Heart of the Rockies Collection

by Kathleen Morgan

  All of this could’ve been ours, she thought, if Papa hadn’t been cheated in that card game . . .

  The musty smell of the cellar soon distracted her from the painful, impotent musings. Cord halted when he’d reached the bottom of the steps, and lowered Sarah to stand against the solid support of his body. After a brief fumbling in the darkness, a light flared as he struck a match and lit the wick of an old miner’s lantern, then quickly closed the door of its square glass chimney.

  She blinked in the sudden brightness. As her vision cleared, Sarah realized he was staring at her. There was no anger in his expression, only a bold appraisal reminiscent of that day at the barn when she’d offered herself to him.

  Sarah’s heart commenced an erratic beat, and she nervously licked her lips. What’s he thinking? The cellar’s well-insulated from earshot from above. How far will he go to avenge himself, especially after making it plain he views me as not much better than one of Ashton’s crib girls?

  “Don’t do that!”

  At the sharp command, Sarah jumped. “Wh-what? Don’t do what?”

  “Lick your lips like that. Look at me like that!” Once more, glacial anger hardened his features. “Didn’t you learn your lesson last time about teasing me?” He paused of a sudden, his gaze turning speculative. “Or did you instead decide you liked it and want more?”

  “Liked it?” Sarah nearly choked on the words. “Want more? From you? Well, let me set that crazy idea to rest once and for all, Cord Wainwright. I want nothing—absolutely nothing—from you except to get as fast and far away from you as possible!”

  “Talk about crazy ideas,” he replied with a derisive snort. “Despite your desires to the contrary, the farthest you’re getting from me is this cellar.”

  He led her toward a door and, with a swift kick, forced it open. It was a small room, its darkness broken only by a high, small, slatted window.

  Sarah sighed. Far too high and small to escape through.

  The odor of rotting potatoes wafted to her. Her nostrils flared. Someone needs to get down here and do a serious sorting of produce, she thought, her housekeeping instincts fleetingly slipping past her realization of the gravity of the moment.

  With a gentle shove, Cord assisted her into the room. Sarah stumbled in to stand beside a large oak barrel filled with something that smelled like cider. He held the lantern high and, as it swung to and fro, grotesque, agitated shadows danced across the small enclosure.

  “I hope the accommodations are to your liking.” His deep voice was curiously devoid of emotion. “They’re all yours until I get the information I want.”

  At the reminder of her family and what they’d done, a fierce sense of protectiveness flooded Sarah. “If you think I’ll ever tell you where they are, you’ve got another think coming!”

  The bravado in her voice and posture was a sham. Even as she spoke, the cellar’s chill was already beginning to seep through her damp clothes and into her bones, leaching away her courage. What she really wanted to do was scream, to beg him not to leave her in here. But how could he know that she had a terror of small, dark places?

  To hide the fear she knew must burn in her eyes, Sarah lowered her head. She bit back a moan of pain. Her hands hurt so badly from the bonds, but she’d rather die than beg him for anything.

  “Get out,” she whispered. “Just go. Leave me alone.”

  “Have it your way.”

  The door slammed shut, and a bolt slid into place. Silence, heavy and suffocating, settled over her. Sarah choked back a shriek of pure panic. Where’s my papa? Surely, by now, he must know what’s happened.

  Be reasonable, Sarah lectured herself even as a rising hysteria clawed at the thin veneer of control that was holding her together. Papa knows where you’ve been taken. He’ll come when the time’s right. And what more can Cord Wainwright do to you anyway? Even the Wainwrights aren’t above the law.

  She chuckled softly, the realization flowing over her like a soothing balm. Whether he knew it or not, Cord Wainwright had already played his best hand and lost. All she had to do was wait. She’d be out of here in no time.

  Sarah shifted her position in an effort to stir the circulation in her arms. The action proved fruitless. She sighed. Yes, all I’ve got to do is wait. If only my hands weren’t turning numb . . .

