Hope (9781414341583)

by Copeland, Lori

  Dan drew a resigned breath, looking away.

  There was only one problem: this woman wasn’t Anne Ferry.

  Chapter Two

  The dark-haired beauty struggled against the burly outlaw who had slung her over his shoulder like a sack of feed. Dan watched the exchange, helpless to intervene. If he tipped his hand, he and the girl would both be shot.

  “Stop fighting me, girlie!” Big Joe dragged Hope toward his waiting horse. “Frog, tie up that driver and guard!”

  “Hold it a minute.” Joe whirled at the sound of Grunt’s voice. Dan met his eyes with a grave warning.

  “How do we know she’s Thomas Ferry’s daughter?”

  Dan had met Anne Ferry at a social event at the senator’s mansion in Lansing a couple of years back. While Anne was an attractive young woman, she couldn’t hold a candle to this dark-haired beauty pummeling Joe’s back.

  Slim and fine boned, she was a striking enchantress. A cloud of black hair framed her pretty heart-shaped face. Eyes—an unusual shade of violet—were wide beneath her flowered straw hat, but not with fear. Stubbornness. Dan could spot obstinacy a mile off. This woman was going to fight Joe Davidson every step of the way.

  “It is Miss Ferry—paper said so,” declared Joe.

  Dan met the girl’s headstrong gaze as Big Joe let her down off his shoulder. “Are you Anne Ferry?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “She is too!”

  Dan shot Boris a short glance. “She says she isn’t.”

  “Well, she’s lyin’ through her teeth. Look here.” Boris picked up the turquoise purse lying in the coach seat and rummaged through its contents. Holding up a gold locket, he asked smugly, “What’s this say?”

  Dan frowned when he read the initials: A. F. How did this young woman come to be in possession of Anne Ferry’s personal effects?

  The girl watched the spectacle, tapping her foot. “Anne was on the stage, but she had to leave when her chaperone fell ill and—”

  “She’s lyin’!”

  “I am not!”

  “Are too! You’d say anythin’ to save yore hide!”

  Dan’s sharp command broke up the spirited debate. “We can’t just take a woman hostage without knowing her identity.” That’s all Dan needed—a woman thrown into this insane mission to up the ante.

  The girl wasn’t Anne Ferry, but he had little choice but to play along and stay close enough to keep her from harm. Thomas Ferry wasn’t going to pay money for a daughter who wasn’t missing.

  “Well, well.” Big Joe rubbed his beefy hands together, studying his prize. “Yore a purty little dish. Papa’s gonna pay a handsome sum to get you back.”

  Crossing her arms, Hope glared at him. “I can’t imagine why. I’m not Anne Ferry. My name is Hope Kallahan.”

  Big Joe snickered. “Is not.”

  “Is too.”

  “Is not!”

  “I am not Thomas Ferry’s daughter!” Hope stamped her foot.

  “’Course you’d say that!”

  Dan shook his head, turning his horse. Now he had four of them on his hands.

  “Frog! Get Miss Ferry’s valise,” Big Joe ordered. “She’ll need duds.”

  The silent outlaw climbed atop the stage and started rifling through the baggage. Grinning in triumph, Frog lifted up a green carpetbag a moment later.

  Joe nodded. “Says A. F. That’s hers all right.”

  Dan watched the exchange. Where was Anne Ferry, and why was her bag still on the stage? Was foul play involved? He studied the young woman, who was engaged in another heated dispute with Joe. Exactly what was going on here?

  Frog pitched the valise to the ground, then climbed down. A moment later the gang mounted, and Boris and Frog fired their guns in the air. The sudden explosion spooked Big Joe’s horse, and it reared, spilling Joe and the woman to the ground. In a flurry of screeches and petticoats, Hope landed hard on top of the outlaw. The breath whooshed out of him. He lay for a moment, staring blankly up at the sky.

  Bounding to her feet, Hope kicked dust at the outlaw. “How dare you!”

  Joe’s face flamed, and he rolled awkwardly to his feet. “Doggone it.”

  Brushing dust off the back of her dress, Hope glared at him. “Can’t you ride a horse?”

  He swore and glared at her. “The fool thing spooked.”

