, and he knew something was terribly wrong. A quick glance at the clock proved it. Almost eleven.
“Damn!” he muttered, ignoring the throbbing in his head as he pulled on his breeches and boots. He put on a shirt as he ran down the hall, fighting the pain and dizziness. An ominous dread tightened his chest and put knots in his stomach as he rode without a saddle toward the station. The man seated behind the desk stared blankly at Ritcherd, as if his request to see Kyrah made no sense whatsoever.
“Well?” Ritcherd demanded.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid she’s gone.”
“Gone home, you mean?” Ritcherd said as an inkling of hope replaced his fears.
“The charges were dropped early this morning, and she—”
“I’ll handle this,” Constable Killeen said as he appeared and motioned for Ritcherd to come into his office. Ritcherd was offered a seat but he refused to take it. The dread he’d felt culminating inside him since his mother had threatened to keep him and Kyrah apart blew into a roiling nightmare as the constable closed the door and sat behind his cluttered desk.
“Where is she?” Ritcherd demanded.
“As you’ve already heard, she’s gone.”
“Gone where? What do you mean, she’s gone?”
He saw the constable’s eyes shift and intensify. He knew before he heard it that the news would be devastating. But he never would have dreamed . . .
“Captain Buchanan,” he began in a voice that was smooth and cool, “Miss Payne was deported early this morning.”
That dizzying, pounding sensation he’d awakened with suddenly increased tenfold. He felt as if the floor had turned into a whirlpool that would suck him helplessly downward. He gripped the edge of the desk, so consumed with rage and pain that he could hardly tell which way was up. In the brief moment it took him to digest what he’d just been told, his rage erupted into the open. His voice seethed as he leaned over the desk and pulled the constable out of his chair by his shirt collar. “Deported?” he growled. “What do you mean, deported?”
The constable’s voice remained steady. “She was put on a ship going out of the country, just as many common criminals are. If you’ll let go of me, Captain, we’ll discuss this like civilized adults.”
Ritcherd forced himself to let go and step back, fighting with everything inside of him to stay calm. As the anger briefly relented, the pain rushed forward in its place. He wanted to collapse on the floor and cry like a baby. He felt as if his heart had been ripped out of him in little pieces. He couldn’t believe it! He just couldn’t believe it!
Wrenching himself back to the moment, he said sharply, “She was not a common criminal.”
“She’s a thief.” The constable said it as if he’d done Ritcherd some huge favor.
“I was just told the charges were dropped,” he argued, as if he could convince this man to undo what had been done.
“You were misinformed,” he drawled. “She was found guilty.”
“She had no trial.”
“You must have slept late, Captain,” the officer said smugly, and Ritcherd felt an indiscernible piece of a complicated puzzle fall into place in his mind. But he was too focused on the moment to think it through.
“People don’t get accused, convicted, and deported in one morning.”
“They do when it’s necessary.”
“What was the big rush?” Ritcherd pressed.
“Really, Captain,” the constable said as if to avoid the question, “she was just a servant girl. Surely you can find another.”
“She was going to be my wife!” Ritcherd shouted and swept his arm across the constable’s desktop, sending all of its contents flying. In one swift movement he sailed over the desk and pulled the constable out of his chair. He couldn’t believe the strength in his left hand that more than compensated for the lack of it in his right. Holding the constable by the throat, he slammed him against the wall and hissed in his face, “You filthy, lying coward. How much did she pay you?” When he got no response he slammed him again. “How much?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the constable squeaked.
“You do, and I know you do. My mother gravitates to people like you—you slimy, two-faced imbecile. So what’s the going price for getting rid of an innocent young woman?” The constable said nothing and Ritcherd slammed him again, shouting, “Tell me!”
“Captain Buchanan!” the constable shouted back, exerting a burst of energy that pushed Ritcherd away. “Miss Payne was put on a ship this morning. I saw to it personally, and there is nothing I can do about it now.”
“Where was it going?” Ritcherd demanded. “What ship was it?” The constable didn’t respond and Ritcherd shouted, “Tell me!”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he retorted. “She’s gone. That’s all I know. And your behavior will land you in a similar position, if you’re not careful.”
