“Miss Anne is resting comfortably, sir. She took some tea and toast a short while ago and said to tell you she plans to nap the morning away.”
Thomas Ferry’s face sagged with relief. “Thank God.” He tossed the note into the wastepaper basket. “That will be all, Bernard. Now—” he turned back to address Miss Finch— “where were we?”
Hope pointed to a corner. “You missed a cobweb.”
Boris picked up the broom, his beady eyes trying to pinpoint the offender. He swung the broom in the general direction of her finger. “Satisfied?”
She shrugged, smothering a cough. These pesky sniffles were getting worse. And her throat was scratchy this morning. It was this infernal drafty cabin. She’d be deathly ill if she didn’t get warm soon. Her feet were like two blocks of ice. “It’s still there.”
“I can’t git this stupid broom into corners,” Boris groused.
“You can if you gently push, instead of jam,” Hope explained for the third time that morning.
Boris rammed the head of the broom in the cracks, trying to dig the dirt out. “What do you think this is, some ladies seminary or somethin’?”
“No. I think this is a miserable excuse for a living establishment!” Hope snapped, then immediately repented. If the Lord could love Boris, surely she could put up with him awhile longer. “Though it is a great deal better than it was.”
Which wasn’t saying much.
One month. Had it been only a month since this unending nightmare had begun? It seemed like years. The men had kept their distance well enough. Grunt had seen to that, but she wanted out. She tried hard to keep up her spirits. Papa would say that everything that happened to a person was meant for a reason—though she couldn’t imagine what good would come of her mistaken abduction.
Grunt continued to puzzle her with his soft-spoken commands and almost protective attitude toward her. Was he only looking after his interest? It was increasingly hard to maintain the belief that he was a ruthless outlaw when at times he seemed the exact opposite. Just last night he’d made sure she had the biggest piece of venison. That was nice—even if she did hate venison.
“Well, this ain’t no boardinghouse, and I’m tired of washin’ dishes, and I ain’t sweepin’ no more floors. And if I have to take another bath in that creek, I’m gonna prune up permanent-like.”
Hope looked up as Grunt came in the front door. His dark eyes took in the confrontation. “If you’re tired of keeping house, Boris, why don’t you take these rabbits and dress them for supper?”
“Fine. Anything to get away from Miss Bossy.” Boris grabbed the rabbits and stomped out the door.
Big Joe sat up on the cot, scratching his belly. “What’d you find out in Louisville?”
“Nothing at the post office.” Grunt moved to the sink to wash up.
Big Joe frowned. “Nothin’.” His eyes pivoted to Hope. “It’s takin’ too long—don’t yore daddy care what happens to you?”
Her daddy had indeed cared for her. Unfortunately, Thomas Ferry didn’t.
“Perhaps the ransom’s been lost. That happens to mail, you know. Maybe—”
“Maybe you should just keep quiet.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t ask so many questions and make me have to talk.”
“Well, maybe I like to ask questions!”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to answer them.”
“Maybe both of you should find something more productive to do with your time,” Grunt snapped.
Hope rinsed the dress she was washing, then squeezed the water out. She flicked a few drops at Frog. He stiffened, shooting her a lethal look. Stepping around him, she announced, “I’m going to hang my wash.”
“Good,” Joe mumbled and dropped his head back to the pillow. “With any luck you’ll hang yoreself.”
Or you, Hope thought. He was just sore. She’d made him wash his filthy shirt yesterday, and Joe didn’t take kindly to soap and water. He’d griped for hours afterward, complaining that
Thomas Ferry’s face sagged with relief. “Thank God.” He tossed the note into the wastepaper basket. “That will be all, Bernard. Now—” he turned back to address Miss Finch— “where were we?”
Hope pointed to a corner. “You missed a cobweb.”
Boris picked up the broom, his beady eyes trying to pinpoint the offender. He swung the broom in the general direction of her finger. “Satisfied?”
She shrugged, smothering a cough. These pesky sniffles were getting worse. And her throat was scratchy this morning. It was this infernal drafty cabin. She’d be deathly ill if she didn’t get warm soon. Her feet were like two blocks of ice. “It’s still there.”
“I can’t git this stupid broom into corners,” Boris groused.
“You can if you gently push, instead of jam,” Hope explained for the third time that morning.
Boris rammed the head of the broom in the cracks, trying to dig the dirt out. “What do you think this is, some ladies seminary or somethin’?”
“No. I think this is a miserable excuse for a living establishment!” Hope snapped, then immediately repented. If the Lord could love Boris, surely she could put up with him awhile longer. “Though it is a great deal better than it was.”
Which wasn’t saying much.
One month. Had it been only a month since this unending nightmare had begun? It seemed like years. The men had kept their distance well enough. Grunt had seen to that, but she wanted out. She tried hard to keep up her spirits. Papa would say that everything that happened to a person was meant for a reason—though she couldn’t imagine what good would come of her mistaken abduction.
Grunt continued to puzzle her with his soft-spoken commands and almost protective attitude toward her. Was he only looking after his interest? It was increasingly hard to maintain the belief that he was a ruthless outlaw when at times he seemed the exact opposite. Just last night he’d made sure she had the biggest piece of venison. That was nice—even if she did hate venison.
“Well, this ain’t no boardinghouse, and I’m tired of washin’ dishes, and I ain’t sweepin’ no more floors. And if I have to take another bath in that creek, I’m gonna prune up permanent-like.”
Hope looked up as Grunt came in the front door. His dark eyes took in the confrontation. “If you’re tired of keeping house, Boris, why don’t you take these rabbits and dress them for supper?”
“Fine. Anything to get away from Miss Bossy.” Boris grabbed the rabbits and stomped out the door.
Big Joe sat up on the cot, scratching his belly. “What’d you find out in Louisville?”
“Nothing at the post office.” Grunt moved to the sink to wash up.
Big Joe frowned. “Nothin’.” His eyes pivoted to Hope. “It’s takin’ too long—don’t yore daddy care what happens to you?”
Her daddy had indeed cared for her. Unfortunately, Thomas Ferry didn’t.
“Perhaps the ransom’s been lost. That happens to mail, you know. Maybe—”
“Maybe you should just keep quiet.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t ask so many questions and make me have to talk.”
“Well, maybe I like to ask questions!”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to answer them.”
“Maybe both of you should find something more productive to do with your time,” Grunt snapped.
Hope rinsed the dress she was washing, then squeezed the water out. She flicked a few drops at Frog. He stiffened, shooting her a lethal look. Stepping around him, she announced, “I’m going to hang my wash.”
“Good,” Joe mumbled and dropped his head back to the pillow. “With any luck you’ll hang yoreself.”
Or you, Hope thought. He was just sore. She’d made him wash his filthy shirt yesterday, and Joe didn’t take kindly to soap and water. He’d griped for hours afterward, complaining that
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