Page 107 of Bittersweet & Strange

“He rode all the way back up my mountain to find me, then brought me here because he believes I can get you out,” I tell him. “I have every intention of proving him correct.”

His eyes move toward the open cell door.

I extend my hand.

He stares at it.

I did, after all, take him prisoner once myself, threaten his life and accept his son in exchange for his freedom. I can hardly fault the man for displaying some reluctance now.

But Boone is waiting upstairs, and every second we spend discussing whether I can be trusted gives someone another opportunity to discover him.

“We can discuss precisely how much you dislike me after I get both of you out of this building.”

His gaze travels from my hand to my face. “You swear my son is here?”

“Yes.”

“And he came to you willingly?”

The question irritates me considerably more than it should, although I suppose I earned it.

“Yes,” I answer impatiently. “Boone came back to me willingly.”

Something in the certainty of my response finally convinces him. He reaches out and takes my hand. I close my fingers around his, pulling him carefully to his feet. His legs falter after several days of confinement, forcing me to catch his arm and steady him until he finds his balance.

“Stay behind me.”

Boone’s father braces one hand against the wall, then looks at me with an expression that tells me our eventual conversation about his son is going to be deeply unpleasant.

“You sound exactly like he said you would.”

I glance at him and start toward the corridor. “Your son talks too much.”

The corner of the old man’s mouth almost lifts. Then footsteps sound overhead, followed by the faint creak of floorboards directly above us. Whatever amusement had almost appeared on his face vanishes.

So does mine.

I draw the revolver from under my coat and move in front of him, listening to the footsteps crossing the floor above.

“Stay close,” I murmur, keeping my attention on the staircase as I lead him toward it. “Now we get Boone.”

39

Boone

I wait where Rhys told me to, tucked into the narrow alcove behind the cabinets with my back pressed against the cold stone and my hands clenched tightly at my sides. He told me not to make a sound or move until he returned, and for once in my life, I intend to follow every command exactly as he gave it.

At first, all I can hear is my own breathing, too fast and too loud despite my attempts to control it. Every few seconds, I hold my breath entirely so I can listen for some indication of what is happening below. There are footsteps occasionally, the distant scrape of something against the floor and, once, the muffled sound of a voice I can’t understand. But there’s nothing from Rhys and nothing from my father. I keep telling myself that’s good. If I can’t hear them, hopefully no one else can either.

Still, every minute that passes makes remaining here harder. My father is somewhere under my feet, and Rhys is down there trying to reach him. I’m hiding behind a cabinet, completely useless to both of them. Every instinct tells me to go after them, to creep down those stairs and make certain they’re all right, but Rhys’s voice keeps repeating inside my head, reminding me that I promised to follow every command he gave me. This is the first chance I have to prove that I meant it. To prove that I can keep my word.

I shift as quietly as I can to stare through the narrow opening between the cabinet and the wall. The seconds stretch so long that I begin counting them just to give myself something to do. I make it past three hundred, lose track somewhere after that, then start all over again.

Where is he?

The question becomes harder to ignore with every passing minute. I shift forward slightly, preparing to climb out and look toward the stairs, but force myself back against the wall instead. Rhys told me to stay here. More importantly, he promised he would come back for me, those words spoken with such certainty that I believed him even with fear clawing its way through me.

Boone, I will always come for you.