Page 143 of The Dravenhearst Brides
Margotstumbled, battling over the threshold of the rickhouse, but the woman wasstrong. Ironclad grip born from holding reins. Powerful legs from riding astride. In the span of a single heartbeat, Margot knew she couldn’t win this fight. Not this way.
No. Like everything else in her life, Margot Dravenhearst would have to work outside the confines of the box.
A secret smile rose to her lips as a plan formed. A little dastardly, a little mad.
Her favorite kind.
Ruth gave a massive tug, expecting counterpressure. Margot didn’t give it; she capitulated, vaulting into Ruth’s arms, gripping her.
“Please. Stop,” she gasped, fluttering her eyes. “Please. I feel…”
Her eyes rolled back, and she faded to deadweight, feigning her own trademark—unconsciousness.
Ruth stuttered, then dropped her to the ground. Margot landed in a puddle of liquid limbs, one eyelid barely cracked, just enough to survey the scene.
“Well.” Ruth brushed her hands on her pants and doubled over, catching her breath. “That was slightly easier than last time.”
Margot withheld an angry shudder.
Ruth hooked her hands under Margot’s armpits and gave a solid yank. Another. Dragging her lifeless body across the rickhouse. Moving deeper, toward the beams of the second-floor catwalk. Closer to the discarded noose.
Margot allowed it to happen, biding her time. She let her head roll, slack and heavy.
On the fourth pull, she was finally close enough to act. She was beside the first tasting barrel. She waited until Ruth turned to grab the length of rope. The rope that had ended the life of two prior Dravenhearst brides.
Margot would not be the third. She would, indeed, go down swinging.
Quite literally.
She moved. The copper whiskey thief was just there, atop the barrel. Solid and deadly in her hands. Margot gripped it tight.
And she swung.
She swunghard.
She swung with the fury of three generations of Dravenhearst women behind her.
She swung for Eleanor, bruised and battered, broken beyond repair.
She swung for Babette, betrayed by the hand of someone she loved.
She swung for herself, haunted by the past but no longer a prisoner to it. The master of her own fate at last. Strong enough to bear it.
Margot’s arms rippled as she brought the whiskey thief down, directly onto the back of Ruth’s head. The woman’s hands slackened, dropping the noose. She crashed to the ground with a rippling shudder, then lay still. A tiny puddle of blood trickled to the floor.
Margot released a huffing exhale. She stared, cataloging the blood but also the shallow rise and fall of Ruth’s chest.
Not dead then. Not yet.
A sharp clap pierced the silence of the rickhouse. A single beat. Another. And another.
The utterly hair-raising and altogether misplaced sound of hands coming together.
Margot tracked the noise to the shadows as she emerged. Tall, haughty, proud—Babette, still in her bridal gown. Clapping her hands for Margot. Slow and steady.
“Brava!” Babette cried, smiling. Full teeth. Gleaming eyes. “Oh, brava, Margot darling!”
Margot swallowed hard, her gaze flickering to the catwalk overhead, where another vision appeared. Eleanor sat on the overhang, dangling her legs in the open air. Her bridal veil hung down, flapping like a sail.
