Free Bride of the Castle by John Dechancie Page B

of noble blood.”
    â€œNoble breeding, perhaps. The blood runs thin these days.”
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    The next town was worse, but Rance was tired after three days of travel on foot. On the way he passed several disasters: an accident in which a child was crushed to death beneath the wheels of a fully laden cart; a freak mishap in which a farmer drowned in his own well; a house fire; several maimings involving farm implements.
    He was beginning to wonder.
    The barkeep shoved a glass of ale at him.
    â€œThree copper pieces,” he snarled.
    Rance stared him down while wiping the spillage away. “My good man, you seem to have some sort of problem.”
    â€œI’ve had a bad day, and I have a jumpy feeling. Your pardon.”
    â€œGranted.”
    The barkeep looked him up and down. “You don’t look like you’ve had a good life.”
    â€œIt’s been spotty.”
    A crash of thunder punctuated his remark.
    The barkeep looked over Rance’s shoulder. “It’s looked like rain all day. Now it looks like a bad storm.”
    Rance was about to ask about employment possibilities when he was interrupted by a horrendous lightning display.
    â€œGods,” the barkeep breathed. “Did I say bad storm?”
    Moments later the flash flood hit. Rance was halfway through his ale when a high wall of water swept through the town.
    Later he recalled nothing much but the feeling of being carried away by an unstoppable force. He remembered a few screams, the swirling brownish-gray water, floating debris. There was not much else to remember, and almost nothing remained of the town.
    He swam to high ground, sloshed out of the water, lay down, and sank six fathoms into sleep.
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    Someone was trying to undress him. He threw out his right hand and hit something soft.
    He got up and looked at the man writhing on the ground, clutching his throat.
    The man regained his voice and croaked, “Bastard! I thought you were dead!”
    â€œNot yet,” he answered. “Not quite yet.”
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    CHAPTER TWELVE
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    max spent all night in the study, a cold anger frosting his insides.
    Max 2 had needed a change, all right.
    Many of the reasons for his crying need were piled in a heap on the desktop. Here was notice of an imminent IRS audit of his personal returns and his company’s. There, stacks of overdue household bills. Legal documents informing of pending litigation. Two notices that a warrant for his arrest would be sworn out if payment of fines for a sheaf of traffic violations was not forthcoming . . .
    There was more. Max saw the letterhead of a Las Vegas hotel and couldn’t force himself to look at the amount of the marker or how long overdue the payoff was.
    Something was rotten in Max 2’s world.
    Max 2 had himself a fine advertising agency, Dumbrowsky Taylor Burke. He was looking at a bank statement of the business account. Low cash flow, very low. A business with a balance sheet like this couldn’t stay in business very long.
    Taking everything into consideration, it looked as though Max 2 was completely broke. On the surface, he looked fine, but his actual net worth was probably a negative number. If so, where had the gold come from? Oh, here. Second mortgage on the house, to the tune of several hundred thousand dollars. The house was worth that much, all right. So, he’d converted the cash to gold. And the first payment on the new mortgage was already a week overdue.
    Max was getting a distinct whiff of bamboozle on the wind.
    All a scam. He had been hoodwinked. This life was in more of a mess than the one he’d left.
    Dawn was coming through the window, and he heard movement upstairs.
    Well, he had Andrea back. That much was an improvement. Maybe having her in his life would make up for this pot of trouble he was in.
    Someone was coming down the stairs. He ducked into the powder room, wet his overlong hair, and slicked it down. Max 2’s hair