Page 69 of Just Imagine
He stood to pocket the comb, and as he walked out of his ruined mill, his face twisted with a vicious, deadly sense of purpose.
She’d had her revenge. Now it was his turn.
14
It was midafternoon before he found her. She was huddled beneath an old wagon that had been abandoned during the war in some brush at the northern edge of the plantation. He saw the soot streaks on her face and arms, the scorched places on her blue dress. Incredibly, she was asleep. He prodded her hip with the toe of his boot.
Her eyes flew open, but he was standing against the sun, and all she could see was a great menacing shape looming above her. Still, she didn’t need to see more to know who he was. She tried to scramble to her feet, but he settled his boot on her skirt, pinning her to the ground.
“You’re not going anyplace.”
Something dropped in front of her. She looked down to see the melted silver hair comb.
“Next time you decide to burn something down, don’t leave a calling card.”
Her stomach churned. She managed a hoarse whisper. “Let me explain.” It was a stupid thing to say. How could she explain? He already understood too well.
His head shifted slightly, blocking the sun for an instant. She winced as she glimpsed his eyes. They were hard, cold, and empty. Mercifully, he moved and the sun blinded her again.
“Did Parsell help you?”
“No! Brandon wouldn’t do such a—” Brandon wouldn’t, but she would. She wiped the back of her hand over her dry lips and tried to get up, but he wouldn’t move his foot.
“I’m sorry.” The words were so inadequate.
“I’m sure you’re sorry that the fire didn’t get it all.”
“No, that’s not— Risen Glory is my life.” Her throat was raw from the smoke, and she needed water, but first she had to try to explain. “This plantation is all I ever wanted. I . . . needed to marry Brandon so I’d have control of the money in my trust fund. I was going to use it to buy Risen Glory from you.”
“And how were you going to make me sell? Another fire?”
“No. What happened last night . . . it was . . .” She tried to breathe. “I saw the ledgers, so I knew you were overextended. All it would have taken was a bad season, and you’d have gone under. I wanted to be ready. I wasn’t out to cheat you. I’d have given you a fair price for the land. And I didn’t want the mill.”
“So that’s why you were so determined to get married. I guess even a Parsell isn’t above marrying for money.”
“It wasn’t like that. We’re fond of each other. It’s just . . .” Her voice trailed off. What was the use? He was right.
He lifted his foot from her skirt and walked over to Vandal. There was nothing he could do to her that was worse than what he’d already planned. Sending her back to New York would be like dying.
He came toward her again, a canteen in his hand. “Drink.”
She took it from him and tilted the rim to her lips. The water was warm and metallic, but she drank her fill. Only when she handed the canteen back did she see what dangled from his fingers.
A long, thin cord.
Before she could move, he caught up her wrists and wrapped the cord around them.
“Baron! Don’t do this.”
He tied the ends to the axle of the old wagon and headed back to his horse without responding.
“Stop it. What are you doing?”
He vaulted into the saddle and spun the horse out. As suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.
The afternoon passed with agonizing slowness. He hadn’t fastened the cord so tightly that it cut into her wrists, but he’d done the job well enough that she couldn’t free herself. Her shoulders ached from the strain of her position. Mosquitoes buzzed around her, and her stomach rumbled with hunger, but the thought of food made her nauseous. She was too filled with self-hatred.
He returned at dusk and dismounted with the slow, easy grace that no longer deceived her. He’d changed into a clean white shirt and fawn trousers, all of it at odds with her filthy condition. He pulled something from his saddlebags and moved toward her, the brim of his tan hat shadowing his face.
