by Jill G. Hall
“How do you know where to go?” she asked. “Have you been here before?”
“You’d be surprised what I learned in town.”
The sun set in an explosion of fire colors that waned to darkness. A few stars sprinkled the sky. Will he ravage her body, kill her, and dump it into a ravine?
The sky grew pitch black, and she shivered.
“Use those mittens and hat from the floor in front of you,” Cliff said quietly.
She leaned over and picked up the items. She pulled the mittens on over her gloves, removed her bonnet, and pulled the wool cap on her head. He must have bought these at the mercantile. She didn’t want to admit it had been thoughtful of him.
“Now, hand me the blanket.”
She did, and Cliff threw it over their legs.
The trail crisscrossed here and there. Once they arrived at the homestead, she’d have no way of finding her way back to town.
She watched the horses’ rears as they clopped along. She hadn’t spent much time around animals. Some folks at home had horses that they rode all over town. Her ma had never let her ride, saying, “It’s undignified for a lady to do so. Those beasts are for pulling carts and carriages and herding cattle.” Sally Sue had to admit she was afraid of horses. Her mother had always pulled her away when she got too close. “Never walk behind one, or it’ll kick you.”
Perhaps if Sally Sue pretended to go along with Cliff and gained his trust, he’d go easy on her.
“How do the horses see in the dark?” she asked.
“I think they instinctively know the way.” He slid a bottle from his pocket, pulled out the cork, and offered her a swig.
“No, thanks.”
“It’ll help keep you warm.”
It smelled like the rum her father used to drink. Before he left them, she’d seen her ma hide it many times and heard them argue about it.
“Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine.” Sally Sue put her hand over her mouth. She couldn’t believe she’d blurted that out.
Cliff guffawed. “Suit yourself.”
The moonless sky donned a plethora of stars. Sally Sue’s hands and feet and even her nose grew cold, and she regretted not having taken a sip. Cliff put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She flashed back to when he had grabbed her at the bank, and she tried to pull away, but he held her tightly now too.
“Don’t fight me.” His silver-blue eyes shone in the dark. “You’re with me now. Don’t worry—I’ll take care of you.”
What did he mean, take care of her? Here she was, nestled under a blanket with a murderer.
A cold wind blew. She shivered again and let her body lean into his for warmth but not for pleasure. She closed her eyes and silently prayed, Please save me.
She prayed to God all the time but hated church. Every Sunday her whole life, her ma had made her dress up and go. When Sally Sue was young, she’d fidget on the hard pew and her ma would pinch her hands or hit them with her fan and whisper, “God hates you when you don’t sit still in his house.”
Sally Sue never understood why, if God was everywhere, he had to live in a house. Wasn’t he living in their home too, in the petunia beds and maple tree out back? Besides at church, they prayed to him at supper, and at bedtime too. Actually, Sally Sue talked to him all the time without anyone else knowing. Not out loud, only to him, through her heart, like she had just now. It came in handy, especially that day at the bank when he had held the gun to her chest and had his arm around her—the same arm that was now around her in the wagon.
In fact, maybe the Good Lord was her best friend. Not like the girls in school who were sometimes her friends and other times not. She could sense their parents had told them to steer clear of her because she came from a broken home.
The wagon jolted, and Cliff’s arm pushed hard against her.
She screamed.
“Sorry, just hit a big rock is all.”
With a chuckle, he began to sing “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.” His deep voice echoed across the canyon.
What a surprise that he knew all the words to the song. She did, too, but resisted the urge to join in. He held the last note for a long time, until it faded into the sky.
How could a bank-robbing murderer know how to sing like that? Sally Sue wanted to ask, but she didn’t dare. He might get angry at her, and there was no telling what he’d do.
16
The buckboard carried them along. Sally Sue’s eyes began to droop again. Needing to stay sharp, she shook herself awake and looked up at the sky. A shooting star streaked down from the heavens. She hadn’t seen one in years, and her mind hurtled back to a night long ago, as she remembered her father saying, “Make a wish.” At that time, she had wished her parents would stop arguing. Now she wished to get away from Cliff.
