Abigail
Mr. Cleveland put his hands on his hips, and Abigail imitated his stance. He might be a foot taller and at least seventy pounds heavier, but she wouldn’t let him cow her. Not when her only friend had been kidnapped. She swallowed a knot of anguish. What would she do if Mrs. Bingham never came back?
“Listen, Miss Grant, I know you’re worried, but—”
“Of course I’m worried!” Now that she’d exhausted her tears of fright, anger filled her and left her quivering with indignation. “Who knows who has her, what he plans to do with her. One of these so-called good-hearted men of Spiveyville certainly proved his duplicity.” Had she really intended to issue thank-yous to the men in this town? She shook her head and groaned, betrayal increasing her ire to a level that stole her ability to think rationally.
Clive Ackley huffed toward them. “Athol told us Miz Bingham’s been took. Miss Grant, you reckon we oughta send a telegram to her sister?”
A new wave of grief swept over Abigail. Marietta had no family other than Mrs. Bingham. She would be devastated by this news, yet she had to be told. She grabbed Clive’s elbow. “Yes, let’s do that now.” She pointed at Mr. Cleveland and gave him her fiercest glower. “Do not start a search party until I have returned!”
The man’s eyes turned stony, but he didn’t argue.
Abigail pulled on Mr. Ackley’s arm. “Come on. Let’s hurry.”
At the post office door, Mr. Ackley fumbled with a ring of keys. Abigail gritted her teeth and resisted scolding, but when he finally located the correct key and couldn’t seem to fit it into the lock, her patience ran out. She snatched the ring from his hand, jammed the key into the slot, and twisted it. The latch clicked. She opened the door and gave him a not-so-gentle nudge over the threshold. “Get me some paper.”
He waddled behind the counter and brought out a square piece of paper and a stubby pencil. Abigail grabbed the pencil and bent over the page, her mind racing. A telegram had to be short, but how she hated divulging such distressing news without offering sentences of assurance. She scratched out a message.
Marietta, Helena has been kidnapped. Search parties forming. Will advise as able. Abigail
She cringed. So blunt. Dear God, prepare Marietta’s heart for this message and give her comfort. She jolted. The prayer had come effortlessly, as if it had been lying in wait for the opportunity to emerge from her heart.
“Got it ready?” Mr. Ackley wrung his hands and shifted from foot to foot.
“Yes.” Abigail pushed the note into his hands. “Please send it right away. I’m going back to the restaurant.” Mr. Cleveland better still be there.
She ran the short distance, not caring that her raised skirt exposed her feet and ankles. Several horses were tied to the railing, and a wagon was rattling to a stop as she reached the restaurant porch. The driver of the wagon called, “Hold up there, Miss Grant, an’ lemme get the door for ya.”
She slid to a stop, torn between tears and laughter at the man’s solicitous intention. He clomped across the boardwalk and opened the door. Abigail burst into the room and joined a small throng of milling men, all jabbering, all with pistols on their hips or rifles cradled in their arms, all with shoulders squared and faces set with determination. Preacher Doan and Mr. Cleveland stood in the center of the group.
“Excuse me, excuse me.” Men shifted aside, tipping their hats as she pushed her way through to the middle. She tugged at Mr. Cleveland’s sleeve. “Where will we look first?”
He gave her a look that communicated both admiration and aggravation. “As long as you understand ‘we’ means the men only, I’ll tell you.”
She stomped her foot. “As I already told you, I will not be left behind. Mrs. Bingham is in peril. I cannot be left here to pace and worry. I want to help.”
Preacher Doan shook his head. “We don’t know who took Mrs. Bingham, but we can surmise he’s dangerous. We won’t put you in harm’s way.”
Abigail bit back a groan. “Your concern is touching, but as you recall, the sheriff was concerned about leaving me without supervision because something might happen to me.” She flung her arm to indicate the band of men. “If you take every man in town out for the search, who will remain here to keep me safe? Would it not make more sense to take me with you and, therefore, keep watch over me?” She glared at Mr. Cleveland, silently daring him to argue with her.
He grimaced, turning his sheepish gaze on the preacher. “Much as I hate to admit it, she could be right. If we left her here all alone and then came back to find her gone, too, I—” He gulped. “I promised the sheriff I’d keep her safe. So I’ll stay here in town while the rest of you search.”
Abigail clenched her fists and huffed. “That’s not what I want! I want to help look for her!”
Mr. Cleveland bent his knees slightly and grabbed her shoulders, looking her right in the eyes. “A lady has no business on a search party. You’re staying put, and that’s that.” He abruptly straightened. “Preacher, it looks to me like everyone’s here. Let’s get this search organized.”
Mack
Mack felt Miss Grant’s glower as the preacher divided the men into groups of three and assigned them a direction to search. She could frown and pout and cry and scream all she wanted to. He wouldn’t give in. It was his beholden duty, assigned by Sheriff Thorn, to keep her safe, and he’d do it. Including keeping her safe from herself and her fool notions.
