Fool’s End, Indian Territory
September 1881
If John Elder hadn’t been so furious with his mutinous crew of cattle hands, he might have noticed the woman dangling above his head sooner.
Except nothing had gone right since his arrival in the bustling cow town of Fool’s End. Night had long since fallen by the time he’d discovered his four missing cowhands. Drunk. In a brothel. He’d fired them on the spot.
As John had circled behind the row of connected buildings, mud from a chilly autumn rain sucked at his boots and slowed his pace. Walking the alley at night wasn’t the wisest choice, but he didn’t have much time. He’d discovered the men’s horses—his horses—at the livery earlier. He was taking back his property before his crew sobered up.
He kept the same rules as his father and his grandfather before him—no gambling, drinking or sporting women until the job was finished.
Moonlight glinted off broken bottles and the stench of sour mash whiskey burned his nostrils. Propped open with a dented brass spittoon, the saloon’s rear door released a dense cloud of cigar smoke. John skirted the hazy shaft of light with a grunt. He’d wasted half the day. For nothing.
A scuffle sounded behind him and he pivoted with his fists raised. Only inky darkness met his searching gaze. John dropped his arms. A man couldn’t be too careful in this corrupt town.
The space behind the buildings wasn’t as much an alley as an afterthought of the hastily constructed cow town. Dreamers and schemers had built Fool’s End from one hundred people to five hundred practically overnight. The pains of rapid expansion had ravaged the city’s grid work. Hope and despair fought a never-ending battle in the red soil, leaving behind an odd carnage. Buffalo hunters, cattle hands and fortune seekers had sprouted opportunity and corruption in equal measures.
A raucous piano ditty spilled from the nearest open saloon door and John’s head throbbed in time with the grating tune. If any one of his six older brothers could see him now, he’d never live it down. Halfway from Paris, Texas, to his final destination of Cimarron Springs, Kansas, and he was spitting distance from failure. Again.
Sure, there’d been times in the past when his optimism had outpaced his good sense. But not this time.
John snorted at the irony. He shouldn’t have let his temper get the better of him. Firing the men left him with only a cantankerous chuck wagon cook named Pops who was older than dirt and just as talkative, and eight hundred head of longhorn cattle he couldn’t drive to Cimarron Springs alone. A small herd by most standards, but too large for two men alone.
It was imperative he reach the Kansas border or forfeit his dreams of starting his own cattle ranch. Fearful of Texas fever, a disease spread by longhorns to other livestock, the state was steadily moving the quarantine line farther west. He’d gambled the line would hold. Farmers and ranchers were filling the state, and their vote was bound to sway the legislature. Which gave John two weeks to cross into Kansas before the vote to close the borders took place.
Time enough for finding a new crew. But not much time.
The faint scuffing grew louder. Pausing, he glanced left and right, then lifted his chin and caught the first blow on his upturned cheek.
“Out of my way,” a feminine voice called down.
The heel of her sturdy boot knocked him sideways. Staggering upright, John clutched his battered shoulder. A slender form dangled from a knotted bed sheet above his head.
His jaw dropped.
The girl craned her neck toward the ground, her face an alabaster oval against the darkness. A blur of pale petticoats covered by a dark skirt met his astonished gaze.
Her gaze snapped upward and her red hair shimmered in the moonlight like a wild, exotic halo. “Let out more rope. I’m still six feet from the ground,” she hissed.
Her voice was mature. John craned his neck. The harder he looked, the more he realized this was a woman, not a girl. Her body twisted and his heart lurched.
He thrust out his arms and her flailing leg grazed his right hand. “Ouch.”
Scooting aside, he reached with his left hand and she smacked that one too. “Take it easy!”
Retreating a safe distance, he assessed the situation. Either this was a dangerous prank or the woman was involved in something nefarious. He didn’t care. He wasn’t getting involved. No way. No how. Right now he had more problems than time.
“We haven’t any more slack,” a thin voice replied from the upper window. “That’s all the sheets.”
A dark-haired girl, no more than twelve years old, thrust her head into the shaft of light from the second-story window.
A blonde of the same age appeared at her right and stretched over the sill, her brilliant pale hair curtaining her face. “Maybe we should pull Moira up. This was a bad idea.”
John rolled his bruised shoulder. “That’s an understatement.”
