When Georgia came to again, she didn’t move. Whether ten minutes or two hours went by, she didn’t know. Slowly she struggled to a half-seated, half-reclining position. She opened her eyes and gazed at a row of horse stalls before realizing her blindfold was gone. She could see. The barn door was closed, but light leaked around its edges. She counted eight stalls, of which four were occupied by horses. They seemed to be used to her presence and scent, because they munched hay placidly. Her hands and feet were free also, and she leaned her arms backward for support.
But when she forced herself upright, one of the horses pawed the ground and she heard snuffling. A wave of vertigo passed through her, and she wanted to lie down. But whoever owned the animals would probably be here soon to muck out their stalls.
She debated whether to wait for whoever would be coming. Did they know the man named Reince and his buddy? Or had she been dropped at some random farm along the way? Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew they raised horses in Virginia. Was she on a horse farm?
She used the wall of the barn for support and slowly stood up. She wobbled, and her throat was on fire; she would kill for some water. She dragged her feet to the door and used all her strength to slide it open. A rosy dawn sun touched the horizon, tinging deep purple-pink clouds with a ribbon of gold. Beyond the barn stretched a large meadow surrounded by a white fence. Grass was growing, and trees were budding.
If horses were sheltered here, water couldn’t be far away. She slowly circled the barn and spotted a faucet near the door on the other side. She bent over to turn it on, but another wave of vertigo threatened to make her lose her balance. She crouched instead and twisted the handle. Thank God. She cupped her hands and drank, then splashed water on her face.
Afterward she felt halfway human. She knew she didn’t look it. She was glad she didn’t have a mirror. Her face had to be bruised, along with the injection site on her neck, and her ribs were sore from all the jouncing in the van. On the other hand, she hadn’t broken any bones, and her legs, apart from a sore ankle, seemed to be in reasonable shape. She would make her way to the road and hitch a ride back into DC.
She limped slowly toward a blacktopped road. About half a mile in the distance a large structure loomed. Two stories, maybe three. A home? Farm building? Business? She reached for her cell in her pocket before realizing she didn’t have it. Damn. Was there a connection between the building and the thugs who kidnapped her? Could someone in the building tell her who owned the barn? Did they own it?
She headed toward the structure, unsure how close to get. What if she was walking into a trap? She thought it over. The odds were that the goons who’d attacked her wouldn’t show themselves in broad daylight. They were probably crashing at home, satisfied that they’d scared her shitless.
As she drew closer, the building materialized into a country home with a redbrick exterior, white columns and portico in front, and a dome in the center. It looked familiar. When she figured it out, she smiled. Ellie Foreman’s boyfriend, Luke Sutton, lived in a similar-looking home on the banks of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Georgia recalled Jimmy telling her that Luke’s father rebuilt the family home into a replica of Thomas Jefferson’s estate. She couldn’t remember the name of Jefferson’s home, but it was famous.
She did recall Jefferson was from Virginia, though, which added to her theory that she was in the Virginia countryside. She stopped to listen. Aside from the occasional whoosh of a passing vehicle and chirps from birds, there was silence. Nothing from the house.
To be safe she cut back to the field and approached the house from the side. While she didn’t see anyone looking out, it would only take a quick glance from whoever lived in the house to spot her. She angled behind the house and closed the distance from the back.
A Dodge Ram pickup was parked at the end of a gravel driveway. Not the van in which she’d been transported. Beside the truck was a three-car garage. A gazebo with a glider, the kind that often graced southern homes, occupied most of the back. Next to it was a garden, already teeming with daffodils and tulips.
Oversized vertical windows on the first floor let sun pour in, and smaller windows ran horizontally across the second floor. Two were open. Georgia crept around to the front. An elegant portico protected an imposing front door, which was open. The temperature was mild, and a slight breeze wafted over her. Was someone airing out the place?
She gazed back at the meadow. The contrast between the evil that had confronted her last night in the barn and the tranquility of this morning was hard to process. Did the occupants of the house know what had happened in that barn?
As she gazed at the scene a powerful yearning came over her, and a long-buried memory floated up. A meadow somewhere in the South, not unlike this one. She was at a picnic. She and her mother sat on the grass. Her mother was teaching her how to make a buttercup necklace. A bright sun like today’s tinged the grass and buttercups with gold; a soft breeze wafted over them. Her mom called her Peaches. Georgia was happy and safe.
Her throat tightened. It wasn’t worth the risk to find out who lived in the house. She turned and followed the driveway out to the road. Her attacker was right about one thing: she needed to get the hell out of Washington, DC.