Hope (6 page)

“I understand you,” Hope muttered. She didn’t appreciate the sermon. Given a chance, she’d be gone in a second and worry about the consequences later.

As if he read her thoughts, he said quietly, “Don’t be foolish. You won’t make it alone.”

“I’m here to use the necessary. Do you mind?”

Nodding, he tugged the brim of his hat. “I’ll wait down by the creek. You might want to wash when you’re finished.”

She might at that. If she looked half as bad as she felt, it must be scary. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she straightened regally. “If you’d be so kind as to allow me privacy?”

His eyes sent her a final warning before he pushed his way through a hedge, the sound of his movement evident long after his broad shoulders had disappeared from sight. Releasing a pent-up breath, Hope disappeared behind the bushes.

When she returned, she followed the path to the creek. She found Grunt squatting beside the stream, deep in thought.

“Are you going to hunt before we go back?”

He rose slowly, his eyes assessing her. Apart from the others, he looked like an ordinary man. One Hope might even like, under different circumstances. Might like a whole lot.

“You can’t be tired of stew.”

“No, but Boris said—”

“You don’t want to go back yet.”

She didn’t want to go back ever. “It is nicer out here.” She could breathe again.

“All right. We’ll stay for a while.” Picking up his rifle, he started off. She fell into step, threading her way through the heavy briars. Anything was better than spending time in that cabin.

She couldn’t detect a path, but he seemed to know where he was going. After a few minutes, he paused, gesturing for her to keep her distance. He disappeared into the thicket ahead, and it got very quiet. If he was moving, he was doing it silently.

Suddenly it occurred to Hope that he might leave her out here. He wasn’t like the others—what if he had tired of the game and decided to move on? What if he knew—actually knew—that she wasn’t Anne Ferry and there would never be any ransom money? She’d be hopelessly lost in this thicket, probably be eaten by wild animals. . . .

Her eyes anxiously scanned the area.

Grunt was nowhere in sight. Her heart pounded in her chest. She should run, as fast and hard as she could. She wouldn’t be missed for a while. Blood pumped feverishly through her veins.

She jumped as a rifle went off, then again. Gunshots. Grunt had shot something. She closed her eyes, thankful it wasn’t her.

A few minutes later she heard something moving back through the brush. Grunt appeared in the clearing, holding two fat squirrels in one hand.

“Dinner.”

Feeling faint, she smiled lamely at him. “More stew?”

“Fried, with gravy—if we can find a cow.”

She followed him back to the creek and sat on a flat stone while he skinned and cleaned the squirrels. His hands were large and capable, manly hands, tanned dark from the sun.

Hope picked burrs off her skirt, tossing them into the creek. A thin, watery sun slid from behind a dark cloud. The air was damp, like it could rain any moment. “You’re not like them.”

“Um.”

“They’re not nice men.”

“I’m not either.”

She studied him, trying to decide what made him different. “You bathe regularly, and your speech is more educated. Did you attend school?”

“Did you?”

“Don’t change the subject.” If she were Anne Ferry, of course, she would be well schooled. He knew that. It was as if he was testing her—weighing her answers. Well, she was smarter than that. He wasn’t going to trip her up.

“Why do you ride with them?”

Tossing a skin aside, he spared her a brief, impersonal glance. “Do you always talk so much?”

Leaning back, she closed her eyes, listening to the early spring morning—the gurgling creek, birds chirping in a nearby tree. Everything seemed so normal, and yet her life was in an upheaval. She was here, with this puzzling man, and almost enjoying it. She should be frightened half out of her mind, but she wasn’t. The Lord gave her peace. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Changing the subject.”

“Um-hum.”

Straightening the hem of her dress, she sighed. For some unfathomable reason, she felt she could be honest with him. If she were mistaken, her fate lay in his hands. “I’m not Thomas Ferry’s daughter.”

He didn’t respond, just went on cutting skin away from the carcass.

“So there won’t be any money coming, even if I do write that silly note. Mr. Ferry will read it and think a simpleton wrote it. Anne Ferry is probably home this minute, safe in her own bed.”

He rinsed the knife in the water, his eyes meeting hers now. “If I were you, I’d keep that bit of information under my hat.”

