BODACIOUS Read online

  He shrugged, obviously intent on capturing another thought. Finally, he looked up as if the idea eluding him had been snared and startled him. “But, m-m-ma’am, I’m supposed to take my pl-pl-pleasure with you first.”

  She was getting impatient with this rube, but she needed to keep her cool.

  “I imagine you get to take your pleasure with women a lot, don’t you, Cappy, a strapping young guy like yourself?”

  She tried not to wince as he slurped up a thread of spittle dripping from his mouth and swung his head woefully from side to side. His scowl turned into an intense, puzzled look.

  “None of ‘em’ll even sh-sh-show me how. I got me a town gal last spring and carried her up here proper, but she wouldn’t show me. Bitch. I ast her just to please take off her shoes. She wouldn’t. I just wanted the p-p-pleasure of looking at them long, skinny, pink little feet--naked.”

  Sara stared at Cappy’s face. Surely he was kidding? She didn’t think so. Stammering, he rushed to continue.

  “I pr-promised her I wouldn’t touch ‘em or nothin’ but she wouldn’t. Franklin said it’s ‘cause she’s frigid. Franklin says ‘most all women is--frigid.”

  Sara nodded. It was easy to understand that these guys might meet a lot of frigid women.

  “Well, Cappy, the truth is, I don’t get or give much pleasure with men myself. I’m afraid I’m one of those frigid women Franklin told you about.”

  Sara looked at the ground, sobered by what was probably the truth. Twenty-six years old, she didn’t have a very good track record at sex. Each occurrence had been an ordeal.

  The men in her experience were hurried. They took off their pants, grudgingly put on condoms--angry that she insisted--rammed themselves inside her, said it was great, and apologized for having to rush.

  In the aftermath, Sara felt dirty, humiliated and alone. She bathed repeatedly to get rid of the peculiar odors that lingered afterward.

  Cappy interrupted her reverie. “You mean you d-d-do know how to do it?”

  “I guess I don’t know how to do it right Cappy. It’s probably better not to learn a thing from someone who can’t do it right.” She watched his puzzled look deepen. “How would it be if you learned to shoot a gun from someone who hated guns and who didn’t know how to shoot one? What would be the use in that?”

  He brightened. “I’m the champeen squirrel shooter and skinner anywhere around here. If you want me to learn you to shoot and skin squirrel, you can just up and ask me.”

  The stutter was gone, at least temporarily. “I will, Cappy.” She wondered if he realized he’d implied she’d be alive long enough to learn to shoot. “I sure will. Now, what about this Bo?”

  Cappy’s expression darkened. “I’m not for sure whether Bo’s any good at squirrel shootin’ or not.”

  Sara suppressed a groan. “I mean what kind of man is he?”

  “Well,” Cappy’s mouth twitched. “I’m not for sure ‘bout that neither.” She was getting confused. He brightened with a new thought. “All I know for sure is, he’s old. He’s awful old, ‘pears to me.”

  She wanted to pursue the other. “What else could he be, Cappy, if he’s not a man?”

  “They say he might be part man and part something else.”

  Her smile of disbelief nearly escape. He had to be kidding. But his face remained serious as he shook his head and rolled his shoulders pitifully. “A mix ‘tween a man and a bear or a razorback hog or somethin’. He don’t talk words, just barks or h-h-howls at a person.

  “When he catches somethin’, he roars ‘fore he t-t-tears its head off. I hear’d him do it two, three times, then hear’d the shrieking of the thing he ‘as killing.”

  Cappy shook his head as if trying to shake something off the top of it. “T-T-That sound give me chills running p-p-plum up my back. That shriekin’ll give a man nightmares.” He hesitated, staring at her as if he had made a decision. “It’d be better for me to go on and kill ya my own self.”

  Sara felt a vibration in the ground. It rumbled like a truck gearing down to negotiate a curve on a road somewhere nearby. She needed this hillbilly to let her go. She must stay calm, keep her head. She could find her way to a road, if she could just talk him into releasing her. She got an idea.

  “You don’t have a gun, Cappy. How’re you going to kill me?”

