34

Sam woke at the sound of Jack rekindling the fire. The gray light of dawn suffused the clearing, muting the colors, reminding him of a photograph. He watched Jack through narrowed eyes, a small victory in hiding his wakefulness. Jack set the coffeepot to boil and stirred up a batch of biscuits, glancing in Sam’s direction a couple of times. Maria still slept, her face beautiful and peaceful.

The trouble with feigning sleep was having to be awake. Stones dug into Sam’s hip. Twigs pinched his side. Sam struggled into a sitting position. Pins and needles coursed through his bound feet. His wrists chafed from the coarse rope. He scratched the bristle of his unshaved chin, longing to soak in a hot bath with Lupe tending to him.

Maria sat up and stretched. She shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. She smiled at Jack, then turned to look at Sam. Coldness filled her eyes like a veil blocking out everything bright and good. She stood, gathered some clothes, and walked to the water. Soon Sam heard her splashing and washing herself.

Sam yearned to have his hands untied, to shave, to wash off the sweat and grime. He knew it would be fruitless to ask. When he had sought relief the day before, they’d ignored him. He still felt the welts on his face where Maria slapped him with her reins after he asked to have the rope around his wrists loosened.

Despondency overpowered him. Lost, alone, at the mercy of this quiet man and this hateful, violent woman, hopelessness enveloped him, stifling any expectation of rescue.

By now, the town must know something had happened, but they would have no idea where he went. He himself had no idea where he was. Their meandering path had left him confused and disoriented. The constant pain in his head, his back, his legs made it impossible to concentrate.

I’m my only hope for rescue. No one else will ever be able to find me. Fight back! He inhaled and held the breath before releasing it. The hint of a resolve formed. They would not break him. He’d show his strength by not asking for anything, by not sinking to the level of a groveling peon, begging for scraps.

Whatever they wanted, he would not give it to them.

Combing her still-wet hair, Maria came back from the river in a mannish outfit of faded and patched dungarees, a tan cotton shirt, and boots. She took a plate of beans and bacon from Jack, picked up a biscuit and a cup of coffee, and sat on her blanket, eating in silence. Jack brought Sam a plate of food and put a cup of coffee near his feet. The pain, the stiffness of his muscles, and his bindings made eating without spilling an arduous task.

Jack picked up his gear and headed to the water. He returned in a few minutes clean-shaven and in clean clothes. He prepared a plate of food for himself while Maria saddled the horses.

“Let’s go.” Maria walked the horses to where they sat. Jack took Sam’s half-filled plate and his untouched coffee and went to the river to wash them, along with the rest of the cooking gear. Jack came back, stowed the gear, and helped Sam onto his horse.

As Maria rode past him to take the lead, he leaned over and spat on her boot.

The back of her hand cracked into his cheek. “Pig,” she hissed.

He tasted blood. She spurred her horse and trotted away.

Whatever they want, don’t give it to them.

Sam smiled.