by Mallory Rush
Love Slave
Outlaws and Heroes
Book One
by
Mallory Rush
Bestselling, Award-winning Author
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www.epublishingworks.com
ISBN: 978-1-61417-408-0
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Thank You.
Dear Reader,
It's hard to imagine a world without the technology we take for granted today. And yet, it wasn't so long ago that the only telephones outside a building were in phone booths, The Encyclopedia Britannica was the closest thing we had to Google, and books came in only one form of packaging: typeset on bound paper.
The stories I wrote during that time for Bantam Books and Harlequin were reflective of the era in which they were written. It's amazing how much has changed since Love Slave was first released. And yet, as technology continues to advance at warp speed, that which is timeless becomes more precious than ever. Love is timeless. It's as relevant today as it ever was, or will ever be.
And so are the stories that celebrate this most transcendent aspect of our lives.
I hope you enjoy Love Slave, now part of my Outlaws and Heroes series.
Wishing you a timeless supply of the kind of love you read about—
Mallory
Prologue
"Time to say goodbye to your sister, Joshua." Mr. Johns patted the twelve year old boy's dark head.
Joshua stared hard at the social worker until the man glanced away uneasily, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down just like a turkey when he gobbled. Josh shrugged the comforting hand away. Didn't want no pity. Didn't want nobody but Sarah to even touch him.
"I gotta do this right," Joshua said quietly, so his sister wouldn't hear. The man looked sad, even guilty. Josh played it for all it was worth. He stuck his thumb in the opposite direction, just like his daddy used to do when he sent him to his room. "Mr. Johns... please?"
Mr. Johns headed the other way, taking the grown-ups who'd accepted Sarah into their home along with him.
"C'mon, Sarah." Josh led the silent five-year-old into her new bedroom. She clutched her baby doll against her as Josh sat on the canopy bed and pulled her onto his lap. "Let's talk," he said, tugging on a long blonde braid.
She didn't respond to his hair pulling but stared out the lace curtained window while she stroked her little hand through the doll's ratty curls.
"Remember the Christmas Santa brought you that?"
"There's no such thing as Santa Clause." She blinked her eyes and out rolled two big tears. "He's dead too."
"Now don't you start crying. If you do you'll make me start and big boys don't cry. That's what Daddy always said. And we don't want to let him down. You and me, Sarah, we're gonna get through this and make him proud."
A huge sob shuddered through her small chest. Josh rocked her back and forth, the way he thought Daddy would do. And then he remembered his father telling him he was the man of the house and to watch after his sister while he went out for groceries that night he never came back.
"Oh, J-Josh," she stuttered out, "Josh, I'm sc-scared. I think I killed Daddy."
"That's crazy talk, Sarah."
"No it's not! 'Member when we got in trouble for laughing in church?"
"Yeah. My butt's still stinging from the lick I got when we came home."
"'Cause you couldn't quit laughin' at the old lady singing in front. But I quit. Know how?"
"How?" Josh picked up a coverlet from the foot of the bed and tucked it around them. He was going to miss his sister stealing the blanket when he went to sleep in his own strange bed.
"I pretended Daddy died. It was the horriblest, saddest thing I could think and it made me stop laughin'." She stared at him with big, frightened eyes while guilt and remorse contorted her impish face. "I did it other times too and now he's dead. I made him dead from thinkin' it. I'm a bad girl. A bad, bad girl. And preacher says the bad ones go down there. You know, that place where the devil's at with the brim and firestone? I don' wanna go there," she wailed. Sarah clutched the doll in her arms, twisting her fingers into the shaggy mop of hair.
"Shhh... shhh," he said, soothing her. "Now quit thinkin' like that, Sarah. You didn't make it happen and you're not gonna see any hellfire and brimstone. Don't go forgettin', you were always Daddy's angel, and you'll always be mine. Angels go to heaven, not hell."
"Josh, you know you're not 'sposed to say the H word. That'll earn you a lick for sure."
"And who's gonna give it to me? You?" He tweaked her nose and she giggled past her receding tears.
"You're sure I'm safe?" she said hopefully.
"Absolutely, positively sure." Josh swallowed past a lump. They'd be coming for him soon, to take him away from Sarah. Then who would look at him as if he'd hung the moon? Mr. Johns? The warden at the orphanage? A vision of iron bars and prison beds made him hug her tight.
"You're squishin' me, Josh."
He forced himself to lessen his hold and fake an encouraging smile.
"This is sure a pretty new room you've got, Sarah. Lots better than the one at home. They look real nice, your new folks do, and they were so excited when you got here, saying you were the little girl they'd always wanted."
"But they're not you. They're strangers and I want my daddy back."
"Me too. But that won't change anything. We've got to say good-bye for a little while but when I'm old enough I'm gonna take you away from here. That's a promise."