  3

  Cord sat at the window seat, savoring a glass of the tart cider he loved so well. Fresh from his bath, his black hair still damp and glistening, he thoughtfully gazed through the lace curtains and beveled glass panes. The burnished gold grasslands of the Wainwright ranch undulated in the gentle breeze, moving in endless, inexorable waves toward the distant peaks.

  His glance moved out across the wide valley and upward, caressing the spruce- and pine-studded mountains and craggy, rock-strewn summits. One peak, as always, caught his gaze. Crowned with a rock formation that looked like the ruins of some ancient fortress, it had long ago inspired his father to name the ranch Castle Mountain after it.

  The scene, as pleasing as it was to the eye, was nonetheless marred by a bittersweet pain. He didn’t belong here anymore, no matter how poignantly the land called to him. Indeed, had always called to him.

  The past six months since he’d arrived from New York City had been some of the most miserable of his life. His father, true to form, had bungled everything, from his bad investments and ill-conceived plans to the relationship he’d always had with his youngest son. It was no different now, after all these years. After all Cord had sacrificed in coming home just to save the ranch.

  Cord’s gut twisted in pain and, with an angry growl, he rose and headed to his bureau. There, he set down the cider and stared at his image in the silvered glass. The reflection glared back at him, burning black eyes in a face set and hard.

  He didn’t like the strained, tense expression he saw, an expression he seemed to wear constantly these days. How he yearned to return to New York! There he’d been content . . . fulfilled. Well, as content and fulfilled as an aloof, unloving God would allow anyone in this life.

  But no matter. That time’s fast drawing near, he reminded himself as he fastened closed the buttons of his crisply ironed white shirt. Now that I’ve finally got the Caldwell girl, regaining the stolen money once again is a viable option. He grimaced. A viable option indeed, if only I can get the information I need from her.

  Why did she have to be so stubborn? So infuriating? Before he’d left her in the cellar, he’d planned on untying her, getting her cleaned up a bit, and even giving her a blanket against the cold of that underground room. But maybe a little neglect would hasten her cooperation. Cord smiled grimly. Yes, let Sarah Caldwell stew a bit.

  Sarah . . .

  What a beautiful, gentle name for such a calculating little minx. Yet, she certainly hadn’t seemed wicked or selfish that day at the barn. All he remembered was an ethereally lovely girl. That, and the surprisingly intense reaction she had stirred in him. What was it about her that made a mockery of his common sense?

  His feelings for her had to be totally physical. There was no other explanation for his response to Sarah. It wasn’t, after all, as if they had anything in common—he an educated lawyer and she a girl from an impoverished, low-class family who wasn’t above robbing folk blind.

  His physical reaction to her was the least of his problems, however. The most pressing matter was what to do with her.

  A frown wrinkled Cord’s brow. She couldn’t stay in the cellar indefinitely, yet there was no other room in the house secure enough to prevent her escape. It wasn’t as if his father would tolerate him putting bars on all the windows. All the same, it just might come to that.

  Maybe he should just hobble Sarah like some horse. A fleeting image of her limping about the house, trying all the while to maintain some semblance of that ridiculous hauteur of hers, filled him with amusement. Wouldn’t she be mad!

  Cord chuckled, grabbed up his glass, and drained its contents. An interesting consideratio
n at the very least, if she didn’t come around to his way of things. First, though, there were a few other matters to be dealt with. Like at least untying her and providing a few blankets against the cold. Cleaning Sarah up could wait a day or so, until some time in the cellar took the edge off her stubbornness.

  He set down his now empty glass and reluctantly headed out the door. His thoughts had already flitted ahead—down to a cellar wherein lay a beautiful little wildcat.

  The cold. Why is it so cold? Is this where it ends, then, with me doomed to die here in this awful cellar, forgotten and alone?

  Sarah rolled onto her side. Her arms were little more than leaden, insensitive lumps, aching with a strange, almost intolerable pain. But how could it hurt when they were so numb?

