The Cattleman Meets His Match

Finally grasping the gravity of the situation, the girls remained unnaturally quiet. Moira flopped into position. Blood thumped rhythmically in her ears. She rubbed her damp hands against her thighs, then tugged her too-short skirts over her ankles. The dress was a castoff from the foster family she and her brother, Tommy, had lived with before Tommy ran away. Mrs. Gifford had recycled the expensive lace at the hem for her own purpose and left Moira with her ankles showing.

The cowboy probably thought... Moira fisted her hands. Why waste her energy worrying about what Mr. Elder thought of her clothing when they were still in peril? She’d heard Fool’s End was dangerous, but every one-horse town she’d passed through had been dangerous.

She should have heeded the warnings this time.

Normally she’d never go out after dark, but she’d waited two hours for Mr. Grey, only to be told that he didn’t know anything about her brother Tommy.

Tears pricked behind her eyes. Another dead end, another disappointment. After four years, she was certain this time she’d finally catch up with him. A maid from the Gifford house who remembered her fondly had discovered the charred bits of a telegram in the fireplace of Mr. Gifford’s study. Piecing together what few words she could read, Moira had made out the names “Mr. Grey” and “Fool’s End.” The sender’s name had been clear as well: Mr. Thomas O’Mara.

A name and a location weren’t much to go on, but it was all she had. Tommy must have forgiven her for the trouble she’d caused if he’d contacted her. She’d stolen Mr. Gifford’s watch, and in her cowardice, she’d let her brother take the blame. He’d run away that same evening and she hadn’t seen him since. There was no doubt in her mind the telegram had been for her. She doubted Mr. Gifford burned his own correspondence.

She’d considered posting a letter to Mr. Grey but then quickly dismissed the thought. Letters were impersonal and mail service unreliable. Instead, she’d set off almost immediately. Yet her arrival today had been too late. Tommy was nowhere to be found.

Mr. Grey had denied knowing anything about Tommy or the telegram, but something in his denial didn’t sit right with her. On her way back to the hotel, not two blocks from her destination, some drunken fool had nabbed and locked her in that second-story room with four other girls.

Children.

She hadn’t seen a one of them before that moment. Yet they’d formed an instant bond against a mutual enemy. 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.