Linda Warren - Deep In The Heart Of Texas

“You stupid dog,” he said again as he removed the last branch. Few things in life surprised him anymore, but when he saw what was before him, his eyes opened a little wider.

A door with a big lock gave entrance to a small shack built into the side of the hill. He remembered the low-flying planes he heard occasionally in the night. Could someone be dropping drugs? Dogs had an uncanny sense of smell for drugs. Maybe this was where the drugs were stored until they could be moved. On that thought came another. How were they moved? The only way to get here was on foot or by horseback.

None of this mattered because it was none of his business. But the idea of someone bringing drugs into his backyard bothered him. A lot.

Bandit jumped at the door, trying to get in.

“Stop it, boy,” he ordered.

Bandit obeyed with obvious reluctance.

He shot Bandit a narrow-eyed glance, knowing what the dog wanted, but feeling in his gut that he should walk away and leave this place.

Bandit rubbed against his leg and whined, a deep pitiful sound. “Okay, okay,” he muttered. “I’ll show you what’s behind the door.”

He drew a pistol from his shoulder holster. Aiming at the lock, he squeezed the trigger. The loud pop echoed through the trees with a startling sound. A deer jumped up and ran farther into the woods. A rabbit burrowed deeper into a hole.

Throwing down the broken lock, he opened the door. Bandit darted into the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness; once they had, he could see there were no drugs. A sense of foreboding ran through him as he saw a person sitting in one corner, feet and hands tied, mouth gagged. What the hell was going on?

Bandit licked the person’s face, which was very odd because Bandit never made friends with anyone. When they made trips to the country store, the dog always growled at everyone.

Bending his head, he entered the small area. The room felt claustrophobic and stifling, despite the thirty-degree temperature outside. The darkness prevented him from seeing anything but the shape of a person.

Bandit barked anxiously.

“Okay,” he replied, and picked up the slumped figure. The body trembled, either from the cold or from fear, he didn’t know which. But judging by the softness in his arms he knew it was a woman. Sudden painful memories flashed across his mind. He thought he’d forgotten all those feelings, and he didn’t appreciate remembering them now.

Carrying the woman outside, he placed her on the ground. She was young, somewhere between twenty and thirty. The wind tousled her already disheveled blond hair. Her sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers were smeared with dirt. The sherry-brown eyes that stared back at him were glazed. He’d seen that look before—she’d been drugged. Slowly her eyes cleared, then swiftly filled with fear. The kind of fear he’d seen many times. She was afraid of him.

MIRANDA MADDOX blinked at the brightness of daylight, the glare hurting her eyes. She squirmed and tried to move, but her body was cold and cramped, and it was so much easier just to sleep. She’d been floating, drifting…yet something was different now. With extreme effort she forced her eyes to focus.

Oh, God. Terror filled her heart as she stared at the man peering down at her. She shrank away from his threatening presence. Long dark hair touched his shoulders. A full beard and mustache covered his face. A worn felt hat shaded his eyes. Who was he? Why had he done this to her? And what did he plan to do to her now?

Fear and exhaustion trembled through her weary bones, and a scream rose in her throat. The scream lodged against the gag in her mouth. A dizzy feeling assailed her, and she felt as if she was going to pass out again. What did this man want with her? She didn’t even know him.

He saw the fear in her eyes and knew what she was thinking. Holding up one hand, he said, “Listen, lady, I’m not the one who put you in that room. My dog found you, and I just opened the door.”

At the mention of Bandit, the dog eagerly licked her face. Her blond head tilted toward the animal, but her eyes never left the man’s face.

His voice was deep and strong and full of masculine nuances. A man’s man. A man’s voice. A voice to heed, to be wary of, and yet, she felt, a voice to trust. How did she know that? she asked herself. He was a complete stranger.

Then suddenly she realized who he was. Her father called him the hermit. He lived alone and roamed these hills. She’d never seen him before, but people were afraid of him, and now she understood why. Her father had called him crazy, a raving lunatic. In her frightened state, that was all her mind could recall.

But the hermit said he hadn’t kidnapped her. For some odd reason she believed him. Maybe it was the way he looked at her—not as if she was a woman but a trapped animal. Fast on those strange thoughts came another. If he hadn’t kidnapped her, then who had? Who’d done this to her?

The hermit drew a big hunting knife from its sheath around his waist. Miranda cringed away from him.

“I’m going to cut your ropes,” he told her in a soothing voice. One easy slash and the rope fell away from her ankles. Then he sliced through the rope on her wrists, behind her back. She wearily moved her aching shoulders and rubbed her sore wrists, her eyes still on the hermit.

He brought the knife to her face, and she jerked backward.

“I’m only cutting the bandanna tied around your mouth. Do you understand?”

Miranda nodded and he quickly slit the cloth. She swallowed several times and licked dry lips.

He got to his feet, sliding the knife back into its sheath. “I don’t know who you are or why someone put you in that room, but if I were you, I’d get out of here as fast as I could. Whoever went to all that trouble will be back.” He pointed over his shoulder. “The closest place is the Maddox ranch. Just keep walking due south and you’ll reach it in about a day and a half, maybe two days. Depends on how fast you walk.”

Two days! Due south! What was he talking about? She didn’t know south from north. Two days!

The hermit tipped his hat, picked up his rifle and walked off, the dog at his heels.

Paralyzed, Miranda stared at his broad back. He was leaving her here! She glanced around at the dense thicket, heard the wind whistle eerily through the trees and felt the cold as it stung her cheeks. She shook so badly her teeth rattled. Oh, God, he couldn’t leave her in this wilderness. She tried to stand and fell flat on her stomach, her legs too numb to support her.

He heard a faraway sound and stopped. Riders. Two. They were coming for the woman.

He looked back. She was trying to crawl on her hands and knees. “Please, help me,” she begged, one hand stretched toward him as her weak body failed.

The soft melodious voice touched something buried inside him. God, he hadn’t heard a voice like that in years, and he didn’t want to hear it now. He didn’t want anything to do with her or her problems.

The pounding of hooves against the earth grew stronger. At that moment, the woman heard the sound. “Oh, no, they’re coming back! Please help me. They’ll kill me.” She struggled to get to her feet.

He watched her futile efforts. Bandit whined in his throat. “Be quiet,” he told the dog to no avail. The whining increased, angering him. Dammit, he didn’t need this. But much as he wanted to walk away, even Bandit knew he wouldn’t leave her here to die.

He hurried toward her and knelt down. “I’ll hide you until they’re gone. That’s all. After that, you’re on your own. Understand?”

“Yes, yes. Thank you, but I can’t get up. My legs are too weak.”

He laid his rifle down, scooped her into his arms, ran into the thicket and up a hill. He stood her on her feet beside a large oak. “Hold on to the tree. I’ll be right back.”