So Heath rode Archie farther downriver, his eyes scanning the bank looking for any signs of disturbance. Doubt was thick in his mind—as thick as certainty was in his gut—and the battle between the two was exhausting. Still, just as his doubt was at its height, he saw exactly what he’d been looking for.
Just over two miles downriver, he saw the tracks—the mud and tracks left by horses and riders as they’d left the water for dry ground. He’d been right! The outlaws were heading for New Orleans to sell the girls into Jacques Cheval’s brothels.
He reigned in Archie and briefly wondered if he should ride back and try to catch the other men—but only briefly. Time was too short. He’d surely closed the distance between the outlaws and himself, being that traveling in the river would’ve slowed their progress considerably. But he couldn’t waste any time, not a moment. He had to think of something—some way to save those girls on his own.
His gruesome, tragic experience taught him not to take on the gang alone—not in the conventional way, anyhow. He’d have to think of something else—a way to infiltrate them maybe. Whatever he came up with, he needed to come up with it fast.
Heath looked up when he heard the calls of buzzards then. They were close and circling overhead. He’d been tracking the riverbank too intently to notice them before. But now—now as he watched the ten or twelve buzzards circling, taking turns swooping to the ground to land on some carrion nearby—his heart fell to the pit of his stomach with a nauseating thud.
Not a hundred feet from where he paused lay a body—a body he could see was dressed in a woman’s clothing.
He felt the perspiration begin to drip from his forehead and temples. Was it one of the Pike’s Creek girls? Was it the one who’d kissed him? He felt guilty for hoping it wasn’t, but he did hope it wasn’t her—prayed it wasn’t. In fact, he hoped it was any of the girls from Pike’s Creek other than the one who’d kissed him.
Heath mumbled an apology to the heavens for thinking such a thing and then said, “Go on, Archie. Waitin’ ain’t gonna change it.”
He hollered at the buzzards—fired a shot at the two coyotes waiting in the sagebrush as he approached. Heath could see the animals had been at the body for some time and tried to prepare himself for what the condition of it would be.
“Whoa,” he breathed as he reined Archie to stop next to the dead girl. Dismounting, he frowned and felt his heart harden with anger as he hunkered down to study what had once been a living, breathing young woman with her whole life stretching out before her.
Heath’s eyes filled with excess moisture, and he thanked God when he saw the girl’s hair was blonde. It wasn’t the Cranford, King, or Stanley girl. Wiping tears of anger and sadness from his eyes, he sniffed and looked to the girl’s feet. The dead girl’s hair did have the color of summer grain—not dark hair like the Cranford or King girl or red hair like the Stanley girl—blonde hair like the Burroughs girl. Yet her shoes indicated she wasn’t the Burroughs girl. Ralph Burroughs’s daughter had been riding her thoroughbred, and Heath had never seen the girl and her horse without her wearing riding boots. Furthermore, he figured the dead girl was too skinny to be the Burroughs girl. Of course, he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the Burroughs girl—not for certain—not after the way the buzzards and coyotes had already been at the arms and face. It was a disturbing, gruesome sight, and Heath could only hope the girl had been dead long before nature’s creatures had taken to her remains.
Heath saw the blood on the girl’s shirt. It wasn’t from the animals having at the body. This blood was from the bullet hole somebody had put through her heart. He reached down, tugging at the skirt and petticoats covering her legs. Lifting the girl’s right leg, he saw the blood on her stockings from the puncture wounds—two sets of puncture wounds. He nodded as his suspicions were confirmed. On the back of the girl’s right calf were two rattler bites. From the space between fang marks, he knew it had been a big snake that had gotten the poor little thing.
Almost desperately, Heath began checking the girl’s pockets for anything that might identify her not being Ann Burroughs for certain. Eventually, he found a silver chain around her neck, tucked inside her shirt. An oval locket hung from it, and he opened it to find photographs of a man and woman—nobody he recognized. This girl was not one of the Pike’s Creek girls, and Heath mumbled, “Thank God.”
