Hope (5 page)

Did she really believe there was a kind, benevolent heavenly Father living in a place with streets of gold, forgiving people of their sins, rescuing them from evil men who kidnapped people?

Did she really, truly believe that?

There’d never been a time when she wasn’t aware there was a Lord, a higher being. Papa had made sure of that. But honestly, she’d never thought much about her beliefs. Papa believed—it only stood to reason she did, too. She believed in her own way . . . but belief like Papa had? Tears stung her eyes. She was cold and hungry and alone and scared.

If you’re there, show yourself, Lord. Papa was a righteous man. He did enough praying for both of us—have you forgotten? Deliver me from this . . . this travesty.

She reached out to grip the edge of the doorframe to steady herself. Grunt and Frog had their eyes closed now. Boris and Big Joe were snoring loud enough to wake the dead. A chair was just three feet from her.

Three short feet away.

The more she looked at it, the more she longed to sit down.

She shifted from one foot to the other. Better. Now if she could just reach that chair without making a noise. She edged one foot forward, then the other, holding her breath. She was nearly there. Carefully, slowly, she lifted the chair, then turned and silently crept back to the door.

Sinking down, she gratefully leaned her head back, closing her eyes. Glorious. And she hadn’t compromised her position one iota. She wasn’t exactly “inside” the cabin. She was still at the door.

Blinking hard, she fought to stay awake. She’d be on her feet when the men awoke in the morning. Hummpt. Grunt and Frog were disgraceful guards. They were dozing—sleeping on the job. They’d never know she sat for just a moment. . . .

Her eyes flew open. Why, she could stay awake for days if necessary. Everyone knew she was a fighter. She’d stay awake until she escaped these horrible men. Tipping her chair back, she closed her eyes. Ahh. It felt so good. Just for a moment . . .

Her eyes flew open again, and she frantically flapped her arms as the chair upended and hit the floor with a thunderous crash.

All four men sprang to their feet. Hair standing on end, they stared at her, glassy-eyed.

Swallowing, she stared down the barrel of Big Joe’s pistol.

Oops. Now they’d know she’d sat down.

Picking herself up off the floor, she righted the chair and set it back into place. Stepping back to the doorway, she recrossed her arms, blinking back tears.

Are you there, Lord?

Chapter Three

Somewhere toward dawn Hope heard a rooster crow. Fingers of orange and gold unfolded, then gradually spread a hand the width of the eastern skyline. One by one, the outlaws began to stir. Big Joe sat up on the cot, scratching his head. His mat of tousled hair stood on end.

Hope, arms crossed, swayed with exhaustion. She’d stood for eight hours. Her legs felt like two wooden posts. It had been the longest night of her life. Focusing on her captors, she wondered what would happen next. Would they stick a gun to her head and make her come inside? Physically drag her into the cabin?

Her eyes locked with Grunt’s as he stood at the stove pouring coffee. She wasn’t stepping a foot into that room unless they cleaned it; they, on the other hand, didn’t seem threatened by her stubbornness. That was as plain as the nose on her face. How long could she stand here? Her puffy feet told her not much longer. She’d have to eat—and use the necessary. She hadn’t used the necessary in hours.

Her gaze switched to Big Joe, sitting on the side of his cot in a dazed stupor. He seemed to be the leader. Boris and Frog followed orders. Grunt—she wasn’t sure what Grunt did.

He robbed stages and abducted an innocent young woman, that’s what he did.

The men began moving about. Frog reached for the water bucket and pushed past Hope on his way to the creek. She’d been captive for over fifteen hours, and this man hadn’t spoken a word. Could he talk? Did he have a tongue?

Big Joe gave a whining yawn and scratched his belly. He eyed Hope’s stance sourly. “You this stubborn all th’ time?”

She nodded. More, if the truth were known. One time she’d sat up two nights straight to prove to June that she could do it. She’d wanted to make it three, but Papa had cut a hickory switch and told her he’d use it if she didn’t get herself to bed.

