Chapter Seven

Rebecca had no way of knowing the time. She had no way of knowing if it was day or night as she sat in the windowless room and stared at the rough walls around her.

It had been a long while since she'd seen Brantley. He had brought her dinner and she assumed it now had to be getting close to morning—perhaps it already was. Would he be coming? She needed to see to personal business.

Was she going to have to yell for him?

Just as Rebecca was preparing to do just that, the door opened and Brantley stepped in. "Good morning, ma'am."

The friendly greeting caught her off guard. Brantley made no sense. He ran with bad men, he was keeping her prisoner and yet he seemed so.... Decent.

"Good morning, Brantley."

"I'll take you to the outhouse and when you get settled back down in here I'll make some breakfast."

"You don't have to keep me locked up," Rebecca assured him. "I won't run. You were right. I wouldn't have any idea where to go."

Brantley merely grunted as he pulled a key from his shirt pocket and stepped toward her. "We'll see."

As Brantley bent over her to unlatch her wrist from the shackles, Rebecca felt that uncontrollable heat flare to life once again within her.

His body was so close to hers, she would barely have to move to come in contact with him. His neck was brushing against her temple. If she turned her head she could kiss that hot skin.....

Rebecca was shaken from her erotic fantasy when Brantley stood straight and her arm fell free. "Are you comin'?" Brantley asked, already heading for the door.

Rebecca stood slowly, attempting to work her way through the lusty haze his closeness had trapped her in.

Her body ached from her recent inactivity. She needed to enjoy movement while it was hers because Brantley would likely be chaining her up again soon.

Raising her arms over her head, Rebecca arched her back and stretched her underused muscles. Awareness jolted through her and Rebecca looked toward the doorway to see Brantley watching her closely.

His predatory green eyes were locked on her as he gripped the door tightly. His tongue darted out across his firm bottom lip and his a growl left his throat.

Rebecca's knees weakened from the sheer power of that gaze. Never had a man looked upon her with such hunger. And never had Rebecca felt such a hunger of her own. Never had she wanted a man's touch so desperately—so fervently.

If Brantley stepped toward her, if he touched her, she wouldn't be able to say no. She would melt under his touch like ice under the sun.

How she longed for him to take that step. To put those calloused fingers against her skin and further awaken this burning, aching desire she felt flickering within her.

Then, suddenly, Brantley turned and was gone.

A breath Rebecca hadn't realized she'd been holding whooshed from her lungs. What the devil was wrong with her?! She was a married woman and Brantley was holding her captive here!

Perhaps the knock on her head had addled her more than she'd thought.

Rebecca gathered her wits about her, smoothed out her skirt and stepped out of the tiny room. She glanced around the tiny cabin for Brantley but didn't see him.

Edging toward the door, Rebecca walked out on the porch. Mist hung over the morning landscape. She took a deep breath of the fresh air and let the breeze blow against her face, feeling wisps of her tangled hair blowing in the wyoming wind.

"The outhouse is behind the cabin."

Brantley's voice had her gasping and turning quickly, covering her racing heart with her palm. "You startled me!" she accused.

His sharp brow raised as he looked up at her from the porch chair he was sitting in. "I've been here since you stepped out. If you'd have paid any kind of attention, you wouldn't have been startled."

Rebeccca squared her shoulders and met his gaze. "You'll have to forgive me. I haven't lived my life worried that some poor soul I robbed was going to attack the moment my back was turned. I suppose I don't have your experience when it comes to such matters."

Rebecca had thought perhaps Brantley would get angry at her statement. Instead, the man's laughter rang out rich in the morning air. "No, I reckon you don't." He scratched at the stubble on his cheek. "Like I said, the outhouse is behind the cabin."

Rebecca frowned. "Aren't you going to come with me to ensure I don't run off?"

All humor left Brantley's green eyes. "You said I didn't need to worry about that and I took you at your word."

Rebecca blinked once as that sunk in. he trusted her word? When had a man ever said anything like that to her before? Martin had certainly never treated her so much like an..... equal.

