The woman named Emma walked in from the back door. Noting their arrival, she paused expectantly. Warm brown eyes in an apple-cheeked face curiously examined Sarah. There was kindness there, and after the terror of the past few hours, Sarah felt strangely safe in her presence. A shy, hesitant smile slowly spread across Sarah’s face.
“Well, young man,” the older woman began, bustling toward them, “are you going to complete the introductions, or have you forgotten all the manners you were ever taught?”
Cord rolled his eyes, then lowered Sarah to her feet. “No, I haven’t forgotten. Sarah, please meet Emma Duncan.” He glanced down at her. “Emma’s the family housekeeper. She’s been with us since the dawn of time. If you’re her friend, she’ll move heaven and earth for you, but don’t ever cross her. Even my father knows better than to get in Emma’s way.”
“Land sakes, Cord Wainwright,” Emma chided, moving to take Sarah’s arm. “Don’t go and frighten this child with your tall tales.” She intently surveyed Sarah. “So, you’re the Caldwell girl. You’ve certainly blossomed into a lovely young lady.” Emma glanced at Cord. “Is it safe to assume you changed your mind and brought her here for a bath?”
He nodded.
“Good.” She turned her attention back to Sarah. “Looks to me like you’re in sore need of some cleaning up and a good, hot meal. For starters, though, let’s get those filthy clothes off.” With her free hand, she made a shooing motion toward Cord. “Get out of here. Scat.”
Cord gave a wry laugh and walked to the work table, where he pulled up a chair and sat. “Sorry to disappoint the two of you,” he said as he poured himself a glass of cider from the crockery pitcher in the middle of the table, “but I’m not going anywhere.”
He took a long swallow of the drink. “One way or another, Sarah’s not leaving my presence. That screen will adequately preserve her ‘modesty,’ though considering her decided lack of it the last time we met, I’m not sure why it’s suddenly so important. But I promise not to peek around it, though that’s the limit of my concessions.”
Sarah drew herself up to her full height, fresh indignation sending a surge of energy through her. Her fists balled at her sides. “Why, you ill-bred, lecherous—”
“Hold on, now,” Cord interrupted with a laugh. “Call me what you will, but don’t malign one of the women who helped raise me.” As he indicated Emma, his features slowly turned serious. “Now, make your choice and make it quickly. I’m not going to sit here all day.”
Emma’s hand tightened on Sarah’s arm. “Come, come, child. It’d be a shame to waste a nice bath, and Cord can’t see a thing behind the screen.”
For a brief moment more, Sarah glared at him. Then, with a disdainful sniff, she turned on her heel. “If you think you’ve won anything with this, Cord Wainwright, you’ve got another think coming!” she said as she disappeared behind the tall, paneled barrier.
“Seems like I’ve heard that threat somewhere before. And I’m still waiting to see what comes of it.”
Sarah ground her teeth in frustration as she sat on a stool and proceeded to pull off her boots. Emma made several trips from the stove to the metal bathtub, emptying four pots of boiling water. In the background, she could hear Cord at the hand pump near the sink, filling each emptied pot with cool water, which Emma next retrieved. Sarah’s bath was soon ready.
As Sarah removed her shirt and tossed it atop her jeans, socks, and boots, Emma’s eyes widened and she sucked in her breath. “Land sakes!”
She peeked around the screen. “Cord Wainwright, what in the world did you do to this girl? Have you seen her wrists? How could you be so cruel?”
He sighed. “It was an unfortunate oversight, Emma. I never meant—”
“Well-meant intentions never did hold much water with me,” she snapped, cutting him off. “Her wrists are bleeding, for goodness sake!”
She ducked back behind the screen. “Here, child. Let me help you. There, that’s it,” she crooned as she took Sarah by one elbow to assist her. “Just slide down into that nice warm bath and soak yourself. And keep those wrists out of the water until I get back. I need to fetch my salve, bandages, and a set of clean clothes.”
In a flurry of calico skirts, Emma hurried from behind the screen and across the kitchen. Sarah heard her chidingly cluck her tongue, most likely as she passed Cord, before exiting the room. Then, save for an occasional splash of water as Sarah moved about in the tub, the kitchen was silent.
