by Nora Roberts
The man was crazy, as indoctrinated as Alice had been. And without the eighteen years Alice had had for foundation. No love for the father, she’d seen that. Could she use it?
Words could be a weapon just like a bullet or a blade.
“I’m not going to die here,” she declared aloud. “I’m not going to be a victim here. I’m going to get out. I’m going to get home. Goddamn it, Callen, I’m going to marry you. I decided. I say that’s it.”
Furious with herself, she dashed away tears, blinked her eyes clear, and kept working.
At one point she dozed off, shocked herself awake. She’d sleep when she got home. Take a hot shower, drink a gallon of coffee. No, a gallon of Coke, cold, cold on her dry throat.
Eat a hot meal.
God, Alice. God, how did you survive?
Thinking of that, of the years Alice had done just that, survived, Bodine worked harder.
When she heard the click, her mind emptied. Every thought simply drained out. Her hands shook, dripped blood as she pried open the irons.
On legs that felt like rubber, she stood, calculating how to reach the window, heard the locks thump and thud on the door.
Scrambling, fresh fear sweat popping onto her skin, she slapped the foam back down, dragged the chain, stood beside the cot with her heart hammering and the dull pocketknife palmed in her hand.
She’d talk him down, she told herself. Somehow she’d talk him down, and if she couldn’t? She’d fight.
The door opened, and her hammering heart jerked to a stop as she met the bitter eyes of the man who’d held Alice captive for twenty-six years.
She knew there would be no talking him down.
* * *
Callen unloaded Sundown from the trailer. Though he hadn’t fired one in years, he had a gun on his hip. So did Chase.
They’d spread out, family, deputies, friends. A lot of ground to cover, he thought, but not as much as before. Easy had grown up south of Garnet, and Tate had confirmed the man they now knew as John Gerald LaFoy had a cabin somewhere south of Garnet.
He’d calculated in his head, as best he could, the most likely areas working back from where Alice had been found.
“Twenty-eight men out,” Chase said as they both mounted. “A lot of rough country to cover, but twenty-eight men can cover it.” He looked skyward. “FBI copter’ll be up shortly.”
The sun peeked, a hint of light, over the western peaks.
“I’m not waiting,” Callen said, and rode.
Since LaFoy stayed off the grid, Callen figured he’d plant himself away from ranch houses and roads, use trees and the rise of the land for cover. But he’d need a way in and out.
They traveled the ranch road for a time, in silence, scanning.
“He’s going to stay away from the ghost town, the tourists, the ATV routes.” Chase lifted the field glasses that hung around his neck, peered through.
“The son of a bitch told Clintok we’d had a beer together after work the night that college girl was killed. We didn’t, but I didn’t say otherwise. Figured he was covering for me, but he was covering for himself as much. I didn’t see it in him, Chase. I never saw this in him.”
“Nobody did.”
“He wasn’t after Bodine. I can’t resolve if that means she’s safe until he figures out what to do, or…”
“Just don’t. She’s alive. She can handle herself.”
“She can handle herself,” Callen echoed … because he needed to believe it. “I’m going to marry her.”
“I thought that’s how it was.”
“That’s how it is. I’m going west from here, off the road now. How about you keep north another quarter mile, then do the same? We’re covered east.”
“You see any sign, you signal.”
On a nod, Callen led Sundown down a slope, up a rise, and into the trees. He saw signs, but of animal. Deer, bear, elk. Sam had taught him to track when he’d been a boy, just as he’d taught Chase, Bodine, Rory.
But Callen rode half a mile while the sun strengthened without seeing a single sign of human or machine.
He scented cattle, crossed into a pasture where they grazed, followed the fence line north until he could cross. Another ranch road, and since Alice had spoken of walking over more than one, he felt a twinge of hope.
He should’ve waited for her. Why hadn’t he waited for her under that big red moon? Since those thoughts only brought on fear and despair, he blocked them out. Instead, he willed her to think of him. Maybe if she thought of him hard enough he’d know it, he’d sense it.
He came across a rancher mending fences, pulled up.
“You lost, son?” The man pushed up his hat, gave Callen and the gun on his hip a cool, hard stare.
“No, sir. This your land?”
“That’s right. I expect you’ve got reason to be on it.”
“I do. A woman was taken last night. We’ve got reason to believe she’s being held in this area.”
“You got a badge?”
“No, but others out looking for her do. She’s my woman.”
“Well, I ain’t got her. Maybe she ran off.”
