In addition to the incessant clanking of the chain between his legs, Buck could hear coughing and the occasional moan from the other tents as they passed them by. If there was a hell on earth his inclination for a pretty face and ugly whiskey had led him unerringly straight to it.

Her tent was the largest by far with many amenities, like goose feathers encased in a blue-ticked mattress casing that was suspended on a rope bed frame, pulled tight to keep it from dragging in the dirt. Bright colorful quilts lay atop it strangely out of place in the miserable mining camp but somehow fitting in the tent of woman also so out of place.

Since the discovery of gold and silver, mining camps had sprung up almost overnight all over the west and Buck had seen the coarse women who set up businesses on the fringes of these camps. They were a rough and tumble lot, filthy and often times diseased, without a full set of teeth between them. Women whose sole purpose was to separate the hardworking miners from every ounce of gold and silver or hard earned dollar they made before they could take it to the nearest town and spend it on the whores there.

When he was younger, he'd heard tell of town whores riding out to the larger mining camps and thrashing the camp whores to within an inch of their lives hoping to drive them off. But this was no ordinary mining camp and this woman, though she was thin and wore a threadbare dress of faded teal calico, was defiantly not a camp whore and, despite Hawley's insinuations and barbs, he wondered in fact if she was a whore at all.

Hawley was defiantly the mine boss and his brother the shifter but there the resemblance to a mining camp ended. Men stood in line to stake a claim or to sign on for a decent wage in this day of rich gold and silver strikes and booming mining towns. To shanghai and shackle men was unnecessary and against the law. But there was no law in this camp, except for Hawley and the dogs. Buck realized.

The dark haired woman led him to a rocking chair placed next to the bed. Her hand stilled the to and fro motion that would have hurt him all the more when he sat down and as she lit an oil lamp he sucked down more blood as it continued to pour from the slices in his mouth and he was afraid he would again be sick.

Hurrying to the cupboard standing against the far tent wall the woman rummaged until she found a small tea caddy and a scrap of gauze. Setting these on the table she wrapped a pinch of the fragrant leaves in the material then returning to the rocker gently lifted Buck's chin.

"Put this in your cheek. It will help slow the bleeding," she told him and grabbing the hem of her dress she brought it to his mouth where, at her urging, he spat a mouthful of blood into it. She wiped his lips and pushed the small packet gently into his mouth then lit the stubby candle on the small table beside the bed and picked up the oil lamp, "I'll get the linen."

Although he longed to take a deep breath, Buck managing to keep his breathing slow and shallow and while the woman was gone he looked around the dimly lit tent. Better than many of the places in which he'd bedded down over the years, it was nonetheless puzzling, this tent with an honest to God feather bed, a substantial cupboard, a small table with two straight-backed chairs and the rocking chair in which he sat.

The furniture was solid and made of cherry wood, he guessed, pieces for a permanent home of wood planks and brick not a makeshift abode of canvas and dirt. He recalled a book read to him as a child about a girl who falls down a rabbit hole into an up-side-down world and suddenly he knew just how she felt. What hole had he fallen down and how was he to get out?

The woman returned with the linen sheet Buck had used to dry himself and sat at the table tearing one end into long, wide strips. Kneeling in front of the rocker she lowered his suspenders and gently pulled the shirttail from his pants. "Oh, God," she gasped. The bruise was massive and already angry shades of red, blue, purple and black.

"It's okay," Buck assured her gently already suspecting the worse and gingerly held up the shirttails, "I'll be fine just soon as you truss me up like a Sunday chicken." he said with a bravado he didn't feel as she went to work binding him.

The tight bindings allowed him some expansion of his lungs but would keep his ribs stable and secure. He felt somewhat relieved and more in control of his battered body and as the woman started to get up he cupped her chin in his strong hand. She remained kneeling before him and looked deeply into his eyes. "What's your name?" he asked caressing her chin with a gentle touch.

There was fear in her eyes but she didn't pull away, only answered him in with a soft, southern drawl. "Bethany. Bethany Williams."

"Well, Bethany Williams, I know this place ain't right. It's off the beaten path and off kilter to boot but anything you can tell me will help."

She looked at him in puzzlement, "Help?"

"Help us escape, get us out of here."

A look of stark terror crossed her face and she clasped her hands tightly together almost as if prayer. "No, you can't. You mustn't even try," she warned him.

Buck placed his hand on her shoulder and ran the other down the side of her cheek, soothing her, settling her as he would a horse on the verge of bolting. He realized he would have to go slowly when he felt the trembling of her body.

Bethany took a calming breath and started talking, evenly at first, as if telling a story. "One day Hawley found one of the men missing. He never bothered to look for him, to find out if he had truly run away, he just set those dogs of his loose. We could all hear the baying as they tracked the poor man down. Suddenly the baying turned to a cacophony of barking and we knew that the dogs had found their prey." She stopped momentarily, swallowed thickly and continued, the words rushing from her mouth. "Hawley rode out toward the creek and returned with what was left of the man. He…he."

