Page 50 of My Cowboy Salvation
“Sorry, what are we looking at?” Conner asks.
“Twenty-two years ago, Samantha Bailey inherited a tract of land from her parents upon their deaths. Seven years later, after getting involved romantically with one Simon Beaufort, Samantha disappeared. No body was found, and police ruled against any foul play, guessing she took off. I think we all know otherwise. Anyhow, for the past fifteen years, someone has been sure to cover the property taxes every year. In cash. Someone who probably didn’t want to see that property get sold off in a tax sale.”
“So where the hell is it?” I ask, all patience gone.
“Redding, California. Two hundred miles from here.”
We’re all quiet as we consider this information. Redding is located between Bend, Oregon and where we are now. If we take off for Redding, we might put ourselves farther away from Dylan and a potential rescue if she is somewhere in the city.
But my gut tells me this is the place. This is where we’re going to find them.
“How soon can we be there?”
* * *
Dylan
“How you feeling, chérie?”Simon asks me some time later as he returns to my side.
The blistering pain on my chest has been repeated three more times to various places of my body, each burn expending remarkable energy from me as I fought the waves of pain that they wrought.
Wherever we are, it must be some place very isolated, since some of my screams were so intense I would think they’d be heard as far as space.
I don’t know how long it’s been since it all started, but I can see the dim light that bled through the shutters earlier is gone.
Simon sets down a large ceramic bowl on the mattress next to me. The steam rises from the surface. “You know, all of this could have been avoided if you had only heeded my warning. I told you that you would never escape me. And after all this time and trouble you caused, look where you are. Back by my side.” He reaches over and runs his fingers through my hair. “It’s a shame you chopped it off. It was so beautiful. I’ll have to keep some of it. Just to remind me of you when we’re through.”
He returns his hand to the bowl, where I hear sloshing. Then he lifts a washcloth and, after wringing it out, raises it to my face. Softly, he runs it across my skin, wiping away the tears and the dirt that cling to it. He dips it again and continues, moving down to my neck, then my chest.
For some reason, even more than the flame, this act seems to terrify me the most.
What is he cleaning me for?
Almost methodically, he continues to wash my body, moving to my limbs and torso, before returning to my pelvic area. He’s rougher when he gets there, almost angry as he wipes between my legs, and I tense at the pain.
“There.” He smiles, and caresses my cheek. “Better.”
“What’s the point?” I ask. “If you’re just going to kill me, why wash me at all?”
“The washing isn’t for you. It’s for me. You see, when I make love to you one last time, I need to know I’ve wiped every last trace of that filthy hick off of you. It’s a sort of purification, if you will.
He leans down, and I watch as he moves to my mouth, knowing what he’s going to do but unable to stop him as rolls of nausea hit me again. His lips push over mine, cool, clammy, and on instinct, I bite down. He sits up quickly, rubbing his mouth where I see a spot of blood already forming.
“Not very smart, chérie. I was going to be tender with you this last time. But now I see that force, punishment, is what you prefer.” He grins, his eyes shining. “To be honest, it’s what I prefer, too. But you probably already knew that.”
Then he’s on me, pushing his mouth on mine, as he nips hard at my lips, then slips farther down where he sinks his teeth again until he’s pierced my skin. His hand goes between my legs, pushing hard into me as I cry out.
Calmly, he walks to the end of the bed where my legs are tied, and I feel my vulnerability as he forces my knees apart.
No. No. He can’t do this. I shake my head as he undoes his pants, then climbs on the bed.
This time, my pleas are vocal as I scream and thrash. He can’t do this. “Please,” I sob. “Please, don’t.”
He chuckles and grips my thigh tightly as he positions himself above me. “Easy, chérie. Don’t make this harder on yours—”
The front door slams open, the wood splintering from the impact, and Simon leaps off me and rolls to the other side of the bed. But I’m not looking at him anymore, but rather the angel of mercy walking through the door.
Logan. I sink in near relief against the mattress. He’s here. He found me. It’s going to be —
