Bandit's Hope (29 page)

Tiller watched his weathered face. "Make the call, Mr. Tabor."

Gripping the back of a chair for support, the man seemed to age ten years. His chin slumped to his chest, and he held out the map. "Please don’t hurt him, Joe."

Joe’s fingers lingered on his hand. "I’ll do my best to prevent it."

Mr. Tabor’s agony over his son echoed Tiller’s dread for Mariah. He touched his sleeve. "Thank you, sir."

One glance at Joe and they bolted for the door.

Mr. Tabor’s voice stopped them at the threshold. "Keep a sharp eye. Gabe’s bound to be armed, and he won’t give her up without a fight."

Outside on the steps, Joe caught Tiller’s sleeve. "It’s time to bring in some help."

"From where?"

"The same place we’ll find fresh horses. Follow me."

Riding hard, Tiller chased him across the river again. Instead of turning left toward the inn, Joe angled right and rode along the sandy bank for about two miles. Cutting into the woods, they rode another half mile before wending past chicken coops and pigsties then up to a rickety back porch.

Joe gave a sharp whistle, holding the lantern close to his face.

A light came on in the house, and a squinting Tobias Jones appeared at the door. "Halito, Joe Brashears! A long time has passed since we’ve seen you."

"We need your help," Joe said simply. He dismounted and ambled to join Tobias on the porch. In the flickering glow, they continued their conversation in the language they shared.

Tiller caught Mariah’s name, and then Gabe’s name paired with a foul curse. Sometime during Joe’s rant, Christopher and Justin tumbled outside pulling on trousers and shirts. They crowded behind their pa with menacing dark scowls.

Without a word, Tobias lifted his arm. Chris vaulted the rail to his left and disappeared into the shadowy pine. Justin squeezed between them and tore across the junk-cluttered yard to the barn.

Tiller waited while Joe and Tobias plotted quietly in the haunting rhythm of the Choctaw. He didn’t understand the words, but their stern, serene faces gave him confidence in the plan.

Justin reappeared, leading two paint ponies from the barn. Tiller pulled the saddle from the gelding and threw it on the closest horse while Justin fixed Joe’s saddle to the other. Before Tiller had tightened the cinch, Chris marched out of the woods by torchlight with a cluster of Indian braves.

At least thirty men converged like an army set for battle. Concern tightened some of the faces, anger twisted others, reminding Tiller that these were Mariah’s people.

A chill shot along his spine. Would Joe be able to honor his promise to let no harm come to Gabriel Tabor?

THIRTY-ONE

A
ballet of tiny green fireflies danced between Mariah and the quaint little cabin. Clusters of glowing mushrooms, their snow-white tops bathed in moonlight, dotted the rustic yard. In the distance, a low-lying mist hung over the swamp, weaving in and out between fat cypress trunks. Her ears rang with the deep-throated croak of bullfrogs and the frenzied shrill of crickets.

In other circumstances, the scene would be a magical dream. Astride a horse, wedged against Gabe’s big belly with her wrists bound and his foul breath in her ear, it was a ghastly nightmare.

Gabe climbed out of the saddle and lifted her down beside him.

Shuddering, she shrank away from his beefy hands. "Touch me like that again, and I’ll kill you quicker than a dry horse sniffs out water."

Gabe braced his hands on his knees and laughed like a fiend. "I can’t help it, Mariah. You’re like a sickness to me. A fever in my blood. I cotton to you like a child to a sweet."

She raised her chin. "You’re hardly a child, Gabe, except in your mind. You should be ashamed of yourself. Bringing me here against my will is the meanest, mangiest thing you’ve ever done."

Fury flashed in his eyes. "Hush, gal. Don’t talk to me about mean after the hateful thing you done." He shoved her shoulder. "Get on up to the cabin."

She held her ground. "Untie me first. I can’t see a thing." She softened her voice. "You don’t want me to trip and hurt myself, do you?"

He turned her, fumbled with the ropes, then stilled. "Wait a minute. You’ll run."

