Hope (9781414341583)

by Copeland, Lori

  “It’s the money, isn’t it? That’s why you’re with them. You want that money as much as they do, but you won’t get it. I’m not Anne Ferry.”

  A mask shuttered his features. “Just do as I say if you want to get out of this alive.”

  She got up, smoothing the back of her skirt. “What’s the profit if a man has the whole world but loses his soul?”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “The Bible.” She repeated the misquoted verse.

  “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “It’s Scripture. Mark 8 something.”

  He looked none too happy, and she knew why. The mention of Scripture induced feelings of guilt, as well it should for a man in his profession.

  “‘What’s the profit if a man has the whole world but loses his soul’? That’s found in Mark?”

  She nodded gravely. “My papa was a preacher.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Mine is the Lord, and I imagine he’d prefer you get the Scriptures right.”

  She crossed her arms. “God isn’t mocked. What a man sows, he’ll get back,” she retorted, hoping that was correct.

  If a man sows, he’ll get it back—no, if a sow throws—no, no, there was nothing in the verse about a pig.

  Disbelief filled his face. It irritated Hope that he—of all people—challenged her.

  “‘A fool despises instruction!’” Dear me! Had she misquoted that? Oh, she hoped not—besides, how would he know? Indignant, she paced back and forth.

  “I don’t understand any of this. I was on my way to Medford, minding my own business. You … and those terrible men … stopped the stage, dragged me off—”

  A clap of thunder shook the ground. Hope glanced up as the first raindrop hit her cheek. “Great. Rain.”

  “At least you got that right.”

  Hope planted her fists on her hips. “I don’t know who you are or what you plan to do with the money you hope to steal, but I do know that a fool despises instruction—”

  “Misquoting again, Miss Ferry.”

  “My papa—,” she began, then gasped as the heavens opened up and poured.

  Grunt grabbed her by the arm, and they started running for shelter. He steered her toward a rise with a long outcropping of rock. The ground beneath was dry.

  “We’ll hole up here until it slacks off.” He settled Hope into the cramped space, then crawled in beside her. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She’d rarely been so close to a man—a man this … masculine, with such overpowering presence. He was all muscle and brawny strength.

  Scooting toward the back, she tucked the hem of her dress around her ankles. Grunt took off his hat and shoved his fingers through his dark hair. The two sat, staring at the falling rain. The minutes ticked by. The space shrank, becoming incredibly small and personal. Her arm brushed the fabric of his shirt, their bodies only inches apart in the tiny space.

  She focused on his clean profile. His jaw was firm, not soft and flabby like the others; his nose straight, his mouth well defined. And he had the most incredible dark brown eyes that looked right through her. A sigh escaped her.

  He looked over. “Did you say something?”

  “No.” Such a waste of manhood. He might have made some lucky woman a wonderful husband, been a doting father. Had he implied his “father” was the Lord, or had she imagined it? No self-respecting man would tolerate the likes of Big Joe, Boris, and Frog.

  Aunt Thalia’s voice echoed in her mind: “Let those without sin hurl the first rock.” She could hear the admonition clearly. Aunt Thalia was a saint; Hope wasn’t.

  “I’m not without sin, Aunt Thalia, but unlike some people, I don’t steal money and terrorize innocent people,” she muttered.

  Grunt turned to look over his shoulder. “I know you said something that time.”

  Hope realized she’d spoken her thoughts out loud. Her face flamed. “I was talking to myself, if you don’t mind.”

  The rain came down in blowing sheets. They pressed back into the shelter and huddled as lightning split the sky and the ground rumbled beneath them. Dear Lord, why must I be a prisoner of a man I find so appealing? Why couldn’t Grunt look and act despicable, like Big Joe?

  It might take weeks—months—for the men to recognize their mistake. The ransom note would have to be delivered. Thomas Ferry would know that someone was playing a cruel trick and strike a match to the absurd request. Then the outlaws would have to wait more weeks before they were sure their demands weren’t going to be met. She couldn’t survive months here in that one-room cabin! Even if she could keep the men fooled into thinking she was Anne Ferry, when they received no response to the ransom note they’d investigate and discover she wasn’t Ferry’s daughter. Then what? Fear constricted her throat as another clap of thunder rocked the ground.

