Chapter Six
"They should have been here by now."
Ben peeked overtop his copy of the Territorial Enterprise and studied his son. He'd listened patiently for nearly ten minutes as Adam paced the room, anxious for the arrival of Jessamine Reid and Marshal Drake.
"Adam, even if the stage arrived on time in Carson, the trip by buggy won't get them here for at least another twenty minutes or so."
Adam's eyes snapped to the grandfather clock. He huffed, shook his head, and continued to pace.
Ben shifted in his chair and went back to his paper. At least, he tried to.
"Maybe we should hire more men. There's more than enough ways to sneak up to this house." Adam headed for the credenza and the gun belt sitting on top. "How can we be sure Crocker won't slip by the hands we've posted?"
Ben crinkled the paper against his lap. "Put the gun down. We don't want to frighten Betsy Ann any more than she already is."
"But Pa, we have to-"
"Son, there are four men keeping watch on the house and another four on the look-out along the road. Joe and Hoss are out on the porch, you and I are in here, and as for Hop Sing, well, he may be baking cookies with Betsy Ann, but you and I both know he'll protect her with his life it the need arises."
"I'm sorry, Pa. It's just . . . I'm just . . ." Adam swung his arm to shoulder height and pointed across the way. "The little girl in that kitchen needs her mother."
Ben nodded.
"How could she do it, Pa?"
"Adam, we already know she hopped into-"
"I'm not talking about Betsy Ann. I'm talking about her mother. How could she go off and leave her daughter?"
Ben waved a quieting hand at his excited son. "She didn't leave her, Adam."
"You know what I mean."
"No, son, I'm afraid I don't."
Adam's patience wore thin. "If she cared about her daughter, really cared, put Betsy Ann first-"
"Ah, now I see."
"Then you do understand."
Ben pointed to the settee, and Adam accepted his father's suggestion.
"Adam," Ben said solemnly, "Jessamine Reid is not Laura. And Betsy Ann isn't Peggy."
"That's not what I . . . I only meant that . . ."
"You only meant that you feel you know what's best for a little girl grieving the loss of her father?"
Frustration flared in Adam's eyes and he was quick to his feet. "She should have believed Betsy Ann when she said there was a man lurking about." He paced between the settee and the table, arguing with the present, the past, and himself. "She should have . . . I don't know . . . taken Betsy Ann with her to San Francisco. She should have-"
"Adam."
"None of this would have happened if she'd taken more time to listen to what her child needed, and just like with Laura and Peggy, the child suffers."
Ben's silence at a time like this was all too familiar to Adam.
"I know, Pa, Mrs. Reid isn't Laura and Betsy Ann isn't Peggy and Oliver Reid fell to his death and Will . . ."
In that moment, months of sadness clouded Adam's face and Ben's heart ached for his son.
"Cousin Will and his new family aren't the Reids."
"That's right, son."
"I'm getting too involved. Is that what you're saying?"
Ben scooted forward on his chair. "Too involved? No. I've taught you to help people in need, to sacrifice for others, to . . . care. You were a part of everything that transpired between you and Laura and Peggy . . . and Will. But you can't put yourself in the place of a woman you've never even met. From what Roy's been able to gather, Jessamine Reid is a wonderful mother, and she and Oliver were a loving couple. They aren't Laura and Frank, or Laura and Will, and Betsy Ann isn't Peggy."
Adam sat, sighing as he nodded. "You're right, Pa. I've been missing Peggy, and that little girl in the kitchen needed me and . . . Pa, she needs to know Jubal Crocker can't lay a hand on her ever again."
Ben twisted to face his son. "Adam, we've done everything possible with what little we know. All we can do now is keep watch over the house, keep Betsy Ann distracted and wait for Marshal Drake and Mrs. Reid to arrive."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
From the moment she heard the slamming of a door, Jessamine's focus was to escape. Hours before, she'd looked into the eyes of one of her captors as he calmly stated he'd been the one to shoot Marshal Drake.
She'd been dragged from the buggy, her pleas for the bleeding lawman ignored, and then forced into the back of what appeared to be a small, peddler's wagon. Her wrists were bound with a length of cloth. The marshal's treatment had been far worse, his slumped body hauled from the buggy with no thought to his condition.
With grunts and verbal complaints, two of the kidnappers shoved Drake into the wagon. Jessamine recoiled at the larger kidnapper's touch, backing herself against a pile of stained, tattered muslin in the wagon's front corner. The rear gate latching into place had relaxed her a bit, but her attempt to scoot her way to the marshal's side ended when rough hands reached over the rail, jerked him upright, and shoved a gag between his teeth. Another pair of hands brutally yanked the unconscious marshal's hands behind his back and tied his wrists with a filthy scrap of cloth.
She'd fought to stay alert, searching Drake's face for signs of his waking. The men had neglected to gag her, and she thanked the Lord for small favors. Digging her heels into the weathered wagon bed, she inched her way toward Marshal Drake.
"Douglas?" she whispered, the name lost amid the drone of the wagon's wheels. "I need to stop the bleeding." Scooting back to the corner, Jessamine twisted against the binding rope, her fingertips grasping at the pile of cloth. Dragging the fabric behind her, she wriggled alongside the marshal, turned to her side, and dropped the cloth from her fingers.
Her eyes darted from his wound to the cloth. How could she tend him with her hands tied securely behind her back?
Lost in thought, Jessamine jerked suddenly when a groan escaped the marshal's parched lips. Inching closer, she lay face to face with Douglas Drake.
"Douglas, can you hear me?"
Jessamine glanced at the front flap of the wagon, worried that her voice may have signaled the men. When the wagon's lull continued, she tried again to rouse the marshal. This time, her plea was answered.
"Did they hurt you?" His muffed voice seemed gravely as he spoke through the gag.