Mariah crossed her fingers. "I won’t. I promise."
Not until the first chance I get.

Mumbling, Gabe seemed to mull it over then spun her around. "I won’t do it. But don’t worry, I’ve got you." Linking his arm through hers, he herded her for the door. She stumbled a few times on the way, but his grip was a cruel vise that held her upright.

Their booted feet thundered on the loose boards of the porch, the echo bouncing off the sagging overhang and resounding in her head. Gabe released her while he fumbled for the knob then shoved the door open in front of them. Before he pushed her over the threshold, he groped along a shelf on the inside wall and pulled down a lantern. Striking a long match, he lit the wick then nudged her in the back with his elbow.

The charm of the cabin ended past the front wall. The moldy odor of dampness reached her first, followed by the stench of unwashed chamber pots and dirty laundry. Mariah turned her face to her shoulder and gagged.

When she recovered enough to speak, she turned watery eyes to Gabe. "Please untie me. I can’t stand being bound another second."

Watching her, Gabe fumbled for a long brass key hidden over the door frame. Hanging the lamp from a hook, he inserted the key in the door and turned the lock. Hurrying across the room, he lit another lantern in the center of a small round dining table.

More light was both a blessing and a curse. The dimness made the musty cabin gloomy, but the light revealed the filth and diminished her hope of escape. The tiny cabin had a single door with a window to one side. Watermarked curtains over the sink offered hope of another exit. The rest of the walls were solid cypress logs, set together like interlocking fists to hold her inside.

"Now then. I suppose I could unknot your rope." He gave her a long, searching look. "As long as you promise to behave."

Mariah nodded fiercely. "I promise."

"If you go she-cat on me, I’ll tie you up again, only tighter. You won’t get loose no matter how much you squawk." He shook his finger in her face. "I swear on my ma’s grave."

She lowered her lashes. "I’ll behave myself."
As long as you do the same.

The bulging knot in his throat rose and fell. "First, let me tell you how it’s got to be." His hands moved to rest on his broad hips. "I’ll hunt up some food in that pantry yonder"—he jutted his chin toward a door in the corner—"whilst you clean up a little in the kitchen. There ain’t been no female around here in a spell, so it lacks a woman’s touch."

Mariah glanced over her shoulder at the appalling mess. "Yes, I can do that." Anything to keep his mind off her.

"I’ll build a cozy fire, and you can make us a nice little supper." He ducked his head, the shy gesture almost human. "I heard how good you cook."

She forced a smile. "I’ll do my best."

His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. "You set the table real nice, and we’ll eat together like a happy married couple."

Her stomach jerked. "Th–that sounds nice."

"Once our bellies are full and the fire burns down to embers, we’ll be ready for a little nap." His head made a slow, deliberate turn toward the small rumpled cot in the corner. "How’s all that sound?"

Straining against her bonds, Mariah swallowed a scream. She longed to rail at him. Pummel the lurid grin from his drooling mouth. Show him the difference between a she-cat and a she-devil.

Instead, she forced her muscles to relax, her breathing to ease. Pushing Gabe to action would be a huge mistake. She would stay calm and bide her time. Mariah had two important things on her side—her mind and body were quicker than the dimwitted oaf who held her captive.

Gabe slipped around behind her. The rope tightened at first then released in a rush of warmth spreading to her tingling fingertips. She almost cried in relief.

Rubbing her hands to restore them to life, she moved a few steps closer to the stove and held them up. "See? Isn’t this better? Now I can get this old kitchen ready for our meal."

He toddled after her. "Can I help?"

She waved him toward the pantry. "Go scout our provisions. I’ll be fine."

He glanced toward the exit then back at her.

Mariah tilted her head. "It’s locked. Remember?"

Innocent as a lamb, she lifted a broom from the corner and started to sweep, the meager bristles stirring a cloud of ancient dust around her feet. "I’ll need a bucket of fresh water once I’m done here."

He raised one finger. "Don’t you worry, darlin’. I’ll fetch one as soon as I find our grub."

