Beth Cornelison - Rancher's Hostage Rescue

They sat in the silent room for several minutes. Then her hand moved. Her fingers curled to grip his more tightly. And a lightness spiraled through him. He’d been given a second chance. Although he’d failed Lilly’s sister, he had an opportunity to make a difference for Lilly.

Somehow he would. Or he’d die trying.

* * *

Lilly flinched when she heard the back door slam and the heavy footsteps of the robber returning.

“Listen, Lilly. If, at any time, he shoots at us,” Dave said, in a hushed and hurried voice, “get low. Try to get under the bed. I’ll do my best to cover you.”

Lilly’s heartbeat accelerated. While she’d been dwelling on the horridness of their situation, Dave had been working through strategies, possibilities. Plans that involved him sacrificing himself to protect her. “Dave, you can’t—”

“Just do it! Roll under the bed if at all possible. I’ll—”

“Hey!” The robber appeared again at the door of the bedroom, an orange prescription bottle in his hand, and he sent them a warning look. “What are you two talking about?”

Dave sat taller, and against her back, she felt the tension enter his body. “Nothing.”

The robber stepped into the room, his expression darkening. “Don’t lie. I heard you talking.”

“He was asking me if I was all right. If you’d hurt me,” Lilly said, hoping her apparent cooperation would win points, maybe a degree of trust. “I told him you hadn’t. That I’d helped you with your wound and that was it.”

The robber lifted an eyebrow and nodded slowly. As if remembering the pills in his hand, he twisted off the childproof lid, shook out a capsule and swallowed it without water. When he pressed the cap back on, he fumbled the bottle. It fell to the floor and rolled toward Lilly. The robber grumbled and trudged over to pick it up.

Lilly cut a quick glance to the prescription bottle, reading the label to see what he was taking, an address, anything she could glean about the man before he recovered the pills.

The chain-drugstore logo jumped out at her and below that tramadol and Wayne Mo—

Their captor snatched up the bottle and shoved it in his pocket.

“Wayne,” she said quietly, and he jerked is head around to glare at her.

“What?”

“That’s your name. Isn’t it? Wayne.”

He frowned as he blinked at her. “How’d you guess?”

“It was on the pills.”

He twisted his mouth in frustration and defeat but didn’t confirm her assertion.

“Tramadol,” she continued. “That’s heavy-duty stuff.”

His pale-eyed stare met hers. “Cancer causes heavy-duty pain.”

Dave raised his chin, his attention clearly snagged by this information.

The robber— Wayne —angled his head as he growled, “That’s right, Hero. I got cancer. So what? It doesn’t change a thing about this situation.” He motioned with the gun, indicating all three of them. “Now, you two behave yourselves while I go find something to eat and get some rest. I need to be sharp to figure out what’s gotta happen next, and right now, I feel like crap.”

He stopped at the door and pulled something from his back pocket. “Oh, and in case you were hoping to get your hands on this—”

He held up her cell phone, and Lilly’s gut swooped. Obviously he’d ransacked her stolen purse.

“—thinking you’d call the cops or someone would track you by it...think again.”

He stashed the gun in his waistband to free that hand and pried the protective, butterfly-decorated case off her phone. Wayne flipped over her phone, and thumb-scrolled one-handed through her screens of personal information.

“By the way,” he said with a smirk, “Gloria sends her best. Says she knows how hard this is for you and proposes you two go out for drinks when you get back.” He thumb-scrolled again, still reading her texts.

Lilly clenched her back teeth, fighting tears of outrage for his violation of her privacy. She hated being at this man’s mercy, feeling so helpless.

“Jillian is canceling for the thirtieth.” Wayne flicked a casual glance at her. “Forgot her kid had an orthodontist appointment. Wants to reschedule when you get back.” With a gloating grin twisting his mouth, he gazed at her from under hooded eyes. “Maybe she should say if you get back. Alan says the alimony check will be late next month. Still waiting for a client to pay their bill before he can pay you.” Wayne cast her a curious look. “Alimony, huh? Good news, Alan. You may soon be off the hook for that.”

“You ass,” Dave grumbled, his tone venomous.

Wayne ignored him and continued, “Gail P. sent a picture of a kid with ice cream on his face with an L-O- L . And someone named Isaac wants to trade work days on the weekend of the fourth. And, finally, your phone bill is ready for viewing and will auto-draft on the fifteenth.” He met her eyes and cocked his head. “There. All caught up. Now...”

Digging his fingernails into the side of the phone, he pried off the back, tapped out her battery, pinched the SD card from the slot and dropped the rest of the phone on the floor.

“Don’t!” she cried desperately, knowing what he had in mind a fraction of a second before he stomped the screen and shattered the device to sad pieces. Carrying the SD card in his fingers, he disappeared into the bathroom, and she heard him flush the commode.

She drew a deep breath, searching for the stoicism she wished she could present Wayne. Despite her best efforts, her sigh still shuddered with emotion. As Wayne emerged from the bathroom, she firmed her jaw and forced steel in her spine. She met his gloating grin with disdain in her glare.

“Problem solved. Now, keep it quiet in here.” Wayne strode to the door and shot them a minatory look. “Nothing has gone right today, and I’ve got to make a new plan.”

Pressing his hand over the throbbing wound just under his arm, Wayne sank onto the sofa and rocked his head back to stare at the ceiling. The cottage-cheese texturing overhead was the same kind he’d had on his bedroom ceiling as a kid. Unlike this one, the ceiling in his bedroom had had spider webs dangling in the corners and a water stain by the light. He’d stared at the popcorn bumps many a night listening to his parents argue...or screw. Or hearing his mother rant about nonsense when she’d get high.

His bedroom had grown silent at night the day his mother OD’d. She’d gone out to meet up with her dealer and had never come back. No great loss there, he’d told himself stoically. With her death, he and his dad were free to do their own thing. Move around the country. Never look back.

Only time he missed her was when his dad vented the drunken rage he used to take out on his mom on him. The beatings forced Wayne to grow up fast. He’d learned to hide on the nights his dad drank, and as he gained his own muscle, he’d learned to fight back. His dad said facing the belt had toughened him up, taught him respect. Maybe it had. Mostly the beatings added bitterness to the love-hate relationship he’d had with his old man.

Moving slowly, Wayne raised his feet to the couch and stretched out, his gut full of sour reproach. If his dad could see how things had gotten screwed up today, he’d be laughing his ass off. Or smacking him around to teach him a lesson. He’d scorned his dad for checking out at the St. Louis hit. Today, Wayne had blown a much smaller job. Who was the real screwup?

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