  A tear trickled down her face. It was hard to be brave when all she wanted to do was scream, call for help, beg—anything—if only to relieve the horrible quiet.

  It didn’t matter that she’d been against the robbery from the start. That she’d gone along only because Danny was so sick with his asthma and needed frequent medical help and medications. Medical help and medications that, no matter how little Doc and the pharmacist asked in payment, they couldn’t afford.

  In the end, though, she’d involved herself just as deeply as the rest of her family, and bore the same burden of guilt. As the one sent to distract and trick him, she may seem even guiltier in Cord Wainwright’s eyes. How else could he see her but as a mean, treacherous little tramp?

  She wanted to tell him their need had been great or they’d never, ever, have stolen. She wanted to ask him to understand, but even before the faint hope of forgiveness flickered to life beneath her breast, she quashed it.

  What good would it do? He was a Wainwright to the bone. He’d only laugh at her. And she couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, no matter what. If she did, they’d all end up in jail, and then who’d take care of Danny?

  It had all been for her little brother, she reminded herself yet again. Even if she alone must accept the punishment for their deed, Danny’s health was all that mattered. If he survived long enough to outgrow his terrible attacks of asthma, then it would’ve been worth it. It had to be worth it. Yet why was it so hard, even knowing that?

  Because you might never see him again, or be there for him, a small voice replied. The anguished admission seared her heart.

  Hot tears coursed down Sarah’s cheeks. What would Danny do without her—she who’d been both sister and mother to him? She was the only one who could soothe his tortured breathing when the asthma wracked his thin little body. Despite all of Papa’s and her older brothers’ efforts, she was the one Danny always turned to. And now she was lost to him, perhaps forever.

  Failing Danny was just one more in a series of failures, all stemming from that deathbed promise she’d made her mother. “It’s up . . . to you now, Sarah,” Eliza Caldwell had whispered that fateful day, now five years past, her breaths halting and ragged as the consumption inexorably ate through the last of her lungs. “Up to you . . . to be the mother . . . take care of the family . . . protect them . . .”

  Even now, Sarah could see her poor mother, face ashen, the fragile skin beneath her eyes smudged with exhaustion, her thin, delicate hands picking aimlessly at her threadbare coverlet. “I’ll take care of them, Mama,” she’d replied, choking back the tears. “You know I will.”

  “P-promise me!” The words escaped on a shuddering sigh. “Promise me . . . you’ll always be there . . . for your father. He needs you . . . more than all the rest. Help him . . . to find a new heart . . . to find God.”

  With that, Eliza began to cough, bringing up foamy blood. Sarah gathered her mother into her arms, held a cloth to her lips. She didn’t want to make that promise, fought against doing so with every fiber of her being. She was only thirteen. How was she supposed to know how to help her father find a new heart, after all those years of soul-rotting enmity and back-breaking failure? And what did she really know of God, despite all her mother’s efforts to teach her, if God now chose to take away the only person in her life she could always count on? What kind of a God would do a thing like that?

  Yet the look in her mother’s eyes brooked no protest or refusal, so Sarah nodded her acquiescence. “I promise, Mama,” she said. “I promise.”

  With that admission, something seemed to let go within her mother. She smiled softly, then closed her eyes. The coughing dissipated on a deep sigh. Her mother went slack in her arms.

  Terror swamped Sarah and she screamed, crying out her mother’s name. Screamed and screamed until her father and older brothers rushed into the room. Until her father pried her arms away and handed her over to Noah, who cradled her against him, stroking her hair and crooning soft words of comfort. But there was no comfort to be found, not then, and little enough in the days, weeks, and months to come. No comfort, for her mother was gone, and with her passing, Sarah’s trust and hope in God had also fled.

  Sobs wrenched her from her anguished memories. Sarah opened her eyes to the cellar’s darkness and became aware, once again, of the cold seeping into her very bones. Still, her recent thoughts had left her with a lingering sense of comfort. Whatever happened, though she might ultimately fail in everything she tried to do, she had done her best. And she would continue, because of her promise, to do all that was possible to protect her father, her family, whatever the cost.

