BODACIOUS Page 5

  Discouraged but at least fed, Sara stretched one quilt over part of the hay in her stall and left the other folded on top of the first. Then she paced, occasionally kicking at the base of a log in the wall which looked weakened by weather or water damage.

  She had to escape. Once out, she had to avoid the men who wanted to kill her. She might be able to manage Cappy by himself, but Franklin and the others were dangerous. And what about Bo? Was he friend or foe?

  She thought idly about Richard Nixon and his enemies list. Until yesterday, Sara had had no enemies. Now she had a full card. The big question was, who was Enemy Number One?

  Bo? Yes. Maybe. Then, probably Franklin, closely followed by the other robbers she could identify.

  Then there were the four-legged enemies, the hungry ones prowling the woods looking for meat. She needed a weapon, dared not break out of this shed without one.

  She went to the locked tack room and peered through the seams in the board walls. There was a saddle on some kind of saw horse and the leather straps, harnesses, she supposed. There was the pitchfork, a shovel, a hoe, and a sickle. Pretty primitive stuff.

  Scanning around inside the shed itself, she found the pole she’d used the night before.

  Poking and prodding, she was not able to pry her way into the tack room. The pole kept breaking off in bits and pieces.

  She tossed the remains aside, paced back to her stall and dropped onto the quilt pondering.

  Did Bo mean to harm her? Was he part of a kidnap plot? She didn’t think so. Didn’t think there was a plot. Not much of a plan at all. Her kidnapping was happenstance. Franklin was a horny little gnome looking for a throw-away woman. Well, he’d picked the wrong girl this time.

  She hated sitting in the gloom, needed something to do. She stood and paced again, prowling the walls until she came upon what might have once been a mop handle. She picked it up and again tried driving it into spaces between rough-hewn logs of the shed’s walls.

  Finally, looking at the handle then back at the hay, she got an idea. Sorting, she found some hay was stiff, like straw--broom straw.

  Sitting again, Sara gathered the stiffest, thickest pieces of hay and began fashioning them to the pole with the occasional tender reed, adding strands until her makeshift broom was thick and fairly uniform. She nodded, satisfied, and hummed, “Good enough for a dirt floor.”

  Admiring her work, Sara felt a vibration. Machinery, a truck maybe, rumbled over a mountain road, somewhere close. She dropped to press her ear against the ground of the shed floor to determine the direction from which the sound came or which way it was going.

  It seemed to be north of her, moving west to east. If she were outside, she might be able to feel the sounds from different areas and be more sure of their direction. It would give her something to guide by when she made her escape.

  Chapter Four

  The marvelous smell of the cooking chicken had wafted across the yard and into the shed a long time before Bo reappeared to take Sara back to the cabin.

  She watched in amazement as he combined flour with salt, bacon drippings and egg, shaped the batter into balls, and dropped them into the boiling chicken broth. After all his trouble, she hated to boycott the meal. Also, her galloping hunger was a consideration. Her stomach roiled.

  Sitting spellbound in the padded rocker, Sara watched the man steam stalks of broccoli and sprinkle cinnamon over apple slices. The preparations seemed natural. She marveled at his confidence in his own masculinity, assurance which allowed him to do things most men would consider woman’s work.

  The aroma made Sara’s mouth water as she sat rocking, waiting. She wished she had brought the new broom. There were still a few errant chicken feathers. But she didn’t want to appear pushy.

  She looked around for the gun. It and one other hung on pegs over the door, too high for her to reach without something to stand on. And bullets? Did he keep the guns loaded? And where did he keep the extra bullets?

  She forced herself to look away from the guns, not wanting to telegraph her thoughts. What else could she think about? Oh yes, she might be boycotting the chicken--because of her earlier feeling of kinship with the hens. That was this morning. She’d eaten only the slice of bread and drunk single cups of milk and coffee in more than twenty-four hours. Her stomach groaned again, loudly.

  Sara revised her plan. She would force herself to be hospitable and eat the chicken; not only that, but anything else set in front of her. It was, after all, common courtesy and she did need to find a way to get on Bo’s good side.

