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He still wears his uniform of tan khaki with a state forestry patch on the shirt, or I wouldn’t have come to the realization so quickly. On his heels is a thin, tiny blonde woman, though I have to question if she’s truly a woman or a girl. I do see breasts, however, barely visible beneath her oversized, dirty, floral dress that hangs on her like a child playing dress up with her mother’s clothing. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks sunken slightly, and her long blonde hair hangs down her back weaved in a braid.
Neither of them seems surprised to see me awake. The shadows of the room conceal the finer details of both of their appearances, but I can now see who are responsible for me being shackled to the floor. The ranger stares at me directly, but the woman does not. She fixes her eyes at the ground before her, biting her lip and wringing her hands.
“Christopher Davenport,” the man says as they fully enter the room.
I reach for my back pocket and notice my wallet is missing.
“115 57th Street, New York, New York. Staff photographer for Rolling Stone Magazine. Chiefly known for his portraits of the rich, the infamous, and the powerful but also freelances with additional photo credits in other magazines like National Geographic. Son of wealthy socialite Louisa Davenport and only heir to the Davenport textile empire,” the ranger says as if reciting a book report. He clearly has researched me based on my I.D. he now possesses.
“What the fuck do you want?” I rasp. My hands are free from restraint. He will soon regret that decision.
Take a step closer, motherfucker.
Come on. Step closer.
Is this a ransom situation? When traveling overseas and in dangerous countries, the reality of something like this happening is a possibility and one I am always aware of. But not in the United States. Not in Nevada off the beaten path.
“You’ve traveled a long distance to be here,” the ranger says as he stands in front of the crates directly before me. The woman is still near the doorway as if entering the room is too dangerous.
“I don’t know why you did this, but if it’s money you want—”
“Money is the root of all evil,” the man interrupts. “That is the last thing that my daughter and I want.”
I track my eyes to his daughter and question those words. She doesn’t look anything like the man, nor does she seem particularly comfortable in his presence. The dim light of the room, the calmness of the man speaking, the fear visible in the stance of the woman, have the tiny hairs on my nape standing on end.
“Then what the fuck do you want?” My voice snaps through the still and stagnant air.
He bends toward me, his face closer—but not close enough for me to reach out and strangle—and cast in haunting shadows. “Well, the first thing I want from you is for you to watch your language. There’s a lady present, and I expect you to show some respect.”
My fist twitches.
Everything inside of me threatening to boil to a point of epic disaster if I don’t control my emotions. I must stay calm. I must use my mind, because I have no doubt I am smarter than the man in front of me. Outwit over force considering there is a metal chain restricting me from escaping.
I glance at the woman again. She swallows, licks her lips, and continues to stare at the floor, her weakness causing my blood to boil even more.
“I am a man who believes in asking and thou shall receive,” the ranger says. “My daughter, Ember, is of marrying age. Some would say a few years past. It’s my responsibility to arrange a suitable and Godly partnership for her. Up to this point, I have failed her in this regard. But I suppose you could say that I’m picky. I don’t believe in love at first sight, dating, playing the field and all the other foolish and sinful ways of today’s belief. The only love that needs to exist for union, is the mutual love for God.”
He holds his palm out to his daughter, waiting.
Something flickers in her blue eyes as she stares at him.
Comprehension.
Fear.
Reality.
She eventually moves to take his hand and twists her body to face me head on. We share a look, and in that moment of time, I have hope. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want me to be here.
I can see it.
I can feel it.
“Although you are not prepared to be her husband yet. Far from worthy in the eyes of the Lord. But I do believe I can groom you during the courting of my daughter,” he continues, though his words are not entering my mind as they should. I can’t make sense of the madness spewing from his lips. “And though Ember has no momma to guide her, she is a good girl and can learn quickly.”
