16. Ransom
16
RANSOM
C laire’s gone. All her little friends, too.
The river? The bridge? Abandoned. Done and dusted.
I don’t see her or any of her flock of Promise Sisters anywhere.
Until the day I’m driving down Main Street and I spy Elsbeth at the ice cream parlor. I whip the truck around, park it, and go to meet her. She’s so deep into her cone, she doesn’t see me when I come up behind her, resting my forearms on the back of her bench.
“Hey. You seen Claire?”
She squeaks and jumps. She starts to hide the cone, but then sees it’s only me, and her eyes narrow. “Ransom. What are you doing?”
I’ve broken our unspoken social rules, approaching her like this in broad daylight. Already, I see her eyes flickering around, trying to gauge whether or not someone’s caught her in conversation with one of those boys. So I get to the point: “Just tell me where she is and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Daddy has her under house arrest. Something about bad influences . Now get out of here before I’m forced to make a scene.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. I tip my hat with a, “ma’am,” and bolt before she starts screeching.
House arrest. Well, that explains it.
If her bulldog of a father wants to keep her locked up, I can’t stop him.
But the problem with Claire is this: she’s become the brightest spot of my every day, and I’m not ready to give that up.
So if the mountain won’t come to me…I’ll climb the mountain.
Or whatever the saying is.
I scrounge up a button up shirt, a pair of jeans with no holes in them, and lace up my boots before heading over to the Preacher Ranch.
The big, iron black gates swing open to let me in. My truck feels out of place—an ancient monster that rattles over the gravel as I pass the perfectly trimmed hedges.
One of the ranch hands leads me away from the big house. We pass the stables and I walk by some of the most beautiful horses I’ve ever seen—shiny coats, strong muscles, heads high and proud.
He takes me to an office building around back. I take my hat off and hold it at my lap as I enter.
The space is cramped and fits only one desk. Arris Dagney glances up from his computer and his eyebrows lift when he spies me.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” I tell him. “I’d like to work.”