  He pulled a knife from a sheath at his side. She waited for his eyes to meet hers. His began to tear, and he drooled badly.

  Sara drew a deep breath and sighed. “Sticking me will be gruesome. I guess it’d probably be quicker, easier for you if you cut my head off. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  His breath caught as he shuddered and turned his back.

  “Of course, cutting my head off is going to make an awful mess.” Sympathy tinged her words as she pressed her argument. “Good thing we’re way out here.” When he looked back at her, she cast him a pitiful glance.

  “I’ll try not to scream, Cappy. I’m afraid the sound of my bodiless head screaming and all that blood will haunt you every time you try to sleep for probably the whole rest of your life. It might even be worse than the nightmares you get from hearing Bo’s victims because these screams will be coming from your own victim instead of his.”

  Cappy blinked back tears and sniffed.

  “You’re a tender-hearted person, Cappy. I can tell. Murdering me by hand’ll be awfully hard on you.”

  He shivered and his expression twisted with misery. “Th-Th-Then what am I s’pose to do with you?”

  “Leave me here in the woods, Cap. Let me die of my own stupidity. Put your guilt and the blame for my passing where it belongs, right here on my shoulders.”

  He shook his head and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I ain’t leaving you here alone for the varmints to eat you. No, ma’am, I ain’t the kind to do something cruel as that. There’s snakes and ticks and chiggers.”

  “The crawling things probably aren’t so bad, now that the weather’s turned.” Was she reassuring him or herself?

  He pondered a long moment, sniffing and snorting, mopping drool with the back of his hand. Finally, he set his mouth in a grim line, rolled the slack in the tether around his hand and began walking, his carriage decisive, again tugging her along behind.

  “Where are we going?” He looked back and pursed his mouth. “Come on, Cappy, how much farther? I’m tired. And thirsty, too. Please, could I have a drink of water?”

  She kept talking knowing he could hear her, but he refused to answer. It was obvious by the set of his jaw and the sorrow on his face that her fate was sealed, in his mind anyway.

  Sara lost all track of time and distance and direction as they trudged through brush and a forest of blackjack, cedar, and pine trees. Night was coming. The north wind, lazy before dusk, suddenly had a pitiless bite to it.

  Just before sundown, they came upon a crude shed. Beyond the shed and an outhouse stood a primitive cabin which looked to be deserted. The buildings were made of logs and topped with corrugated metal roofs.

  Obviously nervous, watching all directions, Cappy hurried to the side of the cabin and yanked the rope down. Sara dropped to her knees exhausted.

  She scarcely noticed as Cappy ran the length of rope from her wrists between two rough-hewn logs of the cabin’s outside wall. She was glad to be off her feet, even briefly.

  Before she realized what he was doing, Cappy was inside the cabin. From the other side of the wall, he jerked the rope and pulled her wrists tightly against the structure. He secured the rope to something inside.

  She watched him closely as he emerged, a shadow in the creeping darkness. He didn’t raise his eyes, but paused a moment in front of her, then plunged into the underbrush, going back the way they had come. She guessed the hesitation was his way of saying good-bye.

  Struggling, she got to her feet, a difficult proposition without the use of her hands.

  With her wrists bound tightly against the wall only about two feet above the ground
, she was not able to rise to her full height. She dropped back to her knees staring at the rope.

  The hemp ripped against the already chaffed and broken skin of her wrists. She bit at the merciless restraint, snagging it with her teeth, snarling at the pain, spitting the bristling strands, determined to free herself.

  The last vestiges of sunlight disappeared and with it, her anger cooled. She could taste blood trickling from her rope-ravaged lips. A relentless wind and unforgiving cold arrived with the darkness. She braced herself, but there was no escape from the icy-fingered gusts which rendered her short-sleeved denim dress all but useless.

  As if to compensate for the cold, the moon rose; a bright, illuminating harvest moon.

  In her distress, Sara continued gnawing at the hemp halfheartedly, occasionally taking a break to rake the rope back and forth against the logs.

  Something rustled leaves at the edge of the clearing and she froze, paralyzed with a mix of hope and fear.

