Rachel Donnelly (14 page)

“Is that her?”

“Yep, she’s the one,” the weasel confirmed.

“This is going to be more fun than I thought.”

Christie’s heart picked up speed.

She took a staggering step back, swallowing past the rising lump in her throat, then she opened her mouth to scream.

The two men rushed forward.

The taller of the two clamped his hand over her mouth, cutting her scream of terror in half. “You’d best shut it, or the first person to come out that back door is gonna get a bullet through the head.”

Instead of gaining her compliance, his warning had the opposite effect. She thrashed and kicked, doing everything in her power to throw him off. When she opened her mouth to bite him, his grip tightened so hard she feared her jaw might break. She stomped on his foot so hard he groaned.

But the sound quickly turned to a vicious growl. “Hold her!”

The weasel made a grab for her arms.

Her flailing hand touched the egg basket. Grasping it by the handle, she flung it with all her might. It hit the weasel square in the face, cracking most of the eggs down the front of his blue woolsey shirt in a splatter of yellow yolks.

“Dammit to hell!” He captured her wrists with his slimy paws, giving the tall one the opportunity to gag her with a filthy blue kerchief he’d pulled from his neck.

The foul taste of sour sweat made her stomach lurch. She tried to fight against him, but the weasel held her wrists so tightly, she felt her bones would break.

“Gimme that dang rope!” the tall one demanded. He jerked her arms behind her back, then, using a rough piece of twine, tied her wrists.

In no time, she was trussed up like a chicken ready for the pot.

“Durn, Billy!” the weasel complained, brushing at the slime with his hand. “That was a new shirt.”

“Quit your whinin’ and get the horses. It’s prit near light.” Billy dragged her toward the barn so fast it was all she could do to keep up.

Her heart beat as though it might jump right out of her chest. She chanced a desperate look over her shoulder at the back door of the mercantile. But that meant she wasn’t watching her feet, causing her to trip on the edge of her gown, sending her stumbling forward on one knee.

“Get up!” he said through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll kill you right here.” Before she could rise, he’d jerked her to her feet, nearly wrenching her arm from its socket.

Her head began to swim.

The pain was so great, she had to close her eyes to keep from swooning.

When she opened them again, the weasel was there with the horses. “They’re a good day ahead. I don’t know how we’re going to catch up totin’ her along.”

“We’ll never catch them, if you keep wastin’ time flappin’ your gums.” Billy hoisted her up in the saddle, then swung up behind her. One kick and the big black gelding sped forward.

Christie craned her neck for one last, desperate look at the mercantile as they galloped away.

But no one came.

No one saw.

She choked back a sob.

How would anyone find her if they didn’t know who’d taken her?

Billy’s arm tightened around her waist as his horse picked up speed.

A sinking feeling of dread swept over her. She might have retched had there been anything in her stomach. But she had yet to eat her breakfast.

It was just as well. They were traveling at such a pace the undulation of the horse beneath her was jiggling her inside out. The sweaty kerchief dug into the corners of her mouth. Her mouth grew so dry, it became painful to swallow.

As the sun rose higher and the day grew hot, the ceaseless pounding in the saddle took its toll. The outlaw’s arm pressing against her ribs seemed to cut off what little air she could suck past the grimy kerchief, making her weaker. Her shoulders began to slump. She drifted in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of the loping horse.

When she heard someone whimper, she forced her eyes opened, thinking it was Evie having another nightmare, as she often did after an eventful day. But when her gaze cleared and she saw the rope binding her wrists, she realized it was her making the sound.

She tipped back her head to gain more air, but breathing through the kerchief was like sucking water from a sponge. The sun blasted down on her face unmercifully, until all she could see were two black spots.

Where was her hat?

She needed her hat.

Just her luck to be kidnapped without one. Even Flossie wouldn’t be seen without a hat — or at the very least, a roosting peacock on her head.

Hysterical laughter burbled up, but it failed to get past the lump of dust in Christie’s throat. Lack of water was making her insane, and she couldn’t even laugh to relieve its effects. “Life isn’t fair,” her father would say, “It’s what you make of it.” Well, she wondered what he’d make of this.