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Who was he? He wasn’t a part of those other men; he was too perceptive. Too . . . real.

“The others will find out soon enough.”

He tossed the entrails into the stream and rinsed his hands. “The longer they think you’re Anne Ferry, the better off you are. Remember that.”

“Then you’re not—”

His look silenced her. “In any position to help you,” he finished her sentence. “Take my advice. Go along with the circumstances for now. Don’t cause any trouble.”

“I don’t understand. Whoever you are, I want you to help me—”

“I can’t help you.” He stood up, holding the two skinned squirrels. His dark eyes skimmed her coolly. “Write the note and wait to see what happens.”

“It’s the money, isn’t it? That’s why you’re with them. You want that money as much as they do, but you won’t get it. I’m not Anne Ferry.”

A mask shuttered his features. “Just do as I say if you want to get out of this alive.”

She got up, smoothing the back of her skirt. “What’s the profit if a man has the whole world but loses his soul?”

He frowned. “What?”

“The Bible.” She repeated the misquoted verse.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It’s Scripture. Mark 8 something.”

He looked none too happy, and she knew why. The mention of Scripture induced feelings of guilt, as well it should for a man in his profession.

“‘What’s the profit if a man has the whole world but loses his soul’? That’s found in Mark?”

She nodded gravely. “My papa was a preacher.”

His eyes narrowed. “Mine is the Lord, and I imagine he’d prefer you get the Scriptures right.”

She crossed her arms. “God isn’t mocked. What a man sows, he’ll get back,” she retorted, hoping that was correct.

If a man sows, he’ll get it back—no, if a sow throws—no, no, there was nothing in the verse about a pig.

Disbelief filled his face. It irritated Hope that he—of all people—challenged her.

“‘A fool despises instruction!’” Dear me! Had she misquoted that? Oh, she hoped not—besides, how would he know? Indignant, she paced back and forth.

“I don’t understand any of this. I was on my way to Medford, minding my own business. You . . . and those terrible men . . . stopped the stage, dragged me off—”

A clap of thunder shook the ground. Hope glanced up as the first raindrop hit her cheek. “Great. Rain.”

“At least you got that right.”

Hope planted her fists on her hips. “I don’t know who you are or what you plan to do with the money you hope to steal, but I do know that a fool despises instruction—”

“Misquoting again, Miss Ferry.”

“My papa—,” she began, then gasped as the heavens opened up and poured.

Grunt grabbed her by the arm, and they started running for shelter. He steered her toward a rise with a long outcropping of rock. The ground beneath was dry.

“We’ll hole up here until it slacks off.” He settled Hope into the cramped space, then crawled in beside her. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She’d rarely been so close to a man—a man this . . . masculine, with such overpowering presence. He was all muscle and brawny strength.

Scooting toward the back, she tucked the hem of her dress around her ankles. Grunt took off his hat and shoved his fingers through his dark hair. The two sat, staring at the falling rain. The minutes ticked by. The space shrank, becoming incredibly small and personal. Her arm brushed the fabric of his shirt, their bodies only inches apart in the tiny space.

She focused on his clean profile. His jaw was firm, not soft and flabby like the others; his nose straight, his mouth well defined. And he had the most incredible dark brown eyes that looked right through her. A sigh escaped her.

He looked over. “Did you say something?”

“No.” Such a waste of manhood. He might have made some lucky woman a wonderful husband, been a doting father. Had he implied his “father” was the Lord, or had she imagined it? No self-respecting man would tolerate the likes of Big Joe, Boris, and Frog.

Aunt Thalia’s voice echoed in her mind:
“Let those without sin hurl the first rock.”
She could hear the admonition clearly. Aunt Thalia was a saint; Hope wasn’t.

“I’m not without sin, Aunt Thalia, but unlike some people, I don’t steal money and terrorize innocent people,” she muttered.

Grunt turned to look over his shoulder. “I know you said something that time.”

Hope realized she’d spoken her thoughts out loud. Her face flamed. “I was talking to myself, if you don’t mind.”

The rain came down in blowing sheets. They pressed back into the shelter and huddled as lightning split the sky and the ground rumbled beneath them.
Dear Lord, why must I be a prisoner of a man I find so appealing? Why couldn’t Grunt look and act despicable, like Big Joe?

