Free Hope by Lori Copeland

God, why did you let this happen to me? God isn’t there. He truly isn’t there!
    Her captor laid her across a saddle, then climbed on the horse behind her. The moonless night was so black it was impossible to identify her abductor. Was it Frog? No, Frog smelled like rotting garbage.
    She was chilling now, her teeth chattering in the night air. It felt like there was an anchor sitting on her chest. The man kicked the horse into a gallop, and then they were riding headlong down a long lane. She drifted in and out of consciousness, aware only of the jarring motion. Whoever he was, he was taking her deeper into the wilderness. Boris? Big Joe? A shudder escaped her, and she felt the man’s hand on her back, soothing her. Not, not Boris. He was never gentle. Her fear began to ease. Grunt. Why was Grunt taking her away?
    It seemed hours before the horse slowed. Hope mumbled incoherently as she was lifted off the saddle and gently eased onto a pallet.
    “Cold,” she murmured. “Please, I’m so cold. . . .”
    The sweet scent of rain teased the air. Then it was raining hard . . . rain falling in blinding sheets.
    A blanket settled around her, then another. She groaned and sought its warmth.
    “Thank you . . . thank you. . . .”
    Throughout the long night, Hope was aware of kind hands alternately holding her head and forcing her to swallow something warm and salty, and bathing her face and neck with cool water.
    She was only vaguely aware when a new day dawned. Outside, the storm raged. Hope drifted in and out of consciousness, her fever soaring. Tender hands ministered to her needs, hands that she occasionally associated with Grunt. But he’d wanted to harm her, not help her. . . . She didn’t understand.

    On the third morning Hope slowly opened her eyes. She lay for a moment, trying to orient herself. She was in some sort of shelter . . . a cave? Was it a cave? She heard the fire pop, and she turned to see her captor’s eyes fixed on her. She groaned, bringing her hand to her fevered forehead. “Grunt?” she murmured.
    Grunt closed his eyes. “I thought you were . . .”
    She struggled to sit up. “Where am I? . . . Where are the others?”
    He was by her side, pressing her back to the pallet. “Lie still. You’ve been sick.”
    “Where—where are we?” She ran her tongue over her dry lips, surprised they were cracked and swollen. “I’m so thirsty.”
    “Drink this.”
    Tilting her head, he held a cup of water to her mouth. She drank deeply.
    “So good,” she whispered, then lay weakly back on the pallet. Her eyes scanned the dim interior. “Where are we?”
    “I’m not sure—somewhere near the Kentucky line.”
    A frown creased her brow. “It was you . . . You were the one—” She coughed, pain distorting her features. “You took me away during the night.”
    “I felt it necessary to remove you from the situation.”
    “Yes . . . I remember now. Boris found out I’m not Thomas Ferry’s daughter.”
    “Yes.”
    “So you . . . kidnapped me again?”
    “I moved you to safety.”
    “But why?” Nothing made sense to her. Grunt was one of the outlaws. Why was he being so kind to her?
    Settling her head in the crook of his arm, he said quietly, “Listen to me, Hope.” He took a cool cloth and bathed her forehead. “I’m not a part of Joe’s gang.”
    She stared at him blankly for a moment. “I didn’t think so—you’re different.”
    “I work for the government.”
    “But why—”
    “I’m on assignment. I’ve been riding with Joe, Frog, and Boris, trying to learn how they’ve successfully captured a number of army payrolls.”
    “Joe and Frog? Those imbeciles have actually done something right?”
    “It’s hard to believe, but yes. Actually, they’ve stolen a good deal of money.”
    “With your help,” she reminded him. He’d been there the day they took her off the stage and stole the strongbox.
    “Not really. I just don’t do anything to stop