Silas shook his head and looked out at the countryside. It really was beautiful land. Technically it was his land—or should have been. He had won it fairly from the dolt riding beside him.
It should not astonish Silas that people would gamble with their lives and homes so easily. As though homes were easy to come by. He had seen it time and time again. And yet it filled him with wonder and no small amount of disgust. It was usually this very disgust that made it palatable for him to collect his winnings. If reckless gamblers did not appreciate what they had, then they deserved to lose it. At least that was what he had always told himself. Until now.
Until he met Mercy Kittinger he had never come face-to-face with family members of those he had ruined. Now he felt differently. Now doing what he did . . . felt different.
The Rogue’s Den felt just a little more dirty, a little more disreputable in his mind. He had always told himself he provided services that people needed. Now he was not so sure what he did was a necessary service. Certainly it was wanted, craved even. But was it essential? Were the diversions he provided, in fact . . . healthy? What good did it serve?
Gah. He was letting Mercy affect him. These were not his thoughts.
Silas had ruined no one. That had all been her brother. Kittinger had been destined to gamble away his home that night. If not to Silas, then to someone else.
If that had happened, what would Mercy Kittinger have done then? Seduce some other man?
The very idea left a bad taste in his mouth. He shook off the notion and swallowed against the taste. Such speculation was not here nor there. Because she had seduced him. He was here now . . . and that fact should not have gratified him so greatly.
They trotted up a rise of rolling green and Kittinger stopped at the crest. The view was lovely. The valley below revealed a freshly tilled field. Mostly tilled. There was a plow at one end of the field that was stuck and appeared to have halted all progress. The recent rain had done no favors for the laborers.
Silas and Kittinger continued down the hill at an easy pace.
Kittinger paid no heed to the workers or their obvious plight. And they did indeed have a plight. Three men and a mule struggled to get the plow free, and it seemed a hopeless task.
Silas peered across the distance at the men, slowing as he watched their efforts even as Kittinger rode ahead unaware or indifferent.
The men themselves were covered in mud. The smallest one, almost knee-deep in muck, pulled at the mule by its bridle. He strained and leaned backward as he worked. The mule brayed in protest, sinking its backside deeper into the mud, settling in and clearly giving up whilst the men had not.
“Masters?” Kittinger called out. The younger man glanced back impatiently to where Silas had stopped his mount. “You coming?”
With a distracted shake of his head, Silas urged his own mount down the hill to the field. It looked like they could use a helping hand to—
He stopped hard, pulling on his reins and halting his horse in his tracks. He stared, gaping at the trio working so diligently to dislodge the plow.
The smaller man of the three was not a man at all. Indeed not. It was Mercy, clad in work boots and trousers.
Her brother rode up beside him. “Come. There’s a lovely view a few miles from here that I was eager to show you. It borders the Duke of Penning’s lands. I wager you did not know we share the border with a bona fide duke.”
Silas did not know that and he did not care.
He felt Kittinger’s stare on the side of his face, awaiting his reaction, clearly expecting him to be impressed.
“It appears they could use some help.” Silas nodded toward the stuck plow.
Kittinger followed his gaze and gave a mild shrug.
Silas gestured toward the trio. “That is your sister,” he stated, as though that might have some impact on Kittinger’s unwillingness to lend aid.
Kittinger squinted across the distance. “Oh, I say. It is Mercy.” He sniffed. “In trousers. Our mother must be rolling over in her grave. Mercy has always been a rather untraditional female.”
For some reason, Silas bristled at the criticism. Even though it was not directed at himself it felt rather personal. Almost like a poke at him. “She appears to be quite industrious. I am sure your mother would applaud her work ethic.”
Kittinger shrugged as though he could not care either way and Silas realized that was about the right of it. Her brother did not care for this place or the people here, including his own family. Obviously that was the situation or he would not have so carelessly gambled it all away.
And what was to keep him from doing that again? At some other place? Some other time? Would Mercy attempt to steal the voucher again?
The very notion had him fighting back a shudder. She would end up in prison next time. Or perhaps worse. Perhaps she would face the barrel end of a pistol. The next man she stole from might not be so understanding.
It was a dreadful possibility and one he did not want to give any more thought to. Without further comment, Silas swung down from his mount, his boots sinking into the moist earth.
“Masters! Where are you going?” Kittinger blustered.
Ignoring the man, he started across the field. Most of it was freshly plowed, and his boots sank ankle deep into the tilled soil.
They were so busy at work they did not notice his approach until he was upon them. He clasped the mule by his bridal. The beast eyed him distrustfully.
“Mr. Masters,” Mercy exclaimed, looking up at him with astonishment. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I might add my weight to the task here.”
Her cheeks flushed pink and he suspected it had nothing to do with her exertions and more to do with his arrival at her side. “That is not necessary.”
He shook his head. She frequently said that.
“Gor, miss! Another strong body would be appreciated before I break my back,” one of the men standing beside the plow complained, his gaze looking Silas over approvingly.
She frowned, but held her tongue.
Another lad added, “Hank does have a point, miss. No sense in us getting injured. Then we won’t be any good to anyone.”
“Oh, very well.” She cast Silas a cross look as though he were here to deliver poisoned fruit and not an offer of help. His lips twitched.
With a huff of breath, she made a move to resume her thus far futile efforts to free the plow. Silas held up a hand, halting their labors.
“Give me a moment, would you?”
The men stopped. Mercy stared at him with speculation. Resentment for his involvement still glimmered in her eyes, but he had clearly piqued her curiosity. She blew at a dark strand of hair that had fallen loose and dangled before her nose. Stepping back, her boots made a great sucking sound as she lifted them out from the muck.
Silas resumed his focus on the obstinate animal. He dropped his forehead against the side of the beast’s face, stroking his muzzle.
“There now,” he whispered. “You’re having a difficult day, are you not, my friend?” He clicked his tongue and continued in a low, hushed voice, cooing and petting the beast until the mule started huffing and blustering a little less.
Silas did not know much about animals, but he knew something about weary souls that felt browbeaten and bullied.
Silas felt the others waiting, watching him. He sent a quick glance Mercy’s way, noting the pretty pink flush creeping back up her cheeks as he continued to murmur nonsense to the mule.