He wondered whether this girl had been Cooper Keel’s niece who had gone missing from Thistle. Or was it some other poor little thing the outlaws had taken from some other town along their way? Whoever she was, the gang that had taken the Pike’s Creek girls had deemed her worthless the moment the snake had bitten her. No doubt they’d shot her simply for convenience—so they wouldn’t have to drag along a dying prisoner.
Heath was nauseated, near to vomiting, and sat back on his heels, putting one fist to his mouth until he was certain that the contents of his stomach would stay put. It wasn’t the sight of the dead, mutilated body of the girl that sickened him—though the sight of it was certainly something he’d never purge from his mind. Rather it was the fact that he’d been too late to save her. He closed his eyes and visualized the eight other girls he’d failed to save a year earlier. Now the count was nine; he was responsible for the deaths of nine sweet, young innocents.
“That ain’t true though,” he said aloud. “It wasn’t my fault,” he mumbled as he yanked at the silver chain around the girl’s neck. The chain broke, and Heath put it in his pocket. He’d see that it was given to her parents—if he lived and could find out who she was, or had been. He stood and turned to his saddlebags, retrieving the small, short-handled shovel he always carried when he rode.
Oh, he knew he probably shouldn’t linger burying the dead girl, but he couldn’t just leave her there like that. The buzzards and coyotes would pick and gnaw her down to the bones if he did. Not that he’d ever want to take her back to wherever she came from—not that he’d even tell her parents, if he had the chance, what condition he’d found her in. But he couldn’t just leave her there.
As Heath worked at digging out a very shallow grave and then covering the girl’s body with heavy rocks so the animals couldn’t get to her, he kept reminding himself that her death wasn’t his fault. It was the band of outlaws that had done it. Maybe even the posse that had paused back at the river where the tracks had been found—but it wasn’t his. Deep in his soul, he knew that the deaths of those eight other girls a year back weren’t his fault either. But someone had to bear the blame; someone had to tether his soul to the fact that it had all happened. And no one else seemed willing to do it.
And so, as he laid the last rock on top of the pile of stones covering the poor girl’s mutilated body, Heathro Thibodaux promised himself that she would be the only dead girl he found while tracking the outlaws and the girls from Pike’s Creek.
❦
As Cricket lay there in the darkness—as she tried not to hear the outlaws talking and laughing as they sat around the campfire—she thought about all that Vilma had explained to them earlier in the day. First of all, she wondered why folks kept the particulars of how babies came to be such a fortified secret—why they lied about it. After all, it wasn’t a game or anything—nothing like letting children believe in Santa Claus to make the merriment and excitement of Christmas more magical. It was how the human race continued to exist, for pity’s sake! She was glad, however, that her daddy hadn’t made up something ridiculous like a woman just taking a walk and coming back with a baby. In fact, Cricket (knowing her daddy as she did) figured that if it hadn’t been for the initial animosity toward Ada that Cricket felt just after the wedding, her daddy may very well have told her the whole truth of it. He knew she’d get married herself someday, and Zeke Cranford never let his daughter step into anything wearing a proverbial blindfold of any kind.
In truth, everything Vilma had described made perfect sense. Even the other girls thought so—Ann, Pearl, and Marie—though Marie had blushed seventeen shades of
red when Vilma explained that Hudson Oliver no doubt would know exactly what to do when their wedding night came. “Men seem to be a bit more instinctive, I heard my mama tell my daddy that night Wyatt and I were eavesdroppin’,” Vilma explained.
Still, with all that had been revealed about intimacy between a man and woman, a husband and wife—what Vilma explained the outlaws were planning to sell them all for—everything had changed. Even in that very moment, just the memory of Vilma’s details caused Cricket’s eyes to fill with tears. She thought she’d known fear and dread the night before—but now fear and dread had turned to terror and despair!
Silently she prayed for deliverance from the hands of the evil men that held her and her friends captive. She prayed for freedom and the protection of their virtue. She prayed that one day a man would love her the way Hudson loved Marie—that he would marry her and together they would be not only man and wife but also lovers in heart, mind, soul, and body. In truth, she prayed that Heathro Thibodaux would be that man. After all, Cricket knew she was in the hands of evil. She felt like she might vomit at the thought of what the outlaws had in store for the girls when they reached their destination.