"When, Josh?"
He could visit on holidays. Big deal. He wanted his sister back and all he could think of now was years and years of more good-byes like this. It was tearing his guts out just thinking about it.
And so he didn't. He thought about how he was going to keep his promise to Sarah. He knew he'd need a place for them to live and enough money to take care of her.
How could he do it? Mowing lawns? But maybe the orphanage wouldn't even let him out to do that. Just like they'd lock him in tonight so he couldn't comfort Sarah while she cried herself to sleep.
Something hard knotted up inside him and settled protectively around his heart. His hands clenched the sheet and he held her as close as he could without making her yelp.
"I'll come back when I've got lots of money," he decided. "Then I'll buy you and me a brand-new house. Whenever you feel sad, just think about that."
"You promise?"
"Cross my he
art, hope to—"
She threw her arms around his neck and nearly hugged the stuffings out of him. Josh stared at the window that was lifted a crack, the warm Mississippi breeze cutting through his emotions and clearing his head.
Suddenly, he had an answer, the beginnings of a plan.
"Can you keep a secret, Sarah? A real important secret? 'Cause if you tell, I can't come back to get you." She nodded her head, her braid bouncing up and down. "I'm running away."
"No, Josh! You could get in bad trouble."
"Only if they catch me." Realizing he didn't have any time to waste, he forced himself to put her down. His expression was stern. "This is what we've got to do. You lay down and pretend to be resting. If they ask you where I am, you say I went to get you a drink of water. That way they'll look around the house before they go after me."
"But that's lyin'!"
"It's a good lie, Sarah. If I don't get away I'll never be able to get you back and you want me to, don't you?"
"More'n anything." She looked real scared as Josh tucked her in and kissed her cheek. He was suddenly torn between crawling under the covers with her and making a run for it.
"I love you, Sarah. Be sure to say your prayers every night and remember you're my angel. And when you get homesick just think about me and that day I'll take you back home."
"I love you, big brother."
He extricated her arms from around his neck and gave her the baby doll to cling to instead. Josh turned before she saw the tears brimming his eyes.
Big boys don't cry... big boys don't cry...
He crawled through the window then shut it back to a crack as soon as his feet touched grass. Blowing his sister a final kiss, he made sure the coast was clear then ran as fast as his feet could fly.
Sure wished he had some of those Keds so he could take off like Superman outrunning the train.
Train! He hadn't known where he was headed, but now he did. They'd passed some tracks a mile or so down the road. He'd hop the first train that whizzed by.
Josh was winded by the time he got there. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting the orphanage's guard dogs to hunt him down.
He'd followed the tracks a good mile when he heard a chug-a-lug that sounded like his own labored breathing. Then the train was passing, passing too fast and no way could he be Superman and outrun it. Just barely, he made out the oncoming blur of an open side-door.
Josh's legs pumped at top speed while he tried to remember how he'd seen this stowaway trick done in the movies. Lordy, he wished he was taller, as tall as Sarah thought he was, tall enough to hang the moon and swing her on a star.
Do it! He sprang high at a dead run and caught the side edge of the railway car. The velocity of wind sucked at him, pulling him under the slicing wheels and iron tracks. He screamed, his fingers sliding and clawing to pull the rest of him to safety. Josh looked down, his eyes wild and horrified. He felt the mean steel all but eating up his feet and knew if he let go he'd be mangled like a mouse chewed up by a tomcat.
And then he felt something grab onto his locked arm. Raising his head the wind whipped it so hard he thought his neck would snap. His eyes were glued to a grizzled face, a mouth gnashing out some urgent command.
He nearly pulled the man out with him before they were both safely inside. Josh fell into a trembling heap on the coarse floor. He heard the door being shoved nearly closed while the locomotive's deadly wheels sang a rusty lullaby against his raw cheek.
And then he was being gently nudged and a brown paper sack filled his stinging vision.
"Drink some, young'un. Not too much or you'll puke. Just a swig to make your innards quit shakin'."
It felt like liquid fire going down. Josh coughed and sputtered, trying to regain his breath. By the time he did, his comrade was guzzling freely.
"Running away?"
"No sir, I'm just on vacation."
"Sir?" The man cackled, revealing dingy teeth.
The liquor hit and Josh felt warmly numb. His insides quit shaking and he leaned back, exhausted.
"Thank you, sir. You saved my life."
"That depends. Just might've saved you for somethin' worse than you were running from." He coughed and spat on the floor then wiped his mouth against the arm of his ragged shirt. "What's your name, boy?"
"Joshua Smith."
"Wrong. First thing you got to learn on the run is don't leave no trail. Name's are like Hansel with his breadcrumbs and no bird around to eat the tracks."
