Chapter Fourteen

Brantley held Rebecca in his arms and struggled to understand his tangled, raging emotions.

Hoff had been like a brother to him—sure Brantley hadn't agreed with a lot of what the man did, but Hoff had always had his back. They'd been riding together for close to twenty years. Hoff had just taken those two decades of companionship and thrown every single second of them out as if they'd meant nothing at all to him.

And for what? For money? Brantley bristled. Money had never been real important to him. He'd known Hoff favored the stuff but he hadn't realized just how cold and heartless the other man could be to attain a bit of it.

Brantley let his eyes travel to Rebecca's bandaged hand and he held her tighter. He wished he could have protected her. He wished he could have somehow stopped what Hoff had done to her. But, Brantley was only one man and he'd been against six. Not even he could stand up to those odds.

Which wasn't to say he hadn't tried because he had. He'd gotten one or two good punches in before they'd beaten him to a bloody pulp and dragged him into Rebecca's room. His aching, bruised body was proof of their determination to torture an innocent woman.

Brantley hadn't realized Hoff had such evil in him. He hadn't realized he could be a man who laughed as he eagerly sawed off a woman's finger. Brantley's own stomach rolled as he remembered watching that gristly scene. He saw the blood spreading across her pale, tender skin and heard her ear piercing screams.

Now she was awake once again and laying silently in his arms after realizing what had been done to her. Brantley wondered when she would speak again. What would she say? Would she blame him for not protecting her?

"Brantley?"

His whispered name leaving her lips caused an odd tugging sensation in his chest. "Yeah?"

She turned her head and looked at him for the first time since she'd awakened. Those doe brown eyes widened. "Your face!"

Brantley touched his fingertips to his welted mouth and the gash along his cheekbone. "Yeah, I got a face."

"They hurt you... I'm sorry."

Brantley raised his brow. "You're apologizing to me? I'm the one who needs to be begging forgiveness, Rebecca. I should have gotten you out of here. We should have run."

"We still could," Rebecca spoke up. "You said they're gone. We could leave before they come back."

Brantley let out a long sigh and leaned his head back against the wall. "No, we can't. They took my weapons, they took my horse and I know damn well Hoff didn't just leave us here unguarded. Two of the men he had with him are damn good with rifles at a long distance—I can promise they're watching us and will shoot us if we attempt to leave here."

Rebecca sagged against him. "What are we going to do? I don't want to go home to him, Brantley.... What if he still doesn't pay and they come back even more angry and desperate?"

Brantley knew sugar-coated words would be helpful but he didn't have any of those in him. "If that happens then we'll die together, because those bastards will have to kill me before I let them touch you again."

Rebecca was silent for a long moment. "I don't want either one of us to die," she finally whispered.

"Neither do I," Brantley agreed. "Martin will pay Hoff's price—Hoff is good at getting what he wants. Then you'll go back to your home where you'll be safe."

"And what will happen to you? Won't they kill you once I'm gone?"

"No, I'm more valuable to Hoff alive. Like he said, I'm good with a gun and tough as old cow leather."

"I don't want to go back to him. I never want to see his face again. He did this to me. He is probably hopeful that Hoff will kill me so he will be free of our marriage."

Brantley could hear the hurt in Rebecca's voice and it made his hatred grow for a man he had never met. However, Brantley tightened his jaw, "Martin will pay Hoff what he's asking. You'll go home to him because it's the only way you'll be safe."

"Safe?"Rebecca shook her head. "I wasn't safe before. They got me."

"Hoff won'tdo that again. He's a lot of things but he's also smart. If Martin has given him this much trouble, Hoff won't risk kidnapping you a second time for more money."

"What about you? I don't want to abandon you here with them..."

Brantley felt that tug in his chest. Damn, but it was a strange sensation to know that someone cared about him. He hadn't had anyone truly give a damn about him since he'd been a child.

"I'll be alright," he promised Rebecca, brushing a tender kiss to her tangled brown hair.

Rebecca let out a heaving, broken sigh. "Life isn't fair."

Brantley humorless chuckle echoed against her temple. "Hell, we both learned that at an early age, I reckon."

***

Martin Smallwood sat at his desk, turning his delicately engraved pocket watch over and over in his trembling hands.

Was Rebecca dead? Oh, how he secretly hoped that she was. Martin winced. Those thoughts alone made him sound a monster but he wasn't an evil man... He simply couldn't see paying good money for a wife who had already proven she couldn't give him the one thing he truly required from a wife—a child.

His most trusted friends, Horace and Lester, stood beside the polished mantle while their wives, Sara and Marie, sat on the floral settee, wringing their gloved hands.

None of them knew that Martin had been in contact with the kidnappers. None of them knew he had refused payment—or at least attempted to lower the payment amount. If they found out it could spell disaster for him and his reputation among the upper class in their area.

Martin shivered at the thought.

"Are you certain we shouldn't contact Sheriff Clooney? Or perhaps have Judge Pemphrey send for the US Marshall?" Sara spoke up.

