Chapter 4
How had she been so stupid to take off like that?
Morning Fawn jabbed her arms together and paced from the closed window to the locked door.
Thank goodness, it was late November, not July.
The rough attic floor stung her scraped feet as she paced.
Daylight had faded into darkness except for the flickering of the oil lamp. Shadowed rafters loomed overhead.
For months after her early failed attempts, she’d been biding her time, learning and preparing for the right opportunity. And today she’d given into temptation and run off without thought, throwing away every scrap of trust she’d managed to accumulate. How stupid.
They’d re-nailed both windows shut. Trapped. And her uncle had threatened to leave her up here for days—weeks, even. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of her arms. Someday she’d like to lock that man in a room and throw away the key.
Jaw clenched, she grabbed at the loose lace on her torn sleeve and yanked.
The seams ripped free of the wool. She wadded the despicable material and tossed it.
They’d taken her sewing basket. Another punishment?
Or were they afraid she’d stab herself with a needle?
Her improvised pick for the door had been buried in the swatches of cloth.
Thank goodness they hadn’t found her journal. At least, she’d had sense enough to return it to its hiding place on the far side of the bed, wedged in tight between the ropes and the mattress.
Her stomach growled as the delicious smell of baked chicken and buttered squash drifted her way, but her supper sat untouched on the silver tray.
She knew better than to eat it after Thea’s comment about the laudanum.
It wouldn’t be the first time they’d laced her food with the mind-numbing sedative after an incident.
And if they figured out she hadn’t eaten, they’d try to get it in her another way.
If she had a fireplace, she’d toss her uneaten meal in there and let it burn, but the chimney that ran up along the outer wall was solid brick, no opening in her room.
The chamber pot would work if Lucy was the one who came to empty it in the morning.
But sometimes they sent a different servant.
Sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Locked in. No escape. Her breath came short and quick. She had to think about something else before panic consumed her.
Morning Fawn paused at the small mirror over the washstand and hugged herself.
Honey-blonde and light-skinned, she no longer looked Comanche.
The mesquite dye used to darken her hair had faded to such a pitiful brown that she’d cut off the ends where the color remained.
Her weather-beaten tan of nine years in the making had retreated in the seventeen months of heavy, bothersome clothing and stifling confinement where stepping outdoors was a privilege to be earned.
If she made it back to Comancheria, would she be welcomed by anyone other than her pia and her ahpu, who had adopted her and loved her as their own?
Since the first days of her life in the village, she’d devoted herself to blending in, to being the best Comanche she could be.
The other girls had years of practice and experience over her, but by the time she was eighteen, she could ride, tan a hide, tear down and erect a tipi, and use a bow and arrow better than most. She’d caught the eye of a warrior named Two Feathers.
But admiration of her skill didn’t equal love.
Stands-His-Ground had taken notice, as well.
A strong warrior and good provider who’d lost his first wife, the man was twice her age.
But her parents, concerned about her future, insisted she seriously consider his offer of marriage.
Marriage to him would have given her standing in the tribe and respect she’d only dreamed of.
Reynolds and his cohorts had torn her away from the village before she’d given her answer.
And here she was. Without a place in the world. Her head pounded. She needed to get her pick back. The security of knowing she could open the door, even if she didn’t, would ease the tension that gripped her chest—
Heavy footsteps sounded on the staircase. Someone was coming to check on her.
Dashing to the dinner tray, she grabbed the plate and dropped to her knees by the bed. Mouthwatering food, but she couldn’t take the chance. She grabbed the chamber pot, yanked off the lid, and dropped the chicken in.
The door lock clicked.
Not enough time. She jumped to her feet and shoved the pot back under the bed, the half-empty plate still clutched in her hand.
The squash slid sideways on the porcelain and onto her rumpled green skirt as the heavy door opened.
Her uncle stood in the entrance, shadowed by Owens, LeBeau’s face as welcoming as a stone. “What have you been up to?” His gaze traveled from the spilled food to the bed.
She cringed. How could she have forgotten to flip the bedcover back down over the side?
Lebeau jutted his finger at Owens. “Look under the bed.” A spoon and a small bottle dangled from his other hand. “I might have known she was too riled up to behave.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.” Her voice cracked, even as she stiffened.
