Deep In The Heart Of Texas

SHE WAS GOING TO DIE.

No!

Everything in Miranda Maddox fought that horrifying thought. But the bitter cold seeped into her bones and a blinding fear crept over her cramped body. As she struggled to move, the tight ropes around her ankles and wrists cut into her flesh. Nausea churned in her stomach and she took several deep breaths. She couldn’t throw up. She couldn’t. With the gag in her mouth, she’d choke on her own vomit.

Oh, God, who did this to her? Who’d tied her up and left her in this awful place to die? She didn’t know where she was, but she knew by the smell, the cold and the darkness that it was a place of death. She began to wonder if maybe she was already dead.

A warm feeling washed over her and her thoughts drifted. Her head fell to her chest. Sleep. Yes, she would sleep. And soon she’d awaken from this terrible nightmare. She tried to reassure herself but couldn’t still the ominous feeling.

She was going to die. And she knew it.

A FRIGID NORTH WIND blew through the Texas Hill Country. The tall, broad-shouldered man walking through the woods hardly noticed the cold. He endured it the way he did everything else. Life to him was a matter of survival. For more than five years he’d lived in these hills, away from society, his only companion his dog, Bandit. That was the way he wanted it. People called him eccentric or crazy, but that didn’t bother him. As long as he was left alone, the world outside meant nothing to him.

His mountain boots were almost silent on the cold hard ground. The only audible noises were the occasional rustle of dried leaves and the whistle of the wind.

He moved through the thick woods with an ease and grace uncommon for a big man. Well over six feet, he wore heavy jeans, a dark plaid flannel shirt and a black overcoat that whipped around his legs. His long dark hair, full beard dashed with gray and a hat pulled low over his eyes gave him a sinister appearance. A rifle rested on his shoulder, the butt in the palm of his hand.

People in these parts called him the hermit. The few unfortunate enough to encounter him always took a second look, but no one was brave enough to take a third. Everyone was afraid of him. Which was fine with him.

Bandit, a small black-and-white dog of unknown breed, ran ahead, sniffing the ground in search of supper. Suddenly Bandit stopped, smelled some bushes, then turned to bark at him.

He quickly readied his rifle. “Okay, boy, flush him out, and let’s see what we’ve got for supper.”

Bandit ignored his master, barking sharply, instead.

“What?” he asked, and he wondered if Bandit was losing his touch or just getting lazy. As he moved closer, he understood Bandit’s confusion. He picked up a branch and noticed the slanted cuts on the wood. The bushes weren’t growing naturally. They’d been cut by someone and piled high.

He studied the bushes for a moment, then shook his head. “This is none of our concern, boy. Let’s get moving.” He always minded his own business; he stuck to that rule religiously.

Walking on, he tried not to think about the peculiar bushes, but found he couldn’t. These hills were deserted. No one else lived here. He had crossed his fence line some time ago and was now on Clyde Maddox’s property, or at least a part of the man’s huge ranch, a part where Maddox didn’t even run cattle because it was so isolated. Then who’d cut these branches to make them look like bushes? And why?

It was none of his business, he told himself again. His only concern was finding supper. He stopped as he realized Bandit wasn’t following him. Bandit stood staring at the bushes, then began frantically digging at the ground.

“You stupid dog! Get over here.”

Bandit growled in an agitated manner and continued his digging.

He headed back to the bushes.

Bandit paused a moment to bark at him.

“There’s nothing here for us, boy. Let’s go.”

Bandit barked several more times.

He and Bandit had a unique relationship. At times they understood each other.

“It’s bushes, nothing else,” he replied, although he knew that couldn’t be true.

Bandit kept barking, pausing only long enough to growl deep in his throat.

The man drew a deep breath. “Okay, okay, I’ll show you.” He laid his rifle against a tree and began to pull the branches away. Bandit scurried beneath his feet trying to tunnel under the bushes.

“You stupid dog,” he said again as he removed the last branch. Few things in life surprised him anymore, but when he saw what was before him, his eyes opened a little wider.

