BODACIOUS Page 4

  No, it was no test. It was stupidity. Rank stupidity.

  Okay he was stupid. What was her excuse? Why hadn’t she taken advantage of the opportunity?

  If he put the gun there as a test, it probably wasn’t even loaded.

  Or maybe he thought if he should be overcome by the coyotes, she would use it to rescue him. Mountain women probably knew how to shoot guns. She, on the other hand, knew nothing about weapons, couldn’t have shot it if she’d wanted to. But if he thought she could save him...

  The pitchfork! He had tossed the hay into this stall with a pitchfork. She scrambled to her feet and groped around the stall, then out into the main part of the shed. She stumbled, caught herself and continued feeling her way along the wall to the doors. Nothing.

  He had come back after he removed the motorcycle. Had he taken the pitchfork out with him? She hadn’t paid attention. Maybe he was smarter than he looked. She smiled to herself. What was the old gag? He could be a whole lot smarter than he looked and still not be very smart.

  Okay, the chance at the gun and the pitchfork were gone, but there would be other opportunities. She needed to be alert for the next one. Just because he didn’t speak, she must not assume Bo was more or less intelligent that Cappy. Maybe he could be manipulated more easily than the little half wit.

  Or maybe not.

  This was all just so much mental chewing gum.

  “Lie down.” She spoke the words out loud into the darkness. “Rest. You’ve got a long walk back tomorrow.”

  She wrapped the full skirt of her dress around the lower part of her body, mounded hay over her and burrowed into her nest.

  Chapter Three

  Friday, Day 1: Sara opened her eyes in the windowless shed. Thin shafts of light filtered between seams of vertical logs. She thought timbers were supposed to be laid horizontally in log buildings. Sitting, she was aware of the pleasant smells of hay and animals and leather. She sneezed.

  Stiff and sore from yesterday’s adventure, she moved gingerly, testing soft, pampered muscles. She examined both wrists, scalded raw from the rope--the right worse than the left. They both stung.

  She needed to use the facilities but there were no facilities, except for the outhouse. How strange to be here in this place left a century behind the rest of the country.

  She struggled to her feet, stretching to get the kinks out, peering around, able to see outlines of things in the filtering streams of sunlight. Her bladder prodding her, Sara stepped out of the stall, moved across the shed, backed up against a wall and hesitated, listening.

  Hearing only the sounds of nature, Sara flipped up her dress, dropped her panties and squatted. She relieved herself consoled by the thought that farm animals probably had done the same thing in the same place many times.

  Her most urgent problem solved, Sara straightened her clothing as she paced the shed’s perimeters. There had to be a way out. If there were, she would find it.

  She found a pole among scraps of wood in a corner. She used it to dig at the base of each upright, except those barricaded by a stack of crates and pasteboard boxes and the ones inside what appeared to be a tack room. She’d have to investigate those walls later, if it came to that.

  She broke her pole off twice trying to pry it between logs. She dug and kicked and pushed against every accessible log before she plopped back down in the hay, winded.

  Someone rapped twice, hesitated, then lifted the brace outside from its hasps and opened the doors.

  Sara jumped to her feet as sunlight flooded the dreary interior of the shed. The rush of warm outside air had a pungent, earthy smell. The temperature outside obviously was much higher than that inside the windowless shed. The bright sunlight blinded her momentarily and she retreated a step or two.

  Bo walked directly to the locked tack room, spun the tumblers on the lock, opened the room, went inside and returned with a leather harness and a log, which he stood on end blocking access to the door. He then sat, balancing on the log, the harness in his hand.

  She had seen how quickly he could move and rejected the idea of making a run for it. She needed his help to find her way back to civilization anyway.

  Of course, in the daylight, Cappy’s references to bears and pumas and wild pigs seemed exaggerated. This Bo would just have to return her to her real life.

  Watching him jab a new hole and thread a wire through the leather strap, Sara knew he wasn’t there in the shed to mend that harness. He must have wanted to see her again. Yes, she was pretty sure of that, despite his refusing to look at her.

