Ophelia

by Charlene Raddon

  “You should be,” Mortimer said behind her. “Now, get away from there. Sit on the cot.”

  “I can't believe you came alone,” Brody said, furious that no one had come alone to protect her. “Wouldn't Aubrey or Owen accompany you?”

  “Owen came, but Mortimer made him stay at the depot. There was no room for him in the buggy.”

  “Sit down, I said,” Mortimer spat.

  Regret and fear clear on her face, Ophelia obeyed. Nails remained outside. Fine with Brody. One less person to deal with. If he could just get loose.

  “All right,” Mortimer said, sitting at the table. “Where's the document?”

  Ophelia handed him the briefcase. Propping his boots on the table, he leaned back to read the papers. “Well, this looks official enough. And you even signed it.”

  A look of surprise passed over Ophelia's face. Had Owen forged her signature so the document would be invalid? It would be like the attorney to do that.

  “Now that you have what you want, let Brody go,” she said.

  Mortimer glanced over at the silent man whose mouth appeared distorted because of the gag inside. “Not yet.”

  She scowled at him. “At least remove the gag.”

  “Why?”

  Muttering, Ophelia stalked over to Brody and yanked the gag from his mouth. So that Mortimer couldn't use it again, she tossed it inside a small pot-bellied stove where a fire blazed.

  “Damnit, Ophelia,” Mortimer shouted. “You shouldn't have done that.”

  He went to the stove, but the cloth had burned too swiftly. Muttering, he went back to his chair at the desk. “You better keep your mouth shut, Deuce.”

  Brody ignored him. As soon as he gathered enough moisture in his mouth to allow him to speak, he said, “You shouldn't have come, Ophelia.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “You'd prefer being shot?”

  “No, but I'm not convinced I won't still be killed.”

  “Shut up.” Mortimer jumped up and slapped Brody hard.

  “Mortimer!” Ophelia swatted at her husband. “Stop that.”

  He turned on her. “Want me to strike you instead? You deserve a good beating for the stunts you pulled trying to steal my town.”

  Her eyes glaring, she spat back at him, “I hope you rot in hell.”

  “My exact sentiments regarding you,” he said.

  Ignoring her husband, Ophelia knelt at Brody's knees. “Are you all right? Has he hurt you?”

  “No. I'm fine.” His gaze went to Mortimer, and he whispered, “Knife. Boot.”

  Ophelia blinked, and Brody feared she'd say something and give him away. A second later, her gaze registered understanding. She peeked over her shoulder at Mortimer who had stepped out to speak with Nails. Quickly, she reached inside Brody's boot, felt the knife and worked it out. Brody saw the questions in her eyes. She didn't know where to put the knife so he could get to it. He wiggled on the chair. Her eyes widened, and she smiled as she slipped the knife beneath his bottom within reach of his hands.

  “Get away from him,” her husband ordered, coming back inside.

  “Yes, Mortimer.” Standing, she brushed a hand tenderly over Brody's cheek and jaw, then leaned in to kiss him.

  “Aw, so sweet,” Mortimer snarled, shoving her away from the prisoner.

  “May we leave now?” she asked. “You have what you wanted.”

  “I thought before you left I'd show you my mine.” As he spoke, he bent behind Brody and cut the rope binding him to the chair. He left Brody's hands tied. “Come along now.”

  The instant Mortimer's back was turned to him, Brody grasped the knife and hid it behind his arm. His mind spun with ideas of how to escape. His gun remained on the desk. If he could grab it as he went past…

  As if reading his mind, Mortimer locked the weapon in a drawer. With his own six-gun, he motioned for them to exit the shack. Having no other choice, Brody and Ophelia followed him into the mine yard. Brody surveyed the grounds, searching for some way to free them. Mortimer didn't want to show them his mine. He wanted to kill them. Brody needed a weapon. Unfortunately, everything that might have worked lay out of reach.

  “Where are your miners?” Ophelia asked, sidestepping a puddle.

  “Careful.” Brody lagged behind, busily trying to cut his hands free as he walked. He gave silent thanks that Nails had gone inside and couldn't see what Brody was doing. “Ground's rough.”