They’d quickly ruled out Otto Hildreth as Mrs. Bingham’s kidnapper. He didn’t own a wagon, and even if he’d borrowed one to haul her away, his clean, unrumpled appearance lent strong evidence that he hadn’t been rolling in the alley. Preacher Doan intended to check at the Miller and O’Dell ranches himself, figuring—rightly, to Mack’s way of thinking—that the men would hand Mrs. Bingham over without a fuss if the preacher made the request. Mack half hoped either W. C. or Vern had snatched her. At least he trusted they wouldn’t outright harm her. Beyond scaring her, anyway.
Preacher Doan gripped Clive’s round shoulder. “Send a telegram to the Coats telegrapher for Sheriff Thorn. He needs to know what’s going on here. Then you stay in your office and watch for an answer.”
Clive scuttled out.
The preacher turned to Athol. “Let’s have you stay here in town, too. The search groups will return here to report any findings, and they’ll need hot coffee and snacks.”
Athol bobbed his head. “They’ll get what they need, Preacher. You can count on it.” He bustled to his kitchen.
“As for the rest of you…” Preacher Doan gestured, drawing the men near. “We’re going after a man who’s brazen enough to grab a woman during daylight hours, which means he’s capable of anything. Stay with your partners. I don’t want anyone facing him alone.”
Mack ground his teeth. Mrs. Bingham was facing the kidnapper alone. He reached for Preacher Doan’s arm. “Before the men set out, I think we ought to pray. For everybody’s safety.” He glanced over his shoulder at Miss Grant. She stood ramrod straight, chin high, but she was hugging herself. “And for Miss Grant, too.”
Preacher Doan bowed his head, and every man in the room whipped off his hat and pressed it to his chest. Mack bowed, too.
“Our dear heavenly Father, we praise Thee for Thy boundless love and care for Thy children.” A peaceful hush seemed to descend on the room. “We entrust Mrs. Bingham into Thy keeping and ask that Thou guard her from harm. Be with each of these men as they seek our lost friend. Protect them. Guide them. Surround those seeking and those awaiting word with a peace only Thou can give. We love Thee, our Lord, and we ask that Thou bring us all safely together again. Amen.”
A rumble of “amens” sounded, including a higher-pitched, raspy one from Miss Grant.
Preacher Doan patted the weapon on his belt. “Remember to fire three shots in the air if you find Mrs. Bingham, two shots if you find yourself in trouble. If you hear the signal, ride in the direction of the sound.” He caught Sam Bandy by the elbow. “Let’s go.”
The thunder of boots on the floor was nearly deafening, and when the last man slammed the door behind him, silence fell like a wool cloak. Mack turned to Miss Grant. Her jaw quivered, and her entire body seemed as tense as a new spring. He’d need to keep her busy.
He held his hand to her. “How about you and me rewash the sheets and get ’em hung? When Mrs. Bingham gets back, she’ll likely be tired. Wouldn’t it be best to have her bed all made up and ready for her?”
Her brown eyes widened. “W-wash the sheets?”
“Well, yeah.” He scratched his cheek. “It needs to be done, doesn’t it? My ma used to say a busy day kept the worry away. And Jesus said in Matthew, ‘Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?’ Worrying won’t bring Mrs. Bingham back.”
“Neither will washing the sheets.” She sounded argumentative, but she was already marching toward the stairs. “But you’re right. I need to have her bed ready. So let’s get to it.”
Helena
Mr. Nance scooped Helena from the wagon bed and carried her across a patch of bare ground the way a groom carried his bride over the threshold. He’d parked the wagon in a low spot shielded by a sloping rise in the land. A wall constructed from chunks of sod seemed built into the face of the hill with a planked door centering it.
He paused at the door, hooked it with his toe, and pulled it wide. Inside, he dropped her onto a squeaky cot that smelled of mold. Dust rose from the blanket and she sneezed. Sunlight painted a wedge-shaped path across the hardpacked dirt floor, and dust motes glittered in the beam. Helena battled another mighty sneeze and squinted into the shadowed space. The odor of dampness and neglect surrounded her. Was this a cave? Or a burrow?
He stood with his back to her at a square table, his arms moving. Moments later a flash of yellow indicated he’d struck a match, and then he lit a lantern. A soft glow filled the space, and she identified a rusty stove, its pipe extending through the dirt ceiling, and two chairs plus an upside-down barrel tucked in at the table. Cobweb-draped shelves wedged into the wall held a variety of items, all of which bore a coating of dust.
He settled the lantern in the middle of the table and turned to face her. With the light behind him and the sunlight too low to reach his face, she couldn’t make out his features, but she remembered his snarling face from across the table at Athol’s restaurant. Fear made her mouth go dry. What did he intend to do now? Trussed up like a pig for slaughter, she’d be useless against him if he chose to violate her.
She licked her dry lips and sought a means of distracting him. “What is this place?”