  Determined to take stock of her situation as quickly as possible, Sara decided she first needed to find out if she could communicate with him.

  “Bo?” She hesitated. “That is your name, right?” He gave no indication he heard. “My name is Sara. Sara Loomis.” Still no response. “Bo, can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  “Do you hear or do you read lips?”

  Raising his face, Bo fastened his dark, dark eyes on her and gave a brief nod.

  “You do hear, then?”

  Another nod.

  “I don’t believe you’re mute. Bo, I heard you laugh out loud when the coyotes ran away. I figure that means you can talk.”

  He didn’t deny it. Didn’t respond at all.

  Sara rubbed the palms of her hands together. “I see.”

  He continued patching the harness.

  “Five men took me hostage in a robbery yesterday.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully. “They planned to kill me. One of them, a young guy they called Cappy, was supposed to do it. He brought me here instead. Tied me to the side of your cabin.” Bo suddenly glanced up and gave her a hard, puzzled look. She didn’t think it a good idea to tell him Cappy had promised Bo would murder her quickly and mercifully.

  “Will you take me back? To a highway? Or a county road? If you’ll take me to a road somewhere, I can get home on my own. Will you do that?”

  Bo studied her a moment before he shook his head once, no, then turned his attention back to the harness.

  “Why not?” She tried not to show her annoyance. “I’ll pay you. I can pay you well.” Still no response. “Please.”

  He wouldn’t look at her, acted as if he hadn’t heard.

  Sara’s shoulders slumped. Okay, she wouldn’t press it right now. They could come back to that later. Keeping her voice even, she said, “I haven’t had much to eat or drink since the day before yesterday. I’m pretty hungry, but mainly I’m thirsty. Could you give me a drink of water? Please.”

  His dark eyes rounded as he raised them to hers. Well, at least she had his attention.

  “I cook a little. Not much from scratch, but I’ll try. I don’t suppose you have any TV dinners or chips or...” She paused and risked a glance into his ebony eyes. He stood. Unable to read his thoughts, she stiffened and retreated a step.

  Bo hung the harness on a nail in the tack room, closed the door and reattached the combination lock before he stepped toward her. She didn’t want him to sense her fear, but when he reached for her arm, she shrank. Her apprehension seemed to please him, although it was hard to read his face through the beard and all the hair spilling over his forehead.

  She eased forward, slowly, voluntarily, hoping he wouldn’t touch her. Bo grunted his approval and tossed his head indicating she should follow him.

  He shuffled out the shed’s door and to his right. Sara followed several paces behind, limping. Her left shoe still had its one-inch heel, the right one didn’t. Bo stopped, looked at her pointedly then at the outhouse and back at her.

  She allowed an embarrassed smile. “I’ve been, thank you.”

  He nodded and continued on to a lean-to attached to the shed. Chickens strutted about the small fenced yard, pecking at bits of feed scattered over the dirt. Their movements seemed terribly erratic. Sara had never before been that close to live chickens. Apparently the lean-to was a chicken house.

  Bo opened the crude gate
and indicated she should accompany him into the chicken yard. He latched the gate behind them.

  She watched spellbound as Bo caught one of the hens and carefully, making sure Sara could see, positioned its head in his large hand. She edged back several paces. The chicken squawked and flapped as the man’s grip tightened. Bo flipped the fowl’s body up and down sharply, then gave it a spin, still clasping the head firmly.

  Sara heard neck bones popping above the bird’s deafening squawk. The chicken’s body suddenly broke free, its head still firmly clasped in Bo’s hand. The headless body convulsed around the yard, flapping, throwing dust each time it landed and went airborne again. Sara stood in stunned disbelief, shaking her head, trembling.

  The other feathered occupants continued pecking at the feed, little disturbed at the disruption caused by the plight of their yard mate.

  Sara squeezed her hands together trying to control the trembling, lifted them to her throat, sucked both lips and felt herself quake.

  The hen’s body hit the ground again and again, flapping and spinning in the dust.

