Sins of the Father (3 page)

Frank didn’t argue.
For once
. He got in the van and left us standing in a cloud of dust.

“Shit.” Kicking open the stable door, I paused to let my eyes adjust. The sun would rise in a few hours, but for now we were blanketed in darkness. Only a pale glow at the far end of the alleyway guided my cautious steps.

The last stall on the left housed a single, doublewide cot, a couple piles of hay—haphazardly kicked together—and a blanket tossed on each.
So glad Frank thought of everything.
The cot’s ‘mattress’ was nothing more than a rigid stretch of nylon between four metal posts.

“Unbelievable.” I left one thing to him . . .

A quiet, frightened cry hit me like a punch to the gut as I laid her in the hay. What the hell had I gotten myself into?

Folding the thicker of the two blankets in half, I tucked it around the edges of the cot. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something. Straw clung to her hair and dress when I placed her on top. A soft breath escaped her parted lips as I slid a few pieces free of her curls. Her brow scrunched, but she remained asleep. The cuffs lay discarded on the floor. I’d promised Frank I would use them, but I never said when.

As I stooped to retrieve them, I noticed a couple plastic bags stowed beneath the cot. The girl’s body heat warmed my back where I sat beside her to root through them, pulling out a bottle of water, a muffin, and a half eaten bagel that must have been Frank’s breakfast when he’d dropped this stuff off earlier. I shoved the bagel in my mouth and chewed on the stale onion flavor as I pulled out the second bag.

This one contained about a half-dozen more glass bottles of whatever the hell drug he’d shot her up with on the way here.
No fucking way.
That shit was for animals, for chrissakes. No way were we sticking her with any more needles. We didn’t know a goddamn thing about her medical history. Too much could go wrong.

Too much was already bound to go wrong.

Chapter 3

~Ophelia~

I woke to a herd of wild horses galloping through my skull. My first thought was,
hangover from hell
. I was
so
going to kill Lisa.

My throat felt raw, like I’d swallowed a sandbox, and my eyes were dry and itchy. I tried to rub some of the grit from them, but my hands caught behind my back.

What the—?

I tried again, but my hands refused to come free. What the hell was going on? I twisted my wrists and something cold and hard dug into them, keeping them in place.
Restraints
. I was restrained. And lying on my side on . . . seashells?

I blinked at the obnoxious print filling my somewhat blurry vision and willed my hazy brain to catch up. The smell of moist earth, mildew, and faint traces of . . . was that fertilizer? It smelled like my mother’s garden every spring after the landscapers were through with it. Dampness coated my skin, leaving a chill in my bones. I strained my ears, but it felt as though my head had been stuffed with cotton balls, muting all of my senses. All I could make out was the sound of my own breathing.

I tried to roll over, but it was useless. My elbow kept getting in the way.
Dammit, if I could just—

The high-pitched squeal of rusty hinges brought with it a blinding light, silhouetting a pair of denim clad legs.

They strode toward me and I was afraid. I knew I was afraid. I
should
have been afraid. But my heart refused to acknowledge my fear, beating a slow steady rhythm. My lungs drew deep, even breaths. My skin remained dry. It was as though my body and mind were no longer connected.

Those legs dropped to their knees, bringing a plain brown t-shirt and two thick arms—one with a swirling design done in black ink—into my limited field of vision.

Who? Why couldn’t I remember? How drunk
was
I last night?

My neck was stiff, my own body working against me as I twisted for a better look. Slowly, my gaze inched upward—afraid of what it might discover—until it met with a pair of familiar green eyes.

Emerald?

“Emerald?” The corners of his mouth lifted in amusement.

Shit, did I say that out loud?
“I didn’t know . . . Your eyes . . . they’re green . . . like emeralds.” And the stupid kept on coming. “What . . . what happened? Where am I?”

It was the first smart thing I’d said and he didn’t even bother to acknowledge it.

“How are you feeling?”