Frog returned with the water, his heavy boots tracking mud to the stove. Picking up the poker, he stoked the fire, threw in some kindling, and slammed the lid back in place. She watched as he lay thick slices of bacon in the skillet, wondering how long it had been since he’d washed his hands. If ever. Within minutes, the meat began to sizzle, filling the room with a delicious aroma.

Her stomach ached with hunger. She glanced at Grunt, her eyes sending him a silent plea.
Don’t let that bacon burn.

Grunt finished pulling on his boots and stood up. “Frog, watch that bacon.”

Hope closed her eyes.
Thank you, Father.

The outlaw took a tin cup off a hook beneath the shelf and poured coffee. Hope watched as Grunt approached. He extended the steaming cup to her.

“Drink it.”

She might be stubborn enough to stand in the doorway forever, but she had sense enough to know that she had to eat. She was already faint from lack of nourishment. She took the cup, refusing to meet his gaze.

“That’a girl. We can’t have our ticket to prosperity gettin’ sick on us.” Big Joe reached for the coffeepot, his eye shooting west. “We want our little Annie healthy as a horse when her pappy pays us all that money.”

“I’m—”

Grunt’s eyes sent her a silent warning, and her mouth clamped shut.

I’m not Anne Ferry.

She peered into the cup. The tin cup was burning her fingers. Desperation made her drink the potent black brew. The bitter liquid was scalding and strong enough to walk, but it felt heavenly to her parched throat. Shivering, she took another long drink. Maybe she was being foolish by refusing to eat. A piece of bacon—two pieces. She would eat two pieces of that heavenly smelling bacon and drink one cup of this horrible coffee. She’d need her strength to escape. She sipped and thought.

Anne was a Bible scholar. Would the outlaws know that? Anne had talked of memorizing whole chapters of Scripture. Hope knew Scripture, but she certainly hadn’t memorized much. So if the subject came up and she was going to pretend to be Anne, she would have to be careful not to trip herself up. Faith and June knew the whole first chapter of Revelation by heart—she’d heard them recite it once when they were trying to outdo one another. Now that was something—one whole chapter. If anyone asked her to recite verse one by memory, she’d be in trouble. Right now, she was none too proud of that. She sincerely wished she’d been a more dutiful student.

“You gonna just stand there like a mule?” Big Joe asked.

Hope tried to look brave, but her thumping heart told her she had the courage of jelly. Still, she could see her obstinacy was having an effect on the outlaws—it made them uncomfortable.

Boris slammed his fork on the table and got up. Eyes narrowed, teeth clenched, he confronted her. She pressed tighter against the doorframe.

“You think yore better than us just because yore papa’s in politics and you have all them fancy clothes. But you won’t be so uppity if—”

Hope lifted her chin. “You are being most rude.”

She wasn’t afraid of him—she was terrified, but she couldn’t show it. These men understood force. She had to make them see things her way. “I’m not budging until this room is set to order.”

“You—” Boris’s big hand circled Hope’s neck.

Hope dropped her coffee, and the cup rattled across the floor, the hot liquid splashing on the outlaw’s trouser leg.

“Leave her alone,” Grunt warned from the corner where he sat drinking his coffee.

“She’s too persnickety.” His fingers sliding off her throat, Boris mocked, “The room’s not clean enough; the food’s not good enough.”

Grunt looked away. “She’s got a point.”

“You complainin’? Then you do the cookin’ and cleanin’,” Frog bellowed.

The three men’s heads snapped to look at Frog.

Frog’s face flamed. “Can talk when I want—just don’t want that often.”

Grunt got up to refill his cup. “It wouldn’t hurt to clean this place up some.”

“What? You some girlie girl, want your linens washed?” Boris chided.

“No, but she’s going to make herself sick standing in that doorway. So we clean up the room? She comes inside, we shut the door and get warm for the first time in sixteen hours, and she writes the note to her papa. Seems like a fair enough exchange.”

Big Joe turned sullen. “I ain’t doin’ no cleanin’. That’s woman’s work.”