  Finally, when it stopped, Bo picked it up and threaded its feet through the chicken wire fence. Dangling upside down, the bird’s blood ran down and soaked the ground beneath it as the man seized another victim.

  Sara was unable to turn away, hypnotized again by the captive bird’s terror.

  Instead of flipping the hen, as he had done before, Bo secured the chicken’s head then attempted to hand it to Sara.

  She looked squarely into his face, unable to fathom what he intended, yet afraid she knew. Her hands remained limp at her sides. Her breathing became ragged.

  Bo grunted the guttural sound, and shook the hen in front of her. Denying to herself that she could touch the chicken, Sara reached to take it.

  The exchange was made and she had the bird’s head clamped firmly in the palm of her hand. Tears filled her eyes. She gulped, gasping for air. She felt moisture and looked down. Her thumb was over one of the hen’s open eyes. She trembled and raised her other hand to grip the bird’s head with both hands.

  The hen’s body was heavy, dangling as it did. Suddenly the chicken began struggling. Flailing talons spurred Sara’s arms, raking the raw, open places on her wrists.

  Her human scream was as urgent as the hen’s shriek as Sara released the chicken and scrambled to the gate without a plan or a thought. She fumbled with the simple latch, not able to unfasten it. Hopelessly, she crumpled into the dirt sobbing, looping her fingers through and pressing her forehead against the chicken wire.

  She heard a commotion as Bo again found and captured the second chicken, wrung its neck and waited for the flapping to subside. She peeked to see him gut both birds with his knife.

  Carrying the feet of both hens in one hand, Bo reached around Sara to unfasten the latch on the gate, then waited for her to stand and follow him from the chicken yard before again securing the latch. Limping along behind, swiping at the tears still trickling down her face, she followed him to the cabin and inside.

  Bo took the dripping hens to a pot already boiling on the cook stove, dropped them into the water and motioned Sara to sit in one of the two rocking chairs on either side of the hearth. Both chairs were of woven wicker stretched over aged wooden braces. One of the chairs had pads of a faded floral fabric over foam rubber. Sara chose the padded chair.

  Inside the cabin, Bo seemed immense, ducking his head as he shuffled. His movements were slow, methodical, as she might have expected from such a grizzled old fellow.

  Light came from a kind of awning window on one wall. Coals from an earlier fire glowed in the fireplace and drew Sara’s gaze. A ghastly odor filled the room as the chickens began to cook.

  Sara sat, rocking, the silence marred only by the simmering water on the stove regaining its boil. Her breathing was steady except for an occasional hiccupped sob. Eventually she settled into the rocker’s cushioned padding.

  She couldn’t remember ever having thought a chair as comfortable as this one. In fact, she seldom paid attention to chairs at all. Perhaps the comfort of the chair was related to the fact she was again exhausted and it was still early in the day. The awful smell permeated the room.

  Bo stood over a hutch beside the cook stove. He appeared to be preparing food.

  Ravenous, Sara realized her host hadn’t washed his hands. “The first rule of cooking,” her mother had repeated hundreds of times during Sara’s formative years: “Wash your hands.”

  But when Bo handed her a thick slice of bread slathered with butter and sprinkled with sugar, Sara’s reservations regarding hygiene lapsed.

  He also handed her a cup of cold milk and another of coffee with milk and sugar, a little sweeter than she liked, but she needed the boost the extra sugar would provide. She drained both cups, feeling the liquids meander through her chest and down, down. Her stomach growled its appreciation.

  The awful odor seemed to have diminished.

  Bo sat in the other rocker and propped his feet on the small footstool fronting it. He drank his coffee black and took only butter, no sugar, on his bread.

  Just as Sara had begun to relax, Bo finished eating, wiped his hands on his pant legs, stood, drew his knife and stepped in front of her. She watched in horror as he bent and picked up her left foot. With a single thrust, he whacked the heel off her one good shoe, leaving both of her expensive Cappezios heel-less. It meant no more limping. She didn’t, however, feel thanks were in order as he tossed the amputated heel into the fireplace.