  Boris eyed the stage drivers warily. “Quit messin’ around, Joe. We gotta get outta here.”

  Joe climbed back on the horse, swung Hope up behind him, and the gang rode off in a boil of dust.

  Hope’s heart hammered as the horses galloped down the narrow road. Fear crowded her throat, but she refused to give in to its paralyzing effects. She was scared—more frightened than she’d ever been in her life. Were they going to kill her? How soon before someone found her bones that the buzzards had picked clean and shipped them back to Aunt Thalia? Pray, Hope. Pray! But her thoughts were frozen.

  She quickly weighed her options. She couldn’t convince these men that she wasn’t Anne Ferry. Perhaps that was good. When they discovered that she was Hope Kallahan and not the senator’s daughter, they’d have no further use for her. But she could identify them. They would be forced to do away with her in order to save their rotten hides.

  She had to pretend to be Anne until she could escape. That’s what she had to do. Pretend to be Thomas Ferry’s daughter until she could get away from these horrible men.

  The men pushed the horses hard, up ravines and through narrow passes. Hope lost track of time. She concentrated on staying astride the animal though her limbs were numb. They rode at a feverish pace, but the one called Grunt controlled his horse effortlessly. He was different from the others. His body was hard and lean. His shirt and denims—even his bedroll looked clean and well kept.

  Hope found herself hypnotized by the horse’s rhythm beneath her. Surrendering to exhaustion, she lay her head against Big Joe’s back and closed her eyes. Her mind refused to rest. She wasn’t Anne Ferry. What would happen to her when these men discovered their mistake?

  Toward dark, she became aware that the riders were slowing. She sat up straighter, trying to focus.

  The sun was sinking behind a row of tall pine trees as they rode into a small clearing. A shallow stream gurgled nearby. Hope peered around the outlaw’s shoulder and saw a ramshackle cabin set in the middle of the meadow, the front door sagging half-off its hinges. Her pulse quickened, and her arms tightened around her captor’s waist.

  “Home sweet home, girlie.” Big Joe swung out of the saddle, pitching the reins to Boris. The desperado stalked toward the cabin, leaving Hope to dismount for herself.

  As she attempted to climb down, a pair of strong arms grasped her around the waist. Grunt lifted her out of the saddle and onto the ground. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

  Yanking free of his grasp, she marched toward the rickety shelter.

  “Whooooeeee. Got us a fireball!” Joe stood on the front porch, mock fright on his face. “Hurry along, darlin’. You got to write a note to yore daddy.”

  “I don’t know how to write,” Hope said, trying to meet his one-eyed gaze. One eye kept going south.

  He managed to focus. “Stubborn, ain’t ya?”

  “Your effort to extort money from Mr. Ferry is useless.”

  Big Joe bent forward, and Hope fought the urge to run. His good eye pinned her. “We know who you are, so jest stop sayin’ that unlessin you want to get me riled. Your luggage says you are, your purty gold engraved locket says so too. Yore her, lady.”

  Hope stiffened. “Maybe.”

  The bowlegged outlaw spit over the porch railing. She saw Grunt back away from the conversation, watching the exchange from beneath the lowered brim of his black felt hat.

  “Git on in there.” Big Joe grabbed Hope’s arm and tried to shove her ahead of him. He kicked the front door open and stepped inside. Frog followed him, carrying Hope’s suitcase.

  When Hope saw the room’s condition, she caug
ht her breath. Stopping dead in her tracks in the doorway, she wrinkled her nose. She’d never seen anything so filthy. Broken furniture, dishes with remnants of dried food still on them. Something furry skittered out of a bowl and raced down the table leg. She shuddered. Surely they didn’t expect her to stay here!

  “This is unacceptable!”

  Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. The only window was obscured by dirt. The woodstove, used for both cooking and heating she assumed, had rusted from neglect. Trash littered the corners, and the rodents had brought nuts in from the outdoors. Her gaze traveled to the only bed in the room, a single cot with a dirty quilt wadded up on the bare ticking. Her eyes switched to the ceiling, where holes large enough for a good-size animal to slide through were apparent.

  She whirled at the sudden movement in a corner and cringed. The room was infested with rodents and who knew what else? Fear constricted her throat.

