The Cattleman Meets His Match. Sherri ShackelfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
Moira shuddered at the implication. She might be naive, but she knew a brothel when she saw one. If they were discovered, there’d be no escaping unscathed the next time.
Keeping her expression neutral, she passed each of the girls a sack. The less they picked up on her terror, the better. Being afraid didn’t change anything anyway. It only made the waiting more excruciating.
Together they huddled silently in the deepest recess of the darkened stall, barely concealed behind the stack of hay bales. Hazel crawled onto her lap and Moira started. The frightened little girl had clung to her since her kidnapping. Had that been only a few hours ago? It seemed like an eternity. Hazel burrowed deeper. Unused to such open displays of affection, Moira awkwardly patted the child’s back.
Tony took Hazel’s cue and clustered on Moira’s left side, Sarah on the other.
Darcy sat a distance apart, wrapping her arms around her bent legs and resting her chin on her knees. “This is stupid,” she announced in a harsh whisper. “You should have waited until I thought of a better plan.”
Moira pursed her lips. At fifteen, Darcy was the oldest of the girls—and the most sullen. The only words she’d uttered in the past two hours had been complaints or criticisms.
Darcy snarled another gripe beneath her breath.
Since they were all terrified and half-crazy with hunger, Moira bit back an angry retort. “We’re here now and we’ll have to make the best of it.”
Darcy scowled but kept blessedly quiet.
For the next several minutes they waited in tense silence. As time ticked away, the air beneath the burlap sacks grew thick and hot. Sarah shifted and coughed. Footsteps sounded from the corridor and Moira hugged Hazel tighter.
“Can I help you, sir?” an unfamiliar voice spoke.
“I’m looking for a gang of thieves.”
Moira immediately recognized the second man as her kidnapper. His raspy voice was etched on her soul.
“Five of them,” the kidnapper continued. “A bunch of girls. One of them picked the wrong pocket this time. Stole Mr. Grey’s gold watch.”
“Why didn’t he nab the little thief right then?” the first man spoke, his voice tinted with an accent that might have been Norwegian or Swedish.
“Because he didn’t notice his watch was missing right off.”
“Then how does he know who done took his watch?” The Norwegian sounded dazed.
“Because we got three reports of the same kind of thing.” The kidnapper’s voice raised an octave. “An orphan girl comes in begging for change or food, and the next thing people know, their watches and money go missing.”
“Well, I’m plum confused by the whole thing. Is it one girl you’re after or five?” The Norwegian sputtered. “Did all five of them pick Mr. Grey’s pocket? What’d she look like? Wait a second. What did they look like?”
“Well, let me see here. Mr. Grey seen a girl with red hair just before—” The kidnapper huffed. “Never mind. It ain’t your business. Have you seen them or not?”
Moira’s blood simmered. Why that low-down, no good, drunken...
Another thought jerked her upright. A watch. Four years ago a pocket watch had set off a chain of events that had changed her life forever. It was somehow fitting a timepiece had been at the center of this evening’s troubles.
Would John Elder protect them if he thought they were thieves? Who else would help them if that vile man spread lies to cover his foul deeds?
“I ain’t seen nobody,” the Norwegian replied.
A scuff sounded, as though someone had opened a door.
“Now you’ll have to leave,” the Norwegian ordered. “That’s a paying customer and you’re not.”
“Hey,” the kidnapper snapped. “Ain’t you the fellow from the alley?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
Moira started. John Elder was the “customer” who had come through the door. He must have escaped through the back and circled around front.
“The name is John,” her rescuer answered, sounding bored and a touch annoyed. “And I already told you where to find the girls.”
“Except I didn’t find them, did I?” The kidnapper cackled. “Maybe you’re saving them for yourself.”
Moira’s heart hammered so loudly and she feared they’d hear its drumbeat thumping through the slats in the stall door. She’d misjudged her reluctant rescuer once already tonight. Or had she?
“Look yourself,” John replied, his annoyance apparent. “They’re your problem, not mine.”
The horse in the neighboring stall whinnied and bumped against the wall. Moira stuffed her fist against her mouth. Itchy hay poked through her clothing and she resisted the urge to scratch. A moment later the footsteps paused before their stall. The door scraped open. She held her breath and prayed.
An eternity passed before the door slid closed once more. Moira heaved a sigh of relief, then offered a silent prayer and a couple of promises concerning future atonement for good measure. Another few seconds and they’d be safe.
Sarah stifled a sneeze. The sound was faint and muffled, but it might as well have been a shotgun blast. The door scraped open once more.
“Hey,” John called. “What did you just say to me?”
“Back off,” the kidnapper snapped. “I didn’t say nothing.”
“I think you did.”
Boots scuffed in the dirt and Moira winced at the sound of flesh hitting flesh. She whipped the bag from her head and sat erect, swiping her tangled and static hair from her eyes. From her vantage point, she watched as the cowboy spun the kidnapper around. John was obviously diverting the man’s attention.
Setting Hazel aside, Moira leaped to her feet. She’d best spring into action before John Elder decided that rescuing a bunch of orphans no longer suited him. She snatched a pitchfork from the corner and charged, jabbing her kidnapper in the backside. Yelping, the man sprang upright, his hands clutching his back pockets.
The kidnapper whipped around with a snarl and her stomach clenched. Roaring in fury, he hurtled across the distance. Moira quickly sidestepped, then stumbled.
A glint of light reflected from a star on the kidnapper’s lapel. Moira blanched.
Had her past finally caught up with her?
Fear spiraled through Moira’s stomach and shot to her knees, weakening her stance. She’d gone and done it now.
The cowboy was easily two paces behind the kidnapper. Feinting right, she swept the handle around and batted her attacker’s legs. The man staggered and his arms windmilled. His left hand smashed against a hanging lantern. Glass shattered and sparks showered over the hay-strewn floor. Like a wild animal set loose, brilliant orange flames spread across the dry kindling. Astonished by the sudden destructive force, she staggered back a step.
In light of this new threat, Moira tossed aside the pitchfork and stomped on the rapidly spreading danger.
“Get back!” John hollered.
The kidnapper’s face twisted into a contorted mask of rage.
He pointed at Moira through the growing wall of smoke separating them. “It’s fitting you’ll die in fire, you little hoyden.”
With another shouted curse he pivoted toward the exit. Midstride, his right foot caught the curved tongs of Moira’s discarded pitchfork. The