  Damn. He'd cut his hand

  “Yeah,” Mortimer said. “It rained yesterday. I gave all my employees the day off. Didn't you hear the celebrating going on in town?”

  He bypassed a supply shed and Brody wished he could get inside. There would be tools there.

  Mortimer gave a twisted grin. “Today is official 'Miner's Day' in Cranesville. First one ever.”

  In the lantern light, Ophelia looked ethereal, a goddess. Brody wanted desperately to hold her, to assure her he'd keep her safe. To tell her one last time that he loved her. She must have felt his gaze on her, for she turned to look at him and gave him a tense smile. He knew she must be terrified, yet she handled it well. An exceptional woman, his Ophelia.

  He sawed at the rope on his wrists and felt a stab of pain as he cut himself.

  A crude shack surrounded the gallows frame which held an elevator much like Mortimer had at the Gold King I. What did the rat have in mind by bringing them here? Get them into the mine and set off an explosive? Bash in their heads with a sledge hammer? Did he have a spot inside the mine rigged up to cave in on them, burying them forever?

  Mortimer opened a metal door, revealing the elevator. The odors of must and damp earth rose to his nostrils. The shaft consisted of thick wooden beams, the cage was steel and open all the way around except for bars to keep passengers inside.

  “Step in.” Mortimer gestured for them to enter. “We'll take a ride down for a tour.”

  “What if I don't want a tour, Mortimer?” Ophelia asked as she eyed the conveyance. Within a wooden frame, a cage made of steel bars hung from cables wrapped around a wench. A metal grate made up the floor. The entire affair appeared flimsy and dangerous.

  “Get in,” her husband ordered, his voice hard and demanding. He stood beside the wench that operated the elevator.

  Brody wondered why he'd left so much space between him and the elevator. Mortimer had something up his sleeve. Something deadly. Brody had to figure out what.

  Mortimer aimed his gun at Brody. “Get in, Ophelia, or I'll shoot him where he stands.”

  She scowled at him. “The floor is nothing but a grate. My heels will get stuck.”

  “Who cares. We can get them out. Your turn, Brody. Get in.” Mortimer remained near the wench as if he had no intention of descending into the mine with them.

  “Wait, Ophelia. Don't be in such a hurry, Mortimer. I’m admiring your set-up here. Did you build this yourself?” Frantically, Brody studied the elevator works, the cage, the door, everything, trying to find something that would warn him what to expect.

  Finally, Mortimer left his post and stomped over to Ophelia. “I said, get in.”

  He gave her an ungentle shove, nearly causing her to fall. She caught hold of the door frame and kept herself upright. The cage swung slightly under her touch. Overhead, the cables squeaked as if in protest.

  “We know you're going to kill us, Mortimer,” she said. “Why not shoot us now and get it over with. Why do we need to go into your blasted mine?”

  “Because I want you to,” he snarled back at her, giving her another shove.

  Brody took full advantage of the fact that Mortimer had his back to him and examined all he could see of the machinery.

  “Stop pushing me,” Ophelia said and stepped gingerly inside. At once, her heel slid into a hole in the grate. The cage tilted, and she let out a squeal.

  The elevator shouldn't move so easily under the weight of such a small woman. What would happen if he or Mortimer joined her? Brody passed his gaze over the cables and did a doubletake.
Of the four that operated the elevator, three had been sawed in two. The fourth one had been notched. He watched the gap widen under Ophelia's weight, and his heart all but leaped out of his chest.

  “Get out, Ophelia!” he shouted. “Get out of there.”

  She looked at him with big question marks in her eyes, along with a measure of fear.

  “Shut up, Deuce.” Mortimer waved his gun at him but stayed near the elevator instead of returning to the wench. “Gosh-dang it. Should've found something to gag you with. Get into the elevator. Go on.”

  The entire time Brody studied the machinery and tried to form a plan, he continued sawing at the rope binding his hands. Unable to see what he was doing, he made errors that slowed him down, including slicing his hands. When he'd stood up from the chair, he'd managed to grab the knife and hide it behind his arm. Once outside, he went to work. Now, he felt the rope give a little. It drove him to try harder.

