Colorado Captive

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Silas is a lovesick old jackass,” Clancy jeered. “He’d say anything to cover for you—tellin’ how you were so loyal and brave when the mine blew up! If you’re such a model daughter, why’d you lie about who you were and what you and McClanahan were up to?” he demanded. “Your story leaks like a sieve! And now Silas is in as deep as you are, because it looks to me like you gave him that mine so he’d keep coverin’ for you!”

  She’d considered that angle, yet Papa’s friends had expressed nothing but admiration for the way she corralled Grath, and approval when she signed the Angel Claire over to Silas. Clancy had obviously missed that point: he thought Hughes should lose all his credibility, as the new owner of the Angel Claire who’d profited from Emily Burnham’s deception—which meant Donahue’s jealousy was overruling his logic. The thought that he’d retaliate against Silas after he was through torturing her made Emily’s stomach churn. “None of that really matters,” she said quietly. “Marshal Thompson and McClanahan know there’s a price on your head—”

  “You’ve got an irritatin’ way of shootin’ your mouth off,” Donahue muttered. He yanked her up until she was quivering on her tiptoes; he reeked of whiskey, and the grip on her collar threatened to choke off her breathing. “You better do less talkin’ and more thinkin’, little girl. Because when McClanahan comes to rescue you this time, I’ll tell the lawmen with him how he faked his way onto your payroll and then knocked you up, so nobody else could claim you. He’ll try to play the hero, sayin’ he’s protectin’ you and the child, but I may just have to shoot him—along with Silas and the nigger—for bein’ such nuisances to society. What do you think about that?”

  Clancy was angry because she knew about his past—which verified McClanahan’s story—and he was nearly as deranged as Nigel Grath, if he planned to ensure his escape by eliminating everyone around him. It was pointless to reason with him, but talk was the only weapon she had. “What good will all this killing do?” she challenged. “Do you think anyone will believe your word over Silas’s, or Matt’s? Or give you the chance to gun them down?”

  “They won’t know I was responsible,” he said with a short laugh. “I’m mighty good at lurin’ my prey into a trap and then coverin’ my tracks.”

  Emily gasped as his grip tightened. “Do you think Papa’s friends and attorneys would allow the Burnham estate to fall into your hands, if they knew I was forced to—”

  “They’ll never find out. I’m takin’ you—”

  “I’ll tell them!” she said in a frantic shriek. “Why on God’s earth would I want to marry such a vile—” The force of Donahue’s slap snapped her head back, and she tasted blood.

  “No more talk, you hear me?” he demanded as he shook her like a rag doll. “You’ll marry me, because it’s the only way I’ll keep quiet about your lies—because you don’t want to see Hughes shamed right out of business. And you’ll marry me because from here on out you’ll need me to stay alive.”

  Forgetting all strategy and reason, Emily kicked at his bullish body and was immediately pinned against the nearest tree trunk with a slam that made her head spin.

  “You ought to be damn glad I’ll still have you, Miss Burnham,” he said with a menacing leer. “Don’t get attached to that baby, because you’re not keepin’ it. And you’d better start actin’ like the perfect wife—obedient to your husband. Because first thing tomorrow we’re seein’ the preacher.”

  When Emily realized he was leaning down to kiss her, everything within her revolted. She tried to protest—tried to warn him she was sick—but Clancy was too enamored to listen. His lips crushed hers and then he jerked away, swearing violently as her breakfast splattered all over his shirt.

  “You goddamn—I should whip the livin’ daylights out of you!”

  But he didn’t have to. Emily was already slumping, sliding down the tree trunk unconscious.

  She felt a gnawing hunger…felt so cold her whole body was shaking…but as Emily became aware of a light she couldn’t yet identify, the only thing she knew for sure was that her head was throbbing. Instinct warned her to pause on the brink of consciousness, to listen. There was a crackling…a smoky warmth that didn’t quite reach her. Cautiously she opened her eyes and focused on the dark, irregular walls of a cave. Six feet in front of her, a small fire popped and hissed. Upon seeing that she was alone, she immediately tried to flee but her hands and feet were bound.