  Grunt shifted. Was her presence unnerving to him? She hoped so—she sincerely hoped so. It would serve him right.

  Settling himself in a dry spot, he tipped his hat over his face and appeared to sleep. Hope’s eyes gauged the distance between her and where he rested. It was now or never. Grunt’s warning rang in her ears. “It would be suicide for a woman alone in these parts.” But it would be suicidal of her to remain in his custody.

  It was pouring rain—she could hide in the bushes, make her way back to civilization under the guise of darkness. It wasn’t the smartest plan, but then she’d never been in this situation before. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Was that Scripture?

  No, Uncle Frank used to say that to Aunt Thalia.

  Springing from beneath the rock outcropping, Hope ran. As fast and as hard as she could run. Faster than she’d ever run in her life. Her breath came in gasps as she leapt puddles and dodged prickly bushes. Disoriented, she beat her way through thick underbrush. Rain sluiced down, blinding her. She could hear Grunt shouting at her.

  “Come back here, you little fool!”

  She ran on, praying that the thunder would cover the noise of her flight. Turning to look back, she plowed headlong into a tree. The impact threw her into a bush, and she lay on her back, stunned.

  “Anne! Don’t be foolish—you can’t make it alone!”

  Rolling to her side, she doubled up, holding her breath. Grunt’s voice boomed above the downpour.

  “Miss Ferry! Anne!”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed. Don’t let him find me; please, please, don’t let him find me.

  “You can’t get away—don’t try it!” His voice sounded nearer at times, then farther away.

  “I can, if I escape you,” she whispered.

  The minutes crept by. Her legs began to ache, but she couldn’t move. Any sound, even in the pouring rain, would alert him. She was chilled to the bone now. How long before he would give up and return to the cabin for help? By then, she would be so far down the road they’d never find her.

  She lay for hours, listening for footfalls, terrified to move. Toward evening, the rain slowed to a cold drizzle. Teeth chattering, she listened to small animals moving around foraging for food. A raccoon crept close, and she shooed it away with her hand. Two more appeared, their beady eyes wide with curiosity.

  Her voice was barely a whisper. “Hungry, fellows?” She didn’t blame them. The thought of bacon and bread and rich, black coffee haunted her.

  She scavenged beneath the bush and came up with a handful of acorns, then gently pitched them several feet away. The coons darted off, investigating.

  She hadn’t heard Grunt calling her name for some time. She’d made it. Thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you, God—

  She yelped when she suddenly felt herself yanked to her feet and a large, warm hand clamped over her mouth.

  “You are sorely testing my patience,” a rough voice rasped in her ear.

  Her heart was thumping a mile a minute as he whirled her around and steadied her on her feet, none too gently. She blinked, weak with relief when she saw it was Grunt, not Big Joe, Boris, or
Frog. His face was a storm cloud. “Don’t you have a lick of sense?”

  She tried to break his hurtful hold. “Let me go! You’re not like the others. You’re intelligent; you have a quality the others don’t have—” She wrenched free. “Don’t do this!”

  “If I let you go, you’ll be dead by morning.” He took her by the shoulders and gently shook her. To her surprise, she saw concern in his eyes. “Why did you disobey me?”

  “Please—”

  “No.”

  She clamped her teeth together. She was wrong about him. He was just as mean and ornery and bullheaded as Big Joe, Frog, and Boris put together. Her heart sank. She was doomed. She had failed at her escape, and they would watch her closer than ever now.

  “Come on. You’re going to catch your death out here.” Keeping her firmly in check, he turned her in the direction of the cabin. Stopping at the shelter, he picked up his rifle and the squirrels, then continued forcing her ahead of him.

  Despair enveloped her. She was going to die here in these awful woods. No one would know where she was or what had happened to her. If Grunt didn’t strangle her, the others would.

  “Please let me go,” she chattered between breaths.

  “You’re staying with me.” He latched on to her ear and marched her toward the cabin.

