CHAPTER 12
Annabelle was so tired she was having trouble staying awake in the saddle.
Her head kept bobbing, and sometimes she would slide forward and down over one of her horse’s withers. She didn’t fall completely out of the saddle because one of Machado’s men had tied her wrists to her saddle horn. He was the one leading her horse—a thickset block of a man with long, greasy hair hanging over his shoulders. She could smell the sickly-sweet stench of the man. They all smelled like sweat, wool, leather, and whiskey. They passed a bottle around as they rode.
She pulled herself up out of another doze and looked around. It was late in the day. Almost dusk. She wished they’d stop soon. Almost as severe as the terror of being these savages’ prisoner was her exhaustion.
She just wanted to sleep.
She didn’t want to eat. Just sleep.
The thought had no sooner passed through her mind than she saw a crooked wooden sign poking up from the brush on the trail’s right side.
She leaned out from her saddle to look ahead through the six men riding in front of her, including the lead-riding, big, top-hatted Machado, who wore his long, gray-brown hair down his back in a braid threaded with rawhide. Annabelle ground her teeth in fury. He was a big, ugly, savage son of a bitch. But her heart lightened a little when she saw a large, two-story log cabin sitting on the bank of a muddy, slow-moving river beyond a screen of shrubs, the green, late-summer stench of which she could now smell.
She could smell the aromas of cooking food, as well.
Maybe they’d feed her tonight. They hadn’t fed her last night because Machado hadn’t liked the way she’d looked at him, which of course was laughable. What did he expect? Not only was he an uncouth savage, but he’d kidnapped her and left Hunter in God knows what condition in the hall of the hotel in Lusk.
As they approached the cabin, there came a low roar of conversation and the clinking of coins and glasses. The succulent aromas of cooking food grew stronger. A woman’s loud laugh suddenly cut through the din. Machado stopped his big paint horse in front of the cabin and the seven others checked their mounts down, as well.
“Hey, you big ugly German!” Machado shouted toward a stable on the opposite side of the trail from the cabin. “Get out here an’ stable these hosses! They been rode a long way, so treat ’em right or I’ll whip your big Kraut behind!”
Machado’s men laughed.
Machado turned to the man trailing Annabelle’s horse and said, “Cut her down!”
The man leading Annabelle’s horse—Tobin, she thought he was called—swung down from his own horse, came back, and used his bowie knife to cut Annabelle’s wrists free of her saddle horn. He sheathed the knife and stepped back and ordered brusquely, gutturally, “Down!” None of these men spoke like humans but only like animals, wild ones, at that. They never really spoke but aways yelled.
Annabelle’s head swirled. She’d just started to dismount but apparently not fast enough for Tobin. “Why, you . . . !” he said, and stepped forward and smashed the back of his hand against her mouth.
She was too exhausted to even scream. She just flew down the opposite side of her mount to strike the ground with ear-ringing, vision-clouding violence. She lay on her back, feeling like a turtle, impossible to right herself.
She heard loud footsteps moving toward her, saw Machado’s red boots with white stitching pass by her. She heard the savage crack of a fist on flesh and then Machado bellowing, “What did I tell you about messing her up? Corazon don’t pay for damaged merchandise, you damn fool!”
Another resounding punch and a loud grunt and the resolute thud of a heavy body striking the ground. Then Machado came around, picked Annabelle up by her shoulders and shoved her toward the cabin’s now open door. A heavy-set woman in a long, flowered dress stood there and suddenly sprang into hearty laughter.
“Hah! You got you a redhead, Machado. Why, she’s purty! Where’d you find her? Oh, Corazon’s gonna love her. He’ll get top dollar for her!”
“Let’s just say she’s the woman of a friend of mine,” Machado said and laughed his deep, animal-like laugh. The laugh of a wolf if a wolf could laugh. “Take her in and clean her up. Usual price.”
“You got it, you got it.” The woman took Annabelle’s hand and pulled her into the cabin, Annabelle stumbling because she was still reeling from the blow. “Come on, honey. Let Ann-Marie make you presentable.”
When Annabelle entered the cabin, a hush fell over the smoky place.
“Henrietta, come over here and take this young lady upstairs, give her a good, long bath and then fetch her a plate of food. Why, I bet she’s so hungry her tummy’s gotten way too familiar with her backbone!”
Lusty male chuckles from around the room.
And then a girl took Annabelle’s hand and led her upstairs. Annabelle was so exhausted and still so stunned from Tobin’s blow that she wasn’t fully conscious of what was happening until she found herself in a steaming hot copper tub and the girl, Henrietta, was slowly scrubbing her back with a sponge.
Anna jerked with a start with the sudden realization.
But the water felt good. Henrietta cooed in her ear to soothe her.
“Easy, now. Easy, now, Miss Annabelle. Machado said that’s your name, Annabelle. Real pretty name. Everything will be all right, Miss Annabelle. The journey’s almost over now. That’s the hardest part. After that, if you just give into it, you’ll feel much better.”
Annabelle turned to her, dumbfounded. “Did Machado bring you, too?”
“Yep. It was hard. But when you know you don’t got no other choice, I reckon it’s just best to give into it. I hear you’ll be movin’ on, though.”
“Where . . . where am I going?”
“Probably the river. The Missouri. He gets the best prices for the best girls there. A man named Corazon will pay top dollar for a redhead.”
“Oh, God,” Annabelle said, dully.
“You should be thankful. Machado’s men will leave you alone because you’re special. Corazon won’t pay for damaged goods. Your lip will probably heal by the time you get to the river. Before you leave, I’ll touch it up for you.”
Annabelle placed her hand on the girl’s forearm. “Isn’t there a way out of this place? A backway? Henrietta, surely you’ve tried to escape!”