“Confused. What happened last night?” Slowly, images trickled through my mind. The party. Lisa. Anthony. The car.
The
cloth
. “What the hell’s going on? What did you do to me? Where am I?”

Sharp pain tore at my wrists as I flailed, tugging at my bonds.

“Relax.” He set a hand on my shoulder and I cried out as though he’d burned me.

My mind was running laps, cycling through a million thoughts at once, one more terrifying than the next.
Who? Where? When?
The most frightening of all were
what
and
why?
Why was I here? What did he want from me? What would he
do
to me?

Still my body didn’t react properly. I’d known terror. I knew what it was supposed to feel like. My senses should’ve all been heightened, focused, not thick and sluggish. My head felt heavy. My limbs like wet noodles.

“What’s wrong with me?” I thought my words slurred, but it was hard to tell through the buzzing in my ears. My eyes burned and my vision grew blurrier.

“Don’t . . .” Emerald frowned and reached for my cheek before curing his fingers into his palm and withdrawing. “It’s just the drugs we gave you. To keep you unconscious until we got here. Don’t worry, they should wear off soon. There’re no lasting side-effects or anything.”

Drugs? Side-effects?
Jesus
.
Where the hell was ‘here’?

I blinked hard, ridding myself of useless tears. Old wood boards made up the walls. Two were tall, going all the way up to a rusted tin ceiling. Pale light illuminated the spacing between the planks. The other two were shorter, dividing our room from a larger structure. A wide door made up most of one of those. I squinted into the light of an electric lantern hanging from a large metal hook in a beam near the door. The dampness that coated my skin was the kind you got from being in a tent, not truly protected from the elements. And the floor was coated with dust and . . . hay?

“You . . . you drugged me, tied me up, a-and brought me t-to a . . . a farm?”

Emerald nodded, but that was it. I got nothing else. It might have been obvious to him, but my brain was still struggling to compute all of this into something that resembled logic. I was desperately trying not to overreact, but I was beginning to wonder if that was even possible.
What was the proper reaction to being kidnapped?

“And you’re telling me
not to worry
?”

“Alright.” He nodded again, this time moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “Valid point. But worrying isn’t going to help you.”

Why was that not comforting?

I didn’t like him looming over me. My breathing turned quick and shallow, and before I knew it I was gasping for air. He was serious about those drugs wearing off. My hands shook as I struggled to sit. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without Emerald’s hand on my arm, guiding me into position.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?”

I did. I
really
did. But I needed answers more. Information.
Something
I could know. Something I could hang on to. I was clinging to a fast unraveling thread of control.

“What do you want? Why am I here?
Please
. Just tell me what you want.”

Emerald sighed. He looked tired. Almost . . . sad? “This isn’t about
you,
Sparrow.”

“S-sparrow?”

“You remind me of a little bird. Perched and ready to take flight. Trust me, that’s not a good idea here.” He shrugged. “Besides, it only seems fair if you’re going to be calling me Emerald. Now do you have to go or not?”

I bit my lip and nodded. Further information could wait a few more minutes. My bladder could not.

His hand slid out of sight behind my back and every last one of my muscles locked up tight. Even my lungs went on lockdown.

“I’m going to release your hands.” He talked to me like a frightened animal—soft and slow—and maybe that’s all I was. “I don’t like using the restraints or the drugs. Don’t make us and we won’t have to.”

I swallowed hard, but my throat was as dry as the Sahara.

“We?” He’d said it more than once, but I had yet to see anyone other than him.

Damn him and the nods. “Let’s go.”

With a firm grip that lacked the bruising force of Anthony’s from the party the night before, Emerald escorted me down a long corridor that ran the length of the stable. From the look of things, this place hadn’t been used in a while. Gritty dirt coated the soles of my feet, which I belatedly realized were bare. I had no clue where my shoes were, not that the three inch heels were going to do me a hell of a lot of good. Boards were warped or missing entirely in places along the walls. I slowed, trying to steal a glimpse of anything that might tell me where we were, but all I could see were endless overgrown fields in every direction.