  “Ouch … you’re hurting me!”

  “Just walk, Miss Ferry.”

  She was sopping wet, and her teeth were knocking together so hard she couldn’t argue. It seemed like hours later when he finally shoved her inside the cabin. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” Wrestling out of Grunt’s grip, she stood in the middle of the floor, thick mud caked on her thin shoes, the hem of her dress dripping a stream.

  Big Joe sprang up from the table, overturning a chair. His features were tight. “Where have you been!”

  Lifting her chin, she crossed her arms.

  She stumbled when Grunt pushed her closer to the fire. “Had a bear tracking us. Fired off a couple of rounds, but he dogged us most of the day. Had to hole up until we could shake him.”

  Hope gravitated toward the fire, seeking its warmth. His excuse barely registered with her. She needed blankets, hot coffee.

  “A bear?” Boris sat up from his bedroll. “Did you git ’im?”

  Grunt motioned toward Hope. “She needs dry clothes and something to eat. Now.”

  Boris grumbled but rolled to his feet and stoked the fire. Big Joe opened the suitcase and pushed it across the floor to her. She fished around for a clean dress and underclothing.

  The men busied themselves with the squirrels. Grunt rigged a rope and draped a blanket over it, then heated water on the stove. Stepping behind the makeshift curtain, Hope removed her wet clothing, shaking so hard her hands refused to cooperate.

  “Wrap a blanket around yourself.” She froze when she heard Grunt’s deep baritone on the other side of the blanket.

  “What?”

  “Wrap a blanket around yourself. I have a hot bath drawn.”

  Hope closed her eyes, so grateful she wanted to cry. Hot water. She picked up a second blanket and secured it tightly around her. A wooden tub slid behind the curtain.

  She heard the front door close as the men stepped outside to allow her privacy. Climbing into the water, she sank down, allowing the steaming vapors to envelop her. Her body cried out with relief and she sighed, sliding deeper into the comforting warmth.

  It occurred to her that Grunt had been out in the cold rain all day searching for her. He must be every bit as chilled as she was.

  Soon heavenly smells filled the cabin. Rain pattered on the windowpane as Hope brushed her hair dry before the fire. Grunt was cutting up the squirrels and dipping them in flour. The meat sizzled when he laid the pieces in a skillet of hot grease. Boris mixed cornmeal and water—bannock, she heard him say—cakes of Indian meal fried in lard.

  She listened as the men talked among themselves. Big Joe questioned Grunt about the bear. She thought she detected a hint of skepticism in his voice, but Grunt was adept at holding to the story. He was protecting her, but why?

  As the mouthwatering smells permeated the room, Hope grew a little light-headed. She was so tired and so very hungry. And so grateful to Grunt for rescuing her. She might well have perished out there alone.

  She stood up and walked to the table.

  Grunt glanced up, continuing to dish up plates of hot food. The cabin looked spotless. The curtains had been washed, the floors scrubbed. “Sit down, Miss Ferry. Supper’s ready.”

  Big Joe, Boris, and Frog scraped their chairs to the table and lit into the fried squirrel and johnnycakes like a pack of wild animals. Stunned, Hope watched them strip meat off the bones with their teeth, wipe their mouths on their sleeves, and belch between bites.

  She had yet to pick up her fork.

  When they noticed that she was staring, Big Joe glanced up, utensil paused in midair. “What?”

  Her eyes silently condemned their atrocious table manners.

  Boris lowered the squirrel leg he was gnawing on. “What’s wrong now, Miss Snootypants?”

  “Must you eat like mules?”

  “Hum?” Frog asked, his mouth full.

  “Your manners—they’re disgraceful.”

  The men exchanged quizzical glances. “What’s she yakkin’ about now?” Boris complained, a piece of meat falling from his mouth as he talked.

  “Somethin’ ’bout manners. Cain’t please her.”

  Picking up her fork, Hope looked at each of them. “It seems to me you would be interested in improving yourselves.”

  They gawked at her, mouths slack. Grunt moved to the stove and poured a cup of coffee.