“Sarah?”
She flinched, far preferring to imagine she was alone rather than admit there was a man on the other side of the screen, with her naked in a tub of water. Still, the only hope of keeping him exactly where he was until Emma returned was to answer him.
“Yes?”
“Your hands. How do they feel?”
Now, what kind of question is that? she thought in exasperation. They burn like fire, you big knot head!
Common sense, however, prevented her from telling him that, so Sarah swallowed hard before replying. “They’re fine, thank you.”
She could hear him set down his glass.
“I’m sorry that happened. I never intended to hurt you, only scare you a little. I need to get back that money.”
Here we go again. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. What money?”
The creak of a chair signaled he was now probably leaning back in it.
“Can’t you ever stop the games?” Cord’s voice dripped with irritation. “There’s no one around to hear your lies, and we both know the truth, don’t we?”
For a long moment, Sarah didn’t reply. Honesty warred with continuing the deception, and honesty finally won out. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you without hurting my family. And I’ll never do that. They’re all I have . . .”
“Family loyalty.” Cord snorted in derision. “An admirable quality that’s placed us both in untenable positions.”
A strange sentiment, she thought. Leastwise, coming from his side of it anyway.
“It doesn’t matter, Sarah. I won’t let you go until I get what I want. And I’ve got to have the money.”
What am I supposed to say to that? She moved uncomfortably in the tub, the water sloshing about. Where’s Emma? Sarah wished the kindly housekeeper had never left.
“It’s not going to matter in the long run,” Cord said. “Either you’ll eventually tell me or we’ll catch your family. Who knows? Maybe they’ll even try to rescue you from my evil clutches. I’d like that. There’s a matter of a beating that needs repaying, and I’m just the man for it.”
Yes, I’ll bet you are. “What will you do with me in the meantime?”
He gave a harsh laugh. “What do you think? A bath and some clean clothes don’t constitute forgiveness. As I said before, you’ll stay in the cellar until I get the information I want.”
The next few days passed uneventfully in a stalemated battle of two equally stubborn wills. In that time, Cord was careful never to visit Sarah, sending one of the servants to bring her meals or attend to her needs. His decision to let her stew, however, was one of the most difficult he’d ever made. Though he stayed close to home in case her family attempted a rescue, burying himself in ranch paperwork to keep busy, Cord’s thoughts frequently drifted to the blonde beauty in the cellar.
She deserved her prison, he reminded himself over and over. She deserved that and worse for her part in the robbery. His father wouldn’t go half as easy on her when he returned and found out what had happened.
Father . . . Cord’s musings suddenly took another, even more unpleasant path.
The uneasy truce between them had stretched thin in the past month. Increasingly critical of everything Cord did, Edmund Wainwright seemed oblivious to how close his son was to his breaking point. And the robbery could well be the last straw. Justified anger or not, if his father made one more disparaging remark . . .
Cord rose from his desk and strode from the library. It didn’t matter how hard
he tried! Every time the thought of Sarah Caldwell entered his mind, he ended up angry.
Well, he’d had all he could take. Something had to be done about her. He needed his money back—and fast! Today, one way or another, he’d show her who was boss.
Sarah paced the small cellar, the tension of being cooped up for the past three days rubbing her finely strung nerves raw. I have to get out of here. I just have to!
The overlarge pants kept flapping in time to the jerky beat of her steps. Pausing, she fretfully shoved the sleeves of her shirt back above her elbows for the hundredth time, ruing the stiff-necked pride that had made her return the simple dress of Emma’s once her own clothes had been clean again. The baggy outfit was just one more irritant in the endless hours that plodded by.
Her rapid strides once more carried her past the shelves neatly lined against the walls, filled with jars of jams and jellies with their screw-on caps, stoneware crocks of pickles, sauerkraut, and pickled beets, and preserving jars of stewed fruits sealed with wax and covered with cheesecloth. She halted, her nose wrinkling at the layers of dust that coated everything, not to mention the spiderwebs that festooned portions of the ceiling and upper shelves. Emma was busy, and Sarah felt a need to repay her for the kindness the older woman had shown her in the past days. She might as well dust and straighten up a bit. There certainly wasn’t anything else to do.