“That’s exactly where I want to be!”
“Get out of here!” he demanded.
“Gladly,” Ritcherd retorted. “But this is not over yet. Jeanette Buchanan is not the only one around here with power and money to throw around. You will be undone by this, I swear it.”
“Get out,” he repeated, “and take your threats with you.”
Ritcherd turned to leave the room, then turned back and threw his left fist into the constable’s jaw. The man reeled back against the wall and Ritcherd pointed a threatening finger. “This is not over yet, Constable. You have not seen the last of what I am capable of doing to you.”
The constable touched his bloodied lip as he steadied himself, eyeing Ritcherd with contempt. “Get out,” he repeated.
“Gladly,” Ritcherd snarled and trudged back outside. The unreasonable strength that had fed his anger toward the constable drained out of him with each step he took. The moment he was alone, he leaned against the wall of the building and had to bend over to keep his equilibrium. He groaned and pressed a hand over his chest, fearing his heart would pound right out of it. He couldn’t believe it! This had to be a nightmare. Any minute he would wake up and find Kyrah home with her mother, where she belonged. But the truth had to be faced. This was real! And the reality was so thoroughly horrible that Ritcherd couldn’t even think beyond taking his next breath. He groaned again as the reality seemed to take hold with fresh constrictions of his chest. He turned and threw his fist into the wall, oblivious to the pain that reverberated up his arm.
“No,” he murmured and pressed his face to the wall, wondering where to begin to undo what had been done. He looked down at his bleeding knuckles and told himself he had to come to his senses. There were questions that needed to be answered. Action had to be taken. And he had to start now! Every minute wasted was taking them farther apart. Fueled by the determination to find Kyrah and bring her home, Ritcherd mounted his stallion and quickly put miles behind him.
At the pier he found very few people and little activity. He spent better than two hours talking to every person he saw, but no one knew anything that helped him. Finally he started home, knowing nothing beyond the fact that Kyrah Payne had been put on the only ship that had left dock in the past twenty-four hours. But no one seemed to have any idea whose ship it was, or where it was headed. The only definitive answer he’d gotten was from a bartender who rambled about the effect of the war on trade and deportations. His theory was that she had probably been sent to Australia. Australia? He wondered how long it would take him to get to Australia. And how would he ever begin to find her once he got there?
As the horse beneath him plodded slowly homeward, Ritcherd played it all over and over in his mind. He couldn’t believe it. Kyrah was gone. Kyrah—the woman who was part of him. He loved her, he needed her. And she needed him. He had fought so hard to have her. And s
he was gone. He had failed her completely. He had promised her he’d always be there, always care for her. And now he didn’t even know where to begin to find her. What kind of horrors would she be subjected to? The very idea made him physically ill. He would move heaven and earth to find her—if only he knew where to look. He’d told her he’d walk through hell in bare feet for her. And he would! If only he knew where to find the door. Where could he turn? Where would he possibly begin?
“Please God,” he murmured, hoping his prayer would penetrate beyond the numb horror that consumed him. “I know I’ve been a fool, and I can only hope that you will forgive me for being so stupid . . . for hurting her the way I did. But . . . I need you, God. Please . . . guide me. Show me the way. And keep her safe and strong. Please,” he howled toward the sky. Then he had to stop as emotion overtook him so completely that he couldn’t see where he was going. He slid to the ground and went to his knees, while the pain of losing Kyrah was accompanied into the open by the pain of losing her father. And the burning knowledge deep inside that he had disappointed and betrayed them both was perhaps most painful of all.
When his tears ran dry and his emotion subsided again into a dull, aching shock, Ritcherd tried once more to sort out the chain of events that had led to this, hoping for a place to start. Then it hit him. And the sensation reminded him of being shot in the arm. The pain of his loss exploded into anger, and the anger was fed by years of resentment and bitterness. The anger fed his determination, pressing him blindly back onto the stallion. The speed fueled his anger into a glaring rage as Buckley Manor loomed up before him. He intended to have a little chat with his mother.