“No!” she breathed as tears escaped her eyes, streaming over her temples as she lay on the hard ground, her hands and feet bound. “No! Let this pass!” she prayed in a whisper. “Let this pass! Get me home somehow, God. Get me home, and let it be Heathro Thibodaux I give myself to one day. Oh, please! Please!”
Midst her quiet sobs, Cricket felt a wave of hysteria begin to overtake her. Vilma Stanley—what a character she was. Cricket giggled and sobbed simultaneously as she breathed to herself, “Leave it to the preacher’s daughter to know all there is to know about what goes on between a husband and wife when they share a bed.”
Cricket tried to scream as the hand clamped hard over her mouth. She tried to struggle as visions of one of the outlaws not having enough self-control to leave her to her unhappy end of being sold flashed through her mind.
She tried to call for help—but from whom?
“Shhhh!” A man’s low voice hushed her. “Settle down, Miss Cranford. Don’t fight me, or you’ll draw their attention.”
Cricket still squirmed, trying to peer up through the darkness to the face hovering over her, his hand held tightly over her mouth. But he placed his head next to hers on the ground before she could see him clearly.
She felt his hot breath on her ear—heard him whisper, “Stay as still as you can. If they see me, we’re all of us dead, do you hear me?”
Cricket quit trying to scream—quit struggling—nodded.
“Good girl,” the man said. “Now you know me, don’t you?”
Cricket shook her head.
“Then look over here at me…but don’t move or cry out,” he instructed.
The man kept his hand over Cricket’s mouth as she slowly turned her head to her right. Instantly, she began to struggle again—to try and struggle to him, not away. For there—his body stretched out on the grassy incline above her head—his handsome, beloved face mere inches from hers—was Texas Ranger Heathro Thibodaux!
Chapter Eleven
Cricket tried not to sob—tried to remain as quiet as possible—but an overwhelming trembling and near hysteria, borne of sudden hope, was so viciously racing through her body she could neither remain perfectly still nor stop her tears.
Heathro Thibodaux removed his hand from over her mouth, and Cricket was able to gasp a deep breath. It settled her sobbing a bit.
She started to speak to him—to thank him for coming and beg him to free her—but he put an index finger to his mouth, indicating she should remain silent.
“There’s no posse with me, Miss Cranford,” he whispered against her ear.
Cricket knew she should be dismally disappointed with returning hopelessness at what he’d said, but she wasn’t. Even for her predicament—even for her fatigue and soreness of body and mind from traveling so roughly—Cricket simply closed her eyes and relished the feel of Heathro Thibodaux’s breath on her neck—of his low, soothing voice in her ear.
“But there’s hope all the same,” he said. “I’ve got me a plan that I think will stall these sons of…these outlaws until the posse wises up and tracks us here. All right?”
Cricket nodded.
“I need your help though,” he continued. “You’re the only one of these girls who can help me with what I’m plannin’ to do. All right?” Again Cricket nodded. “Then listen close…’cause I gotta be fast before they spot me.”
Cricket’s tired, sore body erupted with goose bumps as Heathro pressed his lips to her ear as he instructed, “I’m gonna show up tomorrow mornin’…pretendin’ I’ve been trackin’ these men in order to assist them in gettin’ to New Orleans to sell you. So no matter what, don’t any of you girls let on that you know me, you hear? You tell all these girls to glare at me, spit at me, and act like they hate me as much as they hate these outlaws. Make sure you tell them come first light…so they ain’t surprised when I show up.”
“But they’ll kill you!” Cricket whispered. “They’ll kill you for even seein’ us! They won’t give you a chance to—”
His hand over her mouth and his quiet, “Shhh,” quieted her once again.
“They might…but I don’t think so,” he explained. “I think I’ve got an ace in my pocket that’ll get me into the game. Then we’ll play them until that posse gets here.”
