The Green Lace Corset, стр. 23
An owl hooted in the distance, and then another answered. A chill prickled Sally Sue’s spine. She had never been anywhere so desolate in her whole life. How would she ever be able to get away?
Cliff climbed down off the wagon. As he swung open the barn doors, the rusty hinges squealed and he led the horses inside. They neighed and stomped the dusty ground. Still sitting on the wagon, blind in the cavernous space, Sally Sue felt squeaking sounds vibrate and shadows swoop down toward her.
She screeched, bent over, and threw her hands above her head.
“It’s just bats.” Cliff laughed. “They won’t hurt you.”
Her heart slowed, and she strained to see the bats escape from the barn and fly toward the moonlight. She’d read Bram Stoker’s terrifying book and thought of the count, wild horses’ hooves, and bloody fangs. She touched her neck.
Cliff reached for one of her mittened hands. Too tired to refuse, she let him help her to the ground. Legs wobbly, she fell off-balance.
He caught her elbows. “You okay, little lady?”
She stood up straight. “Certainly.”
He lit the lantern he found on a nail near the door and handed it to her. The barn was filled with gloomy silhouettes: tools, an anvil, a plow.
“Darrel said there should still be hay somewhere.” Cliff removed the halters, climbed the ladder up to the loft, and tossed down fodder for the horses. Then he took the lantern from her and they trudged outside, into the deep chill. Piles of snow on the ground reflected the lantern light.
“You’ll be wanting to use the privy. There’s gotta be one.”
They walked behind the cabin, and Cliff peered into an armoire-size building, brushed back a spongy cobweb, and held the door open for her. “All’s clear.”
He put the lantern on the hook inside and stepped back. She hoped there weren’t any spiders inside. She didn’t like them at all. Their outhouse at home was painted a cheerful yellow. This one wasn’t painted at all. It sure stank to high heaven. At home, Ma had insisted upon using powdered lime to help with that.
Cliff waited beside a large tree while she finished her business. She handed him the lantern, and they walked around to the cabin’s door. He held the lantern aloft while he pushed the door open and they stepped inside. The tang of earth and stone filled the air. Dust motes caught in the lamplight and drifted down to reveal a hooked rug splayed across the dirt floor; busted-out windows; a crystal chandelier, with dried, dripping candle wax, hung over a roughhewn table; and chairs pulled back, one even thrown to the ground, as if someone had left in a hurry. How odd to have a crystal chandelier all the way out here. More luxurious than any she’d seen in Kansas City—must be worth a fortune.
Cliff put his saddlebag on the table. She wandered over to the potbellied stove, where a cast-iron skillet had hardened and reeked of mold.
“Uncivilized,” Cliff said, carrying the skillet outside.
That’s a peculiar thing for a kidnapper to say. She sat in a rocker. Cliff returned with firewood from the porch. He handed her a hunk of cheese and crackers from his pocket and ate some himself.
“What do you think happened to the folks who lived here?”
“Don’t know.” He just looked at her and kept his jaw clamped shut. “There’s more food in the wagon. Want me to get you something else?”
“That’s fine. I’m not hungry.”
“Okay. We’ll unload the supplies tomorrow.” Cliff turned his back to set the fire in the stone hearth, and she gobbled down the food ravenously.
He lit the fire, sat across from her, and lit his pipe. Soon the cabin began to warm and the scents of pine and pipe tobacco filled the air.
Sally Sue yawned.
“You must be bone tired.” He tilted his head toward the brass bed.
The white eyelet quilt looked as inviting as a cloud. She glanced at Cliff. Did he plan on sharing the bed with her?
Mama had always told her never to be alone with a man, because they wanted only one thing. Sally Sue felt herself blush, even though she didn’t understand what her mama had meant. She peeked at Cliff. Would he try to do that one thing to her? Her mama had told her that after she was married, she’d have to do it—whatever “it” was—as a wifely duty.
Cliff walked toward the bed. At the foot of it, he leaned down, opened the trunk, and pulled out another blanket.
Her body, which had been weary for sleep, now quaked with anxiety. “I’ll just sleep here, in the rocker.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. I’ll bunk down in the barn.”
“But it’s freezing out there.”
“No matter. The horses will keep me warm.”
Would he really sleep with the horses?
“Sleep tight.” He slung his saddlebag over an arm, grasped the lantern, trod out the door, and closed it behind him.
Sleep tight? That’s what he thought. She planned to stay awake, give him plenty of time to fall asleep, and then scurry away. Alone for the first time in days, she fell onto the bed and crawled under the covers, boots and all—only to warm up, she told herself. On the mantel, a woven bowl, a clay pot, and a carved, hand-painted Indian doll cast eerie shadows on the firelit wall. Her eyelids fluttered closed, but they popped open and her heart picked up when she heard him coming back up the steps.
The door flung open, and he said, “You’ll be wanting this.” He yawned, set her basket on the table, and left again.
For heaven’s sake. She should escape tonight, but she knew by the time he was asleep, and with the cold and her weary body, she’d never get far. And where would she go, anyhow? She had no idea where