A Heart for the Taking (9 page)

The next day dawned bright and clear. The heat, even when they broke camp at seven o’clock in the morning, was already oppressive, the air muggy and cloying. After helping Fancy into the carriage, Sam cast his eyes skyward and said,
“Not a sign of a cloud, but I would not be surprised to find ourselves in a thunderstorm before evening.”

Constance gave a heavy sigh. “Oh, dear. If it rains very much, the trail will turn into a quagmire. I only hope that you are mistaken, Sam, or that the storm holds off until we have made camp for the evening—even if we have to stop early.”

Sam’s prediction proved true. By four o’clock that afternoon the rain had been falling steadily for forty-five minutes, the sky lit by brilliant flashes of lightning, thunder booming frighteningly close, and the narrow trail they were following was turning into a morass of mud.

Water dripping from his hat, Jonathan finally pulled his horse alongside the carriage and, leaning down to the window, said, “Green Springs and good grazing for the animals is just a mile or two ahead. Rather than struggle on, we shall camp there tonight and give the storm a chance to move on.” He smiled. “And the trail a chance to dry out.”

The simple yellow dimity gown she had chosen to wear that day clinging uncomfortably to her skin, Fancy was very glad when the springs were reached and her tent was erected and she could leave the confines of the carriage. The storm had passed, and a short while later the slaves were busily preparing the evening meal. Constance was in her tent overseeing the setting up of her bed for the night, while Jonathan and Sam were inspecting their various goods to see that they had suffered no damage from the rain. Fancy and Ellen carefully made their way into the privacy of the forests. The necessity of relieving herself behind the nearest bush was one part of traveling in the Colonies that Fancy would be very happy to put behind her, thank you very much!

Nature taken care of, a few minutes later the two young women began to walk back toward the camp. They had wandered some distance in their search for an appropriate privy, but there was no fear of getting lost, as the sounds of the camp could be faintly heard through the concealing trees and vines.

Fancy was in the lead, concentrating on where she put her
feet, Sam’s lecture on poisonous snakes having made an enormous impression on her, Ellen following closely on her heels. They had not taken three steps when Fancy heard a funny little sound behind her. Apprehensively she whirled around, her eyes widening at the sight of her sister held captive by a burly figure in tattered, stained buckskins.

A rifle was slung across his back, the barrel showing over his shoulder; a huge knife was strapped to his side, and his matted hair hung in greasy, lank strands around his bearded face. He towered over Ellen, his hand crushed against her mouth, preventing any sound from escaping.

Fancy didn’t even think. With a muffled sound of rage, she flew across the short distance that separated them. Fists clenched at her sides, she stared up at Ellen’s captor. “Unhand her this instant, you brute,” she said furiously, “or it shall go very ill for you.”

The sudden feel of cold steel in the middle of her back made Fancy stiffen, and a shiver of fear went through her as a coarse voice said low, “Now, ain’t she just the most spirited little filly you ever seen, Clem?”

Her mouth dry, Fancy met Ellen’s terrified stare, her mind racing. Fancy knew exactly who held them captive—these men had to be some of the ruthless outlaws and murderous bandits whom Sam and Jonathan had said often preyed on the unwary along the various trails in the wilderness. They had not feared them, because their party was large and well armed. What neither Sam nor Jonathan had considered was that they would be bold or desperate enough to pick off anyone who strayed beyond the confines of the camp.

“I wouldn’t scream, purty lady, if I were you,” the hateful voice breathed into Fancy’s ear. “Not if you don’t want ole Clem over there to break your little friend’s neck . . . or me to put a hole through this fine yellar gown of yours.”

Clem smiled mirthlessly, revealing a mouthful of stained and broken teeth, his hand cruelly forcing Ellen’s head backward. Fancy’s blood ran cold. Dear God! What were they to do?

She didn’t have time to think. A hard prod with the barrel
of a rifle pushed her forward and her captor said, “You jest follow Clem and keep your mouth shut. Now move!”

Helplessly Fancy complied. Alone she might have risked a fight, but not with Ellen’s life at stake. The image of her sister’s white, frightened features danced before her eyes with every step she took.