If there was one thing she had always been known for, it was keeping a spotless house, Sarah mused as she found some rags and began to dust the shelves and various containers. True, their simple cabin high in a rarely traveled canyon that pierced the mountains several miles from Ashton wasn’t much to speak of. The main floor consisted of a stone hearth and a combined kitchen and living area in one room, and Papa’s bedroom in the other. A sleeping loft reached by a ladder, with a portion sectioned off for her privacy by hanging blankets, was shared by Sarah and her three brothers. The furnishings were sparse—only threadbare, flour-sack curtains hung at the few windows, and the floors were of unvarnished pine. They had no well or fancy indoor plumbing, and had to haul water from a nearby stream.
Still, for as far back as Sarah could recall, no one had ever gone hungry or lacked for warmth in the winter. And, at least when Mama was still alive, there’d been laughter and fun times, not to mention clean if oft-mended clothes and tasty if simple meals. Sarah had done her best to keep up the clean clothes and tasty meals, but since her mother died the laughter and fun times had come few and far between. Not that it wasn’t for lack of trying. Nevertheless, at her mother’s passing, it was as if the last shred of hope and life had drained from her father.
Fiercely, she shook her head to dispel the sad memories, forcing her concentration back to the task at hand. It didn’t take long before Sarah had everything neat and tidy, and an hour passed with relative speed. Eventually, though, she found herself faced with the same problem. Boredom—ponderous, mindless boredom!
With a sigh, Sarah pulled over the cellar’s single chair and sat. Immediately, a torrent of questions bombarded her.
Has it really been only three days? Only three dark, miserable days shut off from the outside world without news of my family, or how Danny’s doing? Is he all right? Has he recovered from his most recent bout of asthma? And when will I ever see him again?
She leaned down, rested her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Escape. I have to escape, she thought, choking back a swell of panic. Papa hasn’t come, and all the Wainwright hands will soon be back from the cattle drive. Once they’re here, it’ll be impossible for Papa to rescue me.
It’s got to be today, she decided, her resolve growing with each passing second. After three days of my meek behavior, surely they’re all lulled into thinking I’ve given up any thought of getting away. Easier said than done, though. For starters, how am I to take my next visitor by surprise?
Her glance strayed to the jars and crocks stacked so neatly now on their shelves. Nearby, several cider barrels stood, their plump, rounded shapes almost begging her to turn them on their sides and send them rolling. They’d be heavy and hard to move, but she was also far stronger than her size might imply. A smile curved Sarah’s lips, then died.
Guilt lanced through her at the thought of repaying Emma’s generous care with such a violent act. But what choice had she? Her family had to come first. Maybe later, once she was safely home, she could get a note to the kindly housekeeper, apologizing and thanking her for all she’d done.
As if her newfound plans had been the catalyst, the upstairs door creaked open. Footsteps sounded on the cellar stairs. Sarah ran to the cider barrel and, throwing all her weight against it, managed to tip it onto its side. Then she scrambled to the shelf holding a basket of the last of the summer tomatoes, reaching it just as a hand drew back the door bolt.
Grabbing two tomatoes in each fist, Sarah whirled around. The door swung open. For an instant, the sudden glare of the lantern blinded her. All she saw was a shadowy form.
Emma, forgive me, she thought, launching the first tomato, then the next.
Out of the corner of his eye as he turned to hang the lantern on a hook by the door, Cord saw something move through the air. Instinctively, he jumped aside. The first object missed him, but the rest followed in such quick succession he was unable to avoid them. Mushy, overripe tomatoes smashed into him, one hitting the side of his face, the other two splattering onto his white cotton shirt.
As he wiped the sticky juice off his face, Cord angrily scanned the room. Sarah. The little minx. Where is she?
A movement in the far corner caught his eye. He heard a rumble, then saw a large object rolling toward him. Cord stared hard at it as it lumbered forward, finally realizing it was something large, round, and wooden. With a curse, he nimbly eluded the cider barrel just before it hit him.
