by Sierra Rose
She was almost sobbing with frustration, anxiety, fear, and near-hysteria. “Gabe, listen—listen to me. Get Ben. Get Paul. Get his deputies. Get everyone—you can find, send them—” a sob, and then a rush of bitter tears, “send them in—pursuit...! Quinn has her, and he means to do her harm. Please—oh, please...save her—!””
“Just a minute, Cam.” Never the most graceful of men, especially when hurried, he blundered to the kitchen and returned once more with a bottle of brandy. “Have some of this. No, Cam, I mean it. Purely medicinal. You get some of that into your system, while I chase down our rescuers. I’ll be back to check you over as soon as I can.”
They stopped at the house, one last time, these tough strong men on the trail to right a savage wrong, to garner as much information from Camellia as possible. By the time they, too, had stomped into the parlor (employing the front door mat to scrape off, even in the midst of such travail, a good deal of the mud collected along the way), she had recovered enough to set a pot of coffee to brewing on the stove before retiring with a cold cloth on her injured cheekbone.
“Oh, darlin’—” murmured Ben, ascertaining the damage.
“I know. It seems we’ve been this route before, doesn’t it? And the same side of the face, too. I do believe I must begin dealing with left-handed villains.” Treating the moment as lightly as she could would send Ben off feeling not quite so worried about her welfare. Although, as soon as the door had once again closed upon them, she intended to take to the settee and wail like a banshee.
But he was not fooled by her easy words. “That worthless son of a human howler dared hurt you—” he began, in outraged tones.
Camellia longed to cling to him for all the support and sustenance he could offer. But not now. Later. Now, time was of the essence. “Find them, Ben,” she pleaded. “Bring Molly home safe.”
Intently and without interruption, Paul had listened to her brief narrative of what had happened here, and when, and her repetition of Quinn Hennessey’s own confession as to his background. Once she had finished, he gave a brisk nod and glanced toward the parlor window that looked south.
“That way, y’ think?”
“Yes. I watched them—through the rain. But he may have—he may have changed direction, to throw off anyone following.”
“Possible. Gentlemen?”
They were all, Ben, the sheriff, and his deputy Austin, dressed for travel, wearing slickers and heavy gloves, weighted down by armaments. Gabriel, much as he wanted to join the impromptu posse, had already volunteered to stay behind so he could care for the most recent victim of Hennessey’s transgressions. Showing no signs of impatience, Paul delayed their departure long enough for Camellia to fill Mason jars with boiling hot coffee and thrust some leftover biscuits into a pack.
Then they were gone.
And Camellia’s frightened, fervent prayers went with them.
Chapter Eighteen
“QUINN, WE CAN’T GO on. Surely—surely you must see that—we can’t go on. The storm, the mud, the lightning and thunder...”
Molly had been shedding quiet tears off and on, tears that slid hotly from beneath her lashes only to mix indiscriminately with the cold raindrops falling without mercy from above. But she dared not let Quinn see that she was weeping. That might very well mean his monstrous temper would be let loose again to run amok. And, oh, how she feared his temper!
At the Forresters’ front gate, he had literally thrown her onto the back of his horse, climbed into the saddle behind her, and immediately set out upon the back road south, out of town. Had she ever felt more miserable in her life? With no gear, no hat, not even a blanket, she was helpless victim to the intermittent rain and wind, and she half-sat, half-lay, sodden and shivering, tight against him. He had spoken not a word, other than to berate her for some imagined slight—sliding out of his grip, taking too much space—or to utter a heated oath now and then, or to castigate the poor animal beneath them that was bearing a double burden.
Along this back byway, that traveled through a thick forest and plenty of underbrush, the sucking, slowing mud was not such a problem as in town, where everything stood open to the elements. Quinn might have made better speed on his journey, had he but provided two instead of a single mount. No gallop was possible; only a canter, for the most part, and, occasionally, depending upon terrain, a walk.
And for that too she knew she would be blamed.
