I wish that I could say that I spent the first hours of captivity waiting with baited breath for Baron to come and save me. He was the only man I’d ever had any feelings towards, aside from my brother. I’d given a lot to him.
But I didn’t wait. Because I’d seen him die. Some part of me was certain that he would find some way, but another part was certain that he wouldn’t. I did what I had to do, instead. I slept and I kept my mind clear and I tried to feel better in the morning.
I wasn’t sure who I could trust, not any more. Something in my gut told me, though, that Joanne had no intention of hurting me. If I could prove that to myself, then I had nothing to be particularly afraid of. I kept repeating that to myself.
All I had to do was ingratiate myself to my new hosts, and everything would work itself out. I’d be safe enough, and I’d make it through. Eventually, I would get clear, or I would find some place for myself here.
I slept the hours away, and I woke with the determination to get myself to safety somehow. The beds were hard and not particularly comfortable, but I’d been up late, and I woke rested. Pushed myself up from the mattress, and pushed away the questions in the back of my mind, whether or not Baron was going to be back soon.
Of course he wasn’t. His body had fallen to the dirt, and I was on my own here, out in the desert. That was my life now. Get used to it.
I was surprised to find someone waiting outside my room. He had his chair leaning back like he’d been dozing. The instant that I opened the door, the front two legs of the chair clattered to the ground and he stood. He didn’t reach for his gun, which was my split-second guess at what he was going to do. So at least in that sense, I guess things could have gone worse.
“Miss Young,” he said, touching his head. “Joanne, ah… Miss Joanne wanted to see you.”
I was taken downstairs. She had a list of things to do. It was busywork, and I’d done a fair bit of it before. There was no explanation; I needed something to do, and they were going to find it for me. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, after all.
I didn’t question it, and nobody paid me special attention. I suppose that I ought to have been pleased to be left to my own devices. I can’t say that I wasn’t. I felt numb. The world around me made sure that I continued to feel that way. And that was how I passed the first day. The second day, I passed slow, too. By the end of the third day, working almost ten hours a day, I was fairly confident that I had the common room as clean as it could get.
And along with it, I had fairly convinced myself that Baron wasn’t going to surprise me. I’d refused to expect it the first day, but there was always a part of me waiting for the other shoe to drop. A part that I made sure to keep to myself, and even afterward I was careful not to admit to.
The second day, it felt less like expectation and more like a fantasy. Wouldn’t it be funny if Baron showed back up to rescue me?
By the third day, it wasn’t even that. It was an idea I’d had once, and it was past the point where it could be anything more.
By the eighth day, I had settled into my routine. I would clean up, eat lunch, and during the afternoon hours I would go find someplace new to start in on. A day’s work, and I could usually move on to someplace new.
It was dark, and the day’s slowly-dwindling imagination that there was going to be a daring rescue and a way home had already turned its lights off, as the sun fell.
And then, not far away, there was a massive roar of an explosion, and everything started to go crazy. I stayed in my seat and tore another piece off of my bread.
There was no reason to get all up in arms. Eventually, I’d understand what was happening, and afterward I would be able to piece it back together again in my head, as if I had seen what happened. But I didn’t. I saw what I thought I needed to see, which in my case was nothing.
The first man to step through the door, I saw go because my seat was facing it. I was sitting alone at the table in the corner, the furthest from the door. It was more interesting to face towards the room than towards the wall, so I was facing towards the door, as well. He didn’t re-enter, and another gunshot rang out.
Someone said something. It might have been that he’d been shot. And then someone else pushed themselves up, twisted the pistol out of his holster, and started toward the door. A moment before he made it all the way, the doorway swung open again, the other way this time. Someone filled the doorway.
He had a pistol in one hand, and a scattergun in the other. His eyes fell on me.
“Marion.”
“Baron?”
“We’re leaving,” he said. Someone moved. The pistol turned halfway in his hand and barked out another shot. “Stay where you are, and nobody has to get hurt.”
“What happened to you?”
“I’m taking you home,” he said again. “We can talk on the road.”
I felt something swell in my chest. I looked over at the rest of the room. “But what about—”
“Get up.” I got up automatically. “Over here.”
I moved. I could feel eyes watching me.
“They ain’t hurt me,” I said, my voice low as I came close. His arm wrapped around my shoulder and pulled me in tight.
“We’ll talk on the road,” he said again. “I’m going to get you safe, first. And then we can talk.”
We didn’t talk on the road. I was tired. He was tired. We didn’t talk until later. We didn’t talk until we arrived at a cabin, and he stopped his horse out front. And then we didn’t stop talking until we were both a little too old to do much more than hold each other’s hands.