Just as the sun went down, the pink glow fading behind him, he came upon Percy. His young deputy was on foot, leading his horse and studying the trail for signs. Tom slid off his bay and grabbed Simonson by the shoulders.
“Well? Any sign of Claire?” Percy shook his head, sorrow showing in his eyes.
“Sorry sheriff. I’ve been walking and riding since Sunday afternoon. There is a recent wagon track, but that could be just about anybody heading west.”
“I know, I stopped two wagons myself earlier today,” Maxwell scowled. “My horses are worn out and so am I. Let’s ride back to my place and get some shuteye. Tomorrow I’ll set out again and you go back to town. She may show up. Besides, we can’t leave the town unprotected; some other ruffians could ride in and make trouble while we’re gone.”
Simonson nodded, his brow furrowed with exhaustion. “Okay sheriff, maybe there’ll be some news in town.” They swung up once again on their tired mounts, Tom still leading his spare, and they headed to his little ranch on Omaha’s outskirts.
It was midnight by the time they corralled the horses and headed to the main house to rest. Linus, having heard them ride in, joined Maxwell and Simonson at the table after he wiped their horses down. Pouring himself a steaming cup of coffee, he straddled a chair as Percy finished catching Tom up on the search effort.
As Percy spoke, something pricked Linus’ memory. “She was taken Sunday, you say?”
Percy nodded and Linus wrapped his fingers around his mug and took another slug of the hot brew.
“Sunday night I was up late working on our refrigerated car idea and I swear I smelled camp fire smoke over past the north fence line. You don’t suppose¼”
The three men looked at each other. A faint glimmer of hope ignited in Tom’s chest.
“It’s too dark to see anything tonight. Tomorrow I’ll ride over there and see what I can find.”
Linus excused himself and headed back to his room in the barn. Percy sacked out on one of the horsehair sofas, a wool blanket tossed over his chest. Tom sat up awhile, relieved to be in his own home, but fitful in his concern for Claire. He finally went to bed at 2:00 AM, only to dream of Claire calling out for him.
Maxwell awoke at dawn to the sounds of pots clinking and the smell of bacon cooking. He stumbled into the kitchen to find Linus and Percy already awake. His deputy was devouring a stack of flapjacks and a pile of crispy bacon. He washed it down with a huge swig of coffee and looked up at Tom.
“Morning boss. Thought I’d ride out with you to that campfire site before I head back to town.” Tom grunted and slid into his chair. Linus handed him a plate and sat down to his own breakfast.
“Eat up so you can get on your way sooner.”
“Linus, I appreciate that. You’re a blessing.”
Maxwell’s forthright gratitude took Linus by surprise. He’d known Captain Maxwell a long time but he’d never seen him so emotional before. While it was obvious that the captain was courting Miss Secord he didn’t realize it was serious. Claire must be something truly special for Captain Maxwell to get so sentimental.
Linus pointed his cup at Maxwell. “Captain, anything you need, I’ll do my best for you.”
Tom smiled gratefully. “Linus, I’m proud to have you as my friend and business partner. What I need from you is to stay here, run the ranch, and keep your eyes open. Maybe these bums are still in the area. Keep the rifles loaded and your service revolver handy.”
“Yessir, Captain, you can count on me!” Linus pushed away from the table, gathered up the dishes and set about putting the kitchen in order.
Tom and Percy headed to the barn and saddled their horses. Then they headed to the north side of the ranch to search for any signs of a recent campfire.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Omaha, Nebraska, August 1869
Billy pushed aside the curtains and opened the door for business at Weikert- Secord’s Mercantile. Claire might be missing, but he had faith she’d be back. When she came back he’d want to show her he’d been able to keep the store running. The town people depended on her for their needs and she depended on them, so he decided he’d step in and do what he could. Miss Rose would come in and give him advice when he had questions and so far everything was going pretty well.