  Fighting desperation and a numbing, all-over pain, Emily struggled into a sitting position. Her mouth tasted like blood and vomit, and her lower lip was split. Had Donahue tied her up and left her to die?

  He wouldn’t be that kind, she thought woefully. Without me, he couldn’t lay claim to Papa’s money.

  There was a rustling at the cave entrance, and Clancy came in with his shirt in his hands. He draped it over a rock and then gave her a malicious grin. “Cold?”

  Emily nodded hesitantly.

  “Put your cloak on. It’s right there beside you.”

  As his laughter filled the cave, she realized he had no intention of draping the garment over her. Too uncomfortable to be proud, Emily scooted closer to the fire. Her hair was hanging in her face, but by the flickering light she saw that her pants and shirt were intact, if smeared with dirt. At least he hadn’t raped her while she was unconscious, but a whiff of whiskey and the gleam in his eye as he approached her told her he wasn’t finished with her.

  “We could’ve been checked into a hotel by now, gettin’ to know each other,” Donahue grumbled as he crouched beside her. “But what respectable place would take a man who smelled like puke? I had to wash it out of my shirt with snow—should’ve made you do that, but I couldn’t stand the smell any longer.”

  Emily knew he was baiting her, so she kept her retort to herself. It hurt to open her mouth, but she had too many questions to remain silent. “Where are we?” she asked in a voice that was raspy and weak.

  “Out in the hills…nowhere in particular,” he replied vaguely. “But don’t you worry, little girl. I’ve already made the arrangements with the preacher—told him we didn’t want any delay or fuss, because you were in the family way. And when I laid a bag of gold coins in his skinny fingers, he agreed pretty quick that there was no need to tell anybody about this weddin’. Just you, me, and the Lord as our witness, darlin’. You hungry?”

  Emily nodded forlornly.

  Clancy smirked, pushing her hair from her face with a roughness that nearly knocked her off balance. “That’s too damn bad!” he mocked. “We could’ve been eatin’ a fine dinner right now, at the hotel, if you’d kept your breakfast to yourself.”

  She stifled a smart remark because she knew he was lying: he wouldn’t have let her eat anything in public, for fear she’d cause a commotion. But that didn’t make her any less hungry or cold. Emily shivered, wishing McClanahan were here—wishing she’d accepted his proposal when he’d taken her home from the stockholders’ meeting, so none of this nightmare would have happened. A tear dribbled down her cheek. Her nose was dripping, and with her hands tied behind her back, she couldn’t even reach her shoulder to wipe it dry.

  “Quit your cryin’, dammit. It’s your own fault we’re here,” Donahue growled as he put another chunk of wood on the fire.

  Her snuffling would only make him angry, but Emily couldn’t control herself. She pulled her knees up to her chest, muffling her sobs in her dirt-smeared pant legs.

  “By God, if you’re still blubberin’ when I get back, I’ll put a gag on you. Whether you’re sick to your stomach or not.” The burly outlaw hunkered awkwardly in the low-ceilinged cave, glowering at her. “You think about that while I’m out tryin’ to scare up our dinner.”

  When his mutterings died out and she was alone, Emily wriggled closer to the fire. It was stupid to waste her energy feeling sorry for herself—she knew that. Yet planning an escape was senseless, too. She had no idea where they were, and the little white whirlwinds at the cave’s opening told her that even
if she could untie herself, heading out across unfamiliar, snow-covered mountainsides at night would be suicide. Donahue undoubtedly had all sorts of cruel tricks up his sleeve, but he had to keep her alive. So the best strategy was to rest, and hopefully to eat, and to do whatever was necessary to avoid Clancy’s wrath.

  Were McClanahan and Silas out looking for her by now? Poor Idaho was probably blaming himself for letting her ride to Mount Pisgah—he’d nearly had the wagon loaded when she left the house this morning. Emily ached with the knowledge that once again she’d gotten herself into trouble by heeding her own desires rather than Silas’s warning about going anywhere alone. She rolled awkwardly onto her side to try to rest.

