CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The Darkness

The darkness didn't come in waves. It didn't start at his periphery and converge toward the center. It didn't arrive like an inkblot with a black center that slowly flowed to fill his vision. No, it had just consumed him, fully and completely and immediately. One instant, he was alive and aware, and the next, he floated in a black abyss.

But the return to consciousness was much slower, much more painful. It did come in waves—one agonizing wave after another. First, he became aware of the throbbing in his head. He didn't know for sure if it came from the top of his head or the back of his head or the front of his head. He'd had many head injuries, but he couldn't recall a time when any hurt this much.

Then came the ache in his muscles. That pain was like the inkblot, but in reverse. The center remained black and calm while little patches on the periphery glared and burned. His neck muscles cramped. If only he could move his head to relieve the stinging. But he couldn't. His muscles didn't want to obey his brain.

Heath had no idea how long he'd been unconscious or how much time had passed since he'd started regaining consciousness. He did know, before he opened his eyes, that he would be dizzy. His stomach turned, and he feared he would vomit. He forced himself to breathe, to take deep breaths. He didn't quite know what happened to him, but he would guess he'd been hit on the back of his head, due to the extreme pain there.

He tried to move his arms, but he couldn't. Neither could he move his legs. He was tightly bound to something—a chair?—which explained why his muscles hurt so much. He must've been tied in this same position for a long time.

He opened only his left eye, and just a tiny bit. He waited until he could focus, until the waves of dizziness and nausea abated, and then he opened his eye a bit more. The room—or wherever he was held—was mostly dark, but a lantern sent shadows. At least his muscles were beginning to cooperate, to do what he told them.

Margaret. He suddenly recalled getting married, of leaving with Margaret. His wife. But where was Margaret?

Heath opened his right eye, again very slowly. If someone were watching him, it might be best if they didn't know he'd regained consciousness. He again fought the waves of nausea. Double vision didn't help his battle at keeping his stomach contents inside his stomach. He closed his right eye. At least that kept him to single vision.

"Heath?" Margaret whispered.

"Are you okay?" he whispered back.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

"They went outside. I don't know when they'll be back, but don't let them know you're awake. They won't hurt me until you're awake to watch them."

"Who? Who has us?"

"Mulligan, Sweeny, O'Connell, and Diego."

"Ohhh." He remembered the threats now. The shooting. His arm. Wait. "Mulligan? He's with 'em?"

"Yes."

"Where are we?"

"I don't know. It seems like an abandoned barn. There's stinky hay everywhere."

"I'll try to get loose. You just—"

The barn door opened. Heath closed his eyes and allowed his head to flop back down, even though that made his head hurt more and the muscles in his neck cramp again.

"Well, there, princess," Sweeny said, spewing spittle. "Did your knight in shining armor wake up?"

Someone grabbed Heath by his hair and jerked his head back.

Heath forced his muscles to remain relaxed, to give away no clue that he had regained consciousness, no clue that the movement felt like an explosion in his head, no clue that he was fighting to keep from spewing vomit.

Sweeny spit in his face.

It took every bit of control he had not to react. Not to move. Not to fight the rope binding him. Not to beat the life out of the man standing over him.

As the slimy spit dripped down his face, it left a trail of itching. His entire being wanted nothing more than to wipe it away. But he couldn't risk putting Margaret in danger. So, he had to fight every natural inclination to twitch, to scratch, to move away from the slimy snot sliding down his cheek.

Thinking was as difficult as remaining limp. But he had to think to figure out how to escape this situation. The ropes that held him were tight—much too tight. Even without fighting against them, the pain of rope burns added another dimension to his misery.

Think, Heath. Think. There has to be a way out of this situation.

"And you, my lovely." The man—Sweeny—moved away from Heath and towards Margaret.

Heath opened his left eye just a bit. It appeared Margaret was also tied down, but she was flat on her back on the floor, spread-eagle, not far from him.