Claire’s disappearance had caused a big stir in town. People gathered to conjure up scenarios of exactly how she disappeared, and if they were going to gossip, Billy figured they might as well do it in her store and make her some money out of the deal. The crowd didn’t disappoint him. As soon as the door was propped open in the early morning sunshine, folks began to stream in. Some were genuinely concerned; others just came to gawk and gossip. Billy put on his most charming smile, and as people stood around, he encouraged them to make their purchases, since they were in the store anyway, and Secord’s always stocked everything they needed.
Connie Rose checked in around noon to let Billy know there was a scrap of good news. Percy had just ridden back into town and handed her a strip of torn calico that was the same print as Claire’s gardening dress. Then he turned right around and left again. She urged Billy to keep the information under his hat and his ears open. Satisfied, Billy had everything under control, she left him to care for her restaurant.
Late that afternoon Percy struggled back into town, sweating and exhausted. He plopped into a booth at the café just as Connie bustled in from the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish cloth.
“Any more signs, Percy?” She whispered, not wanting any diners to overhear their conversation. She realized the longer Claire was gone, the fainter the chances of rescue were and it had already been four days.
Percy simply shook his head, looking forlorn.
“Are you going back out on the trail?”
He looked Connie in the eyes.
“No, the sheriff wants me here in town keeping the peace. I’ve been away too long. I’ve never seen Tom Maxwell so determined to find anybody. He’s barely slept or eaten anything.”
Connie jumped up and ran back to the kitchen. A moment later she returned with a tall glass of lemonade and a huge slab of berry pie for her deputy.
“Percy, here, drink this…”
Deputy Simonson was fast asleep, head resting on her best table.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Plains of Nebraska, August 1869
Claire awoke to the smell of boiling coffee. She longed for a bit of privacy, a hot bath, and a change of clothing. She’d been in the same dress since Sunday and she could smell her own stink. It was only a small comfort that her captors smelled even worse. She glanced around, trying to recognize her surroundings. She had a faint hope she could still escape and make her way back to Omaha. The further they traveled the more lenient Frank and Bud had been with her. They were no longer gagging her mouth and only tied up her hands at night.
Several times she had reached into her pocket to grab her knife, but something stopped her each time. Fear, she told herself. Fear is what’s stopping you. She was outnumbered by two strong men, and the thought of actually stabbing one of them made her nauseous.
They camped in a grassy field by a narrow river. She fell asleep in the wagon before they stopped for the night, and she found that her hands weren’t tied. She rose stiffly from the wagon and searched the area. Bud and Frank were watering the horses in the river several yards away and paying her no mind. She considered running, but discounted the thought as she stared out at the open prairie. They would stop her before she got 100 feet, but she wasn’t giving up. She would continue to watch, and when the moment came, she wouldn’t hesitate to strike. She had almost lost hope of anyone finding her—they must know she was missing, and she had left behind scraps of her dress in the hopes that someone would spot the trail. But Claire had been gone for several days now, and chances were good that the trail was cold. She would have to take care of herself.
A couple of hours traveling that day took them to a shack just off the trail. Claire had been allowed to
sit up in back of the wagon, so she was facing east, watching the path they took—the path home—fade from sight. Every so often she’d drop a pebble as a means of leaving a sign. She’d torn enough strips off her dress that anymore would be too noticeable. Not that either Fred or Bud was particularly observant, but it never hurt to be too careful.
Back at the last campsite, Claire had placed a half circle of stones near the fire before they left, when Bud and Frank weren’t watching her. Anyone looking for Claire
would recognize the stones as a “C.” She was sure Maxwell would be looking for her, not only as a concerned and responsible sheriff, but as someone who cared for Claire as a person—she was convinced he felt about Claire the same way she felt about him.
When the wagon rolled to a stop, Claire jumped down and looked around.
“Where are we Frank?”
Bud snarled, “Never you mind where we is, jest shut your trap.”
“Now Bud, she don’t mean no harm. Lady, we’re at my claim and this here’s my home.”