The horse came to a lurching stop, forcing her to delay further exploration of the subject.

“Billy!” the weasel called from somewhere up ahead. “The tracks lead up that ridge.”

“Well, get on up there and have a look, asshole!”

Billy turned to untie the kerchief in Christie mouth. “Cecil ain’t too bright.”

When the gag was removed, he swung down from the saddle. “Now don’t go gettin’ any ideas,” he said, reaching up to untie her wrists. “You got no place to go.”

Her head throbbed and her hands prickled painfully from lack of circulation. She rubbed them together, eying him warily, heart pounding madly. Why had they stopped? Were they going to kill her? There had been plenty of isolated spots along the way.

Billy retrieved the canteen from the back of the saddle.

Christie watched him drink, running her parched tongue between her dust-caked lips. When he handed her the canteen, she snatched it from his grasp to gulp back the water as fast as she could drink.

Cecil returned with his slouch hat tipped back on his forehead and a grin plastered over his face. “They were here alright. Made a fire up there by those rocks, but there ain’t a coal left.”

“If this is where they spent the night, we’re gaining on them,” Billy said with relish. “Hank must be slowing them down somehow.”

“What did I tell you.” Cecil’s mouth spread in a wide grin. “Hank can be real crafty when he wants to.”

“Hank ain’t the cunning kind. More than likely it’s the size of his body, not the size of his brain working in our favor.”

Christie’s heart tapped wildly in her chest.

Her gaze shifted to the ridge above. It was Nat Randall they were trying to catch. He’d told her that night in the alley that he was taking Hank to Carson City. Billy and Cecil were trying to rescue their brother. But if that was the case, why bring her along?

Unless … they needed a hostage.

Kidnappers always wanted something in return. Was that their plan — to exchange her for Hank? Her limbs grew weak. Perhaps they weren’t planning to kill her! She closed her eyes, and sent up a silent prayer.

Hope eased her ragged nerves, allowing her to take her eyes from her captors long enough to study the landscape. They were following the river. The Sierra Nevada Mountains loomed in the distance, their snow-capped peaks thrust toward the blue sky in irregular, craggy points.

Somewhere beyond those rugged hills was California. She was a long way from home, a long way from her family and the man her father wanted her to marry. For the first time she wondered what he was like. Perhaps she’d been too hasty. If she’d behaved like a dutiful daughter, she wouldn’t be here right now — at the mercy of desperate outlaws.

But it was too late for regrets.

She was here, and now somehow, she had to survive.

Billy strode toward her, sporting a crooked grin. “We won’t be stoppin’ again for a spell, sugar-pie. So you’d best get down and make the most of it.”

She ignored the hand he offered, swinging down onto trembling legs. It took great determination to wobble to the river to find a private spot. The small stand of cottonwoods provided little cover, but she was too desperate to care. After answering nature’s call, she washed her hands and face in the river, sighing as the cool water hit her sun-parched skin.

But the refreshment it afforded didn’t last long.

An hour back in the saddle and her skin prickled from the dust and the heat once more. They rode on and on forever, until her bottom grew so sore and her leg muscles so tight, she doubted she would ever walk again.

At dusk, Billy reined in his big black gelding.

Christie hung forward in the saddle under the brace of his arm as limp as a dishrag. Her hair had slowly shaken loose from its pins to fall over her shoulders in a mass of tangled waves. Her belly was the only part of her that moved, rumbling and growling in protest.

Billy chuckled, apparently gaining some twisted pleasure from her discomfort. “You’re a mite hungry, I guess.” he said, rubbing his splayed hand across her middle with slow familiarity.

She tried to twist away.

But he tightened his grip all the more. He slid his hand upward and over her breasts then breathed against her ear, “I can hardly wait to see what’s under this pretty pink dress.”

“Get your hands off me!”

“Now don’t be like that, honey-pie.” He squeezed her so hard she could hardly breathe, placing a wet kiss against her ear. “You’d better be nice to old Billy. ’Cause sure as Bible thumpers sing, you and me is going to have us some fun.”