  Mortimer marched over to him and shoved him toward the elevator. Brody dug in his heels, resisting with all his might. “Get out, Ophelia,” he yelled again. “He's going to drop the elevator, not lower it.”

  “Stay there, or so help me, you'll see this bastard die here and now,” Mortimer warned her, his weapon aimed at Brody's head. He pushed Brody again, edging him a closer so that Brody stood at the left-hand edge of the enclosure.

  “I can't move,” Ophelia cried. “My heel is stuck. I told you that would happen.”

  Mortimer ignored her.

  “Take the blasted shoe off,” Brody said.

  “They're high-top button shoes.” Her voice held exasperation.

  With his back pressed against the edge of the conveyance, Brody kicked out at Mortimer, forcing him back.

  Mortimer cocked his gun. Despite the dying light of sunset, his face showed a deep red. He clenched his teeth. His eyes narrowed. The hand holding the six-gun trembled, his finger on the trigger.

  When Brody thought he couldn't fight any longer to stay clear of the elevator, the rope on his wrists gave way. Thrusting himself from the metal pole at his back, he lunged at Mortimer, lashing out with the knife.

  Mortimer cursed out of shock and fear. He had both hands on the revolver now, shaking so badly he could barely hold on. Hoping the man would be unable to pull the trigger, Brody gave no mercy. He struck again, cutting the back of Mortimer's hand in the hope that he'd drop the gun. Blood dripped to the ground.

  “Damn you.” Mortimer looked down at his injury and Brody took advantage, snatching the gun, and, at the same time, slashing again and again with the knife. Mortimer screeched in pain and anger, jerking away. In the process he lost his grip on the six-gun and Brody took control of it.

  “I have the drop on you now,” Brody said. “Get Ophelia out.”

  “Hell, no. How stupid do you think I am?”

  Brody pressed the muzzle to the back of Mortimer's head. “I said, get Ophelia out.”

  “No.”

  Ophelia held out a hand. “Yes, Mortimer, help me, please. You know I still care for you. After all these years, how could I stop? Help me.”

  “You can leave on your own,” her husband growled.

  “No.” She lifted her skirts to show that her heel was wedged into the grate that made up the floor of the elevator. “Help me.”

  Mortimer gaped at her in surprise.

  “It's not too late to save our marriage,” she said. “Free my heel so I can escape. We'll put Brody inside. You and I together.”

  Mortimer glanced at Brody who stood with the gun aimed at him. When the man looked back at his wife, Brody gestured for her to keep up her charade. He doubted the man was stupid enough to fall for it, but they could hope. Mortimer appeared confused, which was good.

  “Get her out or I'll shoot you here and now instead of letting the law deal with you,” Brody said.

  With tentative steps, Mortimer crept to the elevator and reached for his wife's hand. The moment their fingers touched, she grabbed hold and yanked hard, pulling him inside, jumping out at the same time.

  The damaged cable squealed and snapped. The cage trembled and the door slammed shut. Mortimer screamed as it fell, the sound echoing inside the mine shaft as if a hundred devils rode that plunging deathtrap to hell.

  Wrapped in Brody's arms, Ophelia covered her ears with her hands.

  The sound of the crash reverberated through the air, cutting off the screams. Ophelia coughed as dust rose up out of the mine.

  At last, silence reigned.

  Brody, holding Ophelia close, turned from the gaping hole in the ground and buried his face in her fragrant hair. “It's over, darlin'. It's over. You're free.”

  A single sob broke from her throat and her grip on him tightened.

  “I don't know about you,” Brody said, stroking her hair, which had come loose from its knot on her head, “but I was scared half out of my wits. How did you know what I meant to do?”

  She didn't answer at first. Brody continued to hold her and run his hand over her hair. She sucked in a deep breath. “I saw your expression when you were looking at the cables, and I heard them creaking as the cage moved.” Her voice quavered. Her whole body trembled. “Oh, Brody, I was terrified. I-I wanted to see him dead. God forgive me.”

  “You weren't alone in that, sweetheart. I wanted him dead too. God can see inside your heart. I'm sure he understands.”