Claire glanced at the dwelling. It was a stretch to call this shack a home. The tar paper shanty was aged to a yellow-brownish tinge and the only window was covered with an old animal skin. The yard was littered with a broken down wagon and assorted farm implements. A few scrawny chickens were scratching in the dust.
“I see, but I still don’t understand why I am here. Just let me go and I promise I’ll forget I ever saw you.”
Frank tucked a hunk of greasy hair behind his ear and laughed. “Oh lady, yore gonna see a whole lot more of me. Yore gonna be my wife only there ain’t gonna be no wedding.”
Claire gasped. “I will never be your wife. What makes you think I’d consent to that?”
Bud snorted. ”Don’t look to me like you got any say in this matter girly. We was only planning to help ourselves to some grub at that store. Didn’t expect no woman to be in the backyard. Just as well. We was in Omaha to meet a train from back east. Frank’s mail order bride was supposed to be on that train. She never showed. So guess yore it.”
Frank laughed again. “Yup, yore a mite skinny for me, but we’ll fatten you up. Too bad you ain’t got yellow hair neither. I like yellow hair.”
Claire flushed, tried to gain her composure and turned to face Bud. “And you, sir, where do you live?”
The burly man guffawed,” Oh girly, I’m on the next claim so don’t you worry none. You won’t get lonely. Now git in there.”
He shoved Claire to the front door of the shack and she stumbled into a filthy room. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the two were unloading the wagon. She turned back and began to search the cabin for a weapon. A rifle, a pistol, anything. Digging under a filthy pile of buffalo hides, she found a rusty old gun and bottle of whiskey that was only half full. She shoved the whiskey into a bag of flour and the gun into her skirt pocket just as Frank came through the door, dragging in one of the stolen bags of food.
“Hey girl, git over here and start cleaning up the place. Now that I got me a wife I expect her to keep house. That means cooking and cleaning and other wifely duties.”
He leered at her and Claire involuntarily took a step back, clutching the pistol in her pocket. She backed up against the wall and struggled to keep her composure.
“Why, you dirty, disgusting old—” But Claire was cut off by a shout from Bud.
“Git out here Frank, there’s plenty of time for that later, I want to git home to my old lady. Unhitch yore wagon so’s I can be on my way.”
The moment Frank was out the door, Claire pulled out the pistol. It was an old Colt Revolver, probably from the war. It looked like it hadn’t been fired in years. She checked the chamber.
Empty. Frantically, she searched for bullets, pawing through the dust and grime on the floor, and searching through old furs, finally locating one that had rolled into a corner. She looked up to the sound of a horse galloping away. She was relieved to see it was Bud, headed for his own homestead. Frank seemed calmer and more stupid than Bud. Maybe she could talk to him, convince him to let her go. At the worst she could wait until he fell asleep, then steal his horse and make a run for it.
Using the pretext of cleaning up Claire began to look for clues to try and find out where she was. She found an old newspaper, The Columbus Times, and inwardly shouted with glee. Columbus was a big town, and it had to be close by if Frank could get a paper. He didn’t really seem like the reading type, so she assumed he didn’t go out of his way to find the news. She began forming an elaborate getaway plan, wondering if she could get him drunk and escape more quickly.
Frank swaggered into the shack, interrupting her thoughts. He dumped a saddlebag on the floor and Claire realized it was the one holding her candlesticks and jewelry.
“Wife, I’m hungry. Where’s my supper?” Leering at her he scratched his behind.
Claire fought back a nasty retort and instead said sweetly, “It will be a while longer, I’m just learning my way around. After all, you did tell me to clean up and that’s what I’ve been doing.” She had to fight to keep the grimace off her face as Frank sauntered over to another pile of junk on the floor and retrieved another bottle of whiskey, pulling the cork and taking a long swig. He gestured the bottle at Claire and she shook her head.
That’s right, get drunk you stupid lug.
She dragged the food bag over to the rough table and began to peel potatoes. Frank ambled over to a cot against the far wall, sank down into it and continued to drink from his bottle, all the while watching Claire with beady eyes.
