Page 63 of Heart on the Line

Amos adjusted his grip on the gun, set his jaw, then slowly stepped away from the side of the barn and craned his neck around the corner.

No one in sight.

The breath he’d been holding whooshed from his lungs as he ducked back to his original position and gently pressed his spine against the wall. He closed his eyes, counted to three in an effort to calm his palpitating heart, inhaled a pair of deep breaths to settle his nerves, then strode around the corner, gun ready.

Only there was nothing to use it on. Which was good, of course, but as he stood back to examine the front of the barn, he realized he had a problem a gun couldn’t solve. There were no open windows or doors. Everything had been shut up tight, and anything he tried to open would draw Lockhart’s attention.

Amos frowned. There had to be something he could use. A loose board, a crack, some way to see inside. He ran his fingers lightly along the wood seams, finding nothing. Then he rounded the far corner, and a small beam of light grabbed his attention.

He hurried forward, weeds and prairie grass muffling his footfalls, until he stood opposite the glowing knothole aimed at his navel. In a heartbeat, Amos dropped to his knees and pressed his eye to the hole. What he saw sickened him.

Grace—beautiful, sweet, kind-hearted Grace—was tied to the wall like an animal. Arms above her head, hair falling in straggles around her face. Her head lolled forward, and an angry red mark blazed across her cheek.

Amos’s heart ached at the evidence of exhaustion and abuse. Yet Lockhart was still here, so he must not have broken her spirit. She must still be fighting.

Good girl, Grace. Don’t give up. I’m here. I’ll help you.

Somehow.

The sound of something heavy scraping against the floor made Amos shift so he could look to his right.

Lockhart. Bent at the waist, dragging a half barrel across the barn floor. He grunted and strained against the weight of the makeshift trough, water sloshing over the edges as he moved. When he reached a spot a few feet from where Grace dangled, he halted.

“The price has just gone up again.” Lockhart straightened, strode over to Grace, grabbed her arms near the elbows, and hoisted her down.

She collapsed against him, her legs unable to support her. Amos bit back a moan, the sight causing him physical pain. Lockhart hauled Grace toward the trough and tossed her to the ground in front of it.

Amos tensed. His grip on his gun tightened.

“Where are the documents, Grace?” Lockhart asked as he fisted his hand in the back of her hair and forced her head down toward the water.

Grace’s eyes widened. Her bound hands latched onto the side of the barrel near her chest. “No!” She fought against his hold. “Please. Don’t.”

Lockhart jammed her head down. Splash. Her body jerked and her fists pounded the side of the barrel, but Lockhart held her down. Helpless. All she could do was scream, her underwater gurgles lashing Amos with desperate fury.

He lurched backward, away from the horrifying vision and thrust the end of his pistol into the knothole. Lockhart was drowning her. He had to do something. But shooting blind wasn’t the answer. He might hit Grace.

As he hesitated, something hit him. Hard. Across the back of his head.

Amos crumpled.

31

Terror squeezed Grace’s chest as Lockhart forced her head under the water. She pushed against the side of the wooden tub, trying somehow to gain leverage. Water filled her nose, increasing her panic. She squirmed and writhed, her mouth coming open in a desperate bid for air that didn’t exist.

I don’t want to die!

Her head grew light. Her body went limp. She couldn’t fight anymore. Couldn’t—

Lockhart yanked her hair and pulled her head out of the trough.

Grace coughed and sputtered. Gasped for air. Lockhart released her, leaving her on her knees, heaving. Wet hair draped over her face. She reached her bound hands up to push it away from her mouth, wanting nothing between her and the air. Her lungs burned and spasmed, rasping as they tried to expel the liquid from their depths.

“Feeling more cooperative yet?”

She ignored his question, too consumed with breathing to care about anything else.

When her lungs finally started to relax into a normal rhythm, Lockhart’s hand clasped her head again and pushed her back toward the barrel.