“Do you know where Isabelle is?” Judah asked.
“I’ll find her.”
“Before we send him off, let’s have a chat with your Mr.Duvall to make sure he won’t bother her again.”
Chapter 46
Columbia
August 1854
Darkness crushed Victor’s head, and he struggled to breathe. Under his cheek was dirt. Grass.
He wrestled against the cuff of blackness, trying to open his eyes. But there was no light. Not enough air to fill his lungs.
Where was his friend from the saloon? The one who’d helped his headache go away.
He needed another brandy. Just one more sip to stop the pain.
He tried to push away from the dirt, but someone pressed a hand against his shoulder, pinning him to the ground.
“Don’t move, Victor.”
“Alden?” he slurred. Eyes forced open, he turned and saw fury raining down on him.
“Where is she?” Alden demanded.
He shut his eyes again. “You’re in jail.”
“Not anymore. Where’s Isabelle?”
His entire body spun when he tried to lift his head. “Waiting for me.”
There were others now on both sides of Alden, staring down at him. They rolled him over on the dirt and wrapped something tight around his wrists. He smelled hemp, like the rope that trapped Captain Ahab. Were they planning to toss him into the sea? If only he had his knife—
Alden shook his arm. “Where is she?”
His laugh sounded more like a gurgle. Alden still wanted Mallie, but he couldn’t have her. None of these men could.
They lifted him off the dirt, and his head banged against something hard when they tossed him onto a wood platform. Then something else jabbed his neck. Straw. He started to itch.
Alden was in his face again. “Did you take her to a new hotel?”
“No—untie these ropes.”
“You’re not in a position to negotiate,” Alden said.
Someone poured another drink into his mouth, and he welcomed the heat. Hopefully it would dull the pain.
“She’s not in her room,” Victor said.
“I know that.”
Words then slipped out of his mouth in the muddle of darkness, against Victor’s will. “She’s next door.”
No one answered Alden’s persistent knock, but the lock on the hotel room door didn’t stop him. He borrowed a nail from behind an oil painting in the parlor and picked it.
Isabelle’s hands were tied over her head against the bedpost, her bare feet secured at the bottom. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and her cheek was mottled with purple and blue. A bandana was stuffed into her mouth, and the sleeve on her dress was shredded, as if she’d tried over and over to release herself from her bonds.