Their casual assessment of the situation confirmed his first instinct. This was some sort of childish prank. And the woman suspended above him was old enough to know better.
The girls chattered away, their heads bent together, complaining about the lack of decent bed sheets while completely ignoring both him and the dangling woman.
John shook his head. Of all the irrational sights he’d seen in this cow town over the past two days, this topped the list.
While yet another young lady joined the overlapping discussion, the woman above his head struggled for purchase on the rough clapboard walls. Her feet slipped up and down against the chipped paint as though she was running in midair.
John heaved a sigh. He had a singular way of sizing up a situation and predicting the outcome. Even his brothers grudgingly admired his innate ability.
He reached up and patted the woman’s foot. “Let go and I’ll catch you.”
“Everything is quite under control,” she replied primly.
“Lady, I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re pulling, but I see four girls in that window, and not a one of them realizes your arms are shaking and you’re about to break an ankle. Or worse.”
“This is none of your concern,” she announced, her voice strained. “The plan is sound. I simply miscalculated the sheet length. I think it was the knots. Yes. That’s it. The knots took up more slack than I expected.”
“Either way, you’re in a pickle.”
The females in the window giggled.
“Be quiet up there,” the woman ordered, a sense of urgency lacing her words. “If they catch us—”
She lost her grip and John dove forward. He grasped her around the waist and staggered, his feet held immobile in the mire. Keeping a tight hold on the squirming woman, he teetered backward and sat down. Hard. Icy water oozed through his canvas pants and chilled his backside.
The woman scrambled in his loose hold and her elbow cracked his ribs. John flinched. So much for playing the gentleman. She didn’t appear at all grateful he’d taken the brunt of the fall—and soaked himself in the process. As she squirmed, her toe dug into his bent ankle.
He yelped and circled her waist with one arm. “Take it easy.”
The woman whipped around, battling against his protective grasp. Her eyes widened. “Let go of me this instant or I’ll scream. Please.”
Sensing her terror, John obliged. With her arms braced against his chest, his sudden release propelled her backward. She sprang from his embrace and landed flat on her back, sprawled in the oily puddle.
A chorus of titters sounded from above.
The blonde girl swung her leg over the sill in a flurry of white petticoats. “I’m going next.”
John scrambled upright, slipping and sliding in the muck. “No. Wait.”
While his gaze swung between the prone woman and the knotted rope, the second girl crawled out the window. She shimmied down the length until her feet swayed just out of reach.
John caught sight of a third girl straddling the ledge and his heartbeat quickened.
“Stop!” he ordered ineffectively.
The blonde dropped into his outstretched arms and he caught her slight weight against his chest.
As he set her on her feet, she tipped back her head and struck his jaw. John saw stars. He was going to be black-and-blue by the time this was over.
“Thanks.” The girl sketched a wave and scurried aside. “I’m Sarah. I’ll help Moira while you catch the others.”
A pair of short boots descended into view, and John rubbed his sore chin.
He slanted a glance at the woman he’d rescued first. “Lady, please tell me someone up there has some sense.”
“Don’t count on it.” She avoided his searching gaze and stretched her right hand toward Sarah. “And you may call me Miss O’Mara.”
John hid a grin as Sarah awkwardly assisted Miss O’Mara onto unsteady legs. For a wild moment the two clung to each other like a couple of drunken sailors on a pitched deck. The moment the woman regained her footing, they sprang apart.
Miss O’Mara shook the mud from her back, then tugged her dark skirts lower. They were too short, showing a good bit of her worn boots and sliver of ankle. Together with her innocent face, it was easy to mistake her for an adolescent at first glance. On closer inspection, it was obvious she was in her late teens or early twenties.
“You’d better stand firm,” the woman ordered, swiping the back of her hand over her mud-splattered face. “That’s Darcy and she’s the heaviest.”
Distracted by the enticing smudge on Miss O’Mara’s cheek, John didn’t see the third escapee release her hold. His inattention cost him. A sharp elbow hammered his head and a boot scraped along his cheek. Blindly lifting his arms, he groaned beneath the girl’s weight and managed to set her aside before another, much smaller, pair of boots descended into his vision.
A curly-haired child hugged the knotted sheets, her ankles crossed.
John reached out. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The youngster shook her head, her dark curls almost black against the moonlight.
Miss O’Mara stomped forward, her fisted hands planted on her slim hips. “Hazel, we haven’t much time. Let go this instant.”