I have got to look around. See what I can use to get out of here.
Wiping her hands on a grimy towel, Claire spotted a pail.
“I am going into the yard to get fresh water; I noticed a well when we rode up.” Frank merely grunted, working himself into an alcohol-induced stupor.
She stepped out into the yard and scanned her surroundings. There was a small sod barn and ramshackle chicken coop. The corral was by the barn and the well was in the middle of the trashy yard. She sprinted around the coop to see if she could spot a road or trail. Leading off into the grass was a faint wagon trail that she thought she might be able to follow, but her musings were interrupted by a yell from Frank.
“Woman! Where you at?” Claire hurriedly snatched up a couple of eggs. When she rounded the corner Frank was standing in the doorway with a scowl on his face.
“You wasn’t trying to run now was you? Cuz there ain’t no place to go. Me and Bud are the only homesteaders out this away. So jest git any notion out of yore head about leaving. Yore my woman now and it’s gonna stay that way.”
Claire held up the eggs and said rather frostily, “I just decided some fresh eggs would go good with potatoes and salt pork.” And I just found a trail out of here you oaf.
Frank glared at her and read her mind. “That trail you was probably looking at, it leads straight to Bud’s place. Was you thinking about being neighborly?” He let out a loud snort and pulled another swallow from his whiskey.
Inwardly Claire groaned, but held her shoulders high and marched past him into the shanty.
Keep guzzling that rotgut, you fool, you’ll pass out and I can sneak away yet.
Soon, Claire had dinner prepared, difficult though it was in his tiny and dirty kitchen, and she set a steaming plate of fried pork, potatoes, and eggs in front of Frank. She wasn’t hungry, but forced herself to eat as well.
I’m going to need my strength to get away from this nightmare, she told herself.
Silently, she pleaded with God to deliver her from this mess. She began to worry that Frank would try to assert his “husbandly rights” upon her. She would rather die than be molested by a two-bit thief like Frank, but she didn’t think it would go that far. The knife felt good in her pocket, and she was prepared to use it if she had to.
Frank pushed himself away from the table and patted his paunch. He belched and reached for his now-empty bottle.
“Dang it, I got me a pow
erful thirst and I aim to quench it.” He spotted the saddlebag with Claire’s treasures and got a nasty grin on his face. “As I recollect there was some money in that bag and some fancy doodads. We got no use for fancy candlesticks out here, but they’ll fetch a good price in town. Fer now I’m just gonna take that money. Now that we’re husband and wife, what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. Huh, wifey?” A snide grin revealed his rotting brown teeth.
Claire lunged for the saddlebag. “You wouldn’t dare. Those ‘doodads’
belonged to my dead mother and I worked hard for that money.”
“Well, if she’s dead she don’t need ‘em and like I says, what’s yours is mine,” Frank chortled at his own bad joke and grabbed Claire by the arm. She pulled back
and he slapped her, hard. Reeling from the pain, she threw her hands up to protect her face; she could feel a welt rise on her cheek. She wanted to cry out, but bit the inside of her cheek instead. She would not cry in front of Frank.
“What kind of a brute hits a woman?” she demanded, struggling to keep her voice calm. That took Frank by surprise and he stepped back. “Aw, heck, I ain’t gonna take any guff from you. Yore beginning to talk like a wife, nagging and hen-peckin’. I’m gonna git me a bottle and drink ‘til I’ve had me my fill, then I’ll be back to take care of you. I’ll show you who wears the pants around here.”
He grabbed Claire by her shoulders and shoved her into a straight-backed chair, tying her hands behind her and binding her ankles. She tried to fight, but Frank was too strong. He leaned over her, grabbed her by the hair, and pressed his mouth against hers. The stench of his breath and body nearly gagged her. Claire pressed her lips together tightly and struggled against the ropes. She thought about biting him, but the idea made her want to throw up. Finally, Frank stood up, grinning at her with his tobacco-stained smile.
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