Months, years of marriage to this misogynistic fiend might render her spiritless, downtrodden, prey to his every disagreeable mood, subject to his need for mastery. So many women were, when yoked to a man totally uncaring of his mate. Even when finally released from such imprisonment, for whatever reason, they emerged, for the most part, crushed, unable to form coherent thought or plans for the future.
Molly was determined never to end up like this. She would die first.
While they jounced along, she the unwilling passenger on this road to who knew where, wild schemes whirled around and around in her head, tasted, tested, and as quickly discarded.
A deliberate fall off the horse, and subsequent race away from him into the woods? No. In this weather, in this unfamiliar territory, to what sanctuary might she possibly escape? Quinn would easily capture her once again, and would then, no doubt, exact some horrific punishment.
A grab at his handgun, and a reversal of its barrel to the belly ploy? No. She had no idea where he had thrust the weapon for safekeeping. Into a holster beneath his heavy coat, perhaps, or even between his trousers and vest—either way, too awkward even to search out and obtain. And, with her luck, they’d both end up with bullet wounds.
A careless disposal, here and there, of a bead from her necklace, that followers (of course there would be followers, at some point; Camellia would never leave her sister languishing) might pick up the trail? No, again, more fool she. No necklace, no jewelry anywhere on her drenched and bedraggled person. Even had there been, a simple bead would soon be lost in the muck underfoot.
Articles of clothing, same result. With the additional problem of difficult access. Perhaps she could sweet-talk Quinn into halting for a bit, while she found a button hook somewhere to undo her boots. Ahuh.
Think! she pummeled her weary brain, which, having not completely recovered from this past week’s nightmare, was still functioning at low capacity. Think!
Much as she wanted to curl up into a fetal ball and simply howl, Molly knew she couldn’t—she simply couldn’t—give in to despair. She must go on struggling to survive.
“Quinn, I beg of you—”
Not surprisingly, it was growing more difficult for her to control an occasional wave of shivers, and her teeth were beginning to chatter. When had the air turned so chilly?
“Be quiet,” he ordered, unmoved. “I’m thinking.”
They were plodding along, apparently aimlessly. Had he made no plan for this mad escapade, no decision as to an eventual destination? Better for her chances of escape, certainly, but—how incredibly like this man she had married, to take each hour as it came along, with nothing definite set up, nothing arranged for the future! What possessed someone to be so unprepared for life?
“Could we just—”
“I said be quiet! Do you comprehend anything at all that I tell you?” In the soft steam of approaching twilight, his face was set in lines of granite: saturnine, dark, implacable. “Your disobedience has earned you righteous punishment, Molly. Once we settle in somewhere, I shall have to take your discipline well in hand.”
A less-traveled road jogged off to the side, wending its way eastward to some other county, some other town. Everything seemed just slightly off-kilter, with drowned foliage and mist rising from Juniper Creek, however far away it might be. A surreal scene, rendered almost frightening in its sense of loneliness and isolation.
The area appeared vaguely familiar. Surely this was not the turn-off to the old Rutledge place? Surely he couldn’t possibly be taking her to that hole on earth again!<
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Somehow the time dragged by. How odd that, despite her wretched physical state, despite the roller coaster up-and-down whirligig of her emotions, Molly could put all that aside in her simple, intense craving for warmth, for comfort, for rest. Ah, how weak a human body could be. Satisfy its most basic needs and the rest would easily follow. At the moment, she would obey almost any of Quinn’s commands, no matter how depraved, if only she might be freed from the back of this poor pack-laden horse and given a modicum of care!
From a well-traveled rutted and muddied road, they had moved onto something more of a beaten path, something with which probably only locals were familiar. Its meandering curves took them closer to the river; even from here she could discern the cascade of rushing water, the gurgle of pools along the rim, the hollow slap of heavy ripples hitting against banks of sand or earth that surely, due to the deluge of rain, must be about to cave in by now.
In the distance, something weighty creaked and cracked, shuddered with an almost human cry of anguish, and then toppled slowly to the ground. Branches tore at other branches; birds were sent squawking and flying away into the leaden sky for safety. The crash, near to being an explosion, actually caused the ground to shake with the force of its fall.