The girl frantically shook her head. John rolled his eyes. Logic and orders weren’t going to convince Hazel of safety.
Stepping back a pace, he caught the little girl’s frightened gaze. “Almost there, Hazel. I’ll catch you.”
The frightened child sniffled. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
John swiped his index finger in an x across his chest. The childish display of fealty captured Hazel’s attention.
After a moment’s hesitation, she tumbled free and he easily caught her slight form. The instant he set her safely on the ground, she giggled. “That was fun. Can I do it again?”
“No!” Moira and John shouted in unison.
The last girl descended the rope and waved him aside. “Don’t need your help, mister.”
Unlike the previous girls, she released her legs and worked her hands down the length until she was only a few feet above the ground. John crossed his arms and stepped back as she easily dropped the abbreviated distance.
Straightening from her crouch, the girl dusted her hands together. “Thanks for helping with Hazel. I’m Antonella. But everyone calls me Tony.”
The girl pumped his hand once and stomped off.
John searched the empty window. A red velvet curtain flapped gently in the breeze. “Is that all of you?”
Miss O’Mara gathered her charges. “That’s four. Darcy, Sarah, Tony and Hazel.”
Scratching his head, John studied the motley gathering. “What are your ages, girls?”
Darcy boldly elbowed forward. “I’m fifteen next month.”
“Thirteen,” Sarah replied.
“Twelve and a half,” Tony chimed in.
The littlest girl, Hazel, glanced up. “I’m ten.”
John caught Miss O’Mara’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow.
She pursed her lips. “My age is none of your concern.”
Over twenty, he surmised immediately. Over twenty was about the age when a single woman ceased advertising her age. Little did she know. He’d give anything to be in his early twenties once more, when he’d still felt invincible.
Hazel tugged on his pant leg. “Are we safe now?”
The hairs on the back of John’s neck stirred. Each building had a distinctive look from the front, but facing the alley, they blended together into one indistinguishable row. He counted the doors from the corner and his chest tightened.
“Hey,” a slurred voice called from the open window. “Get back here.”
The girls shrieked and spun away.
Summoned by the commotion, a bearded man stuck his head out the saloon door and spit into the mud. “What’s goin’ on?”
A clamor sounded from the far end of the alley.
Miss O’Mara ushered the girls deeper into the darkness without even a backward glance. John split his attention between the growing cacophony of voices and the escapees.
Indecision kept his feet immobile. The girls hadn’t asked for his help. He could leave without an ounce of guilt. Considering they were obviously up to mischief, he’d already done more than most men would have.
“Hey, mister.” The drunken man smacked his palms against the sill. “Stop them girls. They stole my money.”
Of course. John mentally slapped his forehead. He should have known. He’d nearly been taken by a similar bunch in Buffalo Gap. Hastily stuffing his hands into his pockets, he breathed a sigh of relief. His fingers closed around the cool metal of his money clip. At least they’d rewarded his assistance by leaving him with the contents of his pockets intact.
Desperate children forced into desperate measures.
But what punishment did they deserve? John clenched his jaw. It wasn’t for him to decide.
A flash of yellow caught his attention. Half immersed in the mire, a rag doll lay forgotten. He pinched its yellow yarn braid between two fingers and held it aloft in the moonlight.
Above him, the shouting man worked his way down the rope. The sheets held firm and a grudging admiration for Miss O’Mara filtered through John’s annoyance. She tied knots like a trail boss.
“Well, mister,” the man demanded, his breath a fog of alcohol fumes. “Where’d them little thieves go?”
What now? If his brothers were here, they’d shove John aside like a pesky obstacle. They’d take charge and assume he didn’t have anything to offer. Like a herd of stampeding cattle, they’d wrestle all of the decisions—right or wrong—out of his hands. When his brothers were around, he never had to bother with taking responsibility.
John squinted into the darkened alley.
The inebriated man shoved him. “You deaf? I asked you a question.”
John clenched his jaw. The sooner he put Miss O’Mara out of his thoughts, the sooner he could continue his journey. Heaven knew he hadn’t even proved himself worthy of caring for a herd of cattle. A motley group of pickpocket orphans and a beautiful woman with fiery red hair were problems well beyond his limited resources.
