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“This isn't going to be easy,” Sarah said and felt her palms begin to sweat. She cleared her throat. “But I'll try to explain everything. Not just to you, but to your daughter too.”

A beat.

He stared at her. The fire hissed and popped, and Jade seemed to shrink back.

“My what? My daughter?” He looked at Sarah as if he hadn't heard right, or that if he had, she'd lost her mind. “I don't . . .” His gaze moved from Sarah, standing near the pillar, to Jade, propped on the hearth and staring up at him with wide, worried eyes. Her fingers worked the edges of the afghan, and her face was as pale as death.

Trembling inside, Sarah tried to clear up the confusion. “Yes, Clint, Jade's your—”

“
What?
” he whispered, disbelief evident in the rough-hewn planes of his face. “What are you saying?” For half a beat he was quiet, thinking, doing the calculations in his head. Then the light dawned.

“Jade is yours,” Sarah said before he could find his voice.

Jade closed her eyes and looked as if she wanted to melt through the floorboards.

Clint's jaw was rock-hard. “It's okay,” he said to Jade, and when she didn't open her eyes, he added, “Give me a minute. Everything's going to be okay.”

Sarah wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

“No, it's not,” Jade whispered, blinking hard against tears and ripping Sarah's heart in two.

“Goddamn,” Clint said softly. He looked poleaxed, but it was clear he was trying to hold his emotions in check. But when his gaze met Sarah's, it was cold and hard. “Okay, Sarah. I'm listening.”

T
he night, as far as Rosalie could tell from her prison cell, was quiet, no sounds of wind in the rafters, no night birds calling. Completely and utterly alone, she lay on her tiny cot and held onto her bits of the nail clippers. All the while she plotted how she would use them.

If she got the chance.

If she hadn't been left here to die of starvation and thirst.

She hated how dependent she'd become on him.

Why, oh, why, hadn't her mother come? Did her dad even know she was missing? Had Sharon thought to call him? Had she gotten the police involved? Or was she so wrapped up in jerk-face Mel that she didn't care?

No, that wasn't right. Just her mind all turned around. She couldn't let the loneliness make her nuts. She had to have faith.

She looked up and saw a glint of light in the windows high above, then told herself she was probably hallucinating. No . . . wait. Was that the soft purr of an engine? Not the roar of a truck, but . . . oh, God, maybe someone had found her!

Leaping to her feet, she was about to shout, to scream for whoever it was, for her saviors to help her, but just before she said a word, she stopped suddenly. Maybe whoever had shown up wasn't a friend. So far, her captors hadn't harmed her, not really, though she knew their motives were sinister, but someone unknown might be worse.

Was that possible?

Poised to kick and pound on the door, to scream at the top of her lungs, she finally heard voices and footsteps crunching on gravel. All of her senses went into overdrive.
Please, please, please, let it be someone who has come to rescue me!

The lock clicked and the door banged open.

Her heart pounded.

Snap!
The lights came on, throwing an eerie glow over the open areas high above the stalls and along the tiny gap between the floor and the door to her cell.

Footsteps and muffled voices arrived.

Friend or foe?

Shrinking back into the corner, Rosalie hid the pieces of the clippers in her palm, just to be ready, as she recognized her captor's voice.

“Move it!” he yelled angrily, and she realized he wasn't alone.

What was he planning? What was he going to do to her? A cold sweat slid down her spine.

“Come on, come on!” he ordered. “We haven't got all night. Get her in here!”

Get who in where?

Was he talking about her? Was he ordering the other person to unlock the door and “get her” into the main area or . . . ?

She heard a second set of footsteps as another person entered and, over the uneven tread, the soft sobs of a woman or girl, she couldn't tell which.

Her heart sank. They'd captured another victim? For what? Yes, she'd heard them talking but hadn't believed it would actually happen. What the hell was their plan? Tiptoeing to her door, she tried to make out the muffled conversation.

“Give me a fuckin' break, man!” Scraggly Hair. She recognized the nasal tone of his voice. “She ain't no lightweight.”

Rosalie bit her lip, and her mind whirled. Maybe this wasn't so bad. If there was another captive and they left her here, there was a chance that she and the girl could work together. Once alone, they could hatch a plot to escape. Unless . . . She froze as she considered the fact that now that the kidnappers had two victims, they might change their tactics. Maybe they wouldn't leave them alone together, or worse yet, maybe now, with the capture of the new girl, their plan for them might be put into motion. There was a chance they would be moved soon . . . or worse. Rosalie's mind spun with horrid, painful scenarios.