Fancy didn’t know how long they walked. It seemed forever, and with every minute that passed, with every stride that took them farther away from the camp, her heart sank lower. They would soon be missed, she knew, but dusk would be falling shortly and she doubted even in daylight that anyone would be able to find any trace of them in the tangled verdant wilderness through which they walked.

Knowing what fate awaited them when their captors did decide to stop, Fancy frantically turned over plan after plan for their escape. Not only would they be raped by these despicable creatures, she was certain that she and her sister would also not live to see very many more days—perhaps, she thought with a shiver, not even tomorrow’s dawn. Once these beasts had satisfied themselves, she didn’t doubt that she and Ellen would be summarily dealt with and that their ravaged dead bodies would lie undiscovered and moldering in the emerald gloom of the forest.

When their captors finally decided they were safe, they laughed and whooped and congratulated themselves on their coup. It was then that Fancy saw for the first time the features of the man who had abducted her. They were not reassuring.

Like his companion, his hair hung in long greasy strands around his face, a dark stubble hiding most of his features. It didn’t hide, however, the cold, empty blackness of his eyes or the ugly scar that marred his right cheek. The white scar ran from his temple, just missed his eye, crossed his cheek, and ended just below his chin. Shabby moccasins were upon his feet, and he wore buckskins as filthy and tattered as his friend’s. While not as tall, he was built like a bull, his chest massive, his arms bulging beneath the stained material of his clothes. Fancy’s heart sank even lower. She
and Ellen could never overcome these brutes. They were doomed.

Defeat did not come easily to her, and while she knew there was little chance of escape, she kept her senses alert for any possible advantage. Again, the problem was Ellen. A half a dozen times Fancy almost bolted into the woods, willing to take her chances in the unknown wilderness rather than face the fate she knew lay ahead, but she could not desert her sister. Ellen seemed to be utterly cowed and demoralized by their situation, her expression dull and empty.

The indigo-and-purple shadows of dusk had just begun to fall when their captors called a halt. Fancy had no idea where she was, but they had obviously reached the campsite of the two men. A pair of scrawny horses were tied nearby, and some saddlebags lay dumped on the ground near a small creek.

“Me and Clem been following yore party all afternoon,” her captor said conversationally as he shoved her forward. “We left our things here and were jest going to reconnoiter a bit, to see what the pickings might be, when you two little pigeons crossed our paths.”

A ray of hope sprang in Fancy’s chest. “Are you going to ransom us?” she asked. “Mr. Jonathan Walker will pay handsomely for our return. Our
safe
return.”

“Ransom?” her captor repeated acidly. “Now thet’s a right fine idea! I should of thought of it myself.” His gaze narrowed. “Think I’m a fool? Them Walkers don’t bargain with no one. They’d jest as soon shoot us on sight as talk to us. We’ve had dealings with them in the past.”

Clem spoke up. “Specially that damned Chance!” he said bitterly. “He hates us Thackers. Besides, Chance is the Walker bastard who gave Udell that scar.” Clem spat out the side of his mouth. “We don’t bargain with the likes of the Walkers.”

In spite of the circumstances, Fancy felt a spurt of warmth spread through her at the mention of Chance Walker and the fact that he had been the one to mark her captor. Bravo! she
thought savagely, wishing that Udell had died beneath Chance’s blade.

Udell leered at the women. “Afraid you fancy pieces are jest going to have to git used to Clem and me.” He stepped closer. “You treat us real special and we might jest let you go.”

Fancy held her ground, unwilling to let him see how terrified she was. “You intend to let us go?” she asked warily, her flesh crawling at his nearness.

His gaze met Clem’s. An ugly grin crossed his face. “Shore. You be nice to us and don’t give us no trouble and we’ll let you go.”

Fancy knew he was lying. She and Ellen were going to die. The only question was when.

Clem let loose the cruel grip he’d had on Ellen’s arm and she sank slowly to the ground, her head bowed, the skirts of her blue gown billowing out all around her as she began to cry in great tearing sobs. Fancy flew across the small space that divided them and, kneeling beside her sister, clasped her to her bosom. “Ellen! Are you all right, dear?”

Ellen hugged her convulsively, instantly angling her fair head so that her lips were almost touching Fancy’s ear. “We must escape!” she breathed softly between her loud sobs. “They think that I am helpless with fear and don’t pay me any heed . . . we can use that to our advantage.”

