Linda Warren - The Sheriff of Horseshoe, Texas

The tiny lightbulb cast depressing shadows in the cell. This couldn’t be happening to her. She’d planned to drink and party with her sorority sisters until she could no longer see her beautiful mother with that man. Oh, how could she marry Garland Wingate!

He was so different from her scholarly, gentle father. Garland owned an oil company and wore cowboy boots. So uncouth. Much like the sheriff of this one-horse town.

What was she going to do? Quinn would probably let her stew overnight and be here in the morning. But what if he didn’t? He was angry with her and had a right to be. She needed to talk to her mother and apologize. Then this terrible nightmare would end.

She still had her phone. The sheriff had forgotten to retrieve it. Ignoring her brother’s warning, she punched in her mother’s number. It rang once and went to voice mail. Of course. Her mother was on her honeymoon.

Anger flashed through Peyton and she fought it. There was nothing she could do now. Her mother had married Garland. She started to leave a message, but what would she say? How could she excuse her behavior? She couldn’t even explain it to herself.

Good manners. Good behavior. She’d left those behind the moment she’d decided to run.

Slowly she placed the phone on the cot and glanced around at her dismal surroundings. Ohmygod! She was in jail—locked up. It suddenly hit her like a slap in the face and it stung. She had to find a way out of here. She wasn’t a criminal.

“Hey, fancy lady, ya sleep?” the man named Zeke called.

“Leave me alone,” she said.

“Ya got a fella?”

Could she be in any more of a backwater? “Shut up.”

“I got a place on the river, even got runnin’ water.”

Was this idiot for real?

“I wanna marry up and I’d be good to ya, might even put in a bathroom for ya. Whaddaya say, fancy lady?”

“The only thing I want is to get out of this jail.”

“I git ya outta here.”

That caught her attention. “How?” She immediately wanted to snatch the word back. Had she completely lost her mind?

“I got ways.”

“Just leave me alone, okay?” The last thing she wanted was to get involved with this crazy person. She felt something touch her ankle and she jumped, tucking her feet beneath her on the cot. It was probably a roach. Her skin crawled with revulsion. How was she going to survive this night?

“Hey, Lamar,” Zeke shouted. “I feel sick.”

“Go to sleep, Zeke,” The deputy shouted back.

“I’m gonna throw up. The food must a been bad.”

“You’re trying my patience tonight.”

Loud thuds echoed on the concrete. The deputy was coming to the cell.

She got to her feet and peered out to see what was going on. She had a feeling the man wasn’t sick. What was he up to?

“I got a fever, too. Feel me.”

The deputy stuck in his hand to touch Zeke’s forehead. As he did, Zeke’s thick arm snapped out and grabbed the deputy around the neck, yanking him up against the bars. The deputy jerked, coughed, sputtered and slid to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Ohmigod! What did the man do? Peyton wondered if Lamar was alive. He was so still. She swallowed back a scream.

Zeke crouched down and through the bars reached for the keys on the deputy’s belt. A sly smile crossed his bearded face as he withdrew them. Then he reached for the gun and stuffed it into the waistband of his worn, dirty jeans. Quickly he inserted the key into the lock and opened the door.

He stepped over the deputy’s body and, to her horror, unlocked her door. No! No! She took a couple of steps backward and looked for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing but her high heels. As he advanced on her, a glint in his bloodshot eyes, she bent down to pick one up.

Before she could reach it, he grabbed her around the neck and jerked her up against his body. “I told ya, fancy lady, I git ya outta here.”

Her scream wedged in her throat and she couldn’t breathe. The man had a foul body odor and he smacked his lips in glee. His shaggy, grayish beard brushed against her cheek like a Brillo pad, and chills skipped across her skin.

He dragged her toward the door and she realized he was taking her with him. She kicked back with her feet and connected with his shins, but it didn’t even faze him.

“Let me go, you beast!”

“Ya want outta here, so I’m taking ya to my place. Ya belong to me now.”

“What?” Her body grew weak with fright. She wanted out of here, but not like this.

“The sheriff won’t find us, might not even look. He’ll be glad to see the back of ya, fancy lady.”

Her breath came in shallow gasps as he lugged her struggling body to a back door.

Where’s the sheriff? went repeatedly through her mind like a prayer before a disaster. He was her only hope. Just moments ago she never wanted to set eyes on the man again, but now he was the only person she wanted to see.

And she didn’t even know his name.

The door came open easily and Zeke hauled her outside into the sultry summer night. The scent of crepe myrtles wafted on the soft breeze, the delicate fragrance pleasant and embracing, a sharp contrast to the terror that gripped her. She blinked at the bright floodlight that illuminated a parking area. To the left, her car and a rusty old truck were enclosed inside an eight-foot-high chain-link fence.

Zeke dragged her toward the double gates. She tried everything she could to slow him down. She dug in her heels and then bit his arm, but to no avail. His heavy arm around her neck was strong and suffocating.

When they reached the gates, he yanked out the gun and fired at the chain. Her pounding heart jammed against her ribs at the sound and her ears rang. She held on to her composure, though. Barely. Hysterical screams were right there at the edge of her throat. Someone would hear the shot and come, right?

She held on to that thought.

Zeke kicked open the gate and jogged toward the truck, still tugging her along. She realized this was her last chance and she gave full rein to the screams.

He clamped a filthy hand over her mouth while opening a door and lifted her onto the seat as if she weighed no more than a rag doll.

“Let me go, you maniac!”

“Stop it.” He pointed the gun at her. “Or I’ll shoot ya.”

Her throat closed up.

“Git over,” he growled.

In a moment of clarity she realized this really was her last chance. She quickly scooted over torn upholstery to the passenger’s side, intending to open the door and run like hell. The truck was strewn with trash and stank of rotted food and urine. Paper cups, newspapers, dirty clothes littered the floor and the seat.

She held her breath against the stench as she searched for the door handle. There wasn’t one—just a hole where one used to be. No! No! Frantic, she ran her hand over the inside of the door one more time. Nothing.

“Gimme yer hands.”

She twisted around and saw he was in the truck and the door was closed. In his big hands was a small rope. She froze.

“Gimme yer hands,” he said again.

“No.” She backed against the door.

Before she could do anything else, he grabbed her hands and whipped the rope around them with lightning speed. With one movement he jerked the rope so tight it cut into her skin. She had to force herself to take deep breaths.

Fear held her paralyzed as Zeke fiddled with some wires beneath the dash. After a second the truck sputtered to life.

Zeke let out a chilling victory laugh and slammed the stick shift into gear. The truck was backed into a parking spot, so when he hit the gas pedal, they shot through the gate and out into the night.

Panic rose in her anew. She had no idea where he planned to take her. The sheriff would come, she kept telling herself.