driver—probably a command to throw down the strong box,
Amelia supposed. Although she couldn't make out the words, the
fearsome tone of his voice carried clearly to her hiding place. How
much time did she have? She shuddered to imagine what the
consequences might be if the outlaw discovered her trying to escape
again.
She had to succeed, had to be away on the
stage before Mason returned. But not without her satchels.
Trying to bolster her courage anew, Amelia
surveyed the knot. It was probably as easy to untie as a shoelace,
she told herself. She only had to find the correct piece of rope to
pull, and the rest would come free. With that thought in mind, she
caught hold of a likely looking dangling section and tugged.
Nothing happened. Blowing her bangs upward
to clear her vision, she straightened her stance and tried again.
Digging her fingers into the knot, Amelia pulled hard. The rope
slid! It budged mere fractions of an inch, but it was progress, all
the same. Working with both hands, she just managed to loosen the
center of the knot.
Encouraged, she gripped the topmost hank of
rope and tugged with all her strength. Just as it came untied, the
horse shifted—and so did her satchel. Its weight pulled the rope
against itself, making the twisted fibers hiss and rasp against
each other as the knot finally slithered free.
Heavy with books, her satchel plopped to the
ground in a flurry of dust, landing halfway atop the sagging picket
rope. The horse skittered backward at the suddenly increased
weight, drawing the tether taut. Her satchel snapped free like an
arrow released from a bow. Success! Amelia scooped up her satchel
and rounded the horse. Only one more knot to go.
From the direction of the stagecoach,
feminine wails sounded, mixed with a rumbling undercurrent of men's
voices. Frightened passengers, Amelia supposed. Something about the
sound of them sent a shiver of foreboding fluttering through her
stomach. Frightened, cornered animals were dangerous. Were people
the same way?
She couldn't think about that now. Doing her
best to ignore her churning stomach, she scanned the outlaw's
saddle, looking for the knot fastening her second satchel to
it.
There wouldn't be much time before Mason
returned. She had to get on that stage, now, before it was too
late. Her jaw clenched with determination, Amelia examined the
knot.
Thank heavens, it appeared similar to the
one she'd already untied. Dropping her first satchel, she set to
work undoing it, trying not to steal glances toward the stagecoach
as she worked. What was happening? Was Mason all right?
The rough woven rope abraded her fingers—she
could almost feel her knuckles and fingertips reddening from
constant contact with it—but, only two broken fingernails later,
she'd untied it. She bent to scoop the heavy black case into her
arms, then picked up the other one. Hefting them both, Amelia
headed toward the road. Toward rescue.
She hadn't gone three steps into the open
desert before the horse whinnied.
It sounded loud as a gunshot in the silence
surrounding her. Surely a sound like that would attract the
outlaw's attention. Frantic, her feet seemingly glued to the desert
soil, Amelia glanced about for a hiding place. A few feet away, she
spotted a tall, spiny cactus—and all-but dove behind it.
The plant's branches—or whatever they were
called on a cactus, she didn't know—reached for the sky like two
thick green arms, high above her head. The spiky plant's base
squatted atop the thirsty desert soil, looking barely wide enough
to conceal her. Dropping her satchels, Amelia crouched behind it
anyway, afraid to breathe.
When nothing happened, she dared to lean
carefully around the inches-long needles protruding from the cactus
and peer toward the stagecoach.
It was just as she'd hoped—a red lacquered
passenger stage, pulled by three teams of horses. Wooden boxes and
luggage piled atop its metal-framed top and almost spilled from the
boot. Inside, there