Miss O’Mara and her charges were knee-deep in calamity and sinking fast. Moira required someone with the time, focus and connections to unravel her difficulties. Someone with the resources to steer her charges toward a respectable path. A hero. She’d gotten him instead. Maybe she’d have better luck down the road.
The drunken man took off in the direction Miss O’Mara and her charges had escaped. John snatched the man’s arm and pointed the opposite way. “I’d check down there.”
* * *
Moira heard the cowboy’s betrayal and her heart lodged in her throat. She tugged on Hazel’s arm and quickened her pace. With each pounding step her lungs burned and her vision blurred. What did speed matter when they were running blind? They’d be caught again for certain.
A hand tugged on her sleeve and tears of defeat sprang in her eyes. She yanked away. She wasn’t giving up. Not yet. The fingers kept a brutal grip.
“Miss O’Mara,” the cowboy spoke near her ear. “Let me carry Hazel. We’ll make better time.”
“No. You betrayed us.”
Moira stumbled and the cowboy steadied her with a hand cupping her elbow.
“I didn’t. Look around if you don’t believe me.”
At his calm reassurance, she slowed and glanced behind them. The alley was empty. No one pursued them.
While her exhausted brain grappled with the realization, the cowboy knelt. With childish faith, Hazel clambered onto his back. The little girl wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in his neck, effectively forcing Moira to follow. They ran another two blocks, her hand clasped in his solid grasp, before he halted.
The cowboy jerked his head toward a closed door. “In there.”
Frightened and weak with hunger, Moira instinctively reacted to the innate authority in his tone. She tore open the door and guided the others inside.
The pungent aroma of animals assailed her senses. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light and she noted Dutch doors lining either side of a cavernous center corridor. The cowboy had led them into the livery.
Horses stamped and snorted at the disturbance. The girls whispered together and Moira quickly shushed them. Their footsteps sounded like a stampede and their raspy, labored breathing chafed her taut nerves. She crept across the hay-strewn floor behind the cowboy, her index finger pressed against her lips for silence.
The cowboy gently lowered Hazel and propped an empty wooden saddle rack before the exit. Walking the aisle, he peered into each stall in turn, pausing before the third. He swung his arm in an arc, motioning them forward.
While the girls scurried inside the empty stall and huddled in the far corner, Moira bent and clutched the stitch in her side. In an effort to calm her rapid breathing, she dragged a deep breath into her tight lungs. The stall wasn’t much of a hiding place, but at least they weren’t out in the open anymore.
The cowboy returned a moment later with an enormous hay bale and tossed it onto the ground. He came back twice more in quick succession. Understanding his intent, Moira yanked on the bale wire, grimacing as it dug into her palms. Each bundle must weigh a hundred pounds, yet the cowboy showed no signs of strain.
He returned again with a stack of burlap feed sacks draped over his arm. “Cover yourselves with these and don’t make a sound. If he searches the building, don’t move, don’t talk, don’t even breathe.”
“Wait,” Moira called in a soft voice. “Why are you doing this?”
He hesitated and she sensed a war raging within him.
During their escape from the brothel, she’d noted his lean, muscular build and caught a glimpse of his square jaw. In the milky light of the stable, she made out the dark hair curling from beneath his hat and the raspy-looking whiskers darkening his jaw. He had an aristocratic face with deep-set eyes, a patrician nose, and lips that qualified as works of art.
He was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. If only she had her sketch pad. He’d make a superb subject. Like a hero in a penny awful rescuing the damsel in distress, he had the sort of face that inspired romantic dreams.
Moira mentally shook the wayward thoughts from her head. Dreaming of a happily ever after was like building a house on a shifting sandbar. She’d seen too many people caught by the enticing trap, starting with her own mother. Over the years she’d guarded her heart well, and she wasn’t about to weaken her resolve for a chiseled jaw.
A muscle worked in John’s cheek. “Keep your head down. I may have to cause a distraction. Whatever you hear, stay out of sight unless I tell you to run.”
His voice was rough and uneven and the look in his eyes did nothing to reassure her. Moira had effectively trapped them in a corner.
She swallowed around the lump in her throat. She’d entrusted their lives to a stranger, albeit a handsome stranger. “What’s your name?”
“John. John Elder.”
Oddly comforted by the harmless name, she nodded. At least he hadn’t replied with something like Deadly Dan or Killer Miller.