It might take weeks—months—for the men to recognize their mistake. The ransom note would have to be delivered. Thomas Ferry would know that someone was playing a cruel trick and strike a match to the absurd request. Then the outlaws would have to wait more weeks before they were sure their demands weren’t going to be met. She couldn’t survive months here in that one-room cabin! Even if she could keep the men fooled into thinking she was Anne Ferry, when they received no response to the ransom note they’d investigate and discover she wasn’t Ferry’s daughter. Then what? Fear constricted her throat as another clap of thunder rocked the ground.

Grunt shifted. Was her presence unnerving to him? She hoped so—she sincerely hoped so. It would serve him right.

Settling himself in a dry spot, he tipped his hat over his face and appeared to sleep. Hope’s eyes gauged the distance between her and where he rested. It was now or never. Grunt’s warning rang in her ears.
“It would be suicide for a woman alone in these parts.”
But it would be suicidal of her to remain in his custody.

It was pouring rain—she could hide in the bushes, make her way back to civilization under the guise of darkness. It wasn’t the smartest plan, but then she’d never been in this situation before. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Was that Scripture?

No, Uncle Frank used to say that to Aunt Thalia.

Springing from beneath the rock outcropping, Hope ran. As fast and as hard as she could run. Faster than she’d ever run in her life. Her breath came in gasps as she leapt puddles and dodged prickly bushes. Disoriented, she beat her way through thick underbrush. Rain sluiced down, blinding her. She could hear Grunt shouting at her.

“Come back here, you little fool!”

She ran on, praying that the thunder would cover the noise of her flight. Turning to look back, she plowed headlong into a tree. The impact threw her into a bush, and she lay on her back, stunned.

“Anne! Don’t be foolish—you can’t make it alone!”

Rolling to her side, she doubled up, holding her breath. Grunt’s voice boomed above the downpour.

“Miss Ferry! Anne!”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed.
Don’t let him find me; please, please, don’t let him find me.

“You can’t get away—don’t try it!” His voice sounded nearer at times, then farther away.

“I can, if I escape you,” she whispered.

The minutes crept by. Her legs began to ache, but she couldn’t move. Any sound, even in the pouring rain, would alert him. She was chilled to the bone now. How long before he would give up and return to the cabin for help? By then, she would be so far down the road they’d never find her.

She lay for hours, listening for footfalls, terrified to move. Toward evening, the rain slowed to a cold drizzle. Teeth chattering, she listened to small animals moving around foraging for food. A raccoon crept close, and she shooed it away with her hand. Two more appeared, their beady eyes wide with curiosity.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Hungry, fellows?” She didn’t blame them. The thought of bacon and bread and rich, black coffee haunted her.

She scavenged beneath the bush and came up with a handful of acorns, then gently pitched them several feet away. The coons darted off, investigating.

She hadn’t heard Grunt calling her name for some time. She’d made it.
Thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you, God—

She yelped when she suddenly felt herself yanked to her feet and a large, warm hand clamped over her mouth.

“You are sorely testing my patience,” a rough voice rasped in her ear.

Her heart was thumping a mile a minute as he whirled her around and steadied her on her feet, none too gently. She blinked, weak with relief when she saw it was Grunt, not Big Joe, Boris, or Frog. His face was a storm cloud. “Don’t you have a lick of sense?”

She tried to break his hurtful hold. “Let me go! You’re not like the others. You’re intelligent; you have a quality the others don’t have—” She wrenched free. “Don’t do this!”

“If I let you go, you’ll be dead by morning.” He took her by the shoulders and gently shook her. To her surprise, she saw concern in his eyes. “Why did you disobey me?”

“Please—”

“No.”

She clamped her teeth together. She was wrong about him. He was just as mean and ornery and bullheaded as Big Joe, Frog, and Boris put together. Her heart sank. She was doomed. She had failed at her escape, and they would watch her closer than ever now.

“Come on. You’re going to catch your death out here.” Keeping her firmly in check, he turned her in the direction of the cabin. Stopping at the shelter, he picked up his rifle and the squirrels, then continued forcing her ahead of him.