  When Clancy returned, he was carrying two skinned rabbits that he’d fastened to a stick. He shook the snow from his coat, ignoring her as he rigged up a crude spit. Emily saw blood and clumps of fur still clinging to the rabbits’ legs as her kidnapper turned them over the flames…she was ready to pass out, she was so hungry, but the smell of burning flesh and hair turned her stomach. Closing her eyes, she tried desperately to think of anything but vomiting.

  Not long after that, she heard Donahue’s chewing. Emily looked up to see him tearing half-cooked meat from a charred carcass with his teeth. He caught her watching him, and tipped a bottle of whiskey to his lips.

  “If you want some of this, you better ask me real nice before I eat it all,” he said sarcastically.

  Emily shook her head, swallowing the sour bile that was rising into her throat. She turned toward the wall of the cave and wondered if she’d have the strength to eat by the time she was offered something edible…wondered what other ordeals and indignities Clancy would subject her to before she could get away from him.

  Why hadn’t she realized his motives when he’d insisted on coming to Cripple Creek? How could she have ignored her instincts about this craven, despicable beast who’d been posing as a bartender? McClanahan told her he’d killed Papa…the pieces fit, but Emily still couldn’t believe a lout like Clancy Donahue had been able to deceive her for so long. And that scared her.

  Her captor wiped the grease from his mouth, studying her with a greedy lust. “Ought to yank your pants down and ream you out, little girl,” he said with a throaty chuckle. “Soon as this whiskey warms me up, that’s exactly what I’ll do. What do you think of that?”

  As his laughter echoed around the cave’s walls, Emily realized it had the same mirthless, mindless sound as Nigel Grath’s cackle, only it was deeper.

  “Hope you’re ready for a helluva man, Emily,” he continued between swallows of whiskey. “I’m so big and I come on so strong, why the gals at the Rose always serviced me in twos and threes. Too much for any one of them, I was—except for Princess Cherry Blossom. Now there’s a woman.”

  Emily cringed at the thought of Grace Putnam being caught beneath Clancy’s bulk, faking passion to save her job—perhaps her life. And once again her pregnancy betrayed her: she cried silently, hating herself for it and fearing that she’d get sick at Clancy’s first touch. Her face still smarted from when he’d slapped her on the mountainside; her shattered lip stung with the salt of her tears. She heard him stand up, and then step outside to relieve himself.

  When he came back, Donahue resumed boasting about the disgusting things he liked his women to do to him. His pants were unbuttoned, and he was taking his coat off. Emily tried to shut him out by imagining Matt’s arms around her, and by recalling the times they’d made love in the abandoned cabin, and in the tub, and while riding Sundance in the moonlight. The passions they’d shared were so joyous, and McClanahan’s teachings so tender and romantic compared to the vulgar acts Clancy was describing. She wondered if she’d live to feel Matt’s body next to hers again—wondered if Matt would want her, once Donahue had taken his degrading liberties with her.

  The whiskey bottle clattered against the rocks at the cave’s entrance, and Emily held her breath. Clancy was lumbering toward her, whistling tunelessly as his green eyes took in her matted hair and shivering body. He knelt beside her, and after a moment of indecision, he reached for her cloak. “Won’t need this for long, once we get hot for each other,” he said with a low chuckle.

  It was all she could do not to throw up. Donahue’s dirty undershirt bulged out over his open fly, and he smelled of liquor and sweat and greasy, burnt meat. She forced herself to lie still as he stretched out beside her; she stifled a cry when her hair caught on the arm he slid clumsily under her head.

  “You be thinkin’ of how you’re gonna please me,” he mumbled. “Use the best tricks McClanahan taught you, and then I’ll show you how a real man feels, darlin’. Right after my dinner settles.”

  Emily waited until he shifted his monstrous body against her, wondering if she—and the baby—would survive even a moment of his rutting. “It…it might be better for both of us if my hands and feet were untied,” she said quietly.