“Blast it, Sarah!” he roared. “Stop this childish nonsense. It’ll do you no good—”
Two more tomatoes sailed past his head. “Sarah,” Cord rasped warningly. A tomato exploded on his left thigh.
From the darkness came a giggle. No similar sense of amusement filled Cord.
“That does it!” He lunged across the room at the small figure he could now make out hiding in the shadows. He’d had about all he could take of this silliness, and she was going to pay!
With a squeak of alarm, Sarah attempted to evade his outstretched arms. A hand clutched at her as she passed, slipped, then grasped at her again. This time it caught in her hair. She was painfully wrenched to a halt, then slowly, inexorably pulled back to him.
“Come here.”
The words, spoken with deadly calm, sent a premonitory shiver down her spine. She’d never heard him use that tone of voice before. Her mouth went dry. Reluctantly, Sarah backed toward him.
His grip on her hair never loosened, even when she moved close enough for his other hand to capture her arm and jerk her tightly to him. For a long moment, Cord didn’t speak, and the only audible sounds in the cellar were the loud hammering of her heart and his ragged breathing wafting warmly, smotheringly, over the back of her neck. Agonizing seconds ticked by, the tension growing until Sarah thought she’d scream.
“You never let up, do you?” he finally growled. “Well, I’ve had it, do you hear me? You’re nothing more than a spoiled, ungrateful little brat and—”
She’d had just about all she could take of him too, and at his derogatory words, something snapped inside Sarah. “Spoiled, ungrateful little brat, am I?” Ignoring the pain, she twisted in his grip to slam full up against him, face to face. “Well, let me tell you something, Mr. High-and-Mighty Wainwright—”
“Land sakes. Isn’t this a cozy little scene?” Emma took down the lantern and held it high. “I’m sorry to intrude when you two seem to be becoming such fast friends, but we’ve got visitors.”
“Visitors?” Cord released his grip on Sarah’s hair and stepped back as if she were on fire. “Who’s here now?”
“That old U
te Indian.”
“Buckskin Joe?” His expression brightened and he quickly straightened his rumpled shirt. Then he glanced down, paused, and grimaced at the red splotches that marred its formerly snowy whiteness.
He shot Emma a quelling look. “Don’t say a word. Not one word.”
Her lips twitched. “Not one word,” Emma obediently repeated. Her glance moved to a disheveled, red-faced Sarah.
“You might like to come along, child. Joe’s brought someone who claims he knows you.”
Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. “Knows me? Who could that be?” A wild hope assailed her. “Is it Gabe Cooper? Has he finally come for me?”
Emma shook her head. “No, child. It’s not Sheriff Cooper. Seems your visitor’s a mite younger. He’s a little boy, about six or seven, I’d guess. His name’s Danny,” she added, her glance rising to Cord’s, “and he claims he’s here to rescue you.”
4
An elderly Indian dressed in a bright blue Mexican shirt, leather leggings, and moccasins turned his calm gaze to the three people who emerged from the house. His wrinkled, red-bronze face broke into a wide grin when he saw Cord. His hand lifted briefly in greeting.
“Found boy riding burro. He much small for big trip, so I bring him.”
Cord returned the greeting. “My thanks, Joe. He’s this young lady’s brother,” he said, turning to Sarah.
Sarah, however, saw nothing but the small child in the Indian’s arms. “Danny,” she whispered.
Twisting from Cord’s grasp, she ran to her brother. Danny’s eyes were closed, his face pale, and his little chest labored with each breath.
Hesitantly, Sarah reached up and touched his arm. “Danny. Wake up, honey. It’s Sarah.”
“S-Sarah?” Over-bright blue eyes opened, and a weak smile curved his lips. “I found you, I did. I told old Joe . . . I would.”
Listening to her brother, it was all Sarah could do to keep from wincing. He wheezed when he spoke, and his chest moved in a slow, erratic fashion. She’d seen the signs too many times not to know it for what it was—another asthma attack.
Heart of the Rockies Collection Page 5