  The man put plates on the table. She needed to be cultivating him, encouraging him to like her. “Can I help?”

  He regarded her oddly, his black orbs staring from behind all that hair directly into her face. He nodded once and pointed toward a drawer in the hutch.

  Rummaging there, she found eating utensils, along with scissors, tape, writing paper, pens, glue, sewing notions, and other miscellaneous items. Seeing the long paper scissors, she hesitated. Bo’s gaze flickered from her to the scissors and back to her face. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head almost imperceptively. She grabbed a pen and paper and held them up, pretending to have been considering them. “Hey, here’s a ballpoint and paper. You can write me notes.”

  He turned back to his preparations and shook his head.

  “Sure. That way you can tell me things. You can draw a map, give me directions out of here.”

  He continued ignoring her.

  Deflated, annoyed, Sara put away the pen and paper, again studying the scissors. Slowly, she withdrew two knives and forks and placed them on the crude table.

  Obviously unaware of her earlier sentiment regarding the chickens, Bo served her a full plate. Spurred by hunger, she consumed every morsel, including broccoli stalks, and was mopping gravy with a dumpling before she thought again of the planned boycott.

  It certainly had been a day for trashing preconceived notions. She wondered if she had progressed far enough to be able to stab this man with a pair of scissors. Wringing the necks of innocent chickens was one thing. Thrusting steel into her gentle captor’s heart hardly seemed justified, was definitely not an apt way to show her appreciation for his hospitality.

  She smiled wryly to herself. Sharing his food only bought a man so much. She sighed. It would take a lot to talk herself into actually sticking scissors into him unless, of course, he hurt her.

  Why did he refuse to take her to a road somewhere? What could he possibly want with her, except...no, she wasn’t going to think about that.

  After supper, Bo settled in the second rocking chair with his pipe and slipped a thin piece of wood from his shirt pocket. It was seven or eight inches long and maybe two inches wide. He wrestled his knife from the pocket of his leather trousers, scraped it back and forth over a hand-held whetstone, settled back and cut into the wood. Sara’s eyes flitted to the drawer in the hutch as she tried to think of a way to get to those scissors.

  She told herself not look at the drawer, not to think of the scissors. He mustn’t suspect. “What’re you making?” she asked.

  Ignoring her, Bo methodically chipped away at the wood, apparently satisfied with the silent project, not needing the company of another human being.

  How could he live isolated like this? Alone? The poor old soul.

  She sat straighter. Why should she care? She was only marking time, pretending an interest in his work, attempting a little after-dinner conversation.

  With a mute?

  She glowered down at her hands pressed together in her lap and rocked harder, trying to decide which of them--she or Bo--was the most addled. He obviously didn’t want to share his life. Then why wouldn’t he draw her a map and send her on her way?

  She had to get through to him. Or she might have to resort to using the scissors. He was too big for her to threaten. She would have to injure him severely, if he tried to stop her. She’d be sorry if it came to that. He seemed harmless enough, but she was defini
tely leaving here, one way or another.

  * * *

  Sara felt strange that night, burrowed into her nest of hay in the shed, having left the cabin without the scissors. The quilts were spread over and under her and she felt oddly safe, watched over by the man in the cabin.

  She roused from a deep sleep when Bo knocked twice and flung a shed door open. Hurried strides brought him quickly over the sod floor.

  Scrambling to her feet, Sara shrank from his hands as he reached for her. “No.” She shook her head, peering at him, trying to read his face. He grabbed her hand. Brightness jabbed the dark providing an instant of light followed by rolling, distant thunder.

  Sara jerked free and flailed at Bo as he grabbed for her again. “No. Please. I can’t.” She slapped at him, stumbling backwards. “You won’t enjoy it. I’m no good at it. No! Please, don’t do this.”

  Bo hesitated, regarding her oddly in the intermittent snatches of light which were closely followed by the rumbling. It sounded as if it were getting nearer. He caught her arm but she jerked out of his grasp, lurching to the far wall.