Searching for an innocuous rejoinder, she blurted, “I’m Moira.”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half grin that sent her heart tripping. “Nice to meet you, Miss O’Mara.”
Her cheeks burned beneath his reference to her earlier insistence on his use of her formal name. She might have been a touch rude, but there weren’t exactly rules of etiquette for a brothel escape.
She cleared her throat. “You never answered my question. Why are you helping us?”
He stared into the distance. “Because it suits me for now.”
“What happens when it doesn’t suit you?”
“I guess we’ll find out when that happens.”
Her stomach dipped. For a moment she’d thought he was different. That he was actually helping them out of the kindness of his heart, out of Christian charity. Turned out he was like everyone else. He obviously had an ulterior motive. Maybe they were an amusement, maybe he was bored, maybe he’d flipped an imaginary coin and their predicament had come up tails. His motivation didn’t really matter.
Whatever the reason, he’d cease helping once they ceased serving whatever purpose he’d assigned them. People only cared when they needed something.
With a last appeal for silence, John stepped into the corridor and slid the door closed behind him.
Finally grasping the gravity of the situation, the girls remained unnaturally quiet. Moira flopped into position. Blood thumped rhythmically in her ears. She rubbed her damp hands against her thighs, then tugged her too-short skirts over her ankles. The dress was a castoff from the foster family she and her brother, Tommy, had lived with before Tommy ran away. Mrs. Gifford had recycled the expensive lace at the hem for her own purpose and left Moira with her ankles showing.
The cowboy probably thought... Moira fisted her hands. Why waste her energy worrying about what Mr. Elder thought of her clothing when they were still in peril? She’d heard Fool’s End was dangerous, but every one-horse town she’d passed through had been dangerous.
She should have heeded the warnings this time.
Normally she’d never go out after dark, but she’d waited two hours for Mr. Grey, only to be told that he didn’t know anything about her brother Tommy.
Tears pricked behind her eyes. Another dead end, another disappointment. After four years, she was certain this time she’d finally catch up with him. A maid from the Gifford house who remembered her fondly had discovered the charred bits of a telegram in the fireplace of Mr. Gifford’s study. Piecing together what few words she could read, Moira had made out the names “Mr. Grey” and “Fool’s End.” The sender’s name had been clear as well: Mr. Thomas O’Mara.
A name and a location weren’t much to go on, but it was all she had. Tommy must have forgiven her for the trouble she’d caused if he’d contacted her. She’d stolen Mr. Gifford’s watch, and in her cowardice, she’d let her brother take the blame. He’d run away that same evening and she hadn’t seen him since. There was no doubt in her mind the telegram had been for her. She doubted Mr. Gifford burned his own correspondence.
She’d considered posting a letter to Mr. Grey but then quickly dismissed the thought. Letters were impersonal and mail service unreliable. Instead, she’d set off almost immediately. Yet her arrival today had been too late. Tommy was nowhere to be found.
Mr. Grey had denied knowing anything about Tommy or the telegram, but something in his denial didn’t sit right with her. On her way back to the hotel, not two blocks from her destination, some drunken fool had nabbed and locked her in that second-story room with four other girls.
Children.
She hadn’t seen a one of them before that moment. Yet they’d formed an instant bond against a mutual enemy. Moira shuddered at the implication. She might be naive, but she knew a brothel when she saw one. If they were discovered, there’d be no escaping unscathed the next time.
Keeping her expression neutral, she passed each of the girls a sack. The less they picked up on her terror, the better. Being afraid didn’t change anything anyway. It only made the waiting more excruciating.
Together they huddled silently in the deepest recess of the darkened stall, barely concealed behind the stack of hay bales. Hazel crawled onto her lap and Moira started. The frightened little girl had clung to her since her kidnapping. Had that been only a few hours ago? It seemed like an eternity. Hazel burrowed deeper. Unused to such open displays of affection, Moira awkwardly patted the child’s back.
Tony took Hazel’s cue and clustered on Moira’s left side, Sarah on the other.
Darcy sat a distance apart, wrapping her arms around her bent legs and resting her chin on her knees. “This is stupid,” she announced in a harsh whisper. “You should have waited until I thought of a better plan.”
Moira pursed her lips. At fifteen, Darcy was the oldest of the girls—and the most sullen. The only words she’d uttered in the past two hours had been complaints or criticisms.
Darcy snarled another gripe beneath her breath.