“Oh, no, no.” Deep lines cut across Henrietta’s pale forehead. “There’s no point in even trying. There’s nowhere to go. Why, the nearest town is upstream a good twenty miles. Besides, if Machado catches you . . . well, then, it ain’t gonna matter how pretty you are.” She gave Annabelle’s rich, red hair a flip with her hand.
Henrietta gave the sponge to Annabelle. “Here, you finish up yourself. I’ll go down and fetch you a plate of food. Courtney—that’s the old cook—knows how to cook a mean venison steak!”
The girl rose, opened the door, and stepped into the hall. When she closed the door, Annabelle heard the scrape of a key in the lock.
“Damn,” Annabelle said.
She felt a sudden urgency to somehow flee her captors. After all, they were likely all downstairs getting stone drunk, and she was up here, a good distance from them, no longer under their close scrutiny. As tired as she was—the effect of Tobin’s abuse was fading—she fairly leaped up out of the tub, grabbed a towel, and dried herself, toweling her lower legs and feet as she stepped out of the tub onto the crude puncheons of the floor.
She tossed the towel over the scrolled wooden room divider with painted glass panels running across the top, then grabbed the fresh underwear Henrietta had laid out for her—pink pantalettes, wool socks, and a fresh chemise. Then she pulled on the denims and wool shirt she’d worn on the trail. She drew her hair up and used one of Henrietta’s silver clips to secure it, then stepped into her boots.
Her heart was beating quickly, urgently. If she was going to escape these savages, now was the time to do it.
Again, she turned to the door.
Locked from the outside.
She walked over to the door and crouched down to peer through the lock. Yep, there was a key securely inside it. Footsteps sounded and suddenly someone stood on the other side of the door, a small, pink hand moving to the key in the lock. Two knocks, and Henrietta’s voice said, “Knock-knock—I’m back and I’ve come bearing gifts!”
Annabelle stepped quickly back as the door opened and Henrietta came in carrying a tray with a plate of meat, potatoes, and gravy on it. Henrietta turned back to the door to poke the key in the lock and turn it, locking the door. Annabelle watched her, almost trembling with anticipation. The door was locked from the inside. All she had to do now was unlock it.
But there was Henrietta, whose obvious duty it was to not only tend to Machado’s prisoner but also to make sure she stayed in the room.
Henrietta set the tray on a small table outfitted with two brocade-upholstered armchairs, and said, “Here, now . . . you sit down an’ eat. Smells so good, doesn’t it? One of the benefits of being here is Mister Courtney’s cookin’. He doesn’t say much on account of the Cheyenne cut out his tongue when he was soldierin’, but he cooks one hell of a plate of food. You should taste his stew—cooked from turtles he catches in the Cheyenne just behind the roadhouse!”
Annabelle gave a mirthless chuckle and shuddered.
She looked at the food on the table. She looked at Henrietta standing between her and the door. Henrietta was a slender girl dressed in cream underwear, two blue sleeping feathers in her hair. Anna was taller and probably had a good ten pounds on the girl. She could easily overtake her.
But there was just something so sweet and innocent about the girl. And there was that damnable plate of food filling the entire room with the smell of fried venison, potatoes, and rich brown gravy obviously spiced with wild onion. Her stomach groaned. Her hunger made her weak. If she was going to try to make her escape tonight, she could not do it on an empty stomach.
With a sigh, she sat down at the table, unwrapped the cloth napkin from around her silverware, and dug into her food. Henrietta sat down across from her to watch her, smiling in delight at Annabelle’s obvious delight at the food, which, she had to admit, was some of the best venison she’d tasted. Henrietta made her feel a little self-conscious, for she knew she was eating with the abandon of a drunken gandy dancer at midnight; still, she enjoyed the food right down to the last ragged bit of biscuit with which she swabbed the last of the gravy from her plate, then popped it into her mouth.
She chewed, swallowed, washed it down with the last of her coffee.
“Oh, God—that was good!” Annabelle said.
Henrietta gave her small hands a single scalp. “See—I told you you’d like it!”
Annabelle scrubbed her mouth with her napkin, looked across the table at Henrietta. She felt like a snake eyeing a kitten. She had to subdue Henrietta so she could leave the room and find a way out of this place. She’d already inspected the room’s two windows. They would open, but the drop was too steep from each—straight down to the ground. She’d at least get a broken ankle out of the deal.
Hanging from a hook above the table were a pair of silk stockings. She could use them as a gag and then secure poor Henrietta to the bed using sheets. Her heart quickened. Henrietta was still smiling at her from across the table, chin resting on the heels of her hands.
Annabelle smiled back at the girl.
“Want to play some pinochle?” Henrietta asked her. “That’s my favorite.”
“Pinochle . . . hmmm.” Annabelle’s hand started to rise toward the stockings. There was a sudden knock on the door.
Annabelle jerked with a start, gasping, and lowered her hand to her lap.
“Who is it?” Henrietta said as she rose from her chair and walked to the door.
A raspy male voice said, “Honey, it’s me—Horace. Let me in, will ya? Come fer a visit.”
Oh, no, Annabelle thought. Oh, no. Why now of all times does Henrietta have to get business? Right when Annabelle was about to make her escape.
“I’m sorry—I’m not takin’ visitors tonight, Horace,” Henrietta said, canting her head toward the door.
“Oh, come on, honey—I come all this way to see you!”
“Oh, Horace, please, no . . .”
There you go, honey, Annabelle thought. Stand your ground.
Or...
A sudden idea dawned on Annabelle. Maybe they should entertain ol’ Horace, after all . . .
“Henrietta,” she said. “Invite him in. We could play three-handed pinochle. Make the time go by a little faster.”
Henrietta regarded her incredulously.
Inwardly, Annabelle smiled.