Hope by Lori Copeland Read Free Book Online

others, he looked like an ordinary man. One Hope might even like, under different circumstances. Might like a whole lot.
    “You can’t be tired of stew.”
    “No, but Boris said—”
    “You don’t want to go back yet.”
    She didn’t want to go back ever. “It is nicer out here.” She could breathe again.
    “All right. We’ll stay for a while.” Picking up his rifle, he started off. She fell into step, threading her way through the heavy briars. Anything was better than spending time in that cabin.
    She couldn’t detect a path, but he seemed to know where he was going. After a few minutes, he paused, gesturing for her to keep her distance. He disappeared into the thicket ahead, and it got very quiet. If he was moving, he was doing it silently.
    Suddenly it occurred to Hope that he might leave her out here. He wasn’t like the others—what if he had tired of the game and decided to move on? What if he knew—actually knew—that she wasn’t Anne Ferry and there would never be any ransom money? She’d be hopelessly lost in this thicket, probably be eaten by wild animals. . . .
    Her eyes anxiously scanned the area.
    Grunt was nowhere in sight. Her heart pounded in her chest. She should run, as fast and hard as she could. She wouldn’t be missed for a while. Blood pumped feverishly through her veins.
    She jumped as a rifle went off, then again. Gunshots. Grunt had shot something. She closed her eyes, thankful it wasn’t her.
    A few minutes later she heard something moving back through the brush. Grunt appeared in the clearing, holding two fat squirrels in one hand.
    “Dinner.”
    Feeling faint, she smiled lamely at him. “More stew?”
    “Fried, with gravy—if we can find a cow.”
    She followed him back to the creek and sat on a flat stone while he skinned and cleaned the squirrels. His hands were large and capable, manly hands, tanned dark from the sun.
    Hope picked burrs off her skirt, tossing them into the creek. A thin, watery sun slid from behind a dark cloud. The air was damp, like it could rain any moment. “You’re not like them.”
    “Um.”
    “They’re not nice men.”
    “I’m not either.”
    She studied him, trying to decide what made him different. “You bathe regularly, and your speech is more educated. Did you attend school?”
    “Did you?”
    “Don’t change the subject.” If she were Anne Ferry, of course, she would be well schooled. He knew that. It was as if he was testing her—weighing her answers. Well, she was smarter than that. He wasn’t going to trip her up.
    “Why do you ride with them?”
    Tossing a skin aside, he spared her a brief, impersonal glance. “Do you always talk so much?”
    Leaning back, she closed her eyes, listening to the early spring morning—the gurgling creek, birds chirping in a nearby tree. Everything seemed so normal, and yet her life was in an upheaval. She was here, with this puzzling man, and almost enjoying it. She should be frightened half out of her mind, but she wasn’t. The Lord gave her peace. “You’re doing it again.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Changing the subject.”
    “Um-hum.”
    Straightening the hem of her dress, she sighed. For some unfathomable reason, she felt she could be honest with him. If she were mistaken, her fate lay in his hands. “I’m not Thomas Ferry’s daughter.”
    He didn’t respond, just went on cutting skin away from the carcass.
    “So there won’t be any money coming, even if I do write that silly note. Mr. Ferry will read it and think a simpleton wrote it. Anne Ferry is probably home this minute, safe in her own bed.”
    He rinsed the knife in the water, his eyes meeting hers now. “If I were you, I’d keep that bit of information under my hat.”
    Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Who was he? He wasn’t a part of those other men; he was too perceptive. Too . . . real.
    “The others will find out soon enough.”
    He tossed the entrails into the stream and rinsed his hands. “The longer