Page 32 of Captive of Outlaws

Rob scowls at Jack. “Only you can get away with calling me by my full name, J.”

Jack rolls his eyes. I turn to him and give him a small smile.

“And I’m flattered, but I’m no Lauren Bacall,” I say, offering my hand. “Maren.”

He takes it and shakes it with a surprisingly firm grip. “Fine. Katharine Hepburn, then. What can I get you into today, Miss Maren?”

“I...” I stupidly look at Rob, of all people, for guidance.

“Everything,” he says. “She’s literally got the clothes on her back.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Jack cries. “It’s a crime to keep you in those things.”

I feel the strange need to defend my borrowed sweats. “They’re comfortable,” I say. A sudden, way-too-late thought hits me, as I glance at the tasteful placards declaring100% cashmereandgenuine mulberry silkand take in the bright pastels of ladies-who-lunch type dresses. “Look, I just need the basics.” I glance at Rob. “I’ll pay you back.”

Rob, who’s been skimming through a catalog of golf gear, looks up. “No, you won’t.”

“What? Ah!” I jump as Jack threads a measuring tape under my arms and around my chest.

“Pardon!” he chirps.

“No worries,” I mumble, and fix my eyes back on Rob. “Yes, I will. I can’t just let you...buy me clothes.”Especially clothes this nice,I want to add.

Jack cinches the tape, scribbles down a measurement, and moves to my waist. “Miss Maren, with all due respect, don’t you know it’s rude to refuse a gift?” He straightens up from measuring my inseam and takes my hands into his. “Trust me, miss. There aren’t many men—round Sherwood, or anywhere—who actually want to do what’s right. But Rob and his boys...they’re the real deal. Okay?”

His honey-colored eyes look almost like they’re welling up, and I’m so shocked by this heartfelt testimonial that all I can do is nod.

“Okay,” I say. “Because I don’t want to be rude.”

Rob grins. “Good girl.”

Good girl.My mouth goes dry. Which I ignore.

Jack jots down the last of my numbers and starts flicking through racks, pulling things off as he goes. I stand awkwardly on the measuring pedestal, my lumpy sweats-clad self mirrored in every direction for infinity, while Rob casually settles in an armchair.

“Speaking of,” Rob says to Jack, “how’s business?”

“Oh, Lord.” Jack appears from around the corner clutching the hangers of a mass of garments in each hand. “You’re so kind to ask. It’s good, though.”

“Is it really?” Rob’s voice has just the slightest edge to it. “You’re covering the overhead?”

Jack busies himself straightening the slacks and dresses he’s setting up on a portable rack, picking off lint that’s barely even visible. “Well, I wouldn’t want to complain—”

“Yes, you would.” Rob chuckles.

“Not toyou,” Jack retorts. “After you’ve been so generous. But—” He stops himself and gestures for me. “Miss Maren, darling, come here.” He selects a few pieces off the rack and shoves them into my hands. “Dressing room’s right behind you, lovely. Show me what you’ve got.” He shoos me away, but as I pull the curtain shut, I can hear him lower his voice and continue his conversation with Rob.

“We got a new tax assessment in the mail not two days ago,” Jack’s voice says. “They’ve reevaluated the property value.”

I survey what he’s given me: it’s not bad, actually. In fact, it’s literally a T-shirt and jeans. But the T-shirt feels delicious—a soft, almost fluid material in a gorgeous deep plum color—and the jeans are black, boot cut, with the heft of quality denim.This ain’t no Wal-Mart shit, I think, in my best hillbilly voice.

“And?” Rob asks as I tug the sweatshirt over my head.

“They’ve valued us at three point five,” Jack says.

“Million?”

“Yes, sir.” Jack sounds disappointed, almost sad.

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