A door with a big lock gave entrance to a small shack built into the side of the hill. He remembered the low-flying planes he heard occasionally in the night. Could someone be dropping drugs? Dogs had an uncanny sense of smell for drugs. Maybe this was where the drugs were stored until they could be moved. On that thought came another. How were they moved? The only way to get here was on foot or by horseback.

None of this mattered because it was none of his business. But the idea of someone bringing drugs into his backyard bothered him. A lot.

Bandit jumped at the door, trying to get in.

“Stop it, boy,” he ordered.

Bandit obeyed with obvious reluctance.

He shot Bandit a narrow-eyed glance, knowing what the dog wanted, but feeling in his gut that he should walk away and leave this place.

Bandit rubbed against his leg and whined, a deep pitiful sound. “Okay, okay,” he muttered. “I’ll show you what’s behind the door.”

He drew a pistol from his shoulder holster. Aiming at the lock, he squeezed the trigger. The loud pop echoed through the trees with a startling sound. A deer jumped up and ran farther into the woods. A rabbit burrowed deeper into a hole.

Throwing down the broken lock, he opened the door. Bandit darted into the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness; once they had, he could see there were no drugs. A sense of foreboding ran through him as he saw a person sitting in one corner, feet and hands tied, mouth gagged. What the hell was going on?

Bandit licked the person’s face, which was very odd because Bandit never made friends with anyone. When they made trips to the country store, the dog always growled at everyone.

Bending his head, he entered the small area. The room felt claustrophobic and stifling, despite the thirty-degree temperature outside. The darkness prevented him from seeing anything but the shape of a person.

Bandit barked anxiously.

“Okay,” he replied, and picked up the slumped figure. The body trembled, either from the cold or from fear, he didn’t know which. But judging by the softness in his arms he knew it was a woman. Sudden painful memories flashed across his mind. He thought he’d forgotten all those feelings, and he didn’t appreciate remembering them now.

Carrying the woman outside, he placed her on the ground. She was young, somewhere between twenty and thirty. The wind tousled her already disheveled blond hair. Her sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers were smeared with dirt. The sherry-brown eyes that stared back at him were glazed. He’d seen that look before—she’d been drugged. Slowly her eyes cleared, then swiftly filled with fear. The kind of fear he’d seen many times. She was afraid of him.

MIRANDA MADDOX blinked at the brightness of daylight, the glare hurting her eyes. She squirmed and tried to move, but her body was cold and cramped, and it was so much easier just to sleep. She’d been floating, drifting…yet something was different now. With extreme effort she forced her eyes to focus.

Oh, God. Terror filled her heart as she stared at the man peering down at her. She shrank away from his threatening presence. Long dark hair touched his shoulders. A full beard and mustache covered his face. A worn felt hat shaded his eyes. Who was he? Why had he done this to her? And what did he plan to do to her now?

Fear and exhaustion trembled through her weary bones, and a scream rose in her throat. The scream lodged against the gag in her mouth. A dizzy feeling assailed her, and she felt as if she was going to pass out again. What did this man want with her? She didn’t even know him.

He saw the fear in her eyes and knew what she was thinking. Holding up one hand, he said, “Listen, lady, I’m not the one who put you in that room. My dog found you, and I just opened the door.”

At the mention of Bandit, the dog eagerly licked her face. Her blond head tilted toward the animal, but her eyes never left the man’s face.

His voice was deep and strong and full of masculine nuances. A man’s man. A man’s voice. A voice to heed, to be wary of, and yet, she felt, a voice to trust. How did she know that? she asked herself. He was a complete stranger.

Then suddenly she realized who he was. Her father called him the hermit. He lived alone and roamed these hills. She’d never seen him before, but people were afraid of him, and now she understood why. Her father had called him crazy, a raving lunatic. In her frightened state, that was all her mind could recall.

But the hermit said he hadn’t kidnapped her. For some odd reason she believed him. Maybe it was the way he looked at her—not as if she was a woman but a trapped animal. Fast on those strange thoughts came another. If he hadn’t kidnapped her, then who had? Who’d done this to her?