Southern Seduction [Bride Train 8] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (30 page)

She’d quickly covered Mama with a blanket so Willy wouldn’t see what they’d done to her. She’d taken the bucket of water from him and sent him off to snare a rabbit for the pot. She’d cleaned Mama and laid her out on a sheet, right there on the ground.

When Pappy found out Mama was dead, he’d started in on swearin’. He’d gone up one hill and down the next with his cussin’. He’d said it was Bart’s fault that he lost his cook and housekeeper, and Bart owed him for it.

Though Mama had taken her own life, her need to do so came from Bart and Pappy. Bart was long gone. Casey would have killed him with the same knife if he’d still been there. The other men were also at fault, but she couldn’t kill them. Nor could she kill Pappy. The clan would make her their whore. They’d chain her to the stove where she’d be easy pickings for any men who wanted her.

Just like she was right now.

But that was not going to happen to her. She would kill herself before letting Sheldrake rape her. She looked around the room. An empty bucket sat a few feet away. Across the room, within her circle of movement, was one filled with water. There was nothing else but old packrat nests, shed snakeskins, and dirt.

Her hand crept to her hip. Her breath shuddered as she exhaled. Her knife was still there. She pulled it out. With it in her fist she felt more in control, less the victim. She could do what her mother had, but she’d do it before she was defiled.

She looked at the shackle around her ankle. Her bones were small so she could fit a couple of fingers between her skin and the metal cuff. Each link was the length of her hand. The cuff was made of two half circles of flattened metal, each with a hinge. Only a few minutes of walking would scrape her skin raw.

She moved closer to the stove to give herself some slack in the chain. She lifted her ankle and set it on the opposite knee. The hinges were made of a thin, flat piece of metal with cutouts in the middle that, when bent in half, made crude circles. The circles of each hinge lined up. Everything was rusty except for the nail that held the hinge closed.

If she could get that nail out, she could escape.

She pried her knife blade under the lip of the nail. It moved, just a bit. She worked on it, ignoring the pain and scrapes each time the cuff shifted. Nothing else mattered.

It seemed like hours before the nail finally came out. She immediately jumped up and ran to the far side of the kitchen. The chain lay there, ready for the next victim.

No. There would never be another.

A rage that had been building all her life erupted. She snarled, stomped over, and picked up the chain. She held it a couple of feet from the loose end, swung it over her head and down. The shackle crashed against the stove, assaulting her hears as rust flew.

She lifted it again and swung once more. Tears blurred her vision as she took revenge for every time a man had looked at her body with evil lust. For every time they’d said something vile. For Grace and every other women who’d been held here.

For Mama.

Screaming, she swung the heavy chain again. And again. And again.

* * * *

Cole made a twirling motion, waited for Cole and Marshall to flank him, then urged his horse forward. There was little in his stomach, but what was there churned with horror. The little boy inside of him thought she might have run away, not wanting him because he wasn’t good enough. The man knew what happened to young women caught alone, and that she might not have had a choice of returning to him. They’d been riding all morning and found nothing but the tracks of longhorns on the Bannack City road. It was Byron who suggested they check on Rivers’ cabin. Cole had cursed for not thinking of it first.

If anything happened to Casey he didn’t know what he’d do. If he found her safe he’d turn her over his knee and spank her until she couldn’t sit for a week. That or take her to bed and tenderly show her how much he needed her.

They came around a low hill. The cabin was still out of sight but he heard something faint. He lifted his hand in a silent gesture. All three of them stopped. A light breeze blew in their faces. Was that a clanking noise? A high-pitched voice?

It came again. His heart, slowed in dread that Casey was hurt, pounded eagerly. He swallowed to force the lump in his throat down. The sound was just metal on metal. It could be caused by the wind. He nudged his horse forward. One more hill and—

The sound came again, much louder. A purposeful clank, followed by another. And was that a scream? Casey? He jammed his heels, pushing his horse into a gallop toward the cabin. Marshall went left and Byron circled to the right. He threw himself off the horse and tossed his reins around a porch post. He stumbled and his foot hit the step with a thud. All sound stopped. He silently cursed the eagerness which had made him clumsy.