Don't borrow trouble, So far, so good, and now you have someone to help you,
Swallowing back her new case of fear, she clenched her fingers around her minuscule weapon.
Please,
she thought desperately,
please let us find a way to escape,

“Not there!” the man in charge yelled as the stall door next to hers creaked open. “We don't want them close to each other!”

“What?” Scraggly Hair said.

“Use your head, man. Take her down there, to the far end. Away from Star. She's Lucky.”

“She's what?” Scraggly Hair asked. A Rhodes scholar, he wasn't.

“I said, she goes into Lucky's stall, there on the far end. See the name over the door? Yeah, that one!”

“Sheeeit.” Scraggly Hair wasn't happy.

The door to the next stall was slammed shut, and Rosalie's heart fell to the floor. She'd hoped the girl would be closer so they wouldn't have to yell to communicate.

“Okay, okay, that's better. Yeah, as far away from Star as possible, and make it quick. I got more work to do tonight. Places to be. This just doesn't happen, y'know. It takes planning and working out details and timing. What the hell's wrong with you? You got shit for brains?”

Rosalie hated that he called her by a horse's name, but she didn't say anything. It was all she could do not to yell to the girl to fight, to get away, and unlock her stall door. If only “Lucky” could kick the bastard in his balls and nail the bigger man in his shins, then, while they were writhing and howling, somehow set her free, help her escape. They could make it to the car or the pickup or . . . or . . .
Stop it! That's not happening, Do you hear her? She's crying and sobbing like a baby, She's no help, Not now, Not until she realizes what she has to do, Bide your time, Rosalie, And hope God helps you and this girl is not a big wimp who will be more of a hindrance than a help, Oh, Jesus, that's not what you need,

Suddenly there was another noise—weird techno music that she realized was the ring of a cell phone.

“Yeah?” her abductor nearly yelled into the phone. Then a pause while the girl who was headed to Lucky's stall sobbed and Scraggly Hair grunted. “Yeah, I know. I get it. Soon!” He sounded angry. Frustrated.

Rosalie kept her mouth shut, though it was nearly impossible. She wanted to yell and rage, to warn the girl not to let them shut and lock her door because then Rosalie would be in no better shape than she'd been before they had hauled the girl in. But she held her tongue because she'd already learned what her utter defiance had gotten her. At the thought of the bigger man's belt she shuddered. She tried to hear the conversation, though the commotion going on with the new girl made it difficult to make out the words. Closing her eyes, Rosalie concentrated.

“Yeah, I know what I promised . . . At least four, maybe five by next week.”

Four or five what? Girls? Or was he talking about something else? Jesus, what was he planning?

“No, no! Not yet. I need the weekend . . . what? Monday? Yeah, that should work.” Another pause. “Shit, I don't know. Seven?” Another pause. “Okay, okay. But we might have to wait until the next operation—”

And then the conversation was muffled as the new girl began to wail, and Rosalie thought maybe the call had ended.

The new girl was making a horrid racket, crying and wailing and shrieking.

“Jesus H. Christ, shut up!” Scraggly Hair yelled.

The other man snapped, “Do not use the Lord's name in vain!”

“Hey, butt-wipe, you swear.”

“Fuck, yes, I swear, but I
never
use profanity with the Lord's name. We've been over this before.”

He sounded royally pissed. Even the new girl's screams became softer.

“I just don't see the difference.”

“Because you're a heathen. And a moron. And you damned well weren't raised right. No moral fiber to you.”

“Bull
shit!
And you need me,” Scraggly Hair argued angrily.

“I need someone. Not necessarily you.”

“You'd do that? Dump me? After all I've done? Shit, man. Then I'd go to the cops. You hear me? Cut a deal. Get off scot-free. Roll the fuck over on you!”

“Would you?” The abductor's voice was stone cold. “Then you'd be a dead man.”

Tense seconds ticked by. No one said anything. No sound of rats' claws scraped across the floor, no hint of bats stirring moved the air. Even the new captive was quiet. Rosalie prayed that the two bastards would go at each other. Maybe kill each other. Yes, definitely. Then the new girl, if the crier could get her damned wits about her, would be able to set Rosalie free from this god-awful stall and they could run out of here, take the truck, or that other car, and drive away. Escape! Finally.

Rosalie hardly dared breathe.
Please, please, please . . . kill each other.