Half tempted to kick him, she stepped aside as Owens knelt and dragged out the pot. Did they think they could get the laudanum down her throat without a fight?
Owens lifted the lid. “Up to her old tricks.”
She opened her hand. The plate clunked on the hardwood floor and chipped.
Jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, her uncle moved toward her. “You’ll have to hold her, Mr. Owens.”
Owens pulled himself up to a stand and cracked his knuckles. “My pleasure.”
They couldn’t give her the laudanum if there wasn’t any. Morning Fawn lunged for the bottle. Her nails dug into LeBeau’s pampered hand. The spoon clattered to the floor, and her fingers closed around the maple-colored glass.
Owens grabbed her from behind and jerked her away from Uncle Robert. The brute’s arms cinched around her as he hauled her backward, squeezing the air from her lungs.
Her uncle reached for her hand.
She flung the laudanum and rammed her heel into the leg of the man behind her.
“Yeow.” Owens yelped but held firm.
Gasping for breath, she kicked at her uncle as he dove for the bottle—
Athud rattled the attic floor above the second-floor guest room. Submerged to his shoulders in the warm, bubbly water of the copper tub, Devon glanced upward and frowned. Morning Fawn?
Hurried feet thumped somewhere above—not over him directly, but nearby.
As Devon sat up and reached for the towel, water sloshed over the sides onto the carpet.
A scuffle followed by raised voices and another thud.
It sounded like a fight. Morning Fawn and who?
Were they trying to tie her or dose her with some concoction?
He hopped out of the most luxurious bath he’d had in his entire life, leaving the dust and grime of weeks on the road behind.
Water and suds streamed off of him as he dashed the towel across his body.
A muffled female yell wafted from the thick ceiling, followed by raised voices and more scuffling.
He had to get up there. Damp hair fell across his forehead as he grabbed his pants.
No time to put on his drawers or undershirt.
He pulled his shirt on and headed for the door, halting in midstride.
His eyepatch. Couldn’t forget that. He snatched it from the bureau and tightened it around his head before charging into the lamp-lit hallway, barefoot, suspenders dangling from his sides.
George, the second rider from the afternoon, stood at the bottom of the ascending stairs conversing with the maid from dinner in a barrage of whispers.
They fell silent as Devon approached.
The young maid, dressed in a simple black dress, clutched her hands. A web of concern clouded her face.
George crossed his arms over his worn coat with its frayed cuffs. “Sorry, Massar. Mr. LeBeau sends his apologies if the noise disturbed ya.”
“Stand aside.” Devon moved to push past the man.
“Sorry, sir.” George planted himself dead center and stretched his arms across. “Orders. No one goes up.”
“You’ve got to be joking.” Devon blew out a breath. “What in the devil are they doing to her up there?”
George pressed his lips flat and shrugged.
More rumbling sounded through the floor.
“You tell me, or I’m going to see for myself.” Devon jabbed his finger toward the man who matched his height and likely his strength.
“It’s her medicine.” The girl knotted her apron in her hands. “They’s giving Miss Logan her medicine.”
“Her medicine? Sounds like they’re wrestling her to the floor.
” He spit out the words. His body trembled with unspent fire.
He was ready to bolt up those stairs and yank LeBeau and whoever else away from Morning Fawn.
He could do it. Then, what? His hands curled into fists.
If he got himself kicked out of the house, he’d have no way to help Morning Fawn in the long run.
And he’d destroy any hope he had of obtaining a reference and jeopardize his mission.
“They’s won’t hurt her, Massar.” The big, brown-eyed girl pleaded with him. Her gaze landed on his chin. “Just hold her down. Give her the medicine.”
Devon scowled at her and George. “They do this every night?”
Uneasy quiet pervaded overhead.
“No, sir.” She held out her callused hands. “Hasn’t happened for months. Please, sir, go back to your room.”
The truth or an appeasement for him?
An angry screech echoed from above.
“Sounds like they finished.” The girl lowered her gaze.
Devon squeezed his eyes shut. He’d brought Morning Fawn back to this house. Put her here in the first place. “Estupida.” He hit his fist against the wall and muttered in Isabelle’s mother tongue. “Brutos. Me gustaria retorcerles el cuello.” I’d like to wring their necks.
A door opened above. The sound of crying drifted down the stairway.