  The wind sent leaves scurrying. Sara thought she heard twigs and leaves crunching beneath footsteps. She couldn’t tell how far away the sound was but it seemed to be moving closer.

  Straining eyes and ears, she stared into the night but couldn’t see anything.

  The rustling grew louder.

  Suddenly a hulking shadow emerged from the trees and assumed the form of a man or a large, two-legged animal. She heard its breathing as it lumbered closer and closer.

  Chapter Two

  Sara shrank into the cabin’s shadow, ducked her head, hid her eyes, and tried to be absolutely still.

  The shuffling feet hesitated in front, just around the cabin corner from her. She heard him snuffling at the air. Could he smell her? She held her breath.

  He slammed the cabin door wide. It sounded as if he paused again, listening. Finally she heard him go inside.

  Panic swelled. Cold, tired, frightened, Sara pressed herself against the cabin wall. Moments passed. She heard no sound, no movement inside. She twisted her wrists, squeezed her hands to make them as narrow as possible and pulled. The rope bit deeper into her seared flesh. Then the restraint moved ever so slightly and she heard the snuffling again, directly on the other side of the cabin wall. There was a muffled growl and an intake of breath. The rope slid back and forth between the logs, raking her wrists along the unfinished bark. She shuddered, biting her lips, trying not to cry out.

  Then the binding was still.

  The creature shuffled toward the door. He was coming.

  Desperately Sara clamored to her feet, bent, yanking, twisting and turning, trying to pull the rope through the slit. It held fast. Giving up, she dropped to the ground, curled over her knees, ducked her head and waited.

  She whispered, “Oh, God, don’t let this be happening.”

  The door slammed. She heard him approaching, shuffling around the corner. He stopped immediately in front of her, the toes of his boots inches from her face.

  Boots?

  Her mind reeled, chasing an elusive thought. She felt him peering down at her. She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting any moment to be mauled, shredded.

  Terrified by a low growl, she pressed her forehead into the dirt, cowering as close to the earth as possible.

  A series of guttural noises echoed back from the woods, startling her. Her eyes popped open. She turned her head sideways trying to get a glimpse of the form looming over her.

  Standing on two legs, it’s glistening eyes leered down at her.

  Sara did not faint easily. It was an attribute for which she was usually grateful. Facing the brute in front of her, however, she wished for the sweet solace of a swoon.

  Think, damn it, think. Cringing, she peered out and something she saw calmed her. Leather trousers rose from the worn boots on his feet.

  Boots and trousers?

  Reason took hold. No wild creature wore boots and trousers. This being was not an animal, at least he was not the mad mutant Cappy had suggested.

  Sara looked higher, over a burly fur coat to a face. The upper face was camouflaged by the mass of hair which spilled over his forehead, framed his eyes and cascaded to his shoulders. The lower part of his face was effectively concealed by a bushy, unkempt mustache and beard.

  Neither Sara nor the other moved as they regarded each other in heavy silence.

  She heard movement and strained, lifting her head a little to see, then shuddered as he drew a knife, and ducked again.

  One step put him almost on top of her.

  The scream she had suppressed earlier, emerged as a croaking sob.

  He raised the knife. She planted her forehead in the moist dirt. She heard a swish and a loud THWACK!

  Still bound together, her wrists were suddenly free of the tether attached to the cabin.

  Astonished, Sara attempted to leap to her feet, thinking to run, escape into the darkness. Instead, she wobbled. Her legs were asleep from being folded so long beneath her on the cold ground. She staggered. Before she could either steady herself or fall, the creature looped one massive arm around her middle and lifted.

  Her long-muted screams erupted, rending the stillness of the night. She shrieked herself breathless again and again, but the noise had no effect.

  Her nearly one hundred-thirty pounds seemed of no consequence to the brute as he shifted her from one side to the other, grabbing things with whichever of his hands was free as he plodded toward the shed.