Martin shook his head. "The letter was very direct. Any contact with law enforcement will only ensure my wife's death."

Horace rubbed at his neck. "My wife is right, Martin. I hate to be the voice of reason but if you haven't heard from them in nearly a week, maybe they've already killed Rebecca."

The two women on the settee whimpered. Martin slid his watch in his pocket and took a sip of brandy from his crystal glass. "My wife is not dead. The roughians that have her are merely keeping me in suspense to build my worry and ensure that I give them whatever payment they deem necessary."

"But Martin..." Marie began and Martin held up his hand to silence the woman.

"Don't. You will kill my wife if you insist on going to the authorities." He turned to Horace and Lester. "Perhaps you should take your wives home. I believe the suspense of being here is too much on them."

Sara squared her shoulders and gathered a deep breath, clearly prepared to voice her displeasure. The tongue lashing no doubt coming Martin's way was prevented when the door to his office flew open, bouncing off the plaster wall.

Martin rushed to his feet and his heart fell into the pit of his stomach. Barging into his tidy office were two men and he recognized the fat, hairy dirtier of the pair.

It was the man who had come to him several times requesting ransom. Did that mean Rebecca was still alive and they were back to demand their money once again?

Martin cursed. He'd hoped to convince his friends to leave before any more men came to see him. Now, no matter what the men demanded, Martin had to give it to them, or risk appearing like a monster—more of a monster than they would already see him as once they discovered this wasn't his first meeting with his wife's kidnappers.

Martin's attention was drawn to the second man. He was tall and strong with a jagged scar across his cheek. He strode across the room with an air that made it clear he was a boss and accustomed to being treated as such.

Martin knew he was looking at the leader of the gang.

The scarred man went straight to the desk, grabbed up the decanter of whiskey and took a swig straight from the top. He swiped his dirty shirt sleeve across his mouth and Martin found himself looking into the most lifeless and cold pair of nearly black eyes he'd ever seen in his life.

"Hello there, Mr. Smallwood. Nice to meet you. My name's Hoff."

Martin was trembling as he gave a shaky swallow. "Have you killed my wife?" he asked, noting, for the first time, the blood that was soaked into the bottoms of Hoff's shirt sleeves.

Hoff clicked his tongue. "It would be your fault if I have, wouldn't it? But before we get to the fate of your wife, let me explain why I'm here."

Hoff sat down the decanter. "After you sent Samson here away a few times, and refused to pay for your wife's return, I knew I needed to come and have a chat with you myself."

"Martin?" Lester spoke up. "You've met these men before?"

"You refused to pay for Rebecca's safe return?" Sara demanded in horror.

Martin tugged at his collar, sweat began to slick his skin. He shook his head. "No.... I merely requested the amount be lowered."

"You tried to negotiate." Hoff stepped closer to the desk and Martin stumbled back when Hoff slammed his hands down on the polished wood and his eyes flashed. "I negotiate with no one!"

Martin's short panting breaths were the only sound sin the office for several long moments. Then, just as suddenly as the anger had appeared in Hoff's expression and movements, the men chuckled, relaxed and settled himself down in the chair. "You have a nice home here, Mr. Smallwood. Quite expensive. I believe, now that I've actually seen your home and the extravagance you live in, I'm realizing I may have been generous in the amount I asked you to pay."

Martin's knees were shaking as Hoff motioned toward his large desk chair. Martin sat down slowly, sparing a quick glance at his friends and seeing their horror at realizing the truth of his frugal nature.

Oh, how he regretted it now! If he could simply go back and redo things, he would have payed the money for Rebecca the first time it was asked of him. Now, his reputation was ruined and it was going to cost him even more to get his wife back.

"What do you want?" Martin asked, his voice strained.

Hoff straightened up several papers on Martin's desk. "I want two thousand dollars for the return of the lovely doe-eyed Rebecca Smallwood."

Martin winced. That was a small fortune—it was money he had, yes, but it was so much more than he wanted to pay.

As if Hoff could read his hesitation, the man chuckled. "I can see your reluctance." He snapped his fingers and his fat, hairy companion stepped forward, producing a dirty folded rag from his pocket.

Hoff took the rag and his dark eyes lit as he sat it on the polished desk. "I brought something to encourage you to open your money belt."

Martin stared at the dirty rag as his stomach swirled. Hoff motioned toward it. "Go ahead, Mr Smallwood. Don't be rude. Open your gift."

His hands shaking, Martin pulled a face as he reached out and pulled aside the top of the folded rag. "Dear God!" he exclaimed as he realized what was inside.

Leaping to his feet and stumbling back, Martin felt bile rise in his stomach and was powerless to stop it from bursting from his mouth and splashing upon the polished floor.

In that rag was a finger—a dainty, bloody finger. A finger wearing his mother's ring. The very ring he had placed upon Rebecca's finger the day they'd become husband and wife.