Page 69 of Fairest of Heart

“No, no, dear. Not that one. That’s for your scowling friend. I have a different one for you. A sweeter batch, to match your sweet face.”

“Oh, I don’t mind having the same as the menfolk,” Penelope protested, not wanting Mrs. Bower to go to any special trouble.

“I insist.” She handed Penelope the cup for Jeb. “Be a dear, would you, and give this to your friend while I pour yours?”

Penelope did as she was asked. Jeb’s scowl darkened as she approached, but Penelope extended the cup to him anyway, then sidled up beside him and whispered in his ear. “The faster we taste her cider, the faster she’ll leave.”

Jeb grabbed the cup, downed the contents in one long chug, then thrust the cup back at her with a glare.

Pressing her lips together to keep a laugh from escaping, Penelope returned to the wagon.

“Here you are, dearie,” Mrs. Bower said, holding out a cup. “Drink up. Let me know what you think.”

“Thank you.” She took a sip, expecting it to be sweet and fruity, but there was an odd, bitter taste mixed in. It took effort not to make a face. “There’s a strange aftertaste. Did you add herbs to this batch?”

“Herbs? No. Keep drinking. It gets better, I promise. It’s my most popular recipe.”

Penelope took another sip out of politeness and would have stopped except Mrs. Bower took hold of the cup and tipped it up, forcing so much into her mouth that Penelope had to swallow to avoid choking.

“That’s a good girl.” Mrs. Bower suddenly grabbed the bun at the back of Penelope’s head and yanked.

Penelope yelped and tried to knock the woman’s arm away, but Mrs. Bower’s grip was surprisingly strong for a woman of advanced years. Penelope’s chin tipped toward the sky as her hair was pulled back, then a cup smashed against her mouth, and more of the horrid cider was poured down her throat.

Swatting at the old woman, Penelope sputtered and gagged. She tried to twist her face away, but Mrs. Bower tightened her grip. Shards of pain sliced across Penelope’s scalp.

“Drink it all down, my sweet. Then I’ll let you go.”

Penelope’s lungs seized. If she didn’t get rid of the cider, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. She focused on swallowing. Nothing else.

“Take your . . . hands . . . off . . .” Jeb’s voice began to slur.

As soon as Penelope gulped down the last of the vile juice, Mrs. Bower shoved her away. Penelope crashed into the side of the wagon and fell to the ground. She wasn’t the only one. Jeb had fallen to one knee, and his rifle was slipping from his hands. She pushed to her feet, intending to go to him, but Mrs. Bower latched on to her arm, holding her fast. She spun back toward the wagon and found Angus draped over the edge, slipping slowly to the ground. Ike, too, staggered and fell forward, hitting his head against the wagon bed.

“Ike!” Penelope struggled, alarmed at the dizziness that assailed her. “Let me go!” she demanded. “He’s hurt.”

“He’ll be fine, Penelope. As long as you tell me what I need to know.”

That voice. Lower. Huskier. She knew that haughty tone. If only she could swim through the thickening fog in her mind and grasp the answer that dangled just out of reach.

The widow straightened. Lifted her veil. And the truth stabbed into Penelope’s heart.

Madame LaBelle.

29

Narcissa shook Penelope, needing her to focus before the laudanum rendered her senseless. “Where are my jewels?”

The sanctimonious tart dared wag her head. “Not . . . telling . . . you.”

They’d see about that. “You don’t have much time left, Penny. Not with all the poison I fed you. You’ll be dead before that Ranger can find you.” An occurrence that would have happened weeks ago were it not for Cecil’s wilted spine. “I’ve dosed your friends, too. Not as severely. They’ll simply sleep for a while. If you tell me where the jewels are, I’ll ensure no additional harm befalls them. But if you don’t . . . Well, it’s quite easy to kill a man when he’s unable to fight back. A pillow over the face. Steady pressure. They’ll never wake up.”

“You can’t!” Penelope struggled against Narcissa’s hold, her weak attempts to break free laughable.

“Oh, but I can. Shall I prove it?” She released Penelope and pulled off her shawl.

Penelope grabbed the side of the wagon to steady herself as Narcissa wadded up the knitted shawl and knelt beside the old cowboy who’d cracked his head on the buckboard. She pressed the clumped shawl against his mouth and nose and leaned her weight into it. His limbs twitched. A muffled wheeze escaped. She couldn’t have scripted it any better.

“Please,” Penelope sobbed as she slid down to the ground. “Stop. I’ll . . . tell you.”