O'Hara dismounted cautiously, his boots hitting the dirt with a quiet thud. He straightened his back and bowed slightly to Mr. Howlett in a silent show of respect. His presence remained unspoken, a watchful shadow at James's side.
James took a step forward, his young voice steady as he said, "Mr. Daniel is taking a half-day off today. You can't blame us for that."
Mr. Howlett let out a hearty laugh, the deep timbre of his voice carrying easily over the sounds of the stable. He reached out, ruffling James's hair in an affectionate but firm gesture before turning to Victor. His sharp gaze softened slightly as he observed the young man's composure.
"The coat of Montenegro has been looking richer lately—darker, more refined," Howlett noted, his approval evident. "You've done well, Victor."
Victor inclined his head slightly, his tone measured as he responded, "It's my duty, sir." There was no excess in his words, no need for embellishment. The quiet strength in his demeanor earned another nod from Mr. Howlett.
"Well then," the old man said, stretching his arms as if shaking off stiffness. "I haven't had much activity these past few days. I think it's time for a ride. James, care to join me?"
James feigned excitement, his boyish voice brightening just enough. "That'd be great, Grandpa! I've always wanted to try riding Montenegro myself."
He turned to O'Hara, giving him a slight nod—a silent dismissal. O'Hara understood and stepped back, fading into the stable's shadows like an ever-present specter.
As they left the stable, the late afternoon light bathed the land in golden hues. The sprawling pasture stretched endlessly, the gentle rolling hills painted in greens and yellows. Even in the simplest attire—just a linen shirt and sturdy denim trousers—Mr. Howlett carried himself with an air that demanded respect. Unlike the aristocrats who cultivated refinement over generations, his presence was forged from years of battle and survival. He was a man who commanded not just through words, but through the weight of his legacy.
He bent down, lifting James effortlessly onto Montenegro's saddle. Holding the reins firmly, he guided the horse into a slow trot across the land, his sharp eyes ever watchful.
"Jamie," he said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "what do you think of Victor?"
James barely hesitated. "He's mature for his age. Strong. Disciplined."
Mr. Howlett raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Seems like you've been paying attention. Daniel was right—you have been making progress." He nodded approvingly and continued guiding the horse forward.
James, emboldened by the moment, decided to broach the subject he'd been contemplating for some time. "Grandfather, I've heard… rumors. About Victor's father."
Mr. Howlett remained silent, prompting James to continue.
"Well… it's said that Mr. Logan is—difficult. That he drinks too much, neglects Victor, and worse…" He hesitated, then added, "Beats him."
Mr. Howlett exhaled through his nose but did not immediately respond.
James pressed on. "Victor has potential. He could be a great asset to the family. Loyalty is strongest when it's nurtured from childhood. But if his father remains… it could be a problem."
His grandfather finally spoke, his voice thoughtful. "And what do you propose should be done?"
James took a moment before answering, choosing his words carefully. "Mr. Logan should be sent away. Not dismissed entirely—that would create resentment—but given a position that keeps him at a distance. Something with little power, but enough comfort that he wouldn't rebel. Perhaps the northern cattle ranch or the eastern cotton fields. That way, Victor can grow under the guidance of the Howlett family, and when the time comes, he will be one of our own."
Mr. Howlett slowed the horse, his expression unreadable. Then, a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Jamie, you continue to surprise me. I always knew you were sharp, but this… this is beyond what I expected." He let out a long breath, shaking his head in admiration. "Very good. Very, very good. You truly are my grandson."
James lowered his gaze slightly, feigning modesty, though his mind was still calculating. He was aware that his grandfather saw him as a mere twelve-year-old boy, one with a quiet and introverted nature. To hear such forward-thinking strategy from him was bound to be a revelation.
Mr. Howlett continued, "You have the right instincts. A leader must think ahead, anticipate problems before they arise. And you're right—Thomas Logan is a problem. One I've let fester for too long." He patted James's shoulder. "Leave it to me, Jamie. I'll handle it."
The evening passed in relative peace. Dinner was served, and James ate heartily, his body's recent growth fueled by an increasing appetite. The qigong training he had been practicing for months had strengthened him, and unlike before, he no longer suffered from bouts of unexplained sickness.
Later that night, Mr. Howlett brought up the matter of Thomas Logan to the family. He proposed the idea of sending him north with a modest home and a generous salary. Elizabeth was delighted, expressing unwavering support for her father's decision. John, however, hesitated.
"Thomas won't stay away forever," he warned.
Mr. Howlett frowned at his son's indecisiveness. John's softness had always been a disappointment to him, but at least his grandson had a mind for leadership.
Regardless, the decision was made.
Thomas Logan refused at first, scoffing at the notion of exile. But when Mr. Howlett made it clear that his only other option was to leave the estate with nothing, Logan relented, albeit through gritted teeth. That night, he attempted to approach Elizabeth, desperate to rekindle the idea of their escape. But fate was unkind—she had become reclusive, giving him no chance to see her alone.
As if mirroring the tension in the air, the Alberta sky grew darker over the following days. The wind carried a heavy stillness, the scent of an impending storm clinging to the earth.
Then, on a night without moonlight, the storm finally arrived.
Thunder rumbled like a distant war drum, shaking the foundations of the manor. Rain fell in heavy sheets, turning the roads to rivers of mud. Inside a small cabin on the estate, Thomas Logan sat slumped on a ragged couch, an empty rum bottle slipping from his fingers. At his feet, two more bottles lay discarded.
Victor had long since retreated to his room, either asleep or pretending not to exist.
Logan's bloodshot eyes burned with fury. His mind was a haze of alcohol and resentment. His grip tightened around the shotgun leaning against the wall. Without hesitation, he loaded a fresh round into the chamber, the metallic click ringing ominously in the silence.
With unsteady steps, he threw the door open and stepped into the storm.
Inside the manor, Mr. Howlett stirred in his bed, restless. The pounding rain masked the sound at first, but then—
BOOM!
The front door was blasted open.
Mr. Howlett shot up in bed, reaching instinctively for the flintlock pistol by his bedside. Years of battle had sharpened his instincts; this was no mere accident.
"Elizabeth!"
Thomas Logan's drunken roar echoed through the manor.
John was already awake, hastily pulling on his robe. "Stay here," he told his wife, rushing to meet his father near the stairs.
"Sounds like Thomas," he said. "I'll handle it."
Mr. Howlett reached out to stop him but only caught the fabric of his sleeve.
Downstairs, the air was thick with tension.
BOOM!
The second shotgun blast ripped through the hall.
John collapsed, his chest a crimson ruin.
Mr. Howlett's breath hitched. His son lay lifeless, and in the flickering lantern light, Thomas Logan stood with his shotgun, swaying slightly—too drunk to realize he had sealed his fate.
Four armed men stepped forward, their weapons raised.
The room flashed with gunfire.
The storm raged on.