Paxton and the Gypsy Blade by Kerry Newcomb

thirty merchants, from liverymen to milliners to gunsmiths, did business. Walks made of wide planks, a necessity during the winter when rain turned the street into a quagmire, ran in front of the buildings.
    Wealth and influence had their drawbacks, however, so it was no surprise to Tom that not everyone in Brandborough held the Paxtons in favor. Some disliked the founding family because it was the founding family; others were jealous of wealth and influence in any form. No one on the sparsely populated Sabbath street, however, failed to exchange greetings with Tom as he rode through town: the Paxtons weren’t a vindictive lot, but one never knew, and no one wanted to be the first to put them to the test.
    Jason Behan Paxton and his wife, Colleen, lived in a large two-story whitewashed house on the north edge of town where they could take their ease on the porch and gaze across a well-kept lawn and colorful beds of flowers to the sparkling blue bay and, in the distance, the Atlantic. The house had been built only ten years earlier, when Jason and Colleen had first started thinking about moving back to town from Solitary. Built on a site less than a hundred yards from the original Paxton cabin, their home had no rival in Brandborough. A drive of crushed shell led from the road to the front door. Boxed hedges, always neatly trimmed, gave the house and grounds a formal appearance that was mitigated by the cozy good cheer of open bright-blue shutters. Hickories, live oaks, and magnolias surrounded the house and shielded it with deep shade that, combined with the Atlantic breezes, kept the interior cool on the hottest day in the summer. Tom had seen, visited, and lived in houses in a half-dozen countries around the world. Some had been larger, some more elegant, but not a one, with the possible exception of Solitary, was as pleasant or comfortable.
    â€œWake up, boys,” Tom said as the team turned onto the drive that led to the house. “Almost there. Shake a leg.”
    Joseph rubbed his eyes and looked around. “Can we go in the boat, Daddy?” he asked the second he realized where he was.
    â€œYou’ll have to ask your grandpa. It’s his. Well, damn.”
    â€œWhat?” Jason asked. Then, remembering the responsibility Colleen had charged him with, he added, “Grandma says you shouldn’t say bad words.”
    A figure dressed in black was descending the front steps. Tom’s mood turned sour and he ignored Jason’s admonition. “Damn the luck, Reverend Caldwell Lewis is there. Now, you two be polite, you hear?”
    With the journey nearly over, the twins were more interested in getting out of the wagon than in being polite. Jason tried to climb over Joseph, but Joseph pushed him back.
    â€œYou hear what I said?” Tom asked, grabbing a pair of arms and pulling both boys down to the seat.
    â€œYes, sir,” the twins chimed in unison.
    â€œGood. Whoa!” He hauled on the reins and brought the team to a stop. “Reverend,” he said, touching his hat in greeting.
    Dressed in black shoes, hose, breeches, coat, and tricorn, the Reverend Mr. Lewis stopped on the bottom step. “Good afternoon, Thomas,” he said in the deep, stentorian voice that had earned him his job in Brand-borough. “Jason, Joseph. Good lads.”
    Tom still had hold of the boys’ arms, and he shoved them to their feet.
    â€œGood afternoon, sir,” they said, with Jason adding, in the same breath, “Can we go now?”
    â€œYes. Just don’t both of you jump on your grandma at the same time. Take turns.”
    â€œYes, sir!” There was no holding them. The words barely out of their mouths, the twins were scrambling down from the wagon and running past the Reverend Mr. Lewis onto the porch and into the house.
    With an indulgent smile, Lewis stepped aside to let them pass. “A healthy-looking pair, Thomas,” he said, a little too jovially. He