“She didn’t. Bodine Longbow.”
The hard look shifted into concern. “I know the Longbows. Bodine’s their girl? The one who runs the resort?”
“That’s right. I’m looking for the LaFoy place. John Gerald LaFoy. He’s got a son goes by Easy.”
“Don’t know it. Can’t place that name.”
“He’s got a cabin, at least one outbuilding. An old horse, a dog, a milk cow, some chickens. Living off the grid. Has some business with the true patriots.”
“Don’t know the name LaFoy, but there’s a place about a mile as the crow flies.” He gestured northwest. “Mad Max—my boy called him that. My boy and his friends used to like riding up that way, till they got too close to that squatter—and he’s nothing more than that—and he ran them off. I had some words with him about that, but that’s ten years back easy. Sovereign citizen, half-crazy, you ask me, but live and let live. We steer clear of each other.”
Hope, stronger, brighter, ran steady through Callen. “Have you got a phone on you?”
“I do.”
“I need you to call Sheriff Tate, tell him what you told me, tell him where to find the cabin.”
“You think he grabbed her up?”
“He’s got a son, too, and yeah, they’ve got her.”
“You wait for me to get a horse—quickest way to get there from here. I’ll go with you.”
“I can’t wait. Call Tate,” Callen said, kicking Sundown into a gallop.
He had to slow when the ground roughened, the trees thickened. As he rode, he dragged out his own phone, called Chase. He barked out the location.
“I’ll be coming in from the north.”
“I’m a half mile out,” Callen said, and shoved the phone away.
He’d barely done so when he heard the gunshot.
* * *
LaFoy studied Bodine as he shut the door. Leaned on it, she noted—braced like he needed the support. His color looked sickly, his eyes red-rimmed. Easing her hand behind her thigh, she slid the dulled blade between her fingers.
She’d fight.
He had a gun on his hip, a knife sheath on his belt.
She’d fight.
“Knew he was up to something, sneaking in and out of here the way he’s been. Insulated the walls, I see. Maybe he’s not as stupid as he looks.”
He cut his gaze to the bed, back to her. “Doesn’t look like he’s taken his rights yet, and that’s for the best. The son honors the father. I’m the head of this house, the house I now provide for you. You’re Myra, my wife. You’ll call me Sir, and obey in all things. Take off your clothes and lie on the bed.”
“You look sick. You look like you need a doctor.” She needed him to come closer, close enough she could use the knife, get his gun.
“Take off your clothes,” he repeated, starting toward her. “I wil
l take my God-given rights, and you will bear me sons.”
She stood her ground. If she backed up he’d see her leg wasn’t shackled. “Please.” She let some of the fear show. “Please don’t. Don’t hurt me.”
He grabbed her shirt in one hand, tearing it, backhanded her with the other. With her ears ringing, eyes watering from the blow, she struck out, jabbed the knife into the side of his throat.
The shock of it had him stumbling back a step, dragging her with him. As blood spurted and ran, she got her hand on the butt of his gun. A violent coughing fit pitched him forward. She went down under him, cursing, screaming, jabbing again as she fought to free the gun from his belt.
His hand closed around her throat, squeezing with shocking strength. She heard another shout, not her own, and the weight, the pressure released.
She saw Easy hurl his father against the wall.
“She’s mine!”
“I’ll beat you bloody, boy.”
“You lied!” Now Easy’s hands clamped on his father’s throat. “I could’ve killed you in your sleep. I nearly did.”
As she crawled, wheezing, she saw LaFoy’s fist plow into Easy’s face. And they set on each other like animals as she gained her feet and ran.
Rough ground, a swaybacked horse, an old cow that hadn’t been milked, a chain spiked into the ground, and an old dog collar.
She thought of Alice, and in panic started to run toward the woods.
A cabin, and two trucks. She forced herself to change direction, to not give in to the visceral need to run, just run. One might have keys in it.
She heard the shout, kept running, but when she heard the sound of running behind her, she whirled, lifted the gun. She aimed it at Easy, center mass.
“I swear I’ll shoot you. I won’t think about it twice.”
He stopped, his mouth bleeding, held up his hands. Actually smiled. “It’s okay. It’s okay now. I stopped him. He shouldn’t’ve tried to take what’s mine. It’s okay for you to be my wife. I thought it all through. It’s like Adam and Eve, the children of Adam and Eve. We’re going to start a family. In a little while, I’ll get Chelsea, too. She likes me. You’ll have a sister wife.”