The next star, she’d fill her mind with good thoughts—good wishes—for after she got away from Cliff. She kept watch until another shooting star graced the sky, and on that one, she wished to see the ocean someday. Another star flew from the sky, and she put her hand on her belly. She wished to someday have a child to hold and call her own. A boy as sweet as that Isaiah McMillan. These were all chimerical wishes, though, things that she hoped for but that were impossible to achieve.
As they crossed a wooden bridge, dimly outlined buildings up ahead became visible. The horses picked up speed and trotted along, bouncing Sally Sue’s sore body. In front of a towering barn, Cliff stopped them with a pull on the reins and a “whoa.”
An owl hooted in the distance, and then another answered. A chill prickled Sally Sue’s spine. She had never been anywhere so desolate in her whole life. How would she ever be able to get away?
Cliff climbed down off the wagon. As he swung open the barn doors, the rusty hinges squealed and he led the horses inside. They neighed and stomped the dusty ground. Still sitting on the wagon, blind in the cavernous space, Sally Sue felt squeaking sounds vibrate and shadows swoop down toward her.
She screeched, bent over, and threw her hands above her head.
“It’s just bats.” Cliff laughed. “They won’t hurt you.”
Her heart slowed, and she strained to see the bats escape from the barn and fly toward the moonlight. She’d read Bram Stoker’s terrifying book and thought of the count, wild horses’ hooves, and bloody fangs. She touched her neck.
Cliff reached for one of her mittened hands. Too tired to refuse, she let him help her to the ground. Legs wobbly, she fell off-balance.
He caught her elbows. “You okay, little lady?”
She stood up straight. “Certainly.”
He lit the lantern he found on a nail near the door and handed it to her. The barn was filled with gloomy silhouettes: tools, an anvil, a plow.
“Darrel said there should still be hay somewhere.” Cliff removed the halters, climbed the ladder up to the loft, and tossed down fodder for the horses. Then he took the lantern from her and they trudged outside, into the deep chill. Piles of snow on the ground reflected the lantern light.
“You’ll be wanting to use the privy. There’s gotta be one.”
They walked behind the cabin, and Cliff peered into an armoire-size building, brushed back a spongy cobweb, and held the door open for her. “All’s clear.”
He put the lantern on the hook inside and stepped back. She hoped there weren’t any spiders inside. She didn’t like them at all. Their outhouse at home was painted a cheerful yellow. This one wasn’t painted at all. It sure stank to high heaven. At home, Ma had insisted upon using powdered lime to help with that.
Cliff waited beside a large tree while she finished her business. She handed him the lantern, and they walked around to the cabin’s door. He held the lantern aloft while he pushed the door open and they stepped inside. The tang of earth and stone filled the air. Dust motes caught in the lamplight and drifted down to reveal a hooked rug splayed across the dirt floor; busted-out windows; a crystal chandelier, with dried, dripping candle wa
x, hung over a roughhewn table; and chairs pulled back, one even thrown to the ground, as if someone had left in a hurry. How odd to have a crystal chandelier all the way out here. More luxurious than any she’d seen in Kansas City—must be worth a fortune.
Cliff put his saddlebag on the table. She wandered over to the potbellied stove, where a cast-iron skillet had hardened and reeked of mold.
“Uncivilized,” Cliff said, carrying the skillet outside.
That’s a peculiar thing for a kidnapper to say. She sat in a rocker. Cliff returned with firewood from the porch. He handed her a hunk of cheese and crackers from his pocket and ate some himself.
“What do you think happened to the folks who lived here?”
“Don’t know.” He just looked at her and kept his jaw clamped shut. “There’s more food in the wagon. Want me to get you something else?”
“That’s fine. I’m not hungry.”
“Okay. We’ll unload the supplies tomorrow.” Cliff turned his back to set the fire in the stone hearth, and she gobbled down the food ravenously.