  She hugged him with all her might. “I'm so glad you were here.”

  “I'm glad we're both still here. I love you, Ophelia. Marry me. Don't ever leave me again.”

  “I've never left you. You left me, remember?”

  “I remember being beaten and whipped and forced to work fifteen hours a day in a filthy mine.”

  “I know. I'm sorry.” She kissed him. “It's just that I was so devastated at the time.”

  “Yet you married Mortimer.” His voice contained the remnants of old resentment.

  “I thought you were dead. I wanted out of that hell hole I was working in, out of the business. A normal life, that was my dream. And children. Mortimer gave me children.”

  “And I know you love them.” Brody's lips moved over her face as he spoke, planting kisses everywhere. “I will too. After all, they are part of you.”

  Ophelia edged away from him, her hands bracketing his face as she looked him in the eye. “Promise me we'll be together always, Brody. Promise me you'll be there each morning when I wake up and every night when I fall asleep.”

  “I swear it, darlin'. I want that too. I never want to be away from you again, not one day, not one hour. You are going to marry me, aren't you?”

  “In two weeks, all right? I want time to prepare a small wedding. Then, nothing could stop me from marrying you. I love you.”

  “That's what I wanted to hear.”

  He captured her lips then and kissed her long and hard. Gradually, the kiss gentled. He made love to her with his mouth, soothing her heart, filling her with joy and a hunger for him not even death could diminish.

  Epilogue

  Brody paced the lobby from the check-in desk to the foot of the stairs where he stared up toward the corridor from which Ophelia would appear.

  Empty.

  He pivoted and walked back the other direction, his hands doing an excellent job of strangling his kid gloves. What did he need gloves for anyway? Ophelia insisted they get dressed up but why? Not for his sake.

  All he wanted was to make her his wife in every way. With Mortimer gone, they could start out with a clean slate, forget the past, and look forward only to the future.

  What if she'd changed her mind? The mere thought made him want to retch. If she rejected him again, he would be forced to join the cavalry and fight Indians until his misery ended in an honorable death.

  No, he was being morbid. She didn't have it in her to be that cruel. He must trust her. Twenty years ago, he'd lost faith in her and look at all the time they'd wasted when they might have been together. God would not allow that to occur again.<
br />
  For the hundredth time, he glanced at his pocket watch. Five-thirty pm. Only six minutes had passed since he last looked. Why did time move so slowly?

  He should march up the stairs and carry her down in his arms. Then he could be sure his suffering came to an end and they could reach Owen on time.

  Turning, he stalked to the staircase again.

  Was that a door closing upstairs?

  He paused, one foot on the bottom riser, his gaze glued to the balcony above.

  There—the rustling of skirts.

  Please let it be her.

  The hotel wasn't empty. They had guests.

  A bead of sweat slid down his temple—on a cold day. Despite a clear sky and bright sun, the weather had dipped in temperature, signaling the coming of a spring storm.

  He moved up two risers in one step, his heart thumping hard against his ribcage.

  A flurry of movement flashed between the balusters and there she was.

  Ophelia.

  She glanced down over the railing, saw him and halted.

  Brody's pulse jumped. Before him stood the most beautiful woman ever. Her dress, a lavender-blue that brought out her eyes, fit her body like skin. The low-slung neckline revealed a hint of bosom. Puffy sleeves emphasized a tiny waist.

  She smiled and hurried to the head of the stairs. There, she hesitated, twirling slowly to show off her dress before descending, one step at a time.

  He yearned to race up and cut his wait short, but his boots seemed stuck to the floor. He could only stand there, mesmerized, and watch her come toward him, her delicate slippers peeking at him with each pace.

  Neither said a word.

  The rest of the world faded. Only Brody and Ophelia existed.

  Then she stood before him, a step higher than him. All he had to do was lean forward to kiss her, but his gaze had been captured by the simple, inexpensive locket on a chain that circled her neck. The sight caused his breath to hitch and his heart to stutter.

  He had given that locket her twenty years ago.

  His hand lifted, and his finger skimmed over the locket. His palms dampened; he wanted to touch her so desperately.