Beloved Outcast

The smell of frying dough drew her attention to the biscuits. They were about to burn; she refused to let that happen. With a well-aimed kick, the toe of her shoe dislodged the long-handled fork from where it had landed. The hem of her petticoats served as a pot holder as she wielded the rod to salvage the biscuits.

“Who’s out there?” came the low voice again.

Victoria thought she detected both wariness and anger in the deep, masculine voice. After she retrieved the last biscuit and set it on a china plate to cool, she approached the stockade. She wiped her palms against her skirts and took comfort in the sight of the metal beam lodged between two iron posts that guaranteed the prison door wouldn’t come flying open. Surely only the most hardened, most vile, of villains would have been locked inside such a horrible, crude cell.

Ah, but to be abandoned to a slow and painful death by starvation…

Every soft and feminine instinct she possessed urged her to set him free. What crime could have been so heinous as to warrant such cruel punishment?

Murder, came the immediate answer. A murderer might be left to such an awful fate.

Victoria continued to stare in horrified fascination at the simple but effective bar laid across the stockade’s entry.

It struck her suddenly that she was responsible not only for the oxen under her care, but also for the nameless prisoner on the other side of the rough wooden door. Unless the cavalry suddenly returned, it would be up to her whether or not this man lived or died.

“Answer me, dammit! Who are you?”

Victoria looked from the door to her shaking hands. Even though she might pity the stranger for being left to die this way, she would be a fool to let him out before discovering the crime he’d committed. She would also be a fool to let him know he was talking to a woman, she thought, reasoning that men credited other men with more intelligence than they did the weaker sex.

She coughed twice and lowered her voice as best she could.

“The question, sir, is who are you, and what did you do to land in such an awful situation?”

Chapter Three (#ulink_551cfe63-be30-5d7d-9af3-1a2c03497cd8)

Logan strained to hear the muffled question. Battered and hurting from the beating Windham had ordered, he’d lost track of how much time had passed since he’d been locked inside the stockade. He’d drunk the last of his water a few hours back.

“Sir, I asked you who you are,” came that suspicious sounding voice again.

Logan shook his head to clear it. He must have been unconscious for most of the day. It had been the glorious aroma of cooking food that nudged him to full alertness. He could have sworn someone had pitched camp outside his cell door.

Saliva pooled in his mouth, and his tongue seemed twice its normal size. Hot food. His stomach shuddered in sweet anticipation.

“The name’s Logan,” he growled, relieved the newcomer’s arrival hadn’t been a hallucination. “Logan Youngblood. How about letting me out of here and sharing some of that food? While you’re at it, I’d appreciate a drink of water.”

The only response to his request was more silence. Frustration, and the possibility that he was going to pass out again and never come to, snapped Logan’s patience.

“What are you waiting for? Open the damned door!”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. The soldiers who put you in there must have had a good reason.”

Outraged, Logan couldn’t believe he’d heard the newcomer right. “You mean you’re going to leave me in here to die?”

There was another silence.

“That would make you a murderer,” Logan pressed, anger gnawing holes in his control.

“I—I wasn’t the one who put you in there.”

“When they locked me up, they took away my gun,” he pointed out, just in case the nature of his plight wasn’t clear. “I’m unarmed and ready to pass out.”

More silence.

“Even if you’re alone, you’ve got to be carrying a rifle or a shotgun or a pistol,” Logan persisted. “How can I be a threat?”

Silence.

He ground his teeth, which made his head hurt all the worse. “Say something, damn you.”

“You swear too much.”

“Say something relevant.”

“I’m not letting you out until—”

“Hell freezes over?” he said savagely.

“Are you wounded?”

The words seemed closer. For the first time, Logan thought he detected a note of concern in the stranger’s tone. His hopes rose about the time his legs gave out.

“Some cracked ribs, and a headache that’s strong enough to split my skull in two,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

“Then let me out.”

“What did you do?”

Even though the question was reasonable, Logan’s control unraveled further. “What does it matter? I told you, I’m too weak to cause you any trouble.”

“You could be lying. Perhaps you have a.club. If I were to open the door, you could attack me,” came the husky voice.

“So shoot me.”

More silence. An incredible notion struck him.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have a gun!”

Silence.

Logan swore feelingly. “What kind of fool comes poking around Idaho Territory without a gun?”

“Fortunately, there happens to be a cannon nearby,” came the snippy answer.

Logan suddenly was struck by a mental flash of what the unexpected visitor might look like.

A boy.

That would explain the odd fluctuations he heard in the low voice from time to time. It would also explain why the lad had such tender ears, and why he was afraid to let Logan out of the stockade. It all fit. A wave of reluctant sympathy tugged at Logan. A lot of young men had shown up in Trinity Falls, hoping to fill their pockets with gold. To them, every stranger was a potential enemy.