But Martin was her husband. She had no right to think such unfair thoughts about him.

Without another word, Rebecca turned and left the porch, walking around the tiny cabin to the outhouse that was indeed, behind it.

After seeing to her personal business, Rebecca couldn't help but contemplate running. But she knew she couldn't. She'd already determined that running would be foolhardy. She had no idea where she was or where to go and she had no food, no water and no way to defend herself.

She was safer here... with Brantley. At least until those men came back. What if Martin didn't pay? What if he washed his hands of her and she was left in the hands of the gang?

Fear once again reared its head. Rebecca was not foolish enough to think that the other members of the gang would be as respectful to her as Brantley had been—she still remembered the way they'd leered at her, the way they'd manhandled her and the way Hoff had so cold-heartedly killed an unarmed man.

Her stomach was in knots and her legs shaking as she made her way back around the cabin. Brantley was no longer on the porch so she stepped inside and found him at a cookstove, burning a skillet of eggs and muttering oaths.

"Need help?" she asked.

He spun quickly and hissed in pain as the skillet of charred eggs burned his hand and clattered to the floor.

"I'm supposed to be keepin' alive and healthy but at this damn rate, you're gonna starve to death."

Rebecca frowned. "I doubt Hoff truly cares if I'm well-fed."

For the first time, Brantley's gaze softened as he looked at her. "No, I reckon he doesn't. But I do. I had no part in what happened to you, ma'am, and I'm not supportive of it."

Rebecca looked away from him, finding it quite hard to fight the urge to leap into his arms while holding his gaze. She grabbed a mitt off the table and picked up the fallen skillet. "My name is Rebecca," she muttered as she went around him to sit the empty skillet upon the stove and spooned a bit of lard onto the metal.

"What did you say, ma'am? I couldn't hear you. And you don't have to be cookin'...."

Rebecca smiled as she cracked an egg and it hissed as it fell onto the hot skillet. "I'd rather cook than starve. And I said my name is Rebecca. Doesn't seem right that I know your name and you don't know mine."

She spared a glance at Brantley to see that his jaw was tight as he stared hard at the wall. She wondered what he was thinking... and couldn't help but notice how perfect a picture he painted as he thought it.

Quickly, she turned her attention back to breakfast. She didn't want to make a mess of it the way Brantley had.

"I'm not gonna tie you back up," he stated after several long silent moments.

Rebecca pulled the biscuits Brantley'd made from inside the oven. "You're not?"

"No. If you really want to go, you can. But I think you should stay. Hoff and the others won't take kindly to you leavin'. They'll come after you if you ruin things for them and they'll kill you after they do worse to you for a while.

Rebecca shivered. She didn't have to ask what worse was. She knew.

"And if Martin doesn't pay?" she whispered, keeping her eyes on the eggs she was stirring. "What happens then."

"What do you mean? He's your husband, of course he'll pay."

Oh, how she wished she could be so sure....

Instead of continuing the conversation, Rebecca sat a finished and much more edible version of their breakfast on the table. "We should eat while it's warm and then I'll clean the floor."

"I'll clean the floor. I'm the one that made the mess," Brantley countered, pulling out a chair and motioning for her to sit.

Rebecca wasn't sure what to say or how to act. She sat down and he sat in the chair across the small table.

The meal was tense and the air was thick. Rebecca had no idea what to make of the man. He seemed like a genuinely good person—a genuine person. She hadn't met someone so real in a long time. She'd been surrounded by the false pretenses of high society and she hadn't fully realized how completely she'd hated it until now. Until sitting at the scarred up table in a rickety cabin eating plain scrambled eggs with lumpy biscuits with a man across from her who acted as if what she said and what she thought truly carried weight and meant something.

Oh Martin.... Would the man pay the ransom and bring her back to the ranch. And, if he did, would things change between them? Would he finally be a husband who saw his wife and cared about more than just her barren womb?

Rebecca feared the answer to the latter was no.