My fingers trembled as I ran them along the reddened skin encircling my wrists. “Can you tell me one thing? Just
one thing
? Please?”

He frowned with impatience, so when he agreed to, “One thing,” it surprised all coherent thoughts from my head.

Of all the things I could have asked him—all the useful information I could have garnered that may have actually proved helpful in some way—what I uttered was, “What’s your name?”

A flash of surprise widened those emerald eyes. I assumed he wasn’t going to answer. I almost hoped he didn’t. After all, what kidnapper wants their victim to know who they are? It was dangerous information. Information that could get him into a lot of trouble. Information that could get me killed.

Then he sealed my fate with one little word, “Sawyer.”

Six stalls lined the corridor, three on each side with two small rooms at the far end. Tattered leather remnants of riding gear hung from pegs in the one on the right. The one on the left had a regular door and four real walls.

There was a toilet that looked as though it hadn’t been used in a decade with a roll of toilet paper sitting on top, and I was pathetically grateful when Sawyer chose to wait outside. Water ran clear and cold into a large white basin with a functional, no frills faucet. While I waited to see if it would warm, I made a quick check of my options.

There were none. No windows, no towels . . . not even a mirror. What kind of bathroom didn’t have a mirror?

When the water only grew colder, I splashed it over my hands and wiped them on the stupid black dress I was still wearing. Mascara clumped my lashes together and I could only imagine what the rest of my makeup must look like. Palming handfuls of water I scrubbed my face until my skin felt chapped and then wiped it all away with a wad of toilet paper. At least I could see better now.

“Better?” Sawyer was leaning against the wall just outside the door, no doubt listening to my every move.

“Much.” I hesitated to ask, but decided that not knowing would be worse. “Now what?”

“Now . . . we wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Don’t worry about it.” There he went telling me not to worry again.

There was about a thirty second timeframe where I briefly considered making a run for it as he ushered me back to the stall, but realistically how far would I make it? Sawyer’s legs were a solid foot longer and mine were still wobbly. I could have tried to fight him, but what would that have accomplished? He hadn’t done anything to hurt me yet and the last thing I wanted to do was give him a reason. Provoking him would be foolish. He was so much bigger than me. Without Lisa’s heels, I found myself at eye level with his chest. A broad chest, stretching the fabric of his threadbare tee. The thing was so old and worn it did very little to conceal the wall of solid muscle beneath. Yeah, no, fighting was out of the question. For now.

The cold water helped to wash away some of the foggy haze and I returned a little more clear-headed. The ‘bed’ I’d been lying on earlier was nothing more than a wide cot with a comforter thrown on top—the source of my beachy view when I woke. A second blanket was tossed in a heap near the rear wall and there was a blueberry muffin sitting on the floor beside a bottle of water. My mind warned me that any of it could be drugged, but my stomach didn’t seem to care. It rumbled like a dump truck at the sight.

“You’re hungry.” It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t bother answering him. “Here.”

I examined the crumbly pastry as though it might give me some hint if it was safe to eat. It looked like a blueberry muffin. Smelled like a blueberry muffin. My stomach protested my delay once more as I mentally calculated how long it had been since the last time I ate. The sun was still up, but if the shadows stretching across the floor were any indication, it would soon set. Maybe twenty-four hours?
A whole day lost.
Chills swept up my spine.

“You can eat it.” Sawyer leaned up against the second short wall, arms folded across his chest as he watched me struggle with my decision. “It’s just a muffin, I swear. I know it’s not much.” He picked up the water bottle and handed that to me, as well. “We’ll get more supplies in tomorrow.”

More supplies? How long was he planning on being here?

I felt a little better when I twisted off the top and heard the seal crack. The water was warm, but it was a relief the whole way down, easing the burn in my throat and washing away the foul taste of leftover alcohol. When the bottle was half empty, I perched on the edge of the cot to nibble at the muffin.

My legs still weren’t entirely stable. Add to that the terror, panic, and confusion . . . It was a crippling combination.