She had to grit her teeth to keep from answering him. She wanted to scream, but it wouldn’t do to inflame him further. As he lifted her down from the horse, her heart thundered in her ears. She swayed unsteadily for a moment, holding on to the stirrup for support.

They were still following the river. At least she’d be able to wash some of the grime from her face. As soon as the dizziness left her, she made for the water without bothering to ask. The pungent smell of sagebrush made her want to retch. She was so hungry, if a fish swam by she feared she might snatch it out of the water and eat it whole.

The urge to run was almost irresistible.

Every step she took from her captors made her mind shout for freedom.

When she reached the stand of cottonwoods by the riverbank, she scanned the terrain for safe refuge, but there was none.

As she knelt at the water’s edge, scooping cool water in her hands, her gaze darted back to where Billy and Cecil stood conversing.

Now would be the perfect time to escape.

She looked left, then right — in every direction. But there was nowhere to run — no forest to hide in, no one to call to for help.

But the river was narrow.

She could see trees in the distance on the other side. Perhaps there was a farm nearby. She sat down on the bank to yank off her boots. If she could make it across the river before they noticed, she might reach the cover of trees without getting caught. Better still — they might not know how to swim.

She snatched up her boots in one hand and her skirt in the other. But no sooner did she step into the water did she hear the click of a gun hammer.

She froze.

Her heart sank with a dull thud.

Then, very slowly, she turned around.

Billy stood on the edge of the bank with a gun leveled at her head.

Damn!

Why hadn’t she noticed him leading the horses toward the river? But she’d been too excited — too caught up in the exaltation of hope. She wanted to cry — to screech her frustration. But she swallowed it down, knowing it would do no good. Her survival depended on what little energy she had left.

“Come on back in here now.” Billy motioned with his pistol. “You don’t want to catch your death of cold.”

Christie retraced her steps, keeping her gaze fixed on the barrel of the weapon. Perhaps it was just as well. In her weakened state she might have drowned. Her only hope now was if they were planning to trade her for Hank.

“Cecil’s fixing up some grub,” Billy said as they reached the edge of the bank. “You’ll feel a durn sight better after you eat.”

His false concern made her want to laugh. Was he expecting gratitude? Or was it some feeble attempt to woo her before he tried to maul her again.

She hitched up her skirts with one hand then strode to where Cecil crouched making a fire. Thus far, Cecil had demonstrated himself to be the more talkative of the two. Perhaps she could pry some information out of him before Billy returned.

“All we got is cold biscuits and some beans.” Cecil looked up briefly from his task. “But when you’re hungry, it sure hits the spot.”

Christie perched herself on an old rotten log by the fire and got straight to the point. “What are you planning to do with me?”

Cecil rose from his haunches after applying a few twigs to the fire. His gaze shifted to the river then back to the pan of beans. “You’d better ask Billy about that.”

She tilted her head feigning a sympathetic smile. “I suppose, since he’s the boss, he doesn’t share all of his plans with you.”

“He ain’t the boss!” Cecil’s tone rose to a high-pitched squeal. “He’s just my brother. And brothers don’t keep nothin’ from each other.” He set the pan of beans on the fire, then regarded them with a faint frown. “Besides, there ain’t no real plan.”

“You must have a plan if you’re going to rescue Hank.”

“We don’t need no plan. As soon as that bounty hunter finds out we got you, he’s going to hand Hank right over.” Cecil shifted his gaze back to the fire, carefully avoiding eye contact, as though he feared she’d dislodge something else from his dull brain.

Billy returned in a foul temper. “Ain’t that grub ready yet?” he demanded, rubbing his fist against his forehead.

“He ain’t usually this grumpy,” Cecil said. “But he gets real bad pains in his head if he don’t eat.”

Christie’s mouth watered, watching Cecil pour the beans onto the tin plates. She was so ravenous, it was all she could do not to snatch it out of his hand.

He plopped a biscuit in the center of each mound. “Pa used to slap him silly when he got to bawlin’.”

“Shut it, Cecil!” Billy grabbed his plate. Using the biscuit, he began shoveling the beans into his mouth before he even sat down.

Cecil sat a plate of beans beside her, then, did something extraordinary. He leaned forward and gently squeezed her earlobe between two of his fingers.