Hope (7 page)

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 time—”

“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.

Then he blinked.

“Great day in the morning! Listen to this, Mardell: ‘Some very dangerous men are holding me captive. They demand a ransom of five thousand dollars, payable in paper money within ten days once you receive this note. The money should be placed in plain wrapping and addressed to Joe Smith in care of Louisville, Kentucky, Post Office. When the money has been received, I will be released unharmed. At that time I will travel back to you. Love, Anne.’”

Thomas glanced at Miss Finch. “What do you make of that?”

“It must be a joke,” Miss Finch responded.

“Bernard!”

The double study doors opened immediately. “You called, sir?”

“Go upstairs and make sure Anne is in her room.”

The elderly white-haired gentleman frowned. “In her room, sir? The doctor left not fifteen minutes ago—I’m quite sure she’s still abed with the sniffles.”

“Check on her anyway, Bernard. I want to be certain of my daughter’s whereabouts.”

“Yes, sir.” The door closed. Bernard’s footsteps could be heard receding down the hall.

Thomas drummed his fingers on the desk, checking his watch fob every few minutes. Snapping the face closed, he got up to pace.

Miss Finch shut her notebook, primly crossing her hands in her lap. “I’m sure it’s just someone’s idea of a cruel joke, Mr. Ferry.”

Footsteps once again sounded outside the door, and Bernard reappeared. “Miss Anne is resting comfortably, sir. She took some tea and toast a short while ago and said to tell you she plans to nap the morning away.”

Thomas Ferry’s face sagged with relief. “Thank God.” He tossed the note into the wastepaper basket. “That will be all, Bernard. Now—” he turned back to address Miss Finch— “where were we?”

Hope pointed to a corner. “You missed a cobweb.”

Boris picked up the broom, his beady eyes trying to pinpoint the offender. He swung the broom in the general direction of her finger. “Satisfied?”

She shrugged, smothering a cough. These pesky sniffles were getting worse. And her throat was scratchy this morning. It was this infernal drafty cabin. She’d be deathly ill if she didn’t get warm soon. Her feet were like two blocks of ice. “It’s still there.”

“I can’t git this stupid broom into corners,” Boris groused.

“You can if you gently push, instead of jam,” Hope explained for the third time that morning.

Boris rammed the head of the broom in the cracks, trying to dig the dirt out. “What do you think this is, some ladies seminary or somethin’?”

“No. I think this is a miserable excuse for a living establishment!” Hope snapped, then immediately repented. If the Lord could love Boris, surely she could put up with him awhile longer. “Though it is a great deal better than it was.”

Which wasn’t saying much.

One month. Had it been only a month since this unending nightmare had begun? It seemed like years. The men had kept their distance well enough. Grunt had seen to that, but she wanted out. She tried hard to keep up her spirits. Papa would say that everything that happened to a person was meant for a reason—though she couldn’t imagine what good would come of her mistaken abduction.