Their horse, already nervous and uneasy, startled, shying away off the track into knee-high wet and tangled prairie grass. An unsympathetic Quinn jerked savagely at the reins.
“Stand still, you fool animal!” he bellowed.
Molly roused from a semi-stupor to beg for kindness. “Please, there’s no need to treat him so harshly. He’s doing the best that he can.”
“I’ll decide what’s best. This pathetic excuse for a rented steed is causing me all sorts of unpardonable delay, just as you’ve been trying to do. I’ll take a whip to the both of you, see if I don’t!”
There was no point in trying to reason with this obstinate, infuriated, half-deranged man. Helpless to intervene, she could only let events play out as they would, for good or ill.
Another crash, closer nearby, of slightly less substance but just as suddenly, sent the horse dancing sideways once again and added a few decibels to the range of Quinn’s curses.
Too much rain in too short a time, Molly, carefully considering, decided after a minute. Tree roots, probably already weakened by age or disease (just as in humans), could no longer hold a towering maple or oak or sycamore in place; with the collapse of any support, over it went, smashing willy-nilly into whatever stood in its way.
Only a chill mist obscured the view now, instead of this afternoon’s downpour, but the wind was plowing steadily through this timber that felt as ominous and eerie as something out of a children’s malevolent fairy tale. Hansel and Gretel, perhaps, whose fate it was to be killed by a witch. Or Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, also doomed.
Strange, Molly reflected dismally. She had never till this very moment realized what dire, threatening stories those youthful fables actually were.
Were there coyotes wandering about in these nomad’s reaches? Or creatures far worse, terrifying to perceive in the light of day?
Blinking, shaking the matted mane of her curls, Molly worked to regain perspective. Mustn’t let her imagination run off with her. Miserably uncomfortable she might be, and victim of whatever destiny awaited her, but she was not wandering afoot, lost and lone, through these terrifying woods.
From somewhere, far away, came the soul-shattering yip and yowl of a wolf. Another joined in, and then another.
Molly started, much as the restive horse had done.
“Sit quiet,” snapped Quinn. “You only make things worse.”
A city girl born and bred, but for those five years spent in that distant nowhere land, she was quivering. “You heard that? You heard?”
“Of course I heard, you simpleton. I’m not deaf.”
“It isn’t safe here,” she whispered, peering about wide-eyed and breathless through the gray gloom. “There’s nowhere to hide. The place is dangerous, and we have to get out, now, before something truly horrific happens—”
“I said, be silent, you worthless she-devil!” Enraged, and possibly as shaken by the sinister otherworldly aspect of their surroundings as his hapless passenger, Quinn raised one hand to shake her, then to strike.
He didn’t get the chance to follow through.
From across the raging torrent of water once known as Juniper Creek, a mighty baldcypress, ninety feet tall and forty feet wide, gave up its life.
They watched, spellbound and transfixed in place, as it fell toward them, almost in slow motion, cutting a huge swath through forest and brush. The conifer slammed to the ground like a giant funeral shroud of wet heavy branches, dark, destructive, death-dealing, enveloping all hopelessly trapped within its savage grasp.
There was time for one agonized shriek from the horse’s throat, matched by a feeble, unbelieving squeak from Molly’s.
Then all was silent.
Chapter Nineteen
AS THE COUNTY’S TOP lawman, Paul Winslow had organized and participated in enough pursuits involving criminal activity to be well prepared for just about any contingency. Oh, there were the odd occurrences for which one could never be entirely ready: someone needing transport and no mount available, perhaps; or a fly-by-night miscreant holed up and demanding recompense.
During one recent year that had seemed fraught with possible disasters, for instance, the sheriff had worked with a whole crew of neighbors to rescue a small boy from the depths of an old well, solved an arson case involving the barn of a distant rancher and his disgruntled employee (soon to be seen surveying the world from one of Turnabout’s finest jail cells), halted a bank robbery in mid-theft (bringing in two additional temporary residents for the cell next door), and aided the driver of an overturned buckboard to cut loose a rambunctious team and crawl free from entangling paraphernalia.