"What? Me? I mean, no. But you, you've been shot."
Douglas chortled at her obvious statement, but the smile that revealed a dimple quickly turned to a grimace.
"It only hurts . . . when I laugh," he said.
Jessamine smiled with a sigh. "If you can turn, just a little, I think I can use this cloth and my shoulder to press against your wound."
After several efforts, Douglas managed to turn. He'd clenched his eyes against the pain and was startled, when they opened, to see a dirty cloth held fast between her teeth.
She pulled and pushed, moving her body upward until she was able to drop the cloth against his bleeding shoulder. Then, after scooting a bit further, she pressed her shoulder against the cloth.
Douglas moaned.
"I'm sorry."
"It's . . . all right. You can't stay like that. It must be difficult, uncomfortable, at best."
And it was. But Jessamine was determined. The marshal was her best hope of escaping the kidnappers, and escape meant getting to Betsy Ann.
The hours that passed had seemed endless. Jessamine did her best to help Douglas' wound to clot, and the effort took its toll. Her back ached and her left arm went numb, but when the wagon had slowed and she rolled to her back, the cloth remained, fixed to the wound like a proper dressing.
When the constant bump and wobble stopped, she and Douglas were pulled from the wagon, and Jessamine nearly crumbled at the sight before her. Home. She and Douglas had been taken back to Carson City, and now, the kidnappers filed them across the yard and toward her kitchen door.
Jessamine's stomach roiled. Mrs. Delgado.
Douglas noted her hesitation and softly spoke her name. His words were cut short by a blow to his back.
"Shut up, Marshal!" the larger man barked. "Keep moving!"
Crocker led the way up the porch stairs. He flung the door open and stepped inside, puffing his chest for the reaction he expected to witness. What he saw did nothing to his bravado. "What a shame. It appears someone has tidied up." He held his hand over his heart. "I fancy myself a bit of an artist, Mrs. Reid, and I so wanted to share my latest . . . work with you." Crocker paused, and he grinned watching the horror creep over Jessamine's face.
"You murdered her here, didn't you? Mrs. Delgado. My friend."
"Murder is such a nasty word."
Jessamine lunged toward him. "Murderer!"
Crocker's men struggled to restrain the marshal.
"Now, now, Jessie," Crocker whispered, holding her shoulders in his grasp. "May I call you "Jessie? Jessamine is such an . . . uppity name."
She spit in his face. "Don't call me anything! Let us go and get out of my house!"
"That is not going to happen, Jessie. You see, I've always been able to read people, and that brat child of yours has been lying to me. Oh, I tried. At first, I was nice to the kid, talked real sweet to her. But she wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know, so I told her I'd give her one more chance, and if she didn't come through, I'd see to it that her mama and papa had themselves a real nice reunion!" Crocker shoved Jessamine across the room.
Fighting to stay upright, Jessamine landed against Douglas, and the larger of Crocker's men grabbed her at the waist.
"And then," Crocker continued, pacing a circle in the center of the kitchen, "that Delgado bitch stood right here . . . or was it there . . . and told me the money was in your bedroom." He faced Jessamine and Douglas. "Another lie!"
Crocker's swagger changed suddenly. "If only that impotent husband of hers hadn't caught sight of us when we rode in." He reached for Jessamine's dress, gathering the bodice fabric in his fist. "Watching me slit his throat might have been incentive for the truth!"
Jessamine shivered at Crocker's threat.
And now, she and Douglas were no closer to escape. She cocked her head, listening for the rhythmic sighs of his breathing.
From the kitchen, they'd been dragged into the Reid's dining room, forced to the floor, and tied to opposite legs of the heavy, pine table.
They'd listened as the kidnappers destroyed furniture, upholstered chairs, knickknacks, and cabinets.
Crocker's search for his money was destroying the Reid home, and still, Jessamine had no idea why this maniac thought his money lay hidden on her property. More perplexing still was the question, why did he think Betsy Ann knew?
Jessamine feared Douglas had slipped into unconsciousness. She'd dared to call out to him twice, and both times, one of Crocker's three men had struck her, leaving her lower lip bloodied and her cheek swelling.
As the banging and ripping faded, she'd listened carefully to the kidnappers' conversation. She heard the front door slam, and for endless minutes, waited to be sure they were alone.
"Douglas," she whispered, "can you hear me?"
His gag-muffled reply filled her with hope.
"They've ransacked my home, and I heard them say they're going to search the barns. I've been trying to free my hands, but . . . I just can't seem to . . . Wait! I almost . . . my wrist is slipping . . . I did it!"
On trembling legs, she stood, clutching the table's edge for support. Blood trickled from her wrists, and she rubbed them gently, restoring the feeling to her fingertips. "Douglas," she whispered as she scrambled to him. "Here, let me . . ." She stood again. "No, there's a knife in the kit . . ." Her face paled, and she breathed deeply. "I'll be right back."
Moments later, tears falling freely, her hands shaking, Jessamine cut the ropes binding the marshal's hands. "We've got to get you bandaged."
"There isn't time. They could be back any minute." Douglas pulled himself upright, leaning heavily against the table. "We've got to get away and seek help. Is there a ranch nearby?"
"Nothing from here to Carson to the east." Jessamine wrung her hands, her thinking scattered. "Um, the river, a line shack, the Pierson ranch! To the west. It's a long way, but it's the only one I know of that's still a working ranch."
Douglas forced himself away from the security of the table and took Jessamine's hand. "Let's go."
"Where? How? You're hurt and-"
"In the buggy, just after we left Carson City, didn't you say you have a corral? A corral a ways from the house? By the Truckee?"
"Yes, I did, but-"
"Are there horses there?"
"Yes, but . . . Yes!"
