Page 88 of Mail-Order Viscountess

Her wrists had gone numb hours ago, the ropes cutting off circulation where they bound her to the saddle horn. But the rest of her felt everything—the rawness where the leather rubbed against her legs as Jake pushed her against the front of the saddle, the bone-deep cold that had settled into her like a permanent resident.

And Jake.

He sat behind her in the saddle, his arms bracketing her body as he held the reins, his chest pressed against her back in a way that made her skin crawl. Every so often, his grip would shift, his hands brushing against her sides or middle in ways that couldn’t possibly be accidental.

She wanted to scream. To twist away. To drive her elbow back into his ribs until he released her.

But the gag stole her voice, and her bound hands stole her ability to fight. All she could do was hold herself as rigid as possible, trying to create even a sliver of space between his body and hers.

Helpless.

The word burned through her mind like a brand.

She’d spent her whole life fighting this feeling. Protecting Clara when her stepmother’s cruelty turned sharp. Finding ways to survive, to endure, to keep some small piece of herself intact, no matter what was taken from her.

And now here she sat, trussed up like a market pig, utterly powerless to stop whatever these men had planned. They would use her against Thomas and his family. Use her to find their weaknesses. She had no doubt.

Thomas.

Was he at the ranch by now? Had he warned his brothers? Were they even now preparing defenses, positioning themselves to fight off this small army of hired killers?

Or had something gone wrong? Had the men’s accomplices intercepted him on the road? Was he lying somewhere in the snow, bleeding out while she⁠—

Stop it. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images. Stop it. This won’t help.

The horse’s rhythm changed as the trail began to climb, and Jake shifted behind her, his weight pressing harder against her back. She bit down on the cloth to keep from gagging.

God...

The prayer rose unbidden, desperate.

God, if You’re there—if You’re listening—please. Please let Thomas be safe. Please let him reach his brothers in time.

The trail curved around a rocky outcrop, and the trees thinned enough that she could see the sky ahead—pale gray, the sun already sliding toward the western peaks. How long until dusk? An hour? Less?

Please let them be ready. Let them pick these men off one by one before they can hurt anyone. Before they can use me against Thomas.

Her throat tightened around the prayer.

And please...please don’t let me die out here. Not like this. Not before I’ve had a chance to tell Thomas⁠—

What? What would she tell him?

That she’d been wrong to hold back? That he’d been the only person besides Clara to really listen. To see her. That somehow, in the short time they’d known each other, he’d become her family. Not just in name, but in the deepest parts of her heart.

She’d come to love him. And if he wanted to go to California, she’d be there at his side. Being for him what he’d come to be for her.

The horse stumbled on a patch of ice, and Jake’s arm tightened around her waist. She flinched but could do nothing to stop him.

“Almost there,” Jake said near her ear, his breath hot and sour. “We’ll see how much those Balfour boys love their newest sister.”

Sister. The word was meant to mock, but it struck a chord deep inside her.

She was their sister now. Part of their family. And they would fight for her the same way Thomas had fought for that girl in the Butte saloon—recklessly, desperately, without counting the cost.

That’s what terrified her most.

The crack of a rifle shattered the winter silence.