He was either a eunuch or he was wearing padding, Ryan realized, leveling the SIG-Sauer. But Overton kicked it away before he could fire. A red mist of rage took hold of Ryan, and he jabbed the flat of his hand into the other man’s throat. Hacking for air, Overton turned sideways and kicked Ryan in the gut, slamming him against the side of the truck.
Bouncing off the metal, Ryan drew his panga and started forward in a crouch.
“Don’t do it!” J.B. cried out, raising his empty hands in surrender.
Forcing himself to heed the warning, Ryan slowly stood and sheathed the blade. Overton stood ready for combat, balanced on his boots, his knuckles cracked and oversize from a lot of brawling. Subtly, Ryan shifted his weight, and the other man altered his stance slightly to counter the move.
“Who the hell are you?” Ryan asked gruffly, his muscles tensed and ready for more combat.
“Don’t you recognize me?” Overton countered through gritted teeth, his hands partially extended.
“No,” Ryan answered truthfully. “Should I?”
The big man snarled. “My name is Overton Cawdor!”
“And he claims to be your son, Uncle Ryan,” Nathan said, walking across the drawbridge through a corridor of people, his boots clicking loudly on the hard cobblestones.
Unobserved, Dean retrieved his father’s blaster from where it had fallen, and tucking it inside his shirt for safekeeping, started working his way toward the truck.
Stopping a short distance from the two combatants, the baron of Front Royal paused. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you hate being called by your name from kin. My apologies, Uncle.”
Keeping a neutral expression, Ryan said nothing at the bald-faced lie. One of the first things he ever said to Nathan was not to call him Uncle; he had a name, so use it. This backward version of that was a message of some sort. But what exactly did it mean?
The three men stood in a circle of anxious people, brown shirts and blue scattered throughout the assembly. The tension was thick in the air. Nobody in the crowd was talking, some barely breathing. Then a fish jumped in the moat, catching an insect.
Want to come over here and talk with me for a tick, Nathan?” Ryan asked, crossing his arms, the fingers of his right hand dangling dangerously near his knife again.
“I’m not a prisoner,” Nathan said smoothly. “Overton and I currentlyshare the duties of being baron.”
“Why?” Ryan asked.
“Out of necessity,” Overton replied, the wind ruffling his hair. “I arrived a few months ago with my sec men to see my ancestral home.”
“And stayed,” Ryan added.
“WeI asked them to,” Nathan finished, quickly correcting the mistake. His stomach tightened at the thought he might already have condemned them both to death with that tiny slip. “The ville has been under constant attack by gangs of coldhearts and needed more troops badly. They arrived when sorely needed.”
Slow and careful, Doc walked to Ryan and passed him the SIG-Sauer.
“So you saved the day,” Ryan said, checking the blaster for damage and tucking it into his holster, but with the safety in the off position, “and claim to be my son.”
“I am your son, Father,” the man stated, not relaxing his stance. “Your bastard son, abandoned twenty years ago in the Deathlands.”
Both arms full, a blue sec man went to Overton and returned his arsenal of dropped weapons. The new baron armed himself, but never took his eyes off Ryan.
“Well, you certainly have the manners of a bastard,” Ryan agreed, trying to provoke a response. “And just who the hell was your mother? Anybody I know?”
Overton shoved his own panga into a sheath. “Remember a gaudy slut down in Texas named Havila?” he said, hate plain in his voice.
“Havila? Yeah, I remember. I spent a night with her.”
“You might have been with her for a single night, but you were the only customer that night, so when mother found out she was carrying me a month later, there was no question as to who the father was.”
Instantly, Ryan knew the story was a lie. He and Havila hadn’t done that kind of loving. She used her hands and mouth on him several times, but it had been her time of the month, so he declined anything further. Havila knew her trade, all right, but she would have to be some kind of a supernatural mutie to get pregnant down the throat. So either Overton was lying, or he believed it was the truth and somebody else had lied to him. There were wheels within wheels here.