Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [75]
Though she was still completely indecent, the extra layer of nainsook was far better than the translucent cotton of her nightdress. He reached for her free arm.
“No.” She pressed it against her back. “Please.”
The skinny one lifted the edge of his neckerchief and spit on her floor. “Tie her up good. Then maybe if we have time, we can have us a little extra fun.”
In a move so fast she’d have missed it had she blinked, the large man laid a fist across his jaw. The recipient skidded across the floor and into the wall of hatboxes. Boxes shot in all directions, hats tumbling out. The man crumbled to a lifeless heap.
Hands and body trembling, she clawed at the pillow slip.
The fire maker sighed, flames filling the room with light. “Was that really necessary?”
Though she’d made a career of listening to voices over the phone, she always knew in advance who was on the line according to what number dropped. Still, she’d swear these men didn’t have phone service. If they had, she felt sure she’d have recognized them.
The large one returned to her side.
She scrambled onto the bed, crouching into a ball and pressing her back against the headboard. “Please, please. Don’t do this.”
He looked at her full on. His eyes filled with concern and remorse.
She sucked in her breath. They were blue. Blue with thick brows above each. Recognition shot through her like an electrical shock.
It was Frank Comer. The same man who’d robbed their train. The same man who’d let her keep her money. The same man who’d been so generous with the widow.
The pillow slip securing her to the headboard chafed at her skin. Her eyes filled. How could she have ever thought him to be a kind, benevolent man? “Why are you doing this?”
Alarm briefly touched his eyes. Had he guessed she knew who he was?
Reaching behind her, he withdrew her other hand.
“No, no!” She yanked and kicked, but nothing fazed him.
“Either shut her up or I will.” The fire maker’s sharp command sliced through the air, cutting off her cries and her struggles.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.
Releasing her wrist, her captor picked up the handkerchief and held it in front of her, a question in his eyes.
She pressed her lips together.
Relaxing his shoulders, he tossed the handkerchief aside, then reached for her hand again.
She shook her head, pressing it against her back.
Please, she mouthed, tears spilling down her cheeks.
But he wasn’t looking at her. Instead he found her wrist and secured it to her other with the pillow slip, then clamped her ankles together and tied them with one of the stockings.
With a penetrating gaze, he touched his finger to his neckerchief in the vicinity of his lips. Be silent.
Swallowing, she nodded. He squatted down next to the skinny man, slapping him awake. She shifted her attention to the fire maker and gasped. He’d not used wood to stoke the fire, but hats. The hats women all over the county had labored over and submitted for tomorrow’s Maifest contest. The hats which were to raise money for the Audubon Society. The hats which were to help preserve the lives of countless birds.
Someone let out a long keen.
Scowling, the large man looked over his shoulder and touched a finger to his mouth again.
Then she realized, it had been she who’d moaned. With renewed determination, she struggled against the bindings. Yet the more she struggled, the tighter they became.
Leaning over, she picked at the knots with her teeth. But they were too secure.
Finally, sinking to the edge of the mattress, she watched through silent, blurry tears as the men tore open box after box and tossed the beloved hats into the fire. She had always loved the smell of burning logs. Straw, fabric, and