  Big Joe came back to physically try and pull her into the room. “Come on, git in here, girlie.”

  Hope planted her feet and refused to move. “Never.”

  Big Joe peered at her menacingly. “What’d you mean, never? You gotta come in. I say so.”

  She shook her head, refusing to budge. “I’m not going in there—not until someone removes those—those things.”

  Frog and Boris exchanged quizzical looks. Boris scratched his head. “What things?”

  Joe tried to yank her into the room, but she dug her heels in.

  “Now yore rilin’ me, girlie!”

  Crossing her arms, Hope planted herself in the doorway. If Big Joe wanted to shoot her, he could. She wasn’t going into that pigsty. They would either clean it up, or she would stand here all night.

  Big Joe, hands on his hips, big stomach hanging over his belt, glared at her. “You get yoreself in here, missy. Right now!”

  Hope shook her head. She was scared—she didn’t know if Joe would shoot her on the spot, but she wasn’t going in that room. “I will not subject myself to that …” They think you’re the senator’s daughter, an inner voice reminded her. “My daddy wouldn’ ’low it.”

  That wasn’t a lie. Papa wouldn’t have allowed her to breathe air in that room, let alone stay in it.

  Big Joe grabbed her arm. “You’ll do as I say—”

  “No,” Hope screeched, stomping his foot.

  Grabbing his toe, Big Joe did a painful jig.

  The two struggled, Hope’s boot connecting with the outlaw’s shins. He whooped, dancing in circles now.

  Grunt calmly stepped in to break up the fray. Grasping Joe’s arm, he moved him to safety. “If she wants to stay out here and let the coyotes get her, that’s her choice.”

  Hope shot him a sour look. He didn’t scare her. He might act nicer than the others, but he wasn’t.

  Well, she could stand anything. Besides, they wouldn’t want a coyote near the cabin. Their hides would be in danger, too.

  Grunt brushed past her. “Leave her alone. She’ll come in soon enough.”

  Ha. They didn’t know Hope Kallahan. Papa said she had a one-track mind. No one could make her do anything she didn’t want to do. And right now, she didn’t want to go into that dirty room. Crossing her arms, she rooted herself in the doorway.

  Boris tried to close the door, but Hope braced her weight and refused to budge.

  “Git outta the way so I can shut the door. It’s gonna git cold in here tonight.”

  “No.”

  Boris took a step back, hunched his shoulder, and burst toward the door, his face filled with determination.

  Hope calmly stepped aside.

  The outlaw shot through the opening and barreled headlong across the porch, slamming into the porch railing. The impact threw him into the air, and he landed flat on his back. Groaning, he rolled to his side and lay there.

  Joe and Frog stood on tiptoe, gaping at the standoff.

  Hope resumed her position. Recrossing her arms, she stared at them. They just didn’t know Hope Kallahan.

  Finally Big Joe gave in. “Hang it all! If she don’t want to come in, she don’t want to come in!”

  Frog tossed her suitcase on the cot. A cloud of dust rose and fogged the air.

  “What else could we expect from Ferry’s daughter? Livin’ in that big house with all kinds of servants,” Big Joe grumbled. “Have folks waitin’ on her, hand and foot. Spoiled rotten, that’s what she is.”

  Hope shot him an impatient glare.

  “Spoiled rotten,” Boris groused, rolling to his feet. He stretched, and bones popped.

  The men dismissed her, going about their business.

  Frog walked to the stove and lit it. He cut carrots and potatoes. Before long, he stirred them into a bubbling pot. Hope’s stomach knotted with hunger. It seemed like days since she’d eaten at the way station.

  Grunt removed his gun belt and hung it over a hook. Her eyes followed him as he moved about the room. There was something different about him. He seemed more in control, less volatile. Miles smarter. Why would he choose to ride with these miscreants?

  The men ate—a thin, watery stew with crusted slices of buttered bread. The smell of coffee made Hope faint. The men’s spoons mesmerized her. She could almost taste the potatoes, carrots… .

  “Hungry?” Boris asked without looking up.

  “No.” She looked away.