  The anger in his onyx eyes was obvious as lightning forked, illuminating the shed with another instant of strobe brightness before sending renewed groans ricocheting through the mountains. Bo made a sound which rivaled the thunder, and lunged. She skittered to one side and tried to dart past him but again he moved more quickly than she thought possible, flung his arms around her, and unceremoniously tossed her up and over his shoulder.

  She screamed, her voice muffled by mother nature’s frenzied explosions which suddenly seemed to be detonating directly overhead.

  Bo jogged out of the shed. Bouncing on his shoulder, Sara kicked and screamed and pummeled his back with both fists. He didn’t flinch or seem to notice. Instead, he glanced at the sky and broke into a lope.

  She stopped struggling when they bypassed the cabin. Her curiosity piqued, she suddenly noticed that the air was static, hot, stifling. She glanced at the sky.

  Clouds raced and lightning jabbed the darkness followed by booming reports which filled the eerie stillness and reverberated, rolling, rumbling off through the mountains.

  Bo carried her into a cave cut into the wall of the mountain immediately behind his cabin. Deep inside, amid gunnysacks and boxes of foodstuffs, he stood her on her feet. Bo then returned to the mouth of the cavern. Sara followed.

  Hail suddenly pounded out of the still, silence, hammering the ground beyond the cave. Pellets became marble-sized and battered the tin roofs on the cabin, the shed, and the outhouse. The din was deafening.

  Sara crept closer to stare into the darkness which was punctuated by flashes of light and the echoing ovations. Sidling close, she didn’t attempt to speak, doubting that Bo could hear her words over the accelerating roar of the storm. He spared her a quick glance before turning his attention back to the tumult.

  In the breathtaking brilliance of lightning strikes, she saw the shaggy clouds, tornadoes forming, dipping, teasing, then failing to take shape, popping back up into the heavens. She had watched these displays all her life and had seen, too, the devastation left in the path of these meteorological marauders. She shivered at those memories.

  A small funnel descended, assumed a valid form and appeared to gather momentum. It was east of them, moving east. Sara trembled, almost losing control before she realized the twister was moving away from them; that one, at least, no threat. But there were others.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the hail stopped. The silence outside was ominous as the air again spiked with heat and grew eerily still.

  Anxiously, Sara followed Bo out of the cave to look back behind, to the southwest. A dozen small funnels formed from the shaggy darkness, dipped for a moment or two, then retreated.

  She recalled an old legend. The danger was over when the air cooled. But this air was electric. Sara ran back toward the cave, tripped and caught herself on her poor, sore hands. Scrambling, lurching further into the cave, she dropped to her knees in a heap, covering her head with her arms. Clenching her teeth, she muttered. “Why, are you doing this to me, God? Why bring me this far, then abandon me?”

  Her lips snuffled in the dirt floor as she babbled a series of prayers and recited creeds. Terrified, weeping, she felt something, someone near. She turned her head and opened her eyes without moving any other part of her body.

  Bo knelt beside her. Tentatively, gently, he placed his hand on the back of her head.

  She hated to be touched when she was nervous or frightened. At the moment, however, she didn’t object as his great paw of a hand patted her head. Slowly that huge, calloused hand traced down her neck, between her shoulder blades, to her waist. It was the kind of stroke she had seen her grandfather use to quiet his bird dog Maggie when the high-bred bitch got overly excited.

  The touch of Bo’s steadying hand soothed Sara, quieted her, and she grew still, calmed, just as Maggie the pointer had been beneath her grandfather’s placating stroke.

  Why was Bo petting her? What were his intentions? Should she be frightened? As the large hand repeated its glide, Sara twisted her neck to peer up at him.

  The man was not even looking at her. Instead, he stared toward the cave’s gaping mouth, stroking Sara absently.

  Reassured by his seeming lack of interest, Sara leaned into him as his hand again trailed from her head to her waist. Bo’s body loomed big and strong, protecting her from the furor outside.

  She heard the approaching rumble, the familiar sound of a freight train accelerating. She trembled and pulled her limbs even more tightly beneath her.

