he smelled like a girl. She relented and rewarded him by washing dishes last night.
As she hung the dress on the line, she heard the men talking among themselves.
“Boris, maybe you ought to ride back to Louisville and git a paper—see if there’s anything in there about Ferry’s daughter being held for ransom.”
“Why me? Grunt was jest there.”
“’Cause Grunt didn’t git no paper. Cain’t you take orders no more?”
“What makes you think there’d be anything in the Louisville paper?” Grunt’s voice drifted through the open doorway.
“News that the senator’s daughter’s been kidnapped will be in every paper!”
“Maybe Ferry’s kept the news quiet.”
“No way! He’ll have every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the county lookin’ for her.”
After all the arguing, Boris was elected to ride back to Louisville the following morning. They waited for him to return with news of Ferry’s distress.
On the third morning, Hope awoke with a splitting headache, a hammer pounding between her temples. She emerged from behind the blanket that afforded her privacy. She was aware of Grunt’s eyes on her as he put sausage in the skillet to fry. Concern tinged his features. “Are you ill, Miss Ferry?”
“I have a small headache.” Hope sat down at the table, feeling a little light-headed. The scratchy irritation had turned into a ferocious sore throat, and she felt hot all over. She got up to put plates on the table.
Big Joe and Frog were stirring by then, grumbling about all the racket. Five adults in one cramped room wasn’t the most pleasant way to spend a life. They were getting on each other’s nerves.
By the time breakfast was over, Hope was feeling decidedly worse.
Aware that Grunt was still watching her, she got up from the table, leaving her plate of food virtually untouched. She couldn’t let them know she was ill. She had her bluff in on Big Joe, and she intended to keep it that way.
“I’ll wash the dishes,” she volunteered, forcing herself to sound perkier than she felt.
“Sit down,” Grunt ordered.
“I want to wash—”
The outlaw sat her down in a chair, then touched his large hand to her forehead. “She’s got a fever.”
Big Joe turned from the mantel. “Sick? She’s sick!”
“I’m not sick. . . . I’m only feeling slightly unpleasant.” Sick as a dog, actually, but she couldn’t, just couldn’t, give in to whatever had her feeling so bad.
They turned as the door opened and Boris stomped in. Giving Hope a dark glance, he strode into the room, shrugging out of his coat.
Big Joe frowned. “Well?”
“She ain’t Ferry’s daughter!” he declared hotly, throwing his hat onto the table. Hope shrank back as he glared at her.
“What?” Big Joe’s head snapped up. “What d’you mean, ‘She ain’t Ferry’s daughter’?”
“She ain’t his daughter!” Boris repeated.
“Who told you that?”
“This.” Boris tossed a copy of the Louisville Courier-Journal onto the table.
Big Joe glanced at the paper, then colored a bright crimson. “You know I ain’t got no learnin’. What’s it say?”
Grunt picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the headlines. He read, “‘Distinguished Kentuckian Honored by Michigan Senator.
“‘William Campbell Preston Breckinridge, distinguished Kentucky lawyer, editor, soldier, was a special guest in the home of Michigan’s Senator Thomas White Ferry. Mr. Breckinridge was the honored guest at the annual Spring Ball held last week, where he was accompanied by Miss Anne Ferry, the senator’s daughter—’”
The outlaws turned to look at her.
Hope slid out of the chair in a dead faint.
Angry voices tried to penetrate her thick fog. Hope struggled to consciousness, wondering what those awful men were squabbling about this time. She felt as hot as a firecracker, and her head threatened to split in half. If only the voices would go away. They were angry, full of rage.
“No arguin’. We gotta get rid of
As she hung the dress on the line, she heard the men talking among themselves.
“Boris, maybe you ought to ride back to Louisville and git a paper—see if there’s anything in there about Ferry’s daughter being held for ransom.”
“Why me? Grunt was jest there.”
“’Cause Grunt didn’t git no paper. Cain’t you take orders no more?”
“What makes you think there’d be anything in the Louisville paper?” Grunt’s voice drifted through the open doorway.
“News that the senator’s daughter’s been kidnapped will be in every paper!”
“Maybe Ferry’s kept the news quiet.”
“No way! He’ll have every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the county lookin’ for her.”
After all the arguing, Boris was elected to ride back to Louisville the following morning. They waited for him to return with news of Ferry’s distress.
On the third morning, Hope awoke with a splitting headache, a hammer pounding between her temples. She emerged from behind the blanket that afforded her privacy. She was aware of Grunt’s eyes on her as he put sausage in the skillet to fry. Concern tinged his features. “Are you ill, Miss Ferry?”
“I have a small headache.” Hope sat down at the table, feeling a little light-headed. The scratchy irritation had turned into a ferocious sore throat, and she felt hot all over. She got up to put plates on the table.
Big Joe and Frog were stirring by then, grumbling about all the racket. Five adults in one cramped room wasn’t the most pleasant way to spend a life. They were getting on each other’s nerves.
By the time breakfast was over, Hope was feeling decidedly worse.
Aware that Grunt was still watching her, she got up from the table, leaving her plate of food virtually untouched. She couldn’t let them know she was ill. She had her bluff in on Big Joe, and she intended to keep it that way.
“I’ll wash the dishes,” she volunteered, forcing herself to sound perkier than she felt.
“Sit down,” Grunt ordered.
“I want to wash—”
The outlaw sat her down in a chair, then touched his large hand to her forehead. “She’s got a fever.”
Big Joe turned from the mantel. “Sick? She’s sick!”
“I’m not sick. . . . I’m only feeling slightly unpleasant.” Sick as a dog, actually, but she couldn’t, just couldn’t, give in to whatever had her feeling so bad.
They turned as the door opened and Boris stomped in. Giving Hope a dark glance, he strode into the room, shrugging out of his coat.
Big Joe frowned. “Well?”
“She ain’t Ferry’s daughter!” he declared hotly, throwing his hat onto the table. Hope shrank back as he glared at her.
“What?” Big Joe’s head snapped up. “What d’you mean, ‘She ain’t Ferry’s daughter’?”
“She ain’t his daughter!” Boris repeated.
“Who told you that?”
“This.” Boris tossed a copy of the Louisville Courier-Journal onto the table.
Big Joe glanced at the paper, then colored a bright crimson. “You know I ain’t got no learnin’. What’s it say?”
Grunt picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the headlines. He read, “‘Distinguished Kentuckian Honored by Michigan Senator.
“‘William Campbell Preston Breckinridge, distinguished Kentucky lawyer, editor, soldier, was a special guest in the home of Michigan’s Senator Thomas White Ferry. Mr. Breckinridge was the honored guest at the annual Spring Ball held last week, where he was accompanied by Miss Anne Ferry, the senator’s daughter—’”
The outlaws turned to look at her.
Hope slid out of the chair in a dead faint.
Angry voices tried to penetrate her thick fog. Hope struggled to consciousness, wondering what those awful men were squabbling about this time. She felt as hot as a firecracker, and her head threatened to split in half. If only the voices would go away. They were angry, full of rage.
“No arguin’. We gotta get rid of
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