cellar’s single chair and sat. Immediately, a torrent of questions bombarded her.
Has it really been only three days? Only three dark, miserable days shut off from the outside world without news of my family, or how Danny’s doing? Is he all right? Has he recovered from his most recent bout of asthma? And when will I ever see him again?
She leaned down, rested her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Escape. I have to escape , she thought, choking back a swell of panic. Papa hasn’t come, and all the Wainwright hands will soon be back from the cattle drive. Once they’re here, it’ll be impossible for Papa to rescue me .
It’s got to be today , she decided, her resolve growing with each passing second. After three days of my meek behavior, surely they’re all lulled into thinking I’ve given up any thought of getting away. Easier said than done, though. For starters, how am I to take my next visitor by surprise?
Her glance strayed to the jars and crocks stacked so neatly now on their shelves. Nearby, several cider barrels stood, their plump, rounded shapes almost begging her to turn them on their sides and send them rolling. They’d be heavy and hard to move, but she was also far stronger than her size might imply. A smile curved Sarah’s lips, then died.
Guilt lanced through her at the thought of repaying Emma’s generous care with such a violent act. But what choice had she? Her family had to come first. Maybe later, once she was safely home, she could get a note to the kindly housekeeper, apologizing and thanking her for all she’d done.
As if her newfound plans had been the catalyst, the upstairs door creaked open. Footsteps sounded on the cellar stairs. Sarah ran to the cider barrel and, throwing all her weight against it, managed to tip it onto its side. Then she scrambled to the shelf holding a basket of the last of the summer tomatoes, reaching it just as a hand drew back the door bolt.
Grabbing two tomatoes in each fist, Sarah whirled around. The door swung open. For an instant, the sudden glare of the lantern blinded her. All she saw was a shadowy form.
Emma, forgive me , she thought, launching the first tomato, then the next.
Out of the corner of his eye as he turned to hang the lantern on a hook by the door, Cord saw something move through the air. Instinctively, he jumped aside. The first object missed him, but the rest followed in such quick succession he was unable to avoid them. Mushy, overripe tomatoes smashed into him, one hitting the side of his face, the other two splattering onto his white cotton shirt.
As he wiped the sticky juice off his face, Cord angrily scanned the room. Sarah. The little minx. Where is she?
A movement in the far corner caught his eye. He heard a rumble, then saw a large object rolling toward him. Cord stared hard at it as it lumbered forward, finally realizing it was something large, round, and wooden. With a curse, he nimbly eluded the cider barrel just before it hit him.
“Blast it, Sarah!” he roared. “Stop this childish nonsense. It’ll do you no good—”
Two more tomatoes sailed past his head. “Sarah,” Cord rasped warningly. A tomato exploded on his left thigh.
From the darkness came a giggle. No similar sense of amusement filled Cord.
“That does it!” He lunged across the room at the small figure he could now make out hiding in the shadows. He’d had about all he could take of this silliness, and she was going to pay!
With a squeak of alarm, Sarah attempted to evade his outstretched arms. A hand clutched at her as she passed, slipped, then grasped at her again. This time it caught in her hair. She was painfully wrenched to a halt, then slowly, inexorably pulled back to him.
“Come here.”
The words, spoken with deadly calm, sent a premonitory shiver down her spine. She’d never heard him use that tone of voice before. Her mouth went dry. Reluctantly, Sarah backed toward him.
His grip on her hair never
Has it really been only three days? Only three dark, miserable days shut off from the outside world without news of my family, or how Danny’s doing? Is he all right? Has he recovered from his most recent bout of asthma? And when will I ever see him again?
She leaned down, rested her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Escape. I have to escape , she thought, choking back a swell of panic. Papa hasn’t come, and all the Wainwright hands will soon be back from the cattle drive. Once they’re here, it’ll be impossible for Papa to rescue me .
It’s got to be today , she decided, her resolve growing with each passing second. After three days of my meek behavior, surely they’re all lulled into thinking I’ve given up any thought of getting away. Easier said than done, though. For starters, how am I to take my next visitor by surprise?
Her glance strayed to the jars and crocks stacked so neatly now on their shelves. Nearby, several cider barrels stood, their plump, rounded shapes almost begging her to turn them on their sides and send them rolling. They’d be heavy and hard to move, but she was also far stronger than her size might imply. A smile curved Sarah’s lips, then died.
Guilt lanced through her at the thought of repaying Emma’s generous care with such a violent act. But what choice had she? Her family had to come first. Maybe later, once she was safely home, she could get a note to the kindly housekeeper, apologizing and thanking her for all she’d done.
As if her newfound plans had been the catalyst, the upstairs door creaked open. Footsteps sounded on the cellar stairs. Sarah ran to the cider barrel and, throwing all her weight against it, managed to tip it onto its side. Then she scrambled to the shelf holding a basket of the last of the summer tomatoes, reaching it just as a hand drew back the door bolt.
Grabbing two tomatoes in each fist, Sarah whirled around. The door swung open. For an instant, the sudden glare of the lantern blinded her. All she saw was a shadowy form.
Emma, forgive me , she thought, launching the first tomato, then the next.
Out of the corner of his eye as he turned to hang the lantern on a hook by the door, Cord saw something move through the air. Instinctively, he jumped aside. The first object missed him, but the rest followed in such quick succession he was unable to avoid them. Mushy, overripe tomatoes smashed into him, one hitting the side of his face, the other two splattering onto his white cotton shirt.
As he wiped the sticky juice off his face, Cord angrily scanned the room. Sarah. The little minx. Where is she?
A movement in the far corner caught his eye. He heard a rumble, then saw a large object rolling toward him. Cord stared hard at it as it lumbered forward, finally realizing it was something large, round, and wooden. With a curse, he nimbly eluded the cider barrel just before it hit him.
“Blast it, Sarah!” he roared. “Stop this childish nonsense. It’ll do you no good—”
Two more tomatoes sailed past his head. “Sarah,” Cord rasped warningly. A tomato exploded on his left thigh.
From the darkness came a giggle. No similar sense of amusement filled Cord.
“That does it!” He lunged across the room at the small figure he could now make out hiding in the shadows. He’d had about all he could take of this silliness, and she was going to pay!
With a squeak of alarm, Sarah attempted to evade his outstretched arms. A hand clutched at her as she passed, slipped, then grasped at her again. This time it caught in her hair. She was painfully wrenched to a halt, then slowly, inexorably pulled back to him.
“Come here.”
The words, spoken with deadly calm, sent a premonitory shiver down her spine. She’d never heard him use that tone of voice before. Her mouth went dry. Reluctantly, Sarah backed toward him.
His grip on her hair never
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