“Fuck, man,” Scraggly Hair finally said, “let's just get the job done here and move on.”

He was back to being the submissive one. His compatriot didn't respond, but Rosalie knew that for now, their chance of getting free was nil. But there was a wedge between the two men, and that might work to her advantage. Somehow. Trouble was, from the sound of the conversation she'd pieced together, they were running out of time. Whatever was going to happen to her and “Lucky,” it was going down in a couple of days, and that scared her. It scared her to death.

The only good news was now she had another person on her side, one who presumably could help her and had a family or friends on the outside who could aid her mom or the cops or whoever in locating them. Maybe. If the girl didn't completely wuss out. Also, as far as she could tell, this old barn wasn't equipped with surveillance cameras or microphones, so once she and “Lucky” were alone, they could shout at the top of their lungs to communicate and make a plan to fight the bastards. Crossing her fingers, she waited, hoping to hear something from her new compatriot, but the girl didn't say a word, her sobs muffled.

Oh, God, please don't let her be a wimp.

That wouldn't work.

Not at all.

Maybe she was just traumatized or had been drugged or stunned with a stun gun so she couldn't communicate. Probably gagged too. Rosalie cringed as she thought of what they might have done to her, but she attempted to remain as positive as possible. At least now, she wouldn't be alone.

So she waited, her stall nearly dark.

Footsteps finally approached, just as she knew they would.

She slid backward and dropped soundlessly onto her cot. Quickly she flipped the top of the sleeping bag over her body and squeezed her eyes closed. Her fingers held the pieces of the clippers in a death grip, hidden beneath the musty cover.

The lock clicked.

She wanted to bolt.

Forced herself to stay where she was.

She heard the stall door swing open and even through her closed eyelids noticed a brightening. Still she remained motionless even though she heard his footsteps and knew he'd entered.

Touch me, freak, and I'll gouge your eyes out,

“I know you're not asleep, Star.”

She didn't move, barely breathed.

“It's good you know your place, that you shouldn't fight.”

God, she hated him. She itched to leap at him and kick and bite and claw at him, but she forced herself not to move.

“Yeah, that's a good girl,” he whispered, as if she were an obedient puppy or a damned horse.

She heard him rustling around. “Got you some fresh water and a sandwich,” he said, and she heard him exchange her used bucket for an empty one.

Sick bastard!

Finally the noise stopped, and she lifted her lids a fraction to see him standing in the doorway, his tall silhouette backlit.

He was staring right at her. “Cat got your tongue?”

She held her silence.

“Good. You were too mouthy as it was. You'll do much better knowing your place.”

Dickhead!

Clamping her jaw shut, she didn't respond, wouldn't let him goad her.

“So now you're passive-aggressive?”

She was surprised he knew the term, but she made sure no emotion registered on her face.

“It won't work, you know. Your true colors are gonna show sooner or later, and that's a good thing. We want you to know your place, and you seem to be learning, but it's good that you've got that little bit of fire in you. You know what I'm talkin' about. That temper? Who you really are? That's gonna help too. He's gonna want to see that you'll give him a bit of a fight.”

Who? Who was he talking about?

She felt sick inside as the wheels turned in her mind. They were giving her to someone. Or maybe selling her to him. A man who wanted “fire.” Oh, that sounded bad. Real bad.

Still, she kept her thoughts to herself. It seemed that her not speaking caused him to open up a little. “Hey,” he called to his partner, “look who's decided to give us the silent treatment.”

“Beats all that screamin' and swearin',” the other guy said, and she heard some rustling and clanking of plastic and metal as, it seemed, they set the other girl up in her cell. Lovely. Rosalie wanted to rip both their faces off and then trample on them. All the while she heard the soft mewling of the other girl. Rosalie hoped to God that once she'd gotten over the shock of being captured, “Lucky” would show some backbone.

The bigger man said, “Come on, let's get a move on.”

Should she take a chance? Leap on him? Cut him with the clipper? If he turned his back . . . But he didn't. Almost as if he'd read her mind, he backed out of the stall and shut the door, cutting off the bright source of light and her slim chance at freedom.

Be patient,
she told herself.
There's still time,

However, she didn't kid herself as she lay in the darkness, the smell of musty hay and horses an underlying odor in this dilapidated shell of a barn. No way did her captors plan to keep her in the old barn forever. No. They had a plan for her and for “Lucky” as well. She thought of the stories she'd heard of human trafficking, and prostitution rings with girls who'd been coerced into the life.