Sweeny knelt next to her head and touched her cheek. "He will wake up soon, my lovely, and then I will show you what a real man does to a lady." His hand when down her neck and to her breast. He rubbed her breast, squeezed it, pinched it.

Margaret grunted, trying hard not to scream.

"Oh, my lovely, that will be nothing. Nothing." He ran his hand down her side and to her thigh, which he massaged.

Heath had never felt so helpless in his life. God, help us. He didn't even know where the thought came from. He'd never been one much for religion. But he needed help like he'd never needed it before. Nick! Heath screamed the thought, trying to reach beyond the distance and the impossibility of Nick hearing his plea. Nick, come save us!

Sweeny's hand continued to travel over Margaret's body. "Soon, my lovely. Soon, I will take you, and you will be mine. All mine."

The distress on Margaret's face was more than Heath could stand. She was much too sweet for that treatment. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

God, save Margaret. Don't let these miscreants harm her. Intervene, God. I know I'm not one to pray. I don't even know if I believe in you or not. I don't even know how to pray. But I am desperate. I am helpless. I need you to save Margaret. You know what a sweet girl she is. You know she doesn't deserve to be treated like this. Don't worry about me, Lord. Just save Margaret. Please, God. Please.

"Sweeny, Mulligan is gonna kick your ass if you touch that girl before that rich bastard can watch you." O'Connell. It was O'Connell's voice.

Heath almost couldn't help but smile. He couldn't imagine O'Connell being the answer to his prayer, but he'd take it. What was it his mother used to say? God can use even the vilest of the vile to accomplish His will.

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Nick tossed. He didn't want to be in bed. He wanted to be out looking for Heath and Margaret. But the sheriff was right. They weren't going to find them in the dark. They had already searched everywhere they thought they could be.

But sleeping wasn't working either. Isabella had stayed awake with him for quite a while, but now she slept soundly next to him. He had dozed for a couple of hours, but his brain wouldn't allow him to succumb to restorative sleep.

Nick! Nick sat bolt upright in bed. Nick, come save us!

He'd heard Heath's voice. He'd heard it plain as day. He jumped out of bed and ran to Jarrod's room.

"Jarrod! Get up!"

"What's wrong?" Jarrod asked, sitting up.

"We have to go get Heath."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know, but we have to go find him. Get dressed and I'll meet you at the stables."

"Okay," was all Jarrod said.

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Nick dressed quickly and ran downstairs. Jarrod was right behind him.

Fred came out of the library. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"Me and Jarrod are gonna go get Heath."

"Where?"

Nick considered. He tried to empty his mind of all thoughts—to allow his brain to work without his input. And it did. It conjured up a picture of the place—the place he assumed Heath was held. It was a barn. Not on Barkley property, but not far away. It took him a few seconds to recognize it.

"Frank Semple's barn," Nick stated. Frank Semple had been killed by the railroad's henchmen, and Frank's wife and family abandoned the small ranch to move back East.

Fred stared at Nick. "How do you know that?"

"I don't know how I know it, but I do. Let's go."

"I'll come with you," Fred stated.

"No. You stay here. Keep doin' what you're doin'."

Nick and Jarrod hurried out the door.

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Victoria had also been unable to sleep. She heard the front door open. She grabbed her robe and put it on as she ran downstairs.

Fred stood in the foyer. "Jarrod and Nick just left. Nick seems to think Heath is at Frank Semple's barn."

"Why?"

Fred shrugged. "God only knows."

Victoria ran back up the stairs. She pounded on JR's door.

"Come in," JR stated.

She opened the door. A lamp was still lit, and JR sat in a chair, wearing a robe and reading.

"Jarrod and Nick went to get Heath and Margaret. Nick said they are in the Semple barn."

JR stood and began pulling out clothes. "I don't know where that is. Can you give me directions?"

"I'm going with you," Victoria stated.

JR looked at her, ready to protest, ready to remind her that a woman's place was in the home and it was a man's place to protect his family. But one glance at her face told him she was not accustomed to being submissive and she wasn't about to start now. "Okay," he said. "I'll meet you downstairs."

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