  Hope took a small bite of her meat. “Chew with your mouth closed, and if you take small bites, you’ll enjoy the food more. Besides, swallowing it all in one gob will give you indigestion.”

  Big Joe frowned. “Indi-what?”

  “A sour stomach,” Grunt said, sitting down at the table.

  Boris swore under his breath.

  “And please watch your language.” Hope picked up the plate of johnnycakes. “It isn’t necessary to curse in order to properly express yourself.” She selected two nice brown cakes and arranged them neatly on her plate. “Papa says only a fool opens his mouth and proves it.”

  Forks and knifes clanked as the men returned to their meals. Hope quietly laid her fork aside and folded her hands next to her plate. A minute later, Big Joe glanced up, frowning when he saw her staring. His bushy brows lifted.

  “Grace,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Grace. We haven’t said grace.”

  Boris let out a blue curse, and Big Joe kicked him under the table, hard. Boris pinned Big Joe with a sour look; then, fork standing at sentinel, he bowed his head.

  Hope began, “Oh, Lord, we are so grateful for the food you’ve provided, though we are so unworthy.”

  Frog snickered.

  Hope’s voice rose an octave. “We know your mercy is endless, Father, and I ask that that unbiased mercy be extended to these poor heathen souls—Big Joe, Boris, and Frog—” she glanced up to meet Grunt’s eyes and hurriedly added—“and Grunt, who knows no better. Amen.”

  Opening her right eye, Hope studied Big Joe, who seemed to be trying to decide if he’d just been insulted.

  Raising his coffee, Grunt quietly ended the prayer. “Amen.”

  When the meal was over, Big Joe pushed back from the table and walked over to his saddlebags. Hope felt as if she’d eaten with a pack of buzzards. All except Grunt. His table manners were flawless. Joe lumbered back to the table, looming above Hope with pencil and paper in hand as she savored the last bite of meat, allowing the tasty morsel to slide down her throat.

  “Now write that note, girlie. We’ve waited long enough. We want five thousand dollars from Ferry by the fifth of next month.”

  “Fifth of next month! That’s only two weeks away!” Hope protested. She set her fork on the table. “There isn’t tim
e—”

  “Write the note.”

  Hope glanced at Grunt expectantly. He shrugged, draining the last of his coffee. “Write the note, Miss Ferry.”

  Well. He was no help. Did she dare to hope that was compassion she had seen in his traitorous eyes? Of course not. He wanted money, just like the others. What she saw was desire—the urge to be rid of her, no matter who she was.

  Grasping the piece of paper, she smoothed it against the table. She held her hand up for the pencil.

  Big Joe slapped one into her open palm.

  Venturing a last withering glance at Grunt, she prayed that he’d intervene, stop this nonsense. He didn’t. Instead, he got up for more coffee.

  Sighing, she positioned the pencil. God forgive me, but I fear even your power isn’t enough right now.

  Biting her lower lip, she wrote: Dear Daddy …

  Chapter Four

  “Senator, sir, your morning mail.”

  The butler set the silver tray on the corner of the desk. Thomas Ferry reached for his coffee cup, eyes glued to the newspaper article he was reading. A moment later he laid his paper aside and glanced at the three letters on the tray.

  “An unusually small offering this morning.”

  “Yes, sir. Would there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you. Send Miss Finch in, will you?”

  Thomas was a creature of habit. Rising early, he bathed, shaved, ate breakfast, and then finished reading the morning news in his office over a third cup of coffee. While reading the morning mail, he dictated responses as necessary, thus saving his secretary and himself valuable time.

  Mardell Finch kept her employer on time. She was respected throughout the Ferry camp as efficient, loyal, and hardworking. A spinster of some forty-plus years, she was dedicated not only to Thomas but also to the office itself. Miss Finch was no slacker.

  As Miss Finch entered the study, notebook in hand, Thomas opened the first letter. After ten minutes of dictation, he reached for the second envelope. Examining the missive, he frowned.

  “Crude paper, but the writing is quite delicate. Hmmm, no return address.”

  He slit open the envelope and removed the creased paper.