Since they were all terrified and half-crazy with hunger, Moira bit back an angry retort. “We’re here now and we’ll have to make the best of it.”
Darcy scowled but kept blessedly quiet.
For the next several minutes they waited in tense silence. As time ticked away, the air beneath the burlap sacks grew thick and hot. Sarah shifted and coughed. Footsteps sounded from the corridor and Moira hugged Hazel tighter.
“Can I help you, sir?” an unfamiliar voice spoke.
“I’m looking for a gang of thieves.”
Moira immediately recognized the second man as her kidnapper. His raspy voice was etched on her soul.
“Five of them,” the kidnapper continued. “A bunch of girls. One of them picked the wrong pocket this time. Stole Mr. Grey’s gold watch.”
“Why didn’t he nab the little thief right then?” the first man spoke, his voice tinted with an accent that might have been Norwegian or Swedish.
“Because he didn’t notice his watch was missing right off.”
“Then how does he know who done took his watch?” The Norwegian sounded dazed.
“Because we got three reports of the same kind of thing.” The kidnapper’s voice raised an octave. “An orphan girl comes in begging for change or food, and the next thing people know, their watches and money go missing.”
“Well, I’m plum confused by the whole thing. Is it one girl you’re after or five?” The Norwegian sputtered. “Did all five of them pick Mr. Grey’s pocket? What’d she look like? Wait a second. What did they look like?”
“Well, let me see here. Mr. Grey seen a girl with red hair just before—” The kidnapper huffed. “Never mind. It ain’t your business. Have you seen them or not?”
Moira’s blood simmered. Why that low-down, no good, drunken...
Another thought jerked her upright. A watch. Four years ago a pocket watch had set off a chain of events that had changed her life forever. It was somehow fitting a timepiece had been at the center of this evening’s troubles.
Would John Elder protect them if he thought they were thieves? Who else would help them if that vile man spread lies to cover his foul deeds?
“I ain’t seen nobody,” the Norwegian replied.
A scuff sounded, as though someone had opened a door.
“Now you’ll have to leave,” the Norwegian ordered. “That’s a paying customer and you’re not.”
“Hey,” the kidnapper snapped. “Ain’t you the fellow from the alley?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
Moira started. John Elder was the “customer” who had come through the door. He must have escaped through the back and circled around front.
“The name is John,” her rescuer answered, sounding bored and a touch annoyed. “And I already told you where to find the girls.”
“Except I didn’t find them, did I?” The kidnapper cackled. “Maybe you’re saving them for yourself.”
Moira’s heart hammered so loudly and she feared they’d hear its drumbeat thumping through the slats in the stall door. She’d misjudged her reluctant rescuer once already tonight. Or had she?
“Look yourself,” John replied, his annoyance apparent. “They’re your problem, not mine.”
The horse in the neighboring stall whinnied and bumped against the wall. Moira stuffed her fist against her mouth. Itchy hay poked through her clothing and she resisted the urge to scratch. A moment later the footsteps paused before their stall. The door scraped open. She held her breath and prayed.
An eternity passed before the door slid closed once more. Moira heaved a sigh of relief, then offered a silent prayer and a couple of promises concerning future atonement for good measure. Another few seconds and they’d be safe.
Sarah stifled a sneeze. The sound was faint and muffled, but it might as well have been a shotgun blast. The door scraped open once more.
“Hey,” John called. “What did you just say to me?”
“Back off,” the kidnapper snapped. “I didn’t say nothing.”
“I think you did.”
Boots scuffed in the dirt and Moira winced at the sound of flesh hitting flesh. She whipped the bag from her head and sat erect, swiping her tangled and static hair from her eyes. From her vantage point, she watched as the cowboy spun the kidnapper around. John was obviously diverting the man’s attention.
Setting Hazel aside, Moira leaped to her feet. She’d best spring into action before John Elder decided that rescuing a bunch of orphans no longer suited him. She snatched a pitchfork from the corner and charged, jabbing her kidnapper in the backside. Yelping, the man sprang upright, his hands clutching his back pockets.
The kidnapper whipped around with a snarl and her stomach clenched. Roaring in fury, he hurtled across the distance. Moira quickly sidestepped, then stumbled.
A glint of light reflected from a star on the kidnapper’s lapel. Moira blanched.
Had her past finally caught up with her?
Copyright © 2014 by Sherri Shackelford