  “Hummm, mighty tasty vittles, Frog.” Joe dipped up a large spoonful of stew and held it out in front of him. Steam rose off the food, the heavenly smell wafting across the room. Hope swallowed and looked at the ceiling.

  Minutes ticked slowly by. The wind picked up, blowing a gale through the open doorway. Her thin cloak fluttered. Goose bumps welled on her arms.

  The men gulped down their food, shooting resentful glances at her and huddling deeper into their jackets as the wind whistled around their ears. Their breath formed frosty vapors in the air.

  An hour passed, then two. Hope couldn’t feel her legs now. The men were getting ready to bed down for the night, their teeth chattering as they rummaged for blankets.

  “Cold enough to hang meat in here,” Boris grumbled.

  “Leave her alone. She cain’t stand there all night.” Big Joe jerked a rug off the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders.

  Hope’s chin rose a notch. She could stand here forever or until she froze stiff. Whichever came first.

  “We take shifts watching her.” Big Joe unrolled his bedding. “Grunt, you and Frog take first shift. Me and Boris’ll take second. I want her watched ever’ minute until we get that ransom.”

  “She’ll have to have privacy, Joe.” Grunt pitched the remains of his coffee into the fire.

  “We’ll string a blanket—she’ll hafta make do. This ain’t no fancy hotel.”

  Grunt stared into the fire. “No one touches her. Is that understood?”

  When Big Joe opened his mouth, Grunt reiterated the order. “No one touches her. She’s to be treated like a lady at all times. We don’t want Ferry accusing us of hurting his little girl.”

  Boris bent down, trying to coax more heat from the old stove. “Maybe we ought not to ask so much for her. She’s mean—real mean. Her daddy might not want her back.”

  Big Joe grunted. “He’ll want her—he has to want her. She’s his daughter.”

  Hope choked back an angry response. If they thought the ransom wouldn’t be met, they might easily abandon her here alone, without food or water. She’d die in this filthy hole. She swallowed her complaints.

  “Cat got your tongue, Miss Ferry?” Boris grinned, rolling deeper into his blanket.

  Hope refused to look at him.

  Getting up from his chair, Joe stretched, then scratched in places a gentleman didn’t scratch in front of a lady. Stretching out on the cot, he lifted his head off the dirty ticking and grinned at Hope. “Yore welcome to the best bed in the house, Miss Snooty Ferry, if yore a mind to sleep tonight.”

  Eyes of violet steel chilled him. “I’d sooner eat d
irt.”

  “That can be arranged, too.” Joe yawned, then sank back on the pillow. “Nighty, night.”

  Grunt took up watch beside the fire, huddling deeper into his coat. “Leave her alone, Joe.”

  Arms akimbo, Hope stood in the doorway.

  Soon the only sounds were the groan of the cooling stove and Big Joe’s snores.

  Grunt sat beside the fire, his dark eyes trained on Hope. Frog kept watch from the table, blowing to warm his stiff fingers.

  Lord, Hope prayed, closing her eyes against the sight of four strangers sprawled about the filthy room. This isn’t my fault; I only wanted to get to Medford to meet my future husband. I don’t know why you’ve involved me in this horrible mistake, but please help me. She opened her eyes, then shut them again. It isn’t fair, Lord. I’ve done nothing to deserve this. Where are you? Her feet ached, and she was so hungry she could eat dirt. What would Faith and June do? They’d pray, just like Papa; they’d pray and trust the Lord to deliver them.

  Did she really believe there was a kind, benevolent heavenly Father living in a place with streets of gold, forgiving people of their sins, rescuing them from evil men who kidnapped people?

  Did she really, truly believe that?

  There’d never been a time when she wasn’t aware there was a Lord, a higher being. Papa had made sure of that. But honestly, she’d never thought much about her beliefs. Papa believed—it only stood to reason she did, too. She believed in her own way … but belief like Papa had? Tears stung her eyes. She was cold and hungry and alone and scared.

  If you’re there, show yourself, Lord. Papa was a righteous man. He did enough praying for both of us—have you forgotten? Deliver me from this … this travesty.

  She reached out to grip the edge of the doorframe to steady herself. Grunt and Frog had their eyes closed now. Boris and Big Joe were snoring loud enough to wake the dead. A chair was just three feet from her.