Again Cricket nodded, and he removed his hand from her.
“But you need to know somethin’,” he added. “This plan involves you a bit more than you might like…but it’s the best idea I can come up with. So no matter what I do or say, you play along with me, girl. I’ll explain better when I can…or maybe you’ll just figure it out. But if I take hold of you or somethin’…whatever I do tomorrow…you fight me at first. You fight me as hard as you would if one of these sons of…if one of these devils was takin’ hold of you instead of me, all right?”
“Yes,” Cricket breathed, new tears trickling over her temples.
“Now I gotta go,” he said. “But I’ll never be farther away than a few hundred feet until you see me tomorrow mornin’. I won’t leave you girls. And I’ll do my best to keep you safe until that posse gets here. Do you trust me on that?”
“Yes,” Cricket whispered as she wept tears of joy, hope, fear, desperation, and so many others.
“Then I’ll see you in the mornin’,” he whispered. “Just be strong. Keep these girls strong too.”
He was gone. As quickly and quietly as he’d been there one moment, Heathro Thibodaux was gone the next.
Cricket lay trembling, trying so hard to weep softly, but it was difficult—and one of the outlaws heard her.
“Hush up over there, girl!” Patterson shouted. “You ain’t got nothin’ to be bawlin’ over…at least not yet.” The men chuckled with amusement at Patterson’s vile implications.
Cricket inhaled a deep breath and attempted to calm herself by thinking on the feel of Heathro Thibodaux’s lips to her ear, his breath on her skin, and his promise that he wouldn’t leave them. Maybe the posse would get there sooner than he anticipated. Maybe the terrifying, miserable ordeal the abductions had caused was nearly at an end!
Whatever Heathro Thibodaux’s plan was, it just had to work. It must! Whispering a prayer—even with her hands and feet bound and tethered to the girls resting uncomfortably next to her—Cricket finally drifted off to sleep on the gentle wings of renewed hope.
❦
Marie looked to Cricket, sighing with agitation.
Cricket nodded and mouthed, Be patient, as she glanced to each girl in turn.
During their breakfast, she’d explained to the girls what had happened the night before—Heathro Thibodaux’s miraculous emergence and what he’d told her. Naturally, all the girls had begun firing questions at her at the speed of gunshot bullets.
The girls wanted to know when Mr. Thibodaux would intercept them. They wanted
to know why he didn’t have a posse with him. They wanted to know why he’d chosen Cricket to speak to. But Cricket could only repeatedly answer, “I don’t know. We have to wait.”
Still, it had seemed like hours and hours since daybreak—even though it hadn’t been more than thirty minutes. Cricket wanted Mr. Thibodaux to appear as badly as all the other girls did—perhaps even more desperately. Part of her had begun to wonder if she’d only dreamt the encounter with him. She’d dreamt so often of Heathro Thibodaux over the past months that her fatigue made her question her sanity for a moment. Furthermore, though she knew none of them could make the mistake of offering any miniscule clue to the outlaws that he was familiar, she just wanted him to be there with them—with her.
When Cricket had again convinced herself that Heathro had actually been with her—had whispered in her ear, touched her, and promised to be close by until he revealed himself—she began to worry for him, at the profound risk he was taking. It was unfathomable! To ride into a gang of ten armed outlaws? What would he say? How would he approach?
As if heaven itself had heard her thoughts, Cricket heard the cocking of pistol hammers and looked over to see Heck stand up, brush the crumbs of hardtack on his pant leg, draw his own weapon, and gaze off to the north.
“Who’s this, boss?” Patterson asked.
Heck frowned. He looked at Patterson as if he’d just uttered the most ignorant sentence ever spoken on the face of the earth.
“Hell, Patterson,” Heck growled. “I don’t know! Could be Santy Claus.”
Cricket tried to keep the beating of her heart at a normal pace, but when she looked up and saw Heathro Thibodaux astride his familiar horse—saw the white handkerchief tied to a long stick he was holding in one hand—she thought for a moment she might leap up and run to him! Instead, she clenched her fists and looked to each of her friends in turn.
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