“Get a move on,” their captor shouted, “before we all get toasted.”
“It would serve you right,” Samantha grumbled without stopping to censor her reaction.
The man huffed. “Very funny. Now stop giving me lip and get in the house before I shoot you where you stand.”
Slipping the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she raised her hands enough to demonstrate compliance. She might be too outspoken at times but she was no fool. This was not the time to exert her independence.
The wooden steps creaked as the three climbed them. The door swung open. Bright light from inside made her squint.
Samantha instantly recognized the burly, unshaven man who admitted them. This time, his attitude was even more menacing than it had been when she’d kicked him. Considering their recent confrontation, it wasn’t too surprising that he was holding a grudge.
He pointed with the barrel of the small-caliber rifle in his hand. “Inside. Hurry it up.”
That was when Samantha looked past him, spotted the little boy and stepped out of the way so Lindy could see him, too.
Danny screamed and ran to his mother the moment he saw her. “Mama!”
Tears gathered in Samantha’s eyes. Lindy was clinging to her son and weeping while raining myriad kisses over his face and reddish hair.
“Thank You, Jesus,” Sam whispered. The seriousness of their shared situation should not have called for levity, yet she felt a grin begin and let it blossom. Even in such dire straits there was reason for joy, for praising the Lord, and her heart swelled with thanks that the child was apparently unharmed.
Someone gave her a hard shove from behind. Staggering and almost falling, she dropped her purse. It fell to the bare wood floor and spilled some of its contents.
That was enough to cause one of their captors to grab the bag by its bottom seam and upend it. Out slid her cell phone—still obviously connected to her last call!
The man who appeared to be in charge stepped forward and used the heel of his heavy boot to grind the little plastic device to pieces before turning his anger on the one who had brought them to the cabin. “Idiot! Didn’t you check? Who was she talking to?”
His cohort shrugged. “I don’t know. What does it matter. Ain’t no signals up here, anyway.”
“For your sake I hope not.” He rounded on Samantha as he kicked the contents of her shoulder bag aside. “I’ve had just about enough from you. One more stunt like that and you’re history, got that?”
She nodded, mute. Her jaw was clenching so hard her teeth were starting to ache. Her cell phone lay in splinters. The bug the police had given her was probably still secure but if anyone actually searched the little pockets inside her purse and found it she was going to be in big trouble—whether it was working or not.
Edging closer to Lindy and the boy, Sam slipped her arm around the other woman’s shoulders, drawing moral support as well as giving it. These two brutes were running out of patience and it was only a matter of time before one or both of them snapped.
What could she do? What could anyone do at this point except wait and pray? Especially pray, Samantha thought, afraid to close her eyes long enough for even the shortest plea.
Finally, she simply stared at the bare rafters, listened to the rain starting to hammer on the tin roof, and let her heart call out to her heavenly Father with all the anguish she was feeling.
Please, please, Lord, she pleaded, barely able to string words together into a rational sentence. Help us.
The picture in her mind was of John Waltham coming to their rescue like a knight in shining armor mounted on a white horse.
Instead, a gust of wind suddenly caught the cabin door. Sheets of water blew halfway across the unvarnished plank floor, turning a wide swath of it dark.
Both men jumped to their feet, one rushing to close the door and the other pointing his nasty-looking rifle into the opening.
John? Could it be?
Samantha drew a quick breath, preparing to shout a warning.
Before she could call out, Lindy screamed and pressed the boy to her as if sheltering him from even worse danger than they already faced.
A drenched figure stepped into full view, his coat dripping, his light brown hair plastered to his head.
Samantha could hardly believe her eyes.
It was Ben Southerland.
* * *
Staying low as he worked his way closer, John thought he heard a woman’s high-pitched wail. He froze, listening. Thanks to the storm he was not only getting soaked, he was unable to get an accurate bearing on the noise. It hadn’t sounded like Sam’s voice but given this complicated situation, there was no way to be certain.