“Ahhherhea!''
Cleav heard her cry before he saw her.
Esme was tied to a fallen tree, twisting and squirming in the mud. A red bandanna was tied on her mouth. Her eyes were bright and wide, but more with anger than with fear.
"Thank the Lord you made it," the eldest Roscoe boy teased. “I was worrying that this she-devil would kill us all afore you got here."
The men laughed companionably as they passed the jug of whiskey around. Even if he hadn't been told, it was obviously not their first of the evening.
"Get the gag off her," Cleav ordered with fury.
Startled at his anger, Will jumped to obey, but Armon told him to stay.
"She was spitting and squealing like a pig stuck in a blackberry bush," Armon explained casually as he leaned down to untie the constricting piece of cloth. "We didn't hurt her none, Cleavis. We's just trying to quiet her down."
"She wouldn't kiss us no how," the younger Roscoe declared. "With no good use for a mouth, a woman's best when she's shut up."
Freezing the stupid young man with a look, Cleav went down on his knees to help Esme get up.
"Are you all right?"
"These lousy, no-account varmints," Esme complained bitterly. "You've made a mess of my wedding gown, you turd brain," she snapped at Hightower.
"You planning on getting married in it again?" Armon asked.
Esme headed for him, intending to kick him senseless. Cleav's arm around her waist stayed her. "Control yourself, Esme," he said firmly. "I won't have my wife cursing and fighting."
That stopped her, but just barely.
"You've got your jug and your sorghum," Cleavis pointed out to the captors with determined civility. "I'm taking Esme home now."
"Whew-he!" one of the Roscoes proclaimed. "He's hopping mad 'cause we delayed his honeymoon!"
The other Roscoe giggled lewdly. "Ain't marriage something wonderful. They'll be beating the ticks out of the mattress tonight!"
This time it was Cleav who nearly started a ruckus, but Esme grabbed his clenched fist. "We're leaving," she said.
"Not right yet," Armon disagreed firmly. Cleav and Esme both turned to him, challengingly.
"You've paid your part of the ransom, Cleav," Hightower stated, gesturing toward the jug in his hand. "But Mrs. Rhy here ain't let a one of us kiss the bride."
"And I ain't about to neither, you scheming low-life polecat!" Esme protested.
"You shouldn't talk so poor about me, now, Esme," Armon warned with a chuckle. "We're practically kin, ain't we?"
"No, we ain't!" Esme insisted. "And as God is my witness, I'll do everything I can to keep you from ever being a relation of mine."
"Not even a kissing cousin?" the handsome hill boy teased.
"Are you looking for trouble, Hightower?" Cleav asked.
"Guess not," Armon answered tongue-in-cheek, glancing around at the other fellows. "You're the one that married up with her."
The other kidnappers hooted with laughter at the joke. Neither Cleav nor Esme was in the mood to see the humor.
"Esme doesn't want to kiss you," Cleav stated tightly. "If I were you, I wouldn't try to force her."
Hightower raised his arms in a gesture of disbelief. "Force?" he asked. "You think my grandmama didn't raise me well enough to know not to force a lady?"
