Secluded with the Cowboy

During the first three days after her kidnapping, she’d been allowed to wash up in a basin, to brush her teeth and comb her hair. He’d given her clean clothing so she’d look okay in videos he shot to prove she was still alive. Now that no one was searching, the kidnapper didn’t bother to provide her with creature comforts.

Not that Nicole had ever been interested in makeup, powder and perfume. She was a rancher’s wife, a veterinarian who didn’t require pampering. But she’d always kept herself clean. The stink of her own body humiliated her.

The footsteps crossed the house above her. Though she didn’t know the upstairs floorplan, she could tell when he reached the kitchen, which was directly overhead.

Was he bringing her food? Anticipation raced through her, and she hated herself for being excited. She should be stronger. A day without food wasn’t so long. Logically, she ought to be more concerned about her dwindling water supply. She’d die of dehydration before she starved.

No! I don’t want to die.

A cry climbed her throat, but there was no point. He’d made sure that no one would hear her. Yesterday…Or was it two days ago? He had prepared her for guests.

He’d said, “We’re going to have company, Nicole. I need you to be very quiet. Can you do that?”

“Quiet as a mouse.” She’d learned that defiance was futile. Her only chance for survival was to keep him happy.

“If you cooperate, I might let you go.”

“Whatever you say.” You bastard. I hate you. Despise you. “You can trust me.”

“And you’ll never tell anyone who I am.”

He always wore a black ski mask when he came to her, but she knew him. Nate Miller. If she told him that she was aware of his identity, he’d kill her for sure. So she lied, “I don’t even know who you are.”

As he came closer, her fingers drew into fists. She’d tried to fight him before. He wasn’t a big man. Maybe she could knock him down. She could…

“Hold out your hands.” From his fingertips, he dangled a keychain—keys to the handcuffs and to the lock that held the chain around her waist. Was he going to take the cuffs off? Instead of fighting him, she did as he said.

He looped another chain around the cuffs and shoved her down on the mattress. Then he threw the chain over the ceiling beam and yanked her arms up over her head.

She lashed out with her legs, and he pulled her higher. Her feet no longer touched the ground. Her shoulders throbbed. Her bruised wrists burned with fresh pain.

“I don’t trust you,” he muttered. “You’re still one of them. You have to pay for all the wrongs the Carlisle family has done to me. It’s only fair.”

When her arms were secured above her head, he pulled out a roll of duct tape and tore off a piece.

He’d gagged her before. It was terrible. Her throat clogged and she felt as if she couldn’t get enough air. She turned her head away, but he was persistent. He slapped the tape over her mouth and left.

Tears coursed down her cheeks as she’d heard people moving in the house—Nate’s guests. She’d struggled to cry out, to make some kind of noise. But they’d left, never knowing she was there.

Nate had waited a long time before he came back to the root cellar. Her suspended body had moved beyond pain into numbness. When he released the chain, she’d been too weak to do anything but collapse onto the mattress.

Today—even without food—was a hundred times better.

Overhead, she heard movement again. Someone running.

Something was happening.

She braced herself. Stared at the tiny window beside the rough, heavy door. Time ticked by slowly, and she counted every second. Please, someone. Please, help me.

She heard other footsteps in the house. Heavy boots. Several people.

“Help.” She screamed with all her might. “I’m down here. Help me.”

The force of her cries hammered inside her head, but she kept yelling. Someone had to hear her. Someone had to find her. “Dylan, help me.”

PACING ACROSS the kitchen floor, Dylan Carlisle sensed that he was near Nicole. He felt her presence. He imagined that he heard her calling his name, calling from the other side of the hell that had started when she was kidnapped.

The rest of the search party had scattered when they got to the Circle M. Some went to the bunkhouse. Others to the horse barn. They were on the wrong track. She’s here. Close.

Instinct led him through the back door, down the stairs to the yard. He stood very still, not even breathing, and listened. “Where are you?”

He was answered by a muffled voice. Her voice, calling for help.

A tall, thick spruce stood beside the house. Behind that tree he saw concrete steps leading down to a root cellar. He went to the door. Someone was inside, sobbing. “Nicole?”

“Dylan.” Her voice was ragged, but it was her. His wife. “Dylan, get me out of here.”

He twisted the door handle. Locked, dammit. He couldn’t kick the door open; it opened outward instead of pushing in. He unholstered his handgun and aimed at the lock.

“Stand back, Nicole,” he said. “I’m going to shoot the lock.” Aware that he was probably destroying evidence, he fired into the old door. The wood splintered. He fired again, for good measure, then tore it open on the rusty hinges.

She stood beside a worn-out mattress. Her arms reached toward him. Her face was streaked with grime and tears. She was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

As soon as his arms closed around her, she collapsed. Gently he sank onto the mattress, holding his wife against his chest. He kissed her forehead. “You’re going to be all right. I’ve got you now.”

Through parched lips she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

Her eyelids fluttered closed. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t. Not ever.” He snuggled her more tightly against him, belatedly protecting her from the horrors she’d endured. He’d failed her. As a husband and as a man. He could only hope that she’d give him the chance to make things right, to lift her out of this nightmare.

For seven long days he’d feared the worst. He’d gone through every shade of dread and panic.

Finally it was over. He hoped their life would slip back into a regular routine. That was all he’d ever wanted: a simple life on the ranch with Nicole by his side.

His sister, Carolyn, and other members from the search team responded to his gunshots. They poured into the root cellar, and Dylan held Nicole protectively as they brought bottled water for her to drink. The FBI agent who’d stayed behind to help with the search squatted down beside him and expertly picked the locks that fastened the chains and handcuffs.

All the while, Dylan held her. Even with the door wide-open, there wasn’t much light in this root cellar. Only one tiny window. At night it must have been total darkness. She’d been trapped, cold and alone. What kind of bastard could do this to another human being?

Carolyn tapped his shoulder. “Let’s get Nicole out of here.”

As he lifted her, she stirred. Her eyes opened. “I want to go home.”

“That’s where we’re headed,” he assured her. Back to normal. “Back to the ranch.”

“Actually,” Carolyn said, “we should go to the hospital first. To get you checked out.”