He advanced toward her, stirring dust as he came. “The old dugout, first house built on my property. I use it come brandin’ time. Always stay out here ’til all the calves is marked with my Flyin’ N.” Sunlight traced a path up his legs and then down as he crossed through the patch of light. He reached the edge of the cot and stuck his hand in his pocket. He withdrew something and gave it a flick. A knife blade appeared.
Helena instinctively pressed herself to the filthy, foul-smelling blanket on the cot. He grabbed her shoulder and rolled her to her side with her face to the dirt wall. She scrunched her eyes tight and waited for the knife to plunge into her back.
But something slid against the skin on her wrist, and moments later, fierce tingling exploded her hands. She flopped onto her back and clutched her hands to her chest, moaning in both pain and relief.
Knife in hand, he straightened and stood over her. “Before I cut your feet loose, you gotta promise not to go runnin’ off.”
She doubted her feet would hold her up if they were as numb as her hands. “Where would I go?”
A grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “Smart gal. Wouldn’t do you no good to run, ’cause there ain’t nobody but cows around for miles.” He set the knife at a threatening angle. “Do I got your word?”
She nodded.
He flopped her skirts out of the way and sliced the twine holding her feet together. The same tingles now subsiding in her hands attacked her feet with intensity. She gritted her teeth against the discomfort and attempted to sit up.
With a jab of his palm, he flattened her on the cot again. “Stay put.”
She chose to obey.
He folded the blade into its handle and returned the knife to his pocket. He scuffed to the doorway, looked out both right and left, then settled the door in its frame. Even though the lantern still provided a yellow glow, the absence of sunshine sent a chill up Helena’s frame and she shivered.
He pointed to a crate on the floor next to the stove. “Got a full box o’ straw logs ready to burn if you get too cold. Use ’em careful, though. You’ll need ’em for cookin’, too.” He moved around the small space, touching each item. “Matches in the tin, oil in the jug for the lantern. There’s canned goods an’ such in that crate under the table. Nothin’ fancy, but you won’t starve.”
Obviously he’d planned well for her abduction. She remained flat, fearful of stirring his uncontrolled wrath if she tried to sit, but she couldn’t stay silent. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”
Mr. Nance braced his hands on the back of one of the chairs and angled an apathetic look at her. “Well, now, that ain’t up to me. I need a wife, but I don’t aim to marry up with you. You’re a little long in the tooth for my taste. No offense intended.”
Relief flooded her, chasing away any offense. If he considered her too old to be his wife, then he would be less likely to take husbandly liberties with her.
“I meant to take that little sassy-mouthed one from the restaurant since she’s young enough an’ comely enough to be my wife. But I been watchin’ an’ she never come out alone. So I grabbed you instead. Now I’m gonna keep you until I can work a trade.”
Helena propped herself up on her elbows. “A trade…You mean for…”
A sly grin creased his face. “For the other’n.”
Of all the bold, misguided, inappropriate ways to gain a bride. “Mr. Nance, this scheme of yours is doomed to fail. It amounts to blackmail!”
“Call it what you will. I’m needin’ a wife.”
“You want a sassy-mouthed wife?”
“There’s ways to take the sass out o’ someone.”
Chills broke out over Helena’s frame. Athol had been right about this man. She longed again for her reticule and its contents.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded square of paper and a pencil. He slapped them onto the table and yanked out a chair. “Come here.”
Her feet were still tingling, but they hadn’t lost their ability to hold her up. She stumbled to the table.
“Sit down.”
Although her soul rebelled, her body obeyed his command.
“Now start writin’. To…” He frowned. “What’s her name?”
“Abigail. Miss Abigail Grant.”
“All right, then. To Abigail.” He jabbed his finger on the paper. “Write!”
Helena put the rounded point on the page and wrote, “Dear Miss Grant.”
He scowled at her, and for a moment she feared he might strike her. But then he laughed. “Yeah, that’s good. Sounds real fine.” He slowly dictated his message, and she recorded every word, gritting her teeth and wishing she was big enough, strong enough, brave enough to tackle him, climb onto the wagon seat, and drive away.
“Now sign it with your name so she knows it ain’t a trick.”
Helena added her signature.
He dug in another pocket and slapped a rumpled envelope on the table. “Put her name and Spiveyville on there.”
Helena did so, then watched him stuff the letter into the envelope. “This isn’t going to work. They’ll find you out and you’ll be in terrible trouble. If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone who took me or where you kept me. You’ll have your freedom.”
“I don’t need freedom. I need a wife.” He returned the pencil and envelope to his pocket. Then he strode to the door and looked back at her, as cold and unnerving as a snake. “As soon as your little sassy-mouthed assistant agrees to be my wife, I’ll let you go. So”—he shrugged—“how long you’re here depends on how fast she’s willin’ to do what needs doin’. I’ll be back this evenin’ with my boys. We’ll need supper, so make yourself useful.”