  A door scraped open overhead. The heavy tread of footsteps descended into the cellar. Sarah waited, half dreading, half anticipating the approaching visitor. Then, as the cellar door swung open, the tall, broad-shouldered form of a man stepped forward, backlit by the faint light streaming down behind him.

  Cord paused at the bottom of the stairs to light the lantern. As the flame flared and he held the lamp high, Sarah gasped and turned away from him. He frowned. Were those tears glistening on her cheeks, or was it the flickering light playing tricks on him?

  He walked over, knelt beside her, and set down the lantern. The wetness on her face confirmed his suspicions. She’d been crying. Guilt lanced through him. Some instinct told him Sarah wasn’t one to cry easily. Maybe he had been a little too harsh with her.

  “Sarah? Are you all right?”

  “Y-yes,” she choked out the word. “Just go away. L-leave me alone.”

  “I’ll do that soon enough.” Cord withdrew a pocketknife. “For now, though, just roll over and let me cut your hands free.”

  She shot him an uncertain glance, then turned her back to him. He slid the knife blade beneath her bonds and began sawing at them. As he worked, he heard her moan.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, pausing in the task of cutting through the last thong.

  “My . . . hands!” she said on a shuddering breath. “I can’t feel them, yet they hurt so bad! Oh, I can’t stand it!”

  Cord sliced through the last rawhide strip, then gently brought her arms around to her sides. The lamp’s glow illuminated Sarah’s wrists, bathing them in an eerie red light. Cord sucked in a horrified breath.

  For the first time, he noted the deep gouges the cords had made in Sarah’s flesh. How had it happened? He thought he’d tied them loosely enough. Had he, in his anger, bound her tighter than he’d intended, unconsciously venting some of his frustration at the robbery on her? The possibility sickened him.

  She was weeping now, softly, lightly, in an apparent effort to keep him from noticing. Even so, the sound reached his keen ears. Something twisted deep in his gut. Cord took her abraded wrists and began gently to massage them.

  “S-stop!” she cried. “Don’t . . . touch . . . me. It hurts too much!”

  “I have to.” There was the merest catch in the dark register of his voice. “I’ve got to get some circulation back into your hands.”

  Eyes that were little more than gleaming emerald pools stared up at him, and then she sighed. “Do what you must.”

  Do what you must . . .

  As the minutes passed, the words echoed en
dlessly in Cord’s head. Every sharp catch in her breath, every silent tear that spilled from her eyes, sent the phrase reverberating through his mind. Was this what he’d sunk to? Torturing some hapless girl?

  “Ahhh . . .” Sarah finally said, her voice shaking. “My hands are starting to tingle.”

  Relief surged through Cord. “Good.”

  He studied her. She needed her wrists tended, and though a bath and clean clothes had originally been planned as a reward for her eventual cooperation, that plan had died an ignominious death at the first sight of her tears. But that was all, he hastily cautioned himself. She was still a prisoner and would be treated as one.

  Moving closer, Cord gathered her into his arms, then rose to his feet.

  Sarah turned to him, startled. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking you to the kitchen. Emma’s heating water for laundry, and we might as well use it instead for your bath.”

  She studied him for a moment, then sighed and rested her head on the hard-muscled expanse of his chest. “That’d be nice.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No sooner said than done.”

  The kitchen was a large, cheery room. The windows were dressed in a bright blue checkerboard print. A solid oak, well-scarred worktable graced the room’s center, and three of the walls not lined with shelves or glass-fronted cupboards were strewn with hanging metal molds, cooking utensils, and colorful pictures. Along the fourth wall stood a cabinet with a sink and a highly ornamented cookstove, richly gilded with nickel plating, a pot of something savory simmering upon its cast-iron top. Nearby, a small door opened onto a large, well-stocked pantry, and directly catty-corner to it, a tall, wooden folding screen stood guard in one corner.