  Bo pulled the chickens’ odorous, dripping, feathered bodies from the kettle and tossed them onto the crude table. Sara gasped at the putrid smell of the steaming corpses. Bo slid into the lone straight-backed chair and patiently began plucking handfuls of feathers, tossing them onto the floor. That’s when Sara realized there was no flooring in the cabin, only dirt beneath their feet. She supposed having no floor simplified housekeeping.

  She glanced around, reviewing the rest of the one-room structure.

  A large wooden box of a bed, neatly made up with layers of hand-sewn quilts, filled one portion of the room. Those quilts would be high-dollar items in any craft show and Sara wondered how Bo had gotten them. Perhaps he’d made them himself.

  The cabin walls seemed oddly cut and Sara realized the upper halves of the walls doubled as a primitive kind of awning windows which could be pushed out and propped up in warm weather to allow a breeze. Despite the morning chill, the windows on one side were open allowing sunlight to brighten and warm the cabin.

  Sara had no natural sense of direction, but bright, morning sunlight angling inside obviously came from the east. Now all she needed to know was the direction to the nearest road.

  “I’ll bet you can open those awnings and get a good breeze from the south and east in warm weather, right?”

  Bo frowned and allowed one brusque nod, yes.

  The southwest quadrant of the cabin boasted an old school teacher’s oak desk and a large, heavy chair. Situated beneath the closed window on the west wall was an aged steamer trunk.

  The west wall also had a shelf of books. Surprised that Bo could read, Sara couldn’t help being curious about the kinds of books in his library. Maybe she could browse later.

  The fireplace occupied most of the north wall and the kitchen--actually the stove and hutch/cupboard and the crude table with a single chair--took the final quadrant, the northeast.

  Feeling better after they ate, Sara watched Bo pluck the first chicken. Having gotten somewhat accustomed to the hideous smell, she was tempted to help. After all, she needed to get into the man’s good graces.

  She scooted her rocking chair closer to the table and cautiously touched the damp feathers of the second hen. The bodies now seemed to be less those of living creatures, more something which belonged in the meat market. She supposed she could help with this part.

  Tentatively, she grabbed a handful of feathers and tugged. They held.

  “Damn,” she whispered, sitt
ing straighter. She was still considerably lower than the surface of the table. Bo glanced up but his eyes didn’t meet hers.

  She selected three feathers and pulled. They didn’t budge. Exasperated, Sara stood, wrapped her hand around one feather, gritted her teeth, and yanked. The lone quill popped free, knocking her off balance. She examined the feather’s end thoughtfully, pursed her mouth and set her mind to the task. Irksome, yanking one feather at a time to prepare chicken which she most certainly would not be able to eat. How could anyone eat food she had known personally when it was alive?

  “I never realized how primitive this food chain business is,” she muttered.

  Bo didn’t bother to glance up but his beard moved. Smiling or frowning? She couldn’t tell. She’d like to be able to make him smile. It might help her cause.

  When the feathers were plucked, Bo left the bare chickens on the table, stepped outside, dumped the water from the pot and went to a metal device in the front yard where he pumped a long handle until water ran from the large spout. He rinsed the pot then refilled it with fresh water.

  Watching from the cabin door, Sara searched the sky for jet trails, and listened for any kind of vibration--a car, a train, anything. She neither saw, nor heard, nor felt anything.

  Back inside the cabin, she watched as he cut up the chickens, dropped the pieces into salted water seasoned with some kind of leaves and brought the contents to a boil. He loaded wood in the cook stove, adding more periodically to keep the water bubbling.

  Late in the morning Bo peeled out of an animal skin shirt down to a cotton flannel work shirt cuffed to reveal well developed forearms. He was certainly muscular old duffer. He picked up his gun and shells, swept two quilts off his bed, and indicated Sara should follow.

  Outside, he looked up, studying the sky to the southwest. Incoming clouds rolling fast, low over their heads veiled the sun’s brightness. The air, warm early, had turned muggy.

  Bo led Sara back to the shed and motioned her inside. Reluctantly, she obeyed. He handed her the quilts, slammed the door shut, and she heard the wooden beam slide into its hasps.