The curlew’s cry from Marshall saying the back was clear had Cole bursting through the front door, pistol in his hand. A quick look showed the room was empty. He shoved open the door to the next. He ducked sideways as something flew toward him.

A wild-eyed woman, her face streaked with dirt, tears, and blood, raged at him. Casey, alive! He shuddered, crying out in relief. Then his fear evaporated, changing into fury.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

A closer look showed her cheek and jaw were bruised and swollen. He lifted his arms to reach for her when Marshall burst in the back door. Casey whirled, lifting the chain he just now realized she held.

Marshall stopped, smiled, and held out his arms in welcome. She gave a fractured cry and dropped the chain. She threw herself into his arms and burst into tears. Marshall glared at him over Casey’s head, buried in his chest.

Byron rushed into the room, assessed everything with one glance, and went to their woman. He hugged Casey from the other side, blocking her totally from Cole’s view.

Cole sagged in relief. Isn’t that perfect, he thought. He was so damn scared of finding her dead that, when he saw she was alive, he yelled at her. At least he hoped his roar was why she was crying, rather than being hurt. Avoiding the sobs and comforting murmurs, he looked around the room. The rusted chain lay where Casey had dropped it. One end was attached to the stove while the other…

Oh, God.
The other had a shackle, now bent and useless. That was the noise he’d heard. She’d been slamming it against the stove. Chips of rust littered the floor. Or was it rust? He hunkered down. When he brushed at the flakes with his hand some of them smeared. Casey was missing a boot. He looked at her bare ankle. It was stained with rust and blood. White-hot fury hit him.

“The goddamn bastard didn’t just hit her face, he shackled her!”

Byron hauled Casey into his arms. “Dammit! I should’ve smashed that thing the last time I was here!”

Marshall lifted her bare foot, saw the dried blood, and cursed. Cole hauled off his neckerchief and, seeing a bucket of water nearby, dunked it. He went to touch her but she pulled her foot away. The hurt in her eyes had him backing off. Now was not the time to push her. Marshall was the one who tenderly cared for her.

Cole turned away, unable to watch. Her knife, the one he tried to keep her from wearing so he could feel like he was the big protector, lay near the stove. He picked it up. The blade was scratched, the tip dull. Small bits of rust clung to it. She’d used the knife to get the shackle off her foot.

“That’s mine,” she said weakly. “I want it back.”

Thanks to the swelling around her lips and jaw, she slurred her words. Her voice was rough from screaming. Cole nodded, wiped the blade, and went over to her. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, just held out her hand for it. Even her hands had blood spots on them. He set the knife in her palm.

“It’s broken. I’ll get you another. Hell, I’ll get you a dozen.”

“No. Me.”

He winced at the way she stared at him. Cool and impersonal, as if she had no use for him. He set his fists on his hips to stop from reaching for her. Now was not the time to explain that he’d done what he thought best, to protect her. That would come later, when they were at home, fed and rested.

A thump came through the wall. All four of them froze at the sound.

“Anyone else here?” whispered Cole.

“Don’t know,” replied Casey just as quietly, “Sheldrake hit me. I woke up with the sun. And then I saw the chain and…” She turned her face back into Byron’s chest. He held her tight and murmured things into her ear.

Cole and Marshall eased from the kitchen toward the sound. Another thump and a moan erupted as they reached a closed door. It had a bar across it. There was a window at face level, covered by a board. Hinges squeaked as Cole opened the window. He carefully glanced in. There was little light, but something white moved in the corner. He lifted the bar and opened the door.

“I think we found Mrs. Jennet,” said Cole.

They moved into the room. The older woman, tied hand and foot to the bed, wore only her nightdress. She’d struggled and her long gray hair covered most of her face. Marshall pushed the hair away. Furious eyes glared up at them. She was gagged but that didn’t stop her from gabbling orders. At least, that’s what it sounded like. He cut her hands and feet free. They shared a grimace of understanding, but Cole removed her gag anyway.

“About time you got here! Where is Sheldrake? I’ll have him horsewhipped! Tarred and feathered! He was to kill Hugh, not kidnap me!”

Cole took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “We’ll get you back home, ma’am.”

“I demand you—”

“No!” He jerked his finger at her, right near her face. She gasped in outrage. He held up the gag. “You keep your mouth shut or I’ll put this put back on. Understand?”