  “Huh?” He looked at her as though her suggestion hadn’t occurred to him…which, considering the positions and props he’d described earlier, might have been the case. Then he shook with laughter. “Got to give you credit for tryin’, little girl. But there’s plenty of ways to take my pleasure. Can’t wait to see you on your knees, with your bare ass just beggin’ me to plunge into it.”

  She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see her fresh rush of tears. How had she ever considered McClanahan conniving or possessive for merely suggesting what a grand spread their combined ranches would be? Emily vowed that if she made it back to the Flaming B, and if Matt would still have her, she’d spend the rest of her life showing him how she cherished his affection and loved him for the gentle, thoughtful man he was.

  The arm Clancy rested on her hip pinched her beneath its weight; his leg felt like a tree trunk as he draped it over hers. Then he let out a long breath…and he was snoring.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—”

  “Cut the crap, preacher,” Donahue grumbled. “For what I paid you, you ought to be able to marry us in about two sentences.”

  The gangly minister’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he stood in front of them, clutching his book of ceremonies. His gaze fell on Emily as though he suspected she was there against her will, but he nodded and searched the page for a better place to start reading.

  Emily licked her throbbing lip, praying for a miracle. Clancy had shaken her awake, untied her, and they were picking their way along the drifted trail on his horse before the sun rose. They’d been camped just a little ways outside of Victor, she discovered, but as the first plans for an escape whispered through her mind, her kidnapper seemed to read her thoughts. One thick arm around her midsection reminded her that he could crush her into submission; she was sore and hungry and tired, and Clancy made it clear that none of those problems would be solved until after the wedding.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he’d snarled after he shoved her into a hotel room. “You’ll clean yourself up, we’ll meet with the preacher, and then we’re headin’ out of town. Damn shame I didn’t get my money’s worth out of this room, but I can’t risk hangin’ around here.”

  Her arms still ached from being tied behind her all night, but she managed to untangle her hair and wash the dirt from her face. Her shirt and pants were caked with mud. Surely the preacher would realize that a willing bride, no matter how embarrassed by an untimely pregnancy, would wear a clean dress to her wedding.

  But the scrawny man standing before them appeared to be even more frightened by Clancy Donahue than she was. He began reading again, in a wispy voice that couldn’t have carried much farther than the first few pews.

  “Repeat after me. I…what’s your name, dear?”

  She shifted her weight, and felt Clancy’s hand tighten around her elbow. “Emily,” she sighed.

  The preacher nodded, glancing warily at the redheaded buffalo beside her. “Repeat after me: I, Emily…”

  “I…Emily…”

  “…take thee, Cla
ncy…”

  “…take thee, Clancy…” she said under her breath. She recalled Silas’s soulful outpouring at her bedside, and reminded herself she was going through with this vile ceremony only to postpone Donahue’s revenge upon Hughes. It appeared that God wouldn’t intervene by sending a thunderbolt through the ceiling, and with each repeated phrase Emily’s spirits sank lower and lower, “…till death do us part.”

  The preacher cleared his throat and avoided Donahue’s glare. “And now, sir, if you’ll repeat after me: I, Clancy…”

  “You just do the readin’, and I’ll say yes afterwards,” the outlaw replied impatiently.

  The little man’s pale eyes widened, but he nodded and droned through the familiar passage. It was almost official; a few more words would make her Mrs. Clancy Donahue, and—

  Emily stopped listening to the preacher and cocked her head slightly toward the window…there it was again: bob bob WHITE!

  With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, Emily wrenched her arm from Clancy’s grasp and dashed to the back of the church. Donahue was clumping after her, swearing loudly, but as she burst through the door all she knew was that McClanahan was grinning at her, reaching down from Arapaho to give her a boost.

  “Better hustle, rosebud, or—”

  “What took you so long?” she gasped as she was hoisted up in front of him. “Just get me the hell out of here!”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Matt dug his heels into Arapaho’s ribs and they loped down the main street of Victor as fast as the snow underfoot would allow. Emily was settling herself in his lap, clinging to him with her feet hanging over to one side. “Maybe you’d better ride astraddle,” he suggested gently.

  “I—I’m not sure I can.”