Pausing with his hand gripping the pantry door, he gazed at her with sad, droopy eyes. "You ain’t mad at me, are you?"

The trussed-up she-devil surged. "Do you mean because you kidnapped me and brought me here against my will to play house in the middle of the night?"

He nodded dumbly.

Mariah tightened her grip on the broom, entertaining thoughts of beating him with it. "You’ll understand if I’m just a little out of sorts? I’m sure I’ll get over it in time."

His mouth pouted like a sulky boy’s. "Well, don’t stay mad too long, you hear?"

The second his bulk ducked inside, Mariah lunged for the kitchen window.

Locked.

Feeling around the casing with trembling fingers, she found the latch and tried it. The sliding metal squealed.

She froze, checking over her shoulder.

Another push and the lock gave, but she didn’t dare try to crack the window. The rush of fresh air would give her away.

Fumbling under the curtain, her hand slid across the glass from corner to corner. The opening was small, but when the time was right, she’d find a way to squeeze through.

Dusting rusty grime on her skirt, she resumed her sweeping just as Gabe stumbled out with a crate in his hands.

"Here." Still pouting, he slid the box across the table. "You ought to be able to whip up something with all that."

Mariah put the broom aside to rummage in the box. One part of her mind devised a possible meal from the ingredients. The sensible part reminded her to take her time.

Hours had passed since she stood at the stove frying skillet bread for Tiller’s supper. She should be snug in her feather bed, freshly bathed with a full stomach. Instead, she had a greasy kitchen to clean and a full meal to prepare.

No matter. If it took until daybreak to get it done, even better. The longer she stretched out Gabe’s cozy meal, the longer she could scramble to escape what came next.

With the tin of beef, cubes of pocket soup, onions, carrots, and potatoes, Mariah would stir up a slow-simmering stew. With the Indian meal, she’d make johnnycakes. Better yet, hasty pudding—just not too hasty.

She’d flood the cabin with smells Gabe would find more enticing than her and fill his barrel belly so full he’d grow sluggish and drowsy in front of the fire. If her plan failed? She had the broom handle and enough white-hot rage to put him to sleep with it.

Either way, Gabe would wake up to find her gone.

Riding the moonlit Trace alongside a somber band of braves, Tiller imagined himself part of a raiding war party. The men, some with paint smeared across their high cheekbones, sat their saddles with the grace born of an ancient treaty with their ponies.

Watching how they rallied to the common call for help, Tiller had gained a new respect for the beleaguered Indians. He glanced around at the silent tribe of warriors, each man lost in his own grim thoughts. By the determination etched in their faces, they would find Mariah. The only question—would they find her in time?

With the new evidence of Gabe Tabor’s twisted mind-set, his passionless offer to kill Tiller at Mariah’s bidding took a dark and ominous turn. Even if the man wasn’t capable of taking her life, his lingering hands and slant-eyed glances left no doubt of the ugly offense he’d be more than willing to commit.

Tiller shuddered and struggled to clear his head. Such thoughts would have him gnashing his teeth and braying at the moon. He needed a steady mind when they reached Julian Tabor’s cabin. What they found there would determine the need for snarling fangs.

THIRTY-TWO

G
abe reclined in a chair by the hearth, his arms crossed over his head and his legs stretched out in front of him. He had slipped off his boots and made himself at home.

Mariah couldn’t tell whether his relaxed state stemmed from her show of submission, his droopy-eyed fatigue, or the warmth of the fire on his feet. Heating up his holey, disgusting socks had done nothing to improve the smell of the cabin, but the revolting man seemed oblivious.

"You sure have this place smelling good," he called over his shoulder.

More than I can say for you,
she thought.

"I don’t hear those pots rattling much. Does that mean you’re almost done?"

Mariah picked up the spoon and stirred, clanging the sides of the pot for effect. "It shouldn’t be long now."

She’d actually pulled the hasty pudding off the fire and drizzled honey over it a half hour ago. The stew she’d finished even sooner.