Josh nodded, feeling weariness overtake his bones.
"What's your name?" he asked, covering a yawn.
"Ain't got no name. Left it behind when I took off on my own vacation." He patted Josh's bruised arm, and Josh could smell body odor and the sweat he'd worked up saving him. It was a comforting touch all the same. "You listen up good, boy. This train's headed for Chicago. Don't make a peep and you might make it. Big city makes it hard to find runaways. Want to tell me why you're running now?"
"My dad died. They put my sister in a home and were going to tote me off to an orphan—"
"Don't know why you're running, don't care to know."
"Then why'd you ask?"
"I'm tryin' to teach you somethin', give you some schoolin' that's not in the books."
Josh considered that. Sounded like good advice. "Are you going to Chicago?" he asked hopefully.
"Me, I'm getting off at the next refuel stop."
"Can I come with you? I won't be any bother, I promise."
"Best you learn right now the only way to travel is alone. Now get you some rest and don't say no more. Me and the bottle want to get cozy."
Josh shut his eyes, meaning to pretend sleep. If he was careful he could sneak out and follow his friend long enough to pick up more lessons before striking out on his own.
The liquor, the ordeal, the lull of the train's constant movement seduced him to sleep.
When Josh awoke the train was still moving but he was alone. He looked around the emptiness, dark now since it was night. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to remember.
And then he wished he hadn't. He was glad his father wasn't here, glad no one could see the tears that big boys weren't supposed to cry.
Reaching into his pocket, he found a torn up Kleenex. And a five dollar bill. He knew it hadn't been there when he'd jumped the train. Remembering that protective hardness he'd summoned in Sarah's room, he drew on it again, replacing his tears with something gritty and determined.
* * *
When Josh Smith hit Chicago, he had five dollars, the clothes on his person, and a promise to keep. In less than a week he had a room in a deserted building where he'd fought the rats for space; a box he'd painted black, stuffed with clean rags and a can of saddle soap, plus a rickety chair he'd salvaged from an alley.
Joe, at the greasy spoon next door, loaned him a spot on the corner and leftovers from the grill, in exchange for running errands and free shines.
Spotting a potential client, Josh wiped off the cracked vinyl seat and intercepted the man's path.
"Shine your shoes, mister? Fifty cents'll get you the full treatment. Spit polished and shiny as a new penny."
The man sat and Josh had his first customer. "You got a name, son?"
"Rand Slick," Josh said, quickening his buffing strokes.
As good a name as any for a man with no roots. A man in a boy's borrowed body who'd learned two rules from a bum:
Trust no one but if you do make damn sure they earned it.
And go the dark, endless road back home alone.
Chapter 1
"Mister?"
"What?"
"I said, shine your shoes, mister?"
Rand Slick blinked several times, willing the present to focus.
"Sorry, son, can't spare the time." He pulled out a wad of big ones and peeled off a fifty. "Grab a square meal but put the rest in your college fund. Believe me, it's a wise investment."
Rand hurried on, skirting a bum hugging a
brown paper sack. He hated this sleazy quarter of Vegas. The atmosphere made him feel dirty, as though his fine clothes and supple leather wing tips were molting, leaving him in rags and battered shoes. Nothing but his ongoing quest to find his sister could induce him to relive the bad old days of youth.
He entered a run down building, his hopes lowering with each step on threadbare carpet. His sources had said this P.I. was good, but the seedy surroundings made him wonder.
He scanned the faded lettering on yellowed milk glass office doors until he stood in front of one that smelled of Windex. The black ink scored into clear beveled glass was carefully etched and looked new.
"Rachel Tinsdale, Private Investigator," he read. His flagging spirits climbed a notch when he opened the door and a tinkling wind chime announced his entry. The scent of potpourri and lemon oil masked the mustiness of age. The office was neat, the furniture second hand but warmly vintage. A vacant desk with several stacks of paper, a cup of coffee, and only a mild litter of files rounded out the scenario.
"Have a seat and I'll be right with you."
The invitation came from under the desk. He frowned. Voices could be deceiving, but this one sounded, well, kittenish, too young. An ingénue from an old Elvis movie. Not a good sign. Reflexes and courage and quick thinking were important for the job he needed done. Maybe his sources were wrong. If so, better to find out now. He'd check Ms. Tinsdale's rep out for himself.
His steps were muffled by a big oriental rug. Once he was positioned by the desk's side he got a view of flowing red hair, a slender back covered in white cotton, and what appeared to be a cute little tush bobbing on the edge of a wicker chair. The backside package was nice, but it was a minor credential when he needed skills he could trust. Yes, a test on how she faced unexpected danger was imperative.
"Don't move," he ordered in a low, menacing tone. "Stop what you're doing and don't move a hair."
"Just let me polish this last toenail, okay?"
