Chapter One
Ryder Damien's black eyes glowed with grim satisfaction as
he read the wire informing him that his father, was dying.
So, the old man's finally getting his due, he thought.
Hope Satan makes the pit nice and hot.
Hardly the expected filial response, but Ryder hadn't seen
his father in thirty years. He tossed the telegram onto
his desk and walked over to the windows that looked out on
the world from the second-floor office of the Damien
Mining Company. According to the calendar, spring was
coming, but you couldn't tell by all the snow on the
mountains. The Colorado mountains never surrendered to
warmer weather without a good fight, and this year proved
to be no exception. Ryder hoped that by concentrating on
something else, the news about his father would fade from
his mind, but as much as he disliked admitting it,
thoughts of Louis Montague wouldn't leave him alone. Why
make contact now, after all these years? With all the
suffering Ryder had been forced to endure, surely Louis
didn't believe he'd come running to his deathbed, mouthing
absolutions?
Ryder turned from the window and went back to his desk.
Thirty-two-year-old Leah Barnett moved slowly through the
nearly deserted tavern, collecting the last of the empty
mugs and tankards. Her day at the Black Swan had begun at
dawn, and now that night had fallen, she didn't know which
felt wearier, her body or her feet. She looked over at the
last of the regulars seated at one of the dark wood
tables, and called out, "Tom, you should be getting on
home now.Don't want the wife to have to come get you
again."
Tom Pollard met Leah's frank dark eyes, then hung his head
sheepishly. His wife, Bess, had paid a visit to the Swan
four nights ago, and it hadn't been a pretty affair. Bess
Pollard towered over her elderly husband by a good six
inches, and she'd issued such a blistering lecture on
demon rum and familial responsibility that every man in
the place had gotten up and slunk home. Leah hadn't been
pleased watching the night's profits go streaming out the
doors, but witnessing the look of fear on Tom's face when
his wife blew in like a November gale had almost been
worth the loss. Leah had been telling him for months that
he should be spending more time with his young bride and
less time with his cronies playing dominoes and backgammon.
In response to Leah's warning, Tom shuffled to his feet
and put on his coat, saying, "Caught a lot of ribbing
about that. Don't want it to happen again." The slight
sway in his old legs interfered with his attempts to
fasten his coat buttons. "How's Monty doing?"
"Doctor says it won't be long," she responded sadly.
Louis Montague, her mother's lifelong companion, lay
upstairs in his bed, dying. "I'm going up to check on him
as soon as I'm done here."
"Well, you want me to stay until you lock up?"
Leah smiled tiredly in reply. Tom had been coming to the
Swan since she'd been tall enough to see over the tables,
and she appreciated his concern, "No, Tom. I'll be fine.
You go on. I'll see you tomorrow."
He nodded and headed out into the early-April night.His
exit left Leah alone, and she went back to cleaning up.
Usually she savored the silence that settled over the
place after locking up, but not tonight. Tonight her
thoughts were heavy with Monty's fate.
Last April, the death of Leah's British-born mother, Reba,
had broken Leah's heart. Now, Monty lay at death's door,
too. Leah's world had always included the two of them, and
she couldn't envision a future devoid of their presence
and love.
The Black Swan had been passed down to her upon Reba's
death, and Leah supposed she'd spend the rest of her life
there, washing tankards and hauling in kegs. At the
advanced old age of thirty-two she stood little chance of
snagging a husband and having children, so she'd stopped
hoping long ago. She'd also stopped wanting to see the
world and its many wonders; women of her ilk weren't
destined for such things. She'd been born in the Swan and
would undoubtedly die in the Swan, just as her mother had.
The small drinking establishment, with its sturdy wooden
tables and packed-earth floor, would provide her a frugal
life at best. One of the few remaining coastline taverns
that catered to Black British seamen, it turned enough
profit to pay bills and buy necessities, but nothing more.
Unlike her old friend Adele Sears, who'd married well and
constantly ordered new gowns in order to rub shoulders
with Boston's Black elite, Leah had to make due with gowns
that had seen better days and shoes with pasteboard in
them to cover the holes in the soles. Granted, because she
had a way with numbers, Leah earned a few extra coins
balancing the ledgers of some of the other businesses on
the waterfront, but that went to pay the salaries of her
two employees: a bartender and a waitress.
Done with the washing and sweeping, Leah checked the
door's bolts, doused the tavern's lamps, and slowly headed
upstairs to look in on Monty.
Leah had lived on the tavern's upper floor her whole life,
and the space was as familiar as her own heartbeat. Reba
and Monty had shared the big room in the back that
overlooked the often moody Atlantic Ocean. Reba had drawn
her last breath in that room. Monty seemed destined to do
the same.
Leah entered the firelit room quietly. In the big walnut
bed lay Louis Montague...
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