  He gathered tools, a length of rusted chain and, finally, what looked like a cow’s nose ring from a work bench beside the shed. He carried the collection and Sara to an anvil beneath a tree beyond the shed. He and his collection were clearly illuminated in the moonlight. Spellbound, she calmed as he stood her on her feet. His movements were decisive; he, coordinated.

  He dropped the chain and shackle which clattered to the ground beside the anvil. She was standing but her knees quivered as the knife suddenly reappeared, glinting. She was aware of the man’s huge hands which emerged from the long sleeves of his animal skin coat. The hands were thick with big, square fingers.

  She kept reminding herself to think. Cappy was wrong. This guy was not part bear or razorback. He was a man, perhaps one of the mountain men remembered in Ozark ballads or myths. Sorting through her memory, she tried to recall Paul Bunyan fables which might serve her now.

  Her thoughts darted frantically but slowed as she became curious. She stared at the hair-enshrouded face. She could make out a hawkish nose and a broad thin line of lips, barely discernible beneath the bearded growth. Her survey stopped at his dark, angry eyes glowering into her face.

  Black, they were clear, attentive eyes, not Cappy’s dull ogle or even the shining leer of a mad man. The eyes were alert but so dark they seemed like two chunks of coal sunken into sockets bordered by the mass of hair.

  No, Cappy didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Still, he had told her this guy was large. That part was true enough. And old. Cappy obviously was right about that, too. Stooped, the man walked slowly, as if deferring to the stiffness of age. Still, he was several inches taller than Sara, who was five-foot-eight.

  Avoiding his glare, Sara continued to study her captor.

  His knee-length coat looked like some kind of animal pelt; effective, she supposed, against the Halloween chill. His leather trousers were like leggings and the size of his calves indicated he probably did a lot of walking. Worn, low heeled army boots encased large feet.

  He might be ancient and uncivilized, but he was a man. That realization soothed her and she drew a deep, ragged breath. She could deal with a human, one-on-one. She could cultivate him, influence him, eventually perhaps manipulate him.

  A good news reporter grooms her sources and she was a damned good reporter. A dud at sex, Sara otherwise had excellent people skills. She would lull him, woo him, win him.

  She risked another peek at his face which provided no clue as to how to get through to him...yet.

  Strategy. Sara drew another breath. She ne
eded to use her head. Think. Caught up in her observations, she’d lost track of his movements.

  What was he doing, still looming over her, looking every bit a predator?

  First requirement: she must remain calm.

  He grabbed the back of her neck and shoved her to her knees. He was terribly strong. His heavy hand kept pushing her down, forcing her to grovel on the bare ground beside the anvil. She wasn’t struggling--she bit her lips, swallowing her objections--why was he being so rough?

  She yielded, gulping to keep herself from crying out, staying where he positioned her. He grabbed the rope still binding her ravaged wrists, lifted, and stretched her hands over the anvil. Terror consumed her when she saw the hand axe he wielded as easily as most wield an eating utensil over a plate of food. She watched in horror and disbelief as he raised the instrument. She screamed as it began its descent.

  “No!”

  He brought the axe down with a resounding clang and Sara whimpered, expecting excruciating pain to follow the amputation. There was no pain. No amputation.

  She raised her eyes slowly to look as she wriggled her fingers, intact. Nothing had been removed, rather the nose ring had become a metal shackle around one of her bleeding wrists. He’d used the flat side of the axe as a hammer.

  She felt light headed but didn’t flinch when he ran the rusted chain through the ring at her wrist. She needed to focus on something, to keep her mind clear. Later she could react. Now she must concentrate.

  All that rust must have weakened at least one link.

  The man gave the arrangement a yank to inspect its integrity, rapped twice more with the blunt side of the axe and tested again before he was satisfied. He tossed the axe on the ground.

  Without allowing her to gain her feet, he grasped Sara’s upper arm in one huge hand and pulled her to a nearby tree. A heel broke off one of her shoes as she shambled along on the sides of her feet trying to keep up.

  From a pocket, he produced a screw driver and pried open the link at the far end of the chain. He looped the link through a rung in the tree, apparently one where animals were sometimes tethered. His massive hand strained only slightly as he used pliers to pinch the link closed.