He lit the fire, sat across from her, and lit his pipe. Soon the cabin began to warm and the scents of pine and pipe tobacco filled the air.
Sally Sue yawned.
“You must be bone tired.” He tilted his head toward the brass bed.
The white eyelet quilt looked as inviting as a cloud. She glanced at Cliff. Did he plan on sharing the bed with her?
Mama had always told her never to be alone with a man, because they wanted only one thing. Sally Sue felt herself blush, even though she didn’t understand what her mama had meant. She peeked at Cliff. Would he try to do that one thing to her? Her mama had told her that after she was married, she’d have to do it—whatever “it” was—as a wifely duty.
Cliff walked toward the bed. At the foot of it, he leaned down, opened the trunk, and pulled out another blanket.
Her body, which had been weary for sleep, now quaked with anxiety. “I’ll just sleep here, in the rocker.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. I’ll bunk down in the barn.”
“But it’s freezing out there.”
“No matter. The horses will keep me warm.”
Would he really sleep with the horses?
“Sleep tight.” He slung his saddlebag over an arm, grasped the lantern, trod out the door, and closed it behind him.
Sleep tight? That’s what he thought. She planned to stay awake, give him plenty of time to fall asleep, and then scurry away. Alone for the first time in days, she fell onto the bed and crawled under the covers, boots and all—only to warm up, she told herself. On the mantel, a woven bowl, a clay pot, and a carved, hand-painted Indian doll cast eerie shadows on the firelit wall. Her eyelids fluttered closed, but they popped open and her heart picked up when she heard him coming back up the steps.
The door flung open, and he said, “You’ll be wanting this.” He yawned, set her basket on the table, and left again.
For heaven’s sake. She should escape tonight, but she knew by the time he was asleep, and with the cold and her weary body, she’d never get far. And where would she go, anyhow? She had no idea where she was. He was probably too tired to harm her tonight anyway. Tomorrow, with a good night’s rest and warm clothes, she’d go. She untied her boots and dropped them on the floor.
Exhaustion overpowered her. She closed her eyes, but no matter how hard she tried, sleep wouldn’t find her, wouldn’t bless her fearful thoughts shut. Sally Sue pulled the eyelet quilt up under her chin.
She tried to forget, but her mind kept replaying the robbery. The sound of the gunshot, the man falling, his dead eyes staring at her, Cliff’s arms around her, the cold gun pointed at her chest, fear pounding there. She wanted to harness and then let go of her fear, but despite her attempts, sleep wouldn’t come. It would be a long winter’s night.
17
At dawn, mourning doves cooed a sorrowful refrain outside. Sally Sue rolled over, ready to fall back to sleep, but then remembered where she was and sat up with a start. Through the window, dark clouds hovered in the sky.
The relit fire sent a soft glow throughout the cabin, and she smelled coffee. Her rumpled clothes were piled next to her boots on the floor. She must have escaped her corset, blouse, and bustled skirt and tossed them there sometime in the night. At home, much to her ma’s dismay, Sally Sue slept bare. She’d go to bed in her nightgown, but it would twist around her body and she’d end up pulling it off. Ma told her sleeping without nightclothes was a sin, but Sally Sue knew it wasn’t one of Moses’s Ten Commandments, and she couldn’t find a Bible passage that said so either. She had been too embarrassed to ask Pastor Grimes if there was any truth to it.
She quickly pulled the quilt around her and stared at the door.
Invisible the night before, a silver-spindled spiderweb hung above her, between the beams. A fly buzzed in it. She knew how it felt. Just like that fly, she was stuck in the middle of nowhere, without a way to break free. The insect quieted to a low hum and grew silent. She could die like that too.
A baby’s crib stood in a corner. On the wall, a framed piece of embroidery said TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. Blue-and-white willow plates like her ma’s were displayed on shelves above the sideboard. Sally Sue remembered the star-crossed lovers’ story that the plates’ pattern depicted. The two had tried to elope, but the girl’s father didn’t want her to marry a commoner. He was about to kill them, but instead the gods transformed the lovers into a pair of doves. On the plate, they were stretching their wings and flying toward heaven, where the lovers’ spirits lived together happily for eternity.