She tried to pull away from Buck but he held her fast, his ribs screaming with pain as she twisted and pulled reliving it all. That man had been the first she had buried but not the last and she lowered her head and sobbed. "Shhh. Hush now. It's all right," Buck said soothingly running his hand gently over her hair until she was cried out.

Regaining her composure, Bethany wiped her eyes and nose on the hem of her skirt, his blood leaving a tiny smudge on her cheek. "I'm so sorry," she apologized, "You're hurt and I imagine quite hungry and here I am crying like a child."

Buck saw the abject misery that shown in her eyes though she slipped on a poker face Ezra Standish would have been proud of. She had work to do, painful at times but it kept her feet planted firmly on the ground and enabled her to look over, but not fall completely into, the gaping pit of madness.

Setting her lips and steeling her slim shoulders, Bethany stood, brushed dirt from her dress and headed toward the tent flap. Turning, she looked thoughtfully at him. "I'll tell you everything I know, but Mr. Wilmington…"

He looked up at her and waited quietly for her to finish, to say the words that seemed so hard in coming.

"But there's only one way out of here," she assured him and left the tent.

Buck ran his hand over his jaw, wincing at the tenderness, lightly touching the swollen mass. He didn't dare open his mouth too wide or run his tongue along the myriad of slices on the inside of his cheek for fear of starting up the bleeding again. He fingered the gauze bag in his mouth and marveled at how efficiently the simple remedy had stopped the bleeding and wondered what other secrets the gentle southern bell with the spine of steel held inside.

Bethany Williams wore no wedding band but had mentioned her husband a few times. Maybe the poor soul was relegated to one of the other tents housing the workers, Buck thought, but giving him the man's clothes to wear until his could be laundered didn't bode well for the fate of his angel's groom, especially with the sadness in her eyes. Had her husband made good his escape from the camp in the only way she thought possible?

Bethany returned with a plate of gristly meat and sodden potatoes and helped him into one of the straight-backed chairs at the table. Buck looked down at the plate and removed the poultice from his mouth and asked, "Can't find a worse cook, huh?"

Surprised, Bethany laughed softly at Buck's remark until she remembered the last part of Hawley's statement. Apprehension settled over her and she took a few steps away from the handsome new comer.

Buck sighed and reached around to grab her hand before she could move further away.

"I've never taken a woman who wasn't completely willing," he told her truthfully and turned his attention to his supper, which was bland, watery, lacking in substance and in spice but he ate it anyway while Bethany sat across the table from him.

"He only brings supplies every few weeks, usually rancid meat and spoiled potatoes. He had an Indian woman who cooked for him for a while, for the camp, and when she wasn't pinching me black and blue or slapping me for some infraction, real or imagined, she taught me how to forage. I try to add what I find but there's nothing left out there for miles except desert and this God forsaken mountain sticking up in the middle of nowhere."

Buck looked up at her with gratitude and she shrugging her slim shoulders. "She also taught me how to heal. She taught me the trick with the tea leaves."

"And a dandy trick it is, too," he said softly scraping the last bits of his meal onto his spoon. "Did you eat? No better fare this side of Cold Water," he assured her and showed her his empty plate.

"Yes…I ate earlier," she told him, eyes downcast, resting on her folded hands.

Bethany Williams had a beautiful face, was the epitome of grace under pressure, but she was a piss poor liar. Had she given him her share of the gruel or had she given up and decided to slowly starve herself to death? Sliding his hand across the smooth wood of the well-used table he rested it atop hers. He felt the slight tug as she tried to withdraw her hand and he squeezed his fingers gently around it. "I have friends who won't give up 'til they find me."

She looked at him askance. After misrepresenting himself and leading her small group to this isolated butte and using up the limited resources the men had represented, Hawley now only picked drifters, no accounts missed by none. Men no one would ever come looking for but she smiled anyway and pretended to believe him wanting him to hang onto his false hope as long as he could.

"Then you'd best be getting some rest," she said pulling her hands from his. She stood and smoothed an errant strand of dark hair behind an ear, "Daybreak comes when you least expect it."

Buck stood gingerly and regulating his breathing to shallow pants and said, "If you'll show me the accommodations that tub of guts… er, Mr. Hawley has so generously set aside for me I…"

"No!" she cut him off her eyes pleading, "You can stay here. I'll make do with the trundle." She pointed to the small bed tucked into a corner and added, "Please…"

The ladies man fully understood her urgent desire to have him stay and he agreed. He just hoped he'd be able to protect her if Hawley did come calling. Slowly and painfully he lay down on the soft mattress.

Bethany pulled off his boots, the metal of the shackles cold against his skin. Searching through the wardrobe she produced a pair of thick woolen socks and slipped them onto his feet. She then pulled a quilt over his long body and Buck was sure he could find a better cook just about anywhere...but a kinder, gentler soul…never.