Fancy nodded her head slightly, jubilation surging through her. Ellen was pretending! Thank God! Together they would find a way to escape. Arms about each other, they rocked together on the ground, renewed hope springing in Fancy’s breast.

“Quit yore squalling,” Udell growled, dragging Fancy away from Ellen. He raised his rifle in a threatening motion and, glaring at Ellen, said, “You shut thet noise up, woman, or—”

Ellen’s eyes seemed to go blank with fear, but her cries ceased and she rocked mutely from side to side, her face deliberately blank and stupid. “Thet’s better.” He gave Fancy
a shake and ordered, “Now gather up some wood and git us some supper. You’ll find fixin’s in them bags.”

Closely guarded by the hulking Clem, in the dwindling twilight the two women scrambled around on the outskirts of the camp, gathering up fallen, dead wood. Clumsily using the flint her captor grudgingly handed her, Fancy soon had a blazing fire crackling in the ring of stones taken from the creek edge.

The saddlebags held meager goods, but Ellen and Fancy soon had coffee perking; some beans flavored with a bit of salt they found were bubbling in a battered iron pot over the fire; and an iron skillet with hot corn mush was cooling on the stones. The two men lounged on the ground nearby, drinking from a bottle of corn whisky, their hungry eyes never leaving the two women as they moved about the fire. From time to time one of the men would let out a snort of laughter, and with every second that passed Fancy could feel the tension building. From their crude comments and the way they were stripping her and Ellen with their eyes, Fancy knew that time had just about run out for them. They must escape soon, or escape would be impossible.

Despairingly she glanced around her. Darkness had fallen, and only the leaping flames of the dancing yellowand-orange fire kept the utter blackness of the night at bay. The forest closed in on them, the trees near the edge of the camp swaying in weird and menacing shapes, the waiting silence full of portent.

“Them are shore purty wimmen,” Clem said in a slurred voice. “What do you think, Udell? Is mine purtier than yores?”

Udell smiled, the scar on his face outlined grotesquely by the flickering flames. He licked his lips. “Can’t tell for shore. Reckon we’ll have to strip ’em to find out.”

Fancy’s jaw firmed, her eyes full of golden fire as she glared at him. He wasn’t, she thought wrathfully, going to find it an easy task.

Ellen shrieked suddenly, and to Fancy’s horror, she saw that Clem had grabbed her sister’s ankle and was dragging
her over to him, despite Ellen’s frantic struggles to escape. Clem was chortling, enjoying Ellen’s fright and attempts to evade him.

Blind, panicked rage exploded through Fancy. Grasping the big iron skillet in her hand, heedless of its searing heat, she brought it down on Clem’s head with all her might. He gave an odd sigh and slumped forward, his hold on Ellen loosened.

Udell couldn’t believe his eyes. In slack-jawed astonishment he stared at Clem’s motionless body on the ground beside him. Those few stunned seconds were all Fancy needed. Wielding her skillet with desperate efficiency, she struck Udell a glancing blow on the side of his head, the mush that remained for dinner flying everywhere. He let out a yowl of outrage and staggered to his feet, murder in his eyes.

Freed from Clem’s grasp, Ellen reached for the only other weapon available—the coffeepot—and hurled it unerringly into Udell’s face. He screamed and clawed at his eyes as the boiling liquid splashed across his skin.

Fancy dropped the skillet and picked up her skirts; grabbing Ellen’s hand, she said breathlessly, “
Run!
”

Ellen needed no urging. Together the two sisters plunged into the forest, running like fleet deer. They ran like does before hounds, mindless terror driving them. There was no direction to their flight; they simply ran and ran and
ran.

Branches whipped at them; brambles clawed at their clothes and arms; and vines tangled and curled around their feet. Still they ran, their feet hardly touching the ground as they raced through the enveloping blackness.

Only when her lungs felt as if they would burst from her chest and the stitch in her side was almost unbearable did Fancy slow her breakneck pace. Ellen’s hand was still clasped in a death-grip with hers, and with great gulping sobs, half laughter, half tears, the two sisters hugged each other.

They stood frozen in the darkness, their labored breathing calming gradually, their ears and eyes painfully alert for any sound or sight of their captors. Agonizing minutes, which
seemed like hours, passed and nothing alarming greeted them.