Hope (8 page)

Grunt continued to puzzle her with his soft-spoken commands and almost protective attitude toward her. Was he only looking after his interest? It was increasingly hard to maintain the belief that he was a ruthless outlaw when at times he seemed the exact opposite. Just last night he’d made sure she had the biggest piece of venison. That was nice—even if she did hate venison.

“Well, this ain’t no boardinghouse, and I’m tired of washin’ dishes, and I ain’t sweepin’ no more floors. And if I have to take another bath in that creek, I’m gonna prune up permanent-like.”

Hope looked up as Grunt came in the front door. His dark eyes took in the confrontation. “If you’re tired of keeping house, Boris, why don’t you take these rabbits and dress them for supper?”

“Fine. Anything to get away from Miss Bossy.” Boris grabbed the rabbits and stomped out the door.

Big Joe sat up on the cot, scratching his belly. “What’d you find out in Louisville?”

“Nothing at the post office.” Grunt moved to the sink to wash up.

Big Joe frowned. “Nothin’.” His eyes pivoted to Hope. “It’s takin’ too long—don’t yore daddy care what happens to you?”

Her daddy had indeed cared for her. Unfortunately, Thomas Ferry didn’t.

“Perhaps the ransom’s been lost. That happens to mail, you know. Maybe—”

“Maybe you should just keep quiet.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t ask so many questions and make me have to talk.”

“Well, maybe I like to ask questions!”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to answer them.”

“Maybe both of you should find something more productive to do with your time,” Grunt snapped.

Hope rinsed the dress she was washing, then squeezed the water out. She flicked a few drops at Frog. He stiffened, shooting her a lethal look. Stepping around him, she announced, “I’m going to hang my wash.”

“Good,” Joe mumbled and dropped his head back to the pillow. “With any luck you’ll hang yoreself.”

Or you,
Hope thought. He was just sore. She’d made him wash his filthy shirt yesterday, and Joe didn’t take kindly to soap and water. He’d griped for hours afterward, complaining that he smelled like a girl. She relented and rewarded him by washing dishes last night.

As she hung the dress on the line, she heard the men talking among themselves.

“Boris, maybe you ought to ride back to Louisville and git a paper—see if there’s anything in there about Ferry’s daughter being held for ransom.”

“Why me? Grunt was jest there.”

“’Cause Grunt didn’t git no paper. Cain’t you take orders no more?”

“What makes you think there’d be anything in the Louisville paper?” Grunt’s voice drifted through the open doorway.

“News that the senator’s daughter’s been kidnapped will be in every paper!”

“Maybe Ferry’s kept the news quiet.”

“No way! He’ll have every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the county lookin’ for her.”

After all the arguing, Boris was elected to ride back to Louisville the following morning. They waited for him to return with news of Ferry’s distress.

On the third morning, Hope awoke with a splitting headache, a hammer pounding between her temples. She emerged from behind the blanket that afforded her privacy. She was aware of Grunt’s eyes on her as he put sausage in the skillet to fry. Concern tinged his features. “Are you ill, Miss Ferry?”

“I have a small headache.” Hope sat down at the table, feeling a little light-headed. The scratchy irritation had turned into a ferocious sore throat, and she felt hot all over. She got up to put plates on the table.

Big Joe and Frog were stirring by then, grumbling about all the racket. Five adults in one cramped room wasn’t the most pleasant way to spend a life. They were getting on each other’s nerves.

By the time breakfast was over, Hope was feeling decidedly worse.

Aware that Grunt was still watching her, she got up from the table, leaving her plate of food virtually untouched. She couldn’t let them know she was ill. She had her bluff in on Big Joe, and she intended to keep it that way.

“I’ll wash the dishes,” she volunteered, forcing herself to sound perkier than she felt.

“Sit down,” Grunt ordered.

“I want to wash—”

The outlaw sat her down in a chair, then touched his large hand to her forehead. “She’s got a fever.”

Big Joe turned from the mantel. “Sick? She’s sick!”

“I’m not sick. . . . I’m only feeling slightly unpleasant.” Sick as a dog, actually, but she couldn’t, just couldn’t, give in to whatever had her feeling so bad.

They turned as the door opened and Boris stomped in. Giving Hope a dark glance, he strode into the room, shrugging out of his coat.

Big Joe frowned. “Well?”

“She ain’t Ferry’s daughter!” he declared hotly, throwing his hat onto the table. Hope shrank back as he glared at her.

“What?” Big Joe’s head snapped up. “What d’you mean, ‘She ain’t Ferry’s daughter’?”

“She ain’t his daughter!” Boris repeated.

“Who told you that?”

“This.” Boris tossed a copy of the
Louisville Courier-Journal
onto the table.

Big Joe glanced at the paper, then colored a bright crimson. “You know I ain’t got no learnin’. What’s it say?”

Grunt picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the headlines. He read, “‘Distinguished Kentuckian Honored by Michigan Senator.

“‘William Campbell Preston Breckinridge, distinguished Kentucky lawyer, editor, soldier, was a special guest in the home of Michigan’s Senator Thomas White Ferry. Mr. Breckinridge was the honored guest at the annual Spring Ball held last week, where he was accompanied by Miss Anne Ferry, the senator’s daughter—’”

The outlaws turned to look at her.

Hope slid out of the chair in a dead faint.