Her glittering eyes promised he’d be punished for his insolence later, but she clamped her lips tight.

“We’d best get these women to Doc,” said Marshall. He looked at the old woman quivering with rage. “I’ll help Byron with Casey.”

Cole gave another silent curse. Instead of returning to town with his wife cuddled in his arms, delighted to find herself rescued, he’d be hauling someone far less appealing. Why was he the bad guy? Casey was his wife. That meant it was his job to take care of her. He put her up at the hotel, nice and safe. Yet when she did something stupid and was caught, he was wrong to be angry?

She should be angry with him, but not for protecting her.

For allowing her to be hurt.

“This is an outrage! I demand you release me immediately!”

Marshall stopped just outside the door to the jail. He glanced in to get the lay of the land. Sheriff Owen Barstow leaned back in his chair, feet crossed and boots on his desk. In the corner Eudora Jennet, now wearing one of her black dresses and boots, tried to shake the bars holding her in the cell. Not even a flake of rust fell off, unlike the chain that had held Casey.

He’d left Casey at the hotel. Judge Thatcher had hauled her into a meeting with Sophie, Rosa, and Thatcher’s wife, Lily. Neither side was happy. Before the judge closed the door of the meeting room Marshall had heard Lily say she was not going to tolerate being treated this way. Judge Thatcher’s low growl that he’d treat his wife any damn way he wanted was not likely to help the discussion. But it did make Marshall grin. Cole wasn’t that different from the judge, nor was Casey much different from Lily.

“Yer charged with serious crimes, ma’am,” drawled Barstow. “Cain’t rightly let you out ‘til the judge says so.”

“Then get him here!”

“He’ll be along.” Barstow adjusted the tilt of his hat, using the motion to wink at Marshall to show he knew he was there. “He’s got other bizness to take care of.”

“But why can’t I go home?”

Marshall peered into the jail. Mrs. Jennet had all her attention on the sheriff.

“Already told you,” said Barstow. “Your husband’s gotta sign a bond saying you won’t leave town.”

“My husband!” Her mouth gaped like a fish out of water. “My word is worth more than that, that useless excuse for a man!”

“Seems like the lady doesn’t respect her husband at all,” murmured Marshall to himself. He didn’t blame her. Mind you, she was not what he’d want in a wife.

“He’s still a man, Miz Jennet,” replied Barstow calmly. “You ain’t. So set yer fanny on that cot and keep quiet. Unless you know where we can find him, you’ll be stayin’ awhile.”

“If I’m lucky, Joe Sheldrake has already dumped his body in a gully somewhere!” She blurted the words out.

“Ye hear that, Mr. Stevens?”

Marshall stepped into the jail at Barstow’s call. He nodded politely at Mrs. Jennet. She grasped the bars, her mouth moving without sound coming out.

“Yep, I heard.”

“That’s twice Mrs. Jennet said something about wanting her husband dead.” Barstow turned to the fuming woman. “If he turns up missing, you might end up hanging from that gallows, ma’am. If I were you, I’d be prayin’ to find Sheldrake dead and your husband alive.”

“You have no proof!”

Marshall winced at her screech.

“I’d best be on my way, Sheriff Barstow. I’ll pass the word to let you know if her dear husband returns to town.” He winked at Eudora. “If, that is, you haven’t had him killed. Enjoy your evening, ma’am.”

Her shriek of outrage made him shove his fingers in his ears. The sheriff rolled out his shoulders, settled his hat lower on his head, and closed his eyes. Chuckling, Marshall closed the door behind him to cut the noise. It shouldn’t last long. Gibson stood in front of the bank with Hugh Jennet. Neither looked happy. Jennet moved as if to head home but the agent pointed at the jail.

Jennet tugged down his suit coat, stretched out his neck, and headed toward the jail. Marshall set off across the street at an angle so he wouldn’t end up near the banker. He made it safely onto the boardwalk before Jennet opened the jail’s door. More screeching erupted before Jennet slammed the door behind himself. Marshall waited for Gibson, who was clumping along the boardwalk in his direction.

“Sheriff Barstow will be happy,” said Marshall to the frowning agent. “He’ll be glad to get rid of Mrs. Jennet and head home to Mary for supper.”