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When I woke up again much later, the sun was high in the sky and I couldn’t move. My shoulders burned from my arms being pulled so tight behind me, my wrists tied together behind the thick tree truck. The rough bark jammed against my back, scratching me. The uneven ground was hard beneath my bottom and thighs, littered with sticks and stones that poked into me. The tree shaded me for now, but I knew that soon, the sun would move and the full force of its scorching rays would beat down on me.
I licked my dry lips, my tongue as parched as the dry grass around me. There was a strange taste in my mouth. The bitterness that lingered from the ether mixed with trail dust, I thought. A canteen sat just out of reach, leaning against a saddle, torturing me, for even if I could grab it in my feet and bring it to me, I couldn’t drink from it with my hands tied behind the tree. I tugged against my binds but they held fast, the rope digging into my wrists when I pulled. I winced at the burning pain. Two hobbled horses grazed a few feet away. My captor was nowhere to be seen.
I slumped back against the tree as unconsciousness claimed me again just briefly, but I fought against the darkness threatening to overwhelm me. I had to think! I had to get away! Nothing in my genteel upbringing had prepared me for having to escape from a kidnapper, and a sense of hopeless doom filled me. I wasn’t gagged. Was that because we were so far away from Bridgewater that my captor was confident we wouldn’t be caught? And so far away from any form of civilization that he knew I would not be heard if I screamed? Or was it simply an oversight on his part? That last thought gave me hope. If my kidnapper was incompetent, it meant I might be able to escape. I tugged at the rope binding my wrists again, but it held fast. I stretched my fingers as far as they could go, hoping against hope that I would be able to reach the knots, but the rope was too tight for me to get any leverage. My hopes quickly drained away as pain shot up my arms from the pressure of the rope and the unnatural strain on my shoulders. This wasn’t going to work. I would have to think of something else.
“Ah! You’re awake.” My captors’ voice startled me out of my planning and I looked up to face him. An ugly scar ran the length of his left cheek and a hat shaded his face. He wore two guns, one low on each hip, and what looked to be a knife tucked into his boot. He was big – taller and broader than Shane and Roscoe, and he towered over me, casting a shadow over my legs and feet.
“Water,” I croaked, dust clogging my throat, making me cough. He bent down, picked up the canteen, squatted in front of me, held the rim of the bottle to my chapped lips. The sweet, cold liquid trickled down my t
hroat, making me feel alive again. So he was a gentleman kidnapper, then. He wasn’t going to let me die of thirst.
He stood up to his full height and smiled down at me showing missing, tobacco-stained teeth. It wasn’t a nice smile. There was no kindness or reassurance in his eyes. Instead, there was evil. Glee. A sick kind of triumph. He had me right where he wanted me – completely at his mercy. I bit back my fear. There had to be a way out of this situation, I just had to find it.
I remembered the gold coins I had secreted away in the lining of my skirt. The skirt that had been left behind in Bridgewater, in what was to be my new home. With my new husbands. Maybe I could buy my freedom?
“I have money,” I tried. “Gold eagles. Four of them. All yours, if you let me go.” I fought to keep my voice even, without a trace of fear. I was afraid; terribly so. But I couldn’t let him know that. He had to think I had my wits all about me. I was used to men like him – Mr. Yates, and even John to a lesser degree, were like him. They thrived on the fear of those smaller and weaker than themselves. Good men, men like my husbands, were protectors. But the man standing in front of me, just like John and Mr. Yates, was not a good man. And he would enjoy seeing me panicking, afraid. I was not going to give him that satisfaction.
“Ha!” he scoffed, sneering at me. “Your brother and Mr. Yates will pay me handsomely – far more than any paltry sum you can offer.”
His boots were far too close to me and I shrank back in fear, but there was no escape – the tree trunk dug into my back. If he was going to kick me, there was nothing I could do to stop him. He stood there, just staring down at me, not saying a word.
I gathered my courage. “Shane and Roscoe will find me.”
There was that evil grin again, but wider this time, the grin of someone who knows he holds all the cards, and he can play it out however he wants to.
“No they won’t,” he told me, shaking his head as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “They’ll be fighting the fire for the whole day. It was well and truly ablaze, threatening the whole town. I made sure of it.”
He looked so proud of himself and something inside of me snapped.
“You disgusting bastard!” I yelled, fighting against my restraints. I’d never uttered such a word in my life and it felt so wrong to say it now, but so right at the same time. Satisfying.
He just nodded and puffed out his chest, pleased with himself. His stance sickened me. What kind of monster was he? Even Mr. Yates wouldn’t be so cruel as to endanger innocent people, would he?
“I got rid of Coleton and delayed those two. Now I will take you back to Philadelphia where you belong, to take your rightful place as Roger’s wife.”
I gasped. The color drained from my face. I felt sick. He killed Coleton?
“Mr. Mallone died of a… uh… nasty accident,” my captor told me, touching the toe of my boot with his foot. I pulled my legs back, bent my knees, brought my heels as close to my bottom as I could. The tree trunk scraped against my back as I moved, rubbing me raw.
“How?” I whimpered, confused. How did he find Mr. Mallone? I’d been so careful. Mrs. Whittaker had been watching too, and we’d been sure I hadn’t been seen.
“How did I kill him?”
“No!” I shook my head frantically. No, I didn’t need to hear those details. It was bad enough that I knew the poor man was dead. I did not want to know how he met his sad demise. Especially not when I felt somewhat responsible for his death. If I’d stayed in Philadelphia where I belonged, Mr. Mallone would still be alive.
“How did I find him?” my captor guessed again.
“Yes,” I ground out through gritted teeth.
“Oh it was easy,” he declared, taking a small step back. “It’s amazing what someone will tell you when they have a knife at their throat.”
“You held Mrs. Whittaker up at knife point?” My voice was barely above a whisper. I was so horrified I could hardly form the words. What a despicable man! My hatred for this man, and for my brother and Mr. Yates, grew deeper with every second that passed.
“No, no, not me.” He shook his head. “I live here in Montana. Mr. Yates did, and sent me instructions.”
Somehow, knowing that the man standing in front of me hadn’t been the one to threaten Mrs. Whittaker made me feel slightly better. But knowing that Mr. Yates had been the one to do it, scared me even more. Was there nothing the man would stop at to get his way?