Just a few of the ordinary, routine events accepted as being part of an officer’s responsibility.
Correction. A dedicated officer. Which Paul certainly was.
Thus, his great gelding Diablo was, as always during these emergency excursions, loaded down with plenty of supplies: a good strong lasso coiled and tied; his Winchester tucked into its scabbard; a trusty lumberman’s axe and good clean hunting knife, each safely sheathed; both saddlebags filled with Camellia’s biscuits and the Mason jar of coffee, a pouch of pemmican and one of beef jerky, and medical provisions (which he hoped never to use); the bedroll wrapped up with an extra blanket, a pair of wool socks, and one of his heavy shirts; the kerosene lantern whose handle hung from the saddle horn, and much miscellaneous.
Experience had taught him that you never knew what sort of sticky problem you might be running into, and it was best to be equipped with every item the brain could imagine.
They were tired, these men who were slogging through the mud in pursuit of an alleged kidnapper; and their horses were tired. It is no easy task fighting off rain and debilitating muck and worry all at once, even while attempting to anticipate the kidnapper’s next move.
Near the turnoff to the old Rutledge place, Paul halted. All three, grateful for the few minutes’ respite, dived into their saddlebags for Camellia’s warm coffee and slightly dried-out biscuits while they considered just which route from here Hennessey might have taken. Sustenance, at any rate.
“One horse,” was Ben’s terse comment. Silvery drops of rain collected along the brim of his sombrero and dripped off the edge. His face, lined by unease and roughened by afternoon stubble, appeared as grim as the others felt.
“I noticed. Goin’ slow, too; packin’ double weight. Tracks mostly washed away by now, but you can catch sight here and there of what he’s up to. See, there—Hennesey headed away into the grass, to throw us off his scent.”
“Turned there, then,” Austin observed. “Not much of a road. Any idea where it leads?”
Paul brushed away a leaf that had plastered itself to his chin. “Nowhere in particular, far as I c
an recall. Maybe farther into the timber.”
“To what destination?” Ben’s voice, after he had swallowed half a jar of in about one gulp, went sharp and thin. “Where would he wanna hole up, in this kinda weather, with Molly still in bad shape?”
“Dunno. Best we can do is keep on as we have and hope to find ’em.”
With all in agreement, they wrapped up and plodded on, each dismally considering how much time had elapsed between Hennessey’s abduction and flight and the posse’s discovery of such to follow in pursuit.
The fall of rain had slowed, only to give way to a rising wind. Bits of this and that were being flung about, through the grass, from the trees, across the trail. Lightning sizzled and snapped in the boiling mass of clouds overhead, with an occasional boom of thunder.
“Listen.” Paul held up a gloved hand, and the group paused once more.
Gloom and doom resounded in the crack of a breaking branch here and there, and the thump of something heavy falling from a great height to land onto sodden earth. So much area, so many towering trees twined together, the tallest forming a canopy which held off some of the worst of the storm. In the squelch of mud, every so often, by the eerie, flickering dim light of kerosene lanterns being gently bounced, could be seen the faint imprint of a horse’s hoof, not yet washed away or filled in. Each fresh sighting gave them hope that they were still on the right trail, after all.
“You ever done this kinda search work b’fore, Paul?”
It was Ben’s undefined need for reassurance. How, after hours, possibly days of a desperate quest, could he return to Camellia and explain, in all good conscience, that he had lost her sister?
“I have.”
“Ahuh. Successful?”
From the shadows under the brim of his hat, Paul’s dark eyes took on a light all their own, and the lines about his mouth tightened. “Some were, some weren’t.”
“Alive and unharmed?”
The sheriff sent a level, considering glance his way, across the few feet of distance that stood as separation between them, as they lumbered along. This was the greatest fear, as far as Paul was concerned. Not finding the abducted girl at all would be a terrible blow, but at least the rescuers might still hold onto some faint optimism that she might be recovered. To discover Molly dead, murdered in some terrible way by the man pledged for her love and honor—that would be to end all faith and trust itself.