Angry voices tried to penetrate her thick fog. Hope struggled to consciousness, wondering what those awful men were squabbling about this time. She felt as hot as a firecracker, and her head threatened to split in half. If only the voices would go away. They were angry, full of rage.

“No arguin’. We gotta get rid of her!” Boris declared.

“Who is she?” Frog asked. “If she ain’t Anne Ferry, who in the blue blazes have we had to cotton to for the past month?”

“She must be that Hope . . . What’d she say her name was?”

“Who cares who she is?” Big Joe said. “Boris is right. We gotta git rid of her.”

Grunt? Where was Grunt? Did he want to get rid of her, too? Hope coughed, a racking hack that brought all conversation to a halt.

“She’s gettin’ sicker. Maybe we won’t hafta do away with her. Maybe she’ll just croak on her own.”

“She’s too mean to croak on her own.” Big Joe’s voice filtered through the deep fog.

“What’s wrong with her?” Frog asked.

“How should I know?” Big Joe shot back. “I ain’t no lady’s maid.”

Cool fingers touched her forehead. Her eyes refused to open, but she sensed it was Grunt. The touch was infinitely gentle.

“Her fever’s rising. We’ve got to get it down.”

She heard Boris back away. “She got somethin’ I’m likely to catch? I git the ague real easy—”

“Shut up, Boris.”

Hope whimpered when she felt a cold cloth pressed to her forehead.

“She’s caught cold. Frog, get some more blankets.”

Hope moaned. She didn’t want those dirty old blankets on her. They weren’t fit for an animal, let alone a lady. She pushed at the gentle hands that now securely held her captive.

“Don’t waste time with blankets. Put her outside and let’s be done with it. She’ll be dead by mornin’.”

“Boris is right,” Frog said. “Put her outside and lock the door. Good riddance.”

“No one come near her,” Grunt warned. “We’re not going to let her die.”

“She ain’t Ferry’s daughter, what do you care?”

Grunt’s voice firmed. “No one lays a hand on her.” She heard him do something. Cracking an eye open, Hope saw Grunt reach for his gun belt and strap it on.

With a sour look, Big Joe returned to the fire.

“I still say we get rid of her,” Boris growled. “She ain’t no use to us! Jest a millstone around our necks.”

The outlaws’ voices faded as Hope slipped back into unconsciousness.

She was running now from something dark and sinister. Glancing back over her shoulder, she stumbled over rough ground, trying to make out the shadowy form that was chasing her. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Just incredible heat, a furnace filling her whole body. She didn’t know where she was; everything was so black and closing in. Hot. She was so hot! Water. She needed water . . . cool water. The murkiness drew her deeper, covering her mouth. She was choking, clawing at this thing. . . .

Suddenly her fear was reality. The darkness was real, and there was something hard and persistent across her mouth. She clawed at the thing, trying to rip it away. She heard a grunt as she was tossed over a man’s shoulder like a sack of flour. Awake now and terrified, she kicked and lashed out, trying to free herself. The darkness she’d desperately tried to escape was real, and someone was carrying her off into the night. Hope’s worst fears were coming true. The outlaws were going kill her.

Bile rose to the back of her throat, and she struggled with all her might. The man was large and strong, his shoulder pressing into her middle. She was going to die, and no one would know. Murdered somewhere in the Kentucky wilderness. Was she still in Kentucky? She couldn’t be sure . . . she didn’t even know! Mr. Jacobs would think she had abandoned him, changed her mind about marriage. Her sisters wouldn’t know what had happened to her. Aunt Thalia would take to her bed when she learned that Hope had disappeared and never been heard from again.

This isn’t fair; it isn’t fair, Lord! I never asked for anything more than a husband so I wouldn’t be a burden to Aunt Thalia.
And now she was going to die at the hands of ruthless outlaws, and not even her family would know what had happened to her.
Why, God, why did you let this happen to me? God isn’t there. He truly isn’t there!

Her captor laid her across a saddle, then climbed on the horse behind her. The moonless night was so black it was impossible to identify her abductor. Was it Frog? No, Frog smelled like rotting garbage.

She was chilling now, her teeth chattering in the night air. It felt like there was an anchor sitting on her chest. The man kicked the horse into a gallop, and then they were riding headlong down a long lane. She drifted in and out of consciousness, aware only of the jarring motion. Whoever he was, he was taking her deeper into the wilderness. Boris? Big Joe? A shudder escaped her, and she felt the man’s hand on her back, soothing her. Not, not Boris. He was never gentle. Her fear began to ease. Grunt. Why was Grunt taking her away?

It seemed hours before the horse slowed. Hope mumbled incoherently as she was lifted off the saddle and gently eased onto a pallet.

“Cold,” she murmured. “Please, I’m so cold. . . .”

The sweet scent of rain teased the air. Then it was raining hard . . . rain falling in blinding sheets.

A blanket settled around her, then another. She groaned and sought its warmth.

“Thank you . . . thank you. . . .”

Throughout the long night, Hope was aware of kind hands alternately holding her head and forcing her to swallow something warm and salty, and bathing her face and neck with cool water.

She was only vaguely aware when a new day dawned. Outside, the storm raged. Hope drifted in and out of consciousness, her fever soaring. Tender hands ministered to her needs, hands that she occasionally associated with Grunt. But he’d wanted to harm her, not help her. . . . She didn’t understand.