Sally Sue realized now that she’d never have an eternal love like she’d dreamed of. This ruffian would kill her before that could ever happen. But wait—if he had planned to kill her, wouldn’t he have done it by now, before they’d journeyed all this way? Out here, though, covering up the crime would be easier.
“Morning glory.” Cliff stomped into the cabin. “Rise and shine.”
She curled up like the fly and tugged the quilt over her head. If she played dead, would he leave her alone? She wished it could be that simple.
He tossed some garments on the foot of the bed. “Sleep well?”
She peeked out from under the covers and sat up, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Her hands went to her scalp. She must look a fright with her squished bouffant and quickly braided strands on either side of her head, like she’d worn when she was a girl. But how could she be worried about her appearance when she was in such a dire situation?
“Breakfast?” He handed her an apple from a bowl he’d filled and placed on the table.
She was hungry but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her eat.
He poured coffee from a pot into a willow cup and carried it to her. “Do you take cream or sugar?”
She accepted the cup. “Nothing.”
He picked up an apple and bit it. “I’ll be in the barn.”
She listened for the squeal of the barn door’s hinges before she shimmied out of bed, the quilt still around her, and devoured the apple.
What in the world? She examined the clothes he’d brought her: long johns, a plaid flannel shirt, dungarees, and clean socks. They were so big, she’d swim in them.
She scrambled into the long johns, slid on the shirt, buttoned it, and rolled up the sleeves. She stepped into the pants and rolled up the legs also. For goodness’ sake.
If only Mama could see her now: “Tighten that corset”; “button your top button”; “floof those bows.” In spite of it all, Sally Sue had to smile. She’d never liked all those clothing-etiquette constraints anyway.
She put on her boots, made her way out to the porch, and sat on the swing. The silent beauty made her heart tremble. Snow-covered peaks soared in the distance. Oaks dotted the meadow. A frozen pond the size of a rodeo roundup ring glistened in the morning sunlight through a smattering of clouds.
A solo doe wandered across the meadow, stopped, and stared at S
ally Sue. What a beauty. She didn’t see many in Kansas City, only sometimes in the park. The hustle and bustle probably scared them away.
Dark clouds began to roll in from behind the mountain peaks, and the air grew cold. She went inside and got her mittens and shawl, wishing she had a coat too. She made her way to the side of the cabin, toward the privy. As she exited, a sharp noise emanated and she spied Cliff using a pickax to dig a hole under a giant oak. She put her hand on her chest. He must be planning to hide the money—or maybe he was going to kill her and bury her body there.
Heart banging against her ribs, she tiptoed back to the cabin. Through a window, she watched him struggle to break the frozen ground. After a while, he leaned on the pickax, wiped the sweat from his brow with a bandanna, and glanced at the cabin. She stepped aside. He grinned and waved hello to her, as if trying to dig a hole behind the house under an oak was the most natural thing in the world.
She needed to find the cash and escape soon, before he killed her.
A few minutes later, he came in, carrying a crate full of supplies from the barn. “Here, you’ll need this.” He handed her a men’s coat.
“Thanks.” She took it from him. Even though it was too big, it would keep her warm.
Then, lo and behold, he cooked her flapjacks for breakfast, garnished with melted butter and honey. Imagine a man cooking like that.
“That was delicious.” She pretended all was fine with her. She didn’t want him to suspect she planned to slip away.
While he washed the dishes, as if she planned to stay, she unpacked her basket, putting her brush, Bible, and nightgown on top of the trunk at the foot of the bed.
He drew the buckboard out in front of the cabin, and she helped him unpack the goods. They placed their perishables in a box on the porch. “Always keep the lid on tight so animals don’t help themselves,” he told her.
They put in the cupboard a coffee grinder, spices, dried beans, and many other items. She was amazed by all he’d been able to buy. He must have robbed a bank. She put a hand over her mouth to conceal her smile at her own joke.