Grunt shrugged. “I don’t see any women here, except her. It doesn’t seem smart to have her down scrubbing floors, does it?” He stood up, stretching. Hope’s eyes involuntarily followed the play of his muscles beneath his heavy shirt. “If you want her papa to pay that ransom, you’d better make sure his little girl’s alive and well.”

Hope mentally added,
Amen.
Grunt was smarter than the other three put together. She was going to hold out until the cows came home. Grunt could see that.

Boris studied the disheveled room. “Can’t say a good cleanin’ would hurt.”

Big Joe’s eye wandered the room. “Nah, guess it wouldn’t kill us to clean it up some—knock out a few cobwebs. Ain’t like we got anything else to do ’cept wait to collect from Ferry.”

The four men looked at each other.

Finally Frog nodded. Then Boris and Big Joe.

Heaving his bulk out of the chair, Big Joe reached for a stack of dirty plates. “Suppose she’ll want us to heat water—do this thing up right.”

Grunt took a piece of fried bread from the skillet, broke it, and stuck two strips of bacon between the pieces. “Might as well.”

He carried a plate to Hope. “You win,” he said, extending the peace offering.

She eyed the saucer. It appeared cleaner than the others. At this point it didn’t matter. She’d eat anything that didn’t eat her first.

The men sat down and began to wolf down their food. Hope dropped into a nearby chair. For a moment she just stared into space. One problem down—a multitude to go. Bringing the bread and bacon to her mouth, she bit into it, sighing with pleasure.
Thank you, Lord, for sustenance. And forgive me for thinking my troubles are greater than your power.

Big Joe glanced up from his plate. “Once you eat, girlie, you’re gonna write that ransom note.”

Boris and Frog grunted their agreement around mouthfuls of bacon.

Closing her eyes, Hope took another bite. She’d write the silly ransom note as soon as they cleaned this cabin.

And not one minute sooner.

Dust smoked the air as Frog wielded a broom. Big Joe took a bucket of hot water, dumped in half a bar of soap, and proceeded to scrub the window. At the sink, Boris and Grunt had their hands in suds up to their elbows.

Hope sat at the table, holding the pencil stub to her mouth pensively, her brow furrowed in thought. What did one say when trying to extract ransom money from a senator for a daughter who wasn’t missing? Her thoughts turned to Della, and she wondered if the kindly old chaperone was feeling better. By now, Anne was back home and Della would have proper care. When this ransom note reached Thomas Ferry, his daughter would be safely back in her own room in Lansing.

A bowl slipped out of Boris’s soapy fingers, and he let out a string of vehement curses. She flushed at the foul language. Why, Papa would say Boris needed his tongue cut out and fed to the hogs for such blasphemous talk.

Grunt shot Boris a warning look. “There’s a lady present.”

Boris swore again, dumping more suds into the pan. Bubbles rose up, threatening to overflow the sink. “Don’t like doin’ woman’s work.”

Laying the pencil aside, Hope cleared her throat. “I have to use the necessary.”

The four men stopped what they were doing and stared at her.

She smiled faintly. “The . . . necessary. Please.”

Big Joe flushed a bright red. “Grunt, you take her.”

Grunt quietly set his dustpan aside and reached for his rifle.

“While you’re out there, see if you can scare up somethin’ to eat,” Boris grumbled. “I’m tired of stew.”

Getting up from the table, Hope preceded Grunt out the door.

“And don’t be gone all day!” Big Joe kicked the door shut with his boot. A second later, Hope saw him back at the window, scrubbing the pane.

The morning air was brisk as Grunt hurried her across the clearing toward a row of heavy thickets. She shivered, drawing her cloak tighter around her. Dark clouds skittered overhead, and the wind was picking up again.

Grunt stopped at the first thicket. “This is good enough.”

She hurried toward the hedge, turning when the tone of his voice stopped her. There was no humor evident now. His eyes pinned her to the spot. “You understand the situation, don’t you? If you attempt an escape, you’re a long way from anywhere. It’s dangerous—suicidal even—for a young woman to travel these parts alone.” His dark eyes refused to release hers. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Now is not the time to show your independence, Miss . . . Ferry.”