“We’re not, you’re not. On your knees.”
“I can make you feel good. I know how.”
When he took another step, she braced herself to shoot, to kill if she must.
“Don’t make me do this,” she warned.
Then she swung the gun away from him, toward the man charging out of the prison with a knife in his hand and murder in his eyes.
“Honor thy father!” LaFoy shouted, and Bodine fired. Fired a second time when he barely slowed, and a third before he dropped to the ground.
“You shot him.” His tone curious, his head angled, Easy stepped over, nudged his father with a boot. “I think he’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was a mean son of a bitch. It’s why he couldn’t keep a wife. Kept having to bury them. I didn’t want to be mean to the two I picked out before. That wasn’t my fault. I won’t be mean to you.”
“Please don’t make me shoot you. Please don’t.” Her hand shook, shook so hard now she feared she wouldn’t be able to steady it enough to pull the trigger.
He just smiled as he started toward her.
They both heard the horse coming, turned in time to see Callen pull the gun from his hip as Sundown sailed over the fence.
“On the ground, Easy. Facedown on the ground or I’ll put you there bleeding.”
Callen swung a leg over Sundown’s neck, dropped lightly to the ground. “Now.”
“It’s my land now. I’ve got a right—”
Callen took the simple way. Two punishing lefts.
“Keep him there.”
In response Sundown set one foot on Easy’s back.
Leaving Easy facedown on the ground with the horse guarding him, Callen strode to Bodine.
“Let’s have that.” He took the gun from her shaking hand, stuck it in his belt. “Let me see, let me see where you’re hurt.”
“It’s not my blood. It’s not mine. I’m not hurt.”
“You sure?” He shoved his gun in its holster, trailed his fingers over the bruise on her face.
“I shot—I shot—”
“Shh.” He gathered her in. “You’re all right now.”
He heard the sirens, and the hoof strikes. “You’re all right now,” he repeated.
“My legs are going.” Her knees didn’t buckle, they evaporated.
“It’s all right.” He scooped her up. “I’ve got you now.”
“I shot—I stabbed him. I stabbed him in the throat, I think the throat, with my pocketknife. Couldn’t dig out the bolt, but I stabbed him. You gave me the knife and I stabbed him.”
“Okay.” Shocky, he thought—and no wonder. Her skin had gone pale as ice, and her pupils were the size of moons.
“Did I kill him? Is he dead?”
“I don’t know. He’s down and that’s what counts. Look, here comes Chase. Your dad and Rory, they’re coming, and Tate. Hear the sirens?”
“I was going to go out the window, but he came through the door. Sir, not Easy. I’m not making sense. I can’t think straight.”
“You can think later.” Callen stayed where he was as Chase leaped off his horse, wrapped his arms around both of them.
“She’s not hurt,” Callen told him. “It’s not her blood.”
With a nod, Chase turned his head, looked at the two men on the ground. “Did you do that?” he asked Callen.
“I did one, she did the other.” He glanced back as the sheriff’s truck sped down the rutted road. “You don’t have to talk to Tate yet. He’ll wait until you’re steadier.”
“I’m okay. Better. I can probably get my legs under me now.”
But Callen just carried her over to a chopping stump, sat with her in his lap. “We’ll just sit here for a while.”
“Good idea.”
She talked to Tate, found the step-by-step retelling helped clear the fog out of her mind. And she watched Easy being led off, in handcuffs, still insisting he hadn’t done anything wrong.
“He believes that,” she said. “Taking me—though he meant to take Chelsea—that was just his right. Killing Billy Jean and Karyn Allison, those were just accidents and not his fault. He was raised to believe it. I forgot, God, I forgot, he said something about Sir—LaFoy—having to bury his wives. I think Alice was right. There were others.”
“We’re going to look into that.”
“He was going to kill his own son. He came running out with the knife. He wouldn’t stop. I had the gun. I had the gun, so I used it.”
“Honey, you’re not going to worry about that.” Tate patted her knee. “It’s clear as clear gets you were defending yourself, and more than likely saved the life of the man who got you into this.”
“I stabbed him first—in the house. He came at me, he came at me when I wouldn’t just strip and lie down like he told me. I needed him to get close. I’d been using the knife—you gave it to me,” she said to Callen. “My twelfth birthday.”
Callen stared for a moment, then laid his brow on hers. “You kept it all this time.”
“It’s a good knife. I want it back. Can I have it back?”
“We’ll need it for evidence right now, but I’ll get it back to