Wen Spencer - A Brothers price

Two for, two against, if Summer and Eva had the courage to stand against Corelle. Too bad Heria would not be old enough for a say in the marriage; she disliked the Brindles.

If the seven elder sisters all opposed the swap, they outweighed the middle sisters completely. If they too were in disagreement, he didn’t want to even consider the way the vote might fall.

He didn’t want to marry the Brindles! If such things were strictly up to his mothers, then he knew his desire would be considered first. In the matter of husbands, though, their mothers bowed to the women who would actually bed the man.

Jerin dressed and picked up his muddy clothes to rinse them clean before the dirt could set. He would have to keep hoping things would work out the way he wished. To be disheartened-when his older sisters might all agree with him-was silly.

Blush’s voice suddenly rose from the front door in shrill panic.

“Riders coming in!” Blush screamed. “Corelle! Summer! Eva! Riders are coming!”

Jerin ran to his dormer window and looked out. A dozen of riders, maybe more, were coming across the pasture from the creek bottom. The Queens Justice would come from the other direction, from out across the grain fields.

The riders stopped in the apple orchard, out of volley range. Some of the riders split off from the main group and circled the house, checking the barns and outbuildings.

Their horses were fine, showy specimens, well cared for but ridden hard. Like that of the wounded soldier’s, their saddles and bridles gleamed with polish and bits of silver. Blonde-, black-, brown-, and red-haired, the riders lacked the unity of sisters. Somewhat comforting was the fact that half of them wore uniforms of the Queens Army-but then again, Jerin’s grandmas had been soldiers when they kidnapped his grandfather.

The riders converged under the apple trees again, discussed what they found and started for the house.

When they reached optimal volley range, there was a clatter of rifles being slid through the slits in the shutters.

“That’s far enough!” Corelle’s voice shouted from the dining room window. “We’ve summoned Queens Justice and they will be arriving soon. We suggest you move on.”

A black-haired woman on a huge black horse shouted back. “In the name of the Queens, we ask for a parley like civilized women, not this screaming at one another through walls.”

There was a whispered discussion in the dining room as the middle sisters conferred. Corelle suddenly ran back into the kitchen, unlatched the bottom half of the back door, and ducked out, snapping, “Lock it behind me” to Kettie. A moment later Corelle trotted around the corner of the house, rifle in hand, looking tall, cool, and unafraid.

For the first time in months, Jerin loved her and almost wept at the sight of her outside, alone, in front of the armed soldiers.

“So we talk,” Corelle stated.

“I’m Captain Raven Tern,” said the black-haired woman.

“Corelle Whistler. This is the Whistlers’ farm. You’re trespassing. We will defend our property and the lives of our younger sisters.”

“You have a roan mare in your stables that doesn’t belong to you.” Captain Tern motioned to the horse barn. Heria must have put the roan in the first stall, making the mare visible from the barnyard. “It belonged to a red-haired woman. Where is she?”

Corelle gave them a cold stare, then finally admitted,

“We found the woman down in the creek, beaten and nearly drowned. We brought her home, as the law states we should, and gave her comfort. We’ve sent for Queens Justice. They will deal with the matter.”

There was a shift in the group-shoulders straightening, heads lifting, flashes of smiles-as if the news was good, as if they had expected the soldier to be dead and didn’t want to hear that unpleasant report.

“She’s alive?” Captain Tern asked, her voice less harsh.

Corelle considered for a moment, then nodded slowly. “She is alive and, from time to time, awake, but has taken a blow to the head that has left her disoriented. We don’t know who attacked her. We don’t want trouble. We have children here to protect.”

Tern gave a slight laugh. “You’re not much more than a child yourself. Where are your mothers? Don’t you have any elder sisters?”

Corelle clenched her jaw, not wanting to answer, but the truth was too obvious to deny. If there were any older women in the house, they would be out talking to the strangers. “Our mothers and elder sisters are not here. They will be back shortly.”

One of the riders in the back, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, pushed forward. The young woman stopped even with the captain, and swept off her hat. The setting sun glittered on her flame red hair, red as the soldier’s hair.

“Do you know who you’ve saved today?” the woman asked.

Corelle shook her head. “The woman hasn’t spoken yet, hasn’t given her name.”

“She is Princess Odelia, third oldest daughter of the Queens.”

Corelle took a step back. “I suppose,” she said faintly, “that makes you a princess?”

“Yes. it does. I’m Princess Rennsellaer.”

Princess Rennsellaer, current Eldest of the Queens’ daughters, sat in the shade of the apple orchard, secretly glad for the chance to relax her nerves. She had been growing more and more sure that she’d find her sister Odelia dead, and that she would have to return home and tell her mothers that not only had the long-awaited cast-iron cannons been stolen, but another of their daughters had been killed.

The worst came when the peaceful-looking farmhouse suddenly bristled with rifle barrels, and it seemed that she and her guard had ridden into a trap. Their fears had quickly been allayed by the shouted challenge-the house held nothing more than frightened farmers defending their own-but the close call rattled her.

She was unnerved enough to wait, as the farmers asked, for Queens Justice to arrive and act as trusted go-betweens. In the course of a few hours, the stolen cannons had moved from all-important to trivial, losing priority to Odelia’s safe return. Cannons could be replaced; her sister could not. What surprised Ren was that the captain of her guard. Raven Tern, had not fought the delay.

She said as much to her captain. “I’m amazed you agreed to this. We could be waiting on the Queens Justice for hours. I thought you would want to push your way in, get Odelia, and get on with finding the cannons.”

Raven made a fist and tapped the sword tattoo on the back of her hand. “Didn’t you notice the Order of the Sword mark on the girl, Ren? Crib father initials under the pommel, and on either side of the hilt, makes three generations of career soldiers. A family of line soldiers earning stud services from the military cribs wouldn’t be able to afford this farm: it probably was a land grant for valiant service. A reward for loyalty proved by fire. Short of the local garrison, this is probably the safest place for Odelia to hole up in.”

“Why not bully them into turning Odelia over?”

“The girl we parleyed with was, what-seventeen?- and scared silly. If she’s the oldest one in the house, then those twenty rifles are in the hands of frightened children. Frankly. I’d rather not have to execute an eight-year-old because she shot you by accident.”

“The family might have been soldiers. Raven, but they’re farmers now.”

Raven shook her head. “We’re talking third-generation soldiers. They’re like a different species by that stage, and all they know is training their daughters to fight alongside of them. Every girl in that house probably got a toy gun as a teething present, and a real gun at the age of eight. Every window is shuttered and barred. The doors are reinforced and barred. The house probably has food enough to last a siege, and access to fresh water. You could throw a hundred soldiers against those twenty children and lose.”