  Despite the oppressive heat, Sara was glad to have Bo close, a human shield between her and the yawning mouth of the cave.

  The rumbling became a deafening roar but the air in the cave remained blessedly still. Sara quivered beneath the man’s continuous stroking. The roar reached a crescendo of trees being torn from the earth, of things being tossed about, then suddenly there was silence.

  Moments passed. The air turned chilly, almost cold.

  Bo stood as a light rain began, a gentle drizzle which seemed to be apologizing for the antics of its meteorological companions. He walked to the entrance of the cave, propped his fists at his waist and filled his lungs.

  Sara sat back on her legs, silent until Bo, staring out at the night, looked back at her, growled, and nodded for her to come there. She stood, straightened her dress, dusting it off, and padded, barefooted, to his side. He stood a head taller than she was, which made him six-foot-two or better. He seemed strong, capable, invincible, a fully mature adult male facing down the elements themselves.

  The rain stopped. The stars shimmered, newly washed.

  Sara had been afraid, had panicked before Bo touched her, quieted her. She risked a look at his profile.

  “I’m always thanking you,” she said quietly.

  His eyes penetrated the semi-darkness as he looked down at her. Again he allowed only a nod of acknowledgment.

  “I’m sorry...for struggling. I didn’t understand what you were doing. I don’t like for people to touch me...personally. You know.” He looked puzzled. She felt stupid. “I’m not much of a lover.” She risked a glance and an embarrassed smile, “or a fighter either. I guess you already figured that out.”

  Another nod and the hint of a smile beneath the hair.

  “I’m afraid of a lot of things.” She grinned timidly. “Of almost everything really.”

  He tapped his chest with his fingers.

  “Right. I’m definitely afraid of you.” His frown deepened. “When you came busting in the shed, I thought you wanted me for...for sex.”

  She could see his eyebrows knit, the movement almost indiscernible beneath the hair tumbling down his forehead.

  “You scared me to death.” She straightened, glanced outside then back at him and inhaled. “I misunderstood. I’m sorry.” She paused and shrugged. “Anyway, thanks for... Well, thanks.”

  Bo nodded, then strode from the c
ave. She followed, but downed tree limbs dotted the landscape, although the buildings all seemed to be intact. Barefooted, she chose her steps carefully, but yipped involuntarily when she stepped down hard on a thorned twig. Bo looked back at her, then bent and tapped his shoulder. Grudgingly, she stepped closer and draped herself over the offered shoulder, voluntarily again becoming a sack of feed.

  As he straightened, he wrapped an arm around the backs of her knees and set his other hand at her ankle, steadying her. Thus, Sara humbly returned to the shed.

  Inside, Bo set her on her feet.

  “Thanks...again,” she muttered.

  He gave a nod, then stepped out to close and bar the doors.

  She felt weird but safe, settling in her nest. More restless than before, she longed to go home, to sleep in her own bed.

  She glowered into the darkness, uneasy. Her bed was in transit somewhere. She was in the middle of moving when she was kidnapped. She didn’t know anymore exactly where home was.

  * * *

  Day 2: Early Saturday, Bo cooked bacon, scrambled eggs, and biscuits for breakfast. Sara ate like a farm hand and made no apologies. She purposefully avoided watching him eat. His manners were all right, but food matted in his mustache and spattered into his beard. It gave her an idea.

  “Would you let me trim that hair back just a little from your mouth?”

  He glared at her, giving no other response.

  “Food sticks to it when you eat. It’s gross. Very unappetizing.”

  He pinched a lock of the hair on his head between his thumb and forefinger and eyed her suspiciously.

  She smiled. “No, I won’t cut any of the hair on your head, Samson. Why? Do you think that’s where you get your strength?”

  She saw a slight smile play at his narrow lips. She regarded his arms, his square shoulders and thick chest, then looked away. “I don’t think your strength has anything to do with your hair, old man,” she said under her breath, speaking more to herself than to him.

  That afternoon, Bo picked up his gun, gathered a handful of shells from a bookshelf, and turned to her.