might have developed into something else. But they hadn't been given time.
Someone in the camp hadn't thought the friendship innocent, though she'd never known who. And late one afternoon, while Shulamith and the boy were lying lazily in the grass away from the camp and talking—of all things—of her options for university and whether she should take forestry and go into her father's business or whether she should study English and literature and go on to be a poet and songwriter...her father had marched through the grass up to them, and without asking a question or allowing the least word of explanation he called down the shy boy in the most violent, abusive terms imaginable.
The boy blushed. Shulamith blushed, too, and afterwards wept, and later, as the boy was dragged off ignominiously to his tent to pack up his things and then out of the camp with her father in the helicopter that had brought him, she became remote and withdrawn, pretending she didn't notice the looks the men gave her. The boy never worked for St. John Forest Products again, and Shulamith had never seen him again. Now she couldn't remember his name.
Smith abruptly became aware that she had been talking too openly, telling the man who was, after all, her abductor, far too much about her father and herself. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Now that we've finished eating," she said, "could we get down to business?" She was uneasily aware that his questions had made her forget more important things.
"Such as?" he caught her eye while he leaned across the table to refill their coffee cups. They were sitting by the window looking out west over the inlet, and her eyes slid away from Johnny Winterhawk's to the scene outside.
"Such as the fact that my father, if he lives, is not going to pay one cent to ransom me," Smith said, in a voice made brittle by her effort to sound matter-of-fact. She returned her gaze to his face. "You're looking at the only person who would pay you money in exchange for my freedom or my life. Me," she finished for emphasis. "No one but me."
His dark brows flattened and moved together over the bridge of his nose. "No one else?" he asked.
"No one else," she reiterated in a light high voice, as though she hadn't a care in the world. "And I'm afraid my personal fortune will not suit your expectations of what this little enterprise might have netted you if you'd taken my father. The fact is, Mr. Winterhawk, I won't be able to drum up even a half million, and most of it will be in St. John Forest Products stock. Which of course given time will appreciate—unless your last night's idea of fun has killed my father."
Her voice was beginning to shake, and Smith stopped speaking and looked at him. But Johnny Winterhawk said nothing.
"Well?" she prompted aggressively.
"Well, what?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee and setting the cup on the table with a little thud.
She breathed deeply, dismayed by how ragged the breath was. Even after sleep and a good meal, she couldn't seem to keep her emotions under control. She closed her eyes for a moment.
"Will you let me go free for that amount of money?" she asked slowly and precisely, fighting her anger at his deliberate refusal to understand.
"Half a million dollars?" he asked. His face might have been carved in stone, for all the expression on it.
"No, not quite—more like four...say four twenty-five," Smith said, unconsciously slipping into the attitude of someone used to bargaining in large figures. She looked at Johnny Winterhawk. It was every penny she could raise and then some. But she had plenty of experience in making deals, and Johnny Winterhawk was no fool. He probably knew what she was worth better than she did. But in any case she was not going to haggle over the price of her life. He would take her offer or leave it.
"Well, will you?" she repeated edgily when he said nothing. Her dark abductor stared at her consideringly.
"No, I won't," Johnny Winterhawk said at
Someone in the camp hadn't thought the friendship innocent, though she'd never known who. And late one afternoon, while Shulamith and the boy were lying lazily in the grass away from the camp and talking—of all things—of her options for university and whether she should take forestry and go into her father's business or whether she should study English and literature and go on to be a poet and songwriter...her father had marched through the grass up to them, and without asking a question or allowing the least word of explanation he called down the shy boy in the most violent, abusive terms imaginable.
The boy blushed. Shulamith blushed, too, and afterwards wept, and later, as the boy was dragged off ignominiously to his tent to pack up his things and then out of the camp with her father in the helicopter that had brought him, she became remote and withdrawn, pretending she didn't notice the looks the men gave her. The boy never worked for St. John Forest Products again, and Shulamith had never seen him again. Now she couldn't remember his name.
Smith abruptly became aware that she had been talking too openly, telling the man who was, after all, her abductor, far too much about her father and herself. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Now that we've finished eating," she said, "could we get down to business?" She was uneasily aware that his questions had made her forget more important things.
"Such as?" he caught her eye while he leaned across the table to refill their coffee cups. They were sitting by the window looking out west over the inlet, and her eyes slid away from Johnny Winterhawk's to the scene outside.
"Such as the fact that my father, if he lives, is not going to pay one cent to ransom me," Smith said, in a voice made brittle by her effort to sound matter-of-fact. She returned her gaze to his face. "You're looking at the only person who would pay you money in exchange for my freedom or my life. Me," she finished for emphasis. "No one but me."
His dark brows flattened and moved together over the bridge of his nose. "No one else?" he asked.
"No one else," she reiterated in a light high voice, as though she hadn't a care in the world. "And I'm afraid my personal fortune will not suit your expectations of what this little enterprise might have netted you if you'd taken my father. The fact is, Mr. Winterhawk, I won't be able to drum up even a half million, and most of it will be in St. John Forest Products stock. Which of course given time will appreciate—unless your last night's idea of fun has killed my father."
Her voice was beginning to shake, and Smith stopped speaking and looked at him. But Johnny Winterhawk said nothing.
"Well?" she prompted aggressively.
"Well, what?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee and setting the cup on the table with a little thud.
She breathed deeply, dismayed by how ragged the breath was. Even after sleep and a good meal, she couldn't seem to keep her emotions under control. She closed her eyes for a moment.
"Will you let me go free for that amount of money?" she asked slowly and precisely, fighting her anger at his deliberate refusal to understand.
"Half a million dollars?" he asked. His face might have been carved in stone, for all the expression on it.
"No, not quite—more like four...say four twenty-five," Smith said, unconsciously slipping into the attitude of someone used to bargaining in large figures. She looked at Johnny Winterhawk. It was every penny she could raise and then some. But she had plenty of experience in making deals, and Johnny Winterhawk was no fool. He probably knew what she was worth better than she did. But in any case she was not going to haggle over the price of her life. He would take her offer or leave it.
"Well, will you?" she repeated edgily when he said nothing. Her dark abductor stared at her consideringly.
"No, I won't," Johnny Winterhawk said at
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