The next morning was Sunday, and Charlotte woke up to bright light from the sun streaming into the bedroom. She immediately felt that something was wrong. Ever since she and Max had married, she’d never slept in this late. Max always woke before the crack of dawn even on his day of rest, and his movements stirred her awake every time. She felt an inkling of fear, but she squashed it and determined that he must have been especially quiet in his morning activities that day.
When she didn’t find him anywhere else in the cabin, her fear took root. Tim found her standing by the stove with a puzzled expression on her face.
“What’s wrong, Charlie?” he asked, noticing her expression. Tim had used that nickname for her since she’d gotten married to Max, and Charlotte had actually grown fond of it.
“I have a terrible feeling, Tim. Max isn’t here.”
Tim cocked his head. “He’s not in your room?”
“No.” The fear that had taken root began to grow as she witnessed Tim’s facial expression morph into a worried frown that matched her own. They both knew Max wouldn’t leave them of his own accord, and certainly not without telling them.
Charlotte and Tim walked outside, and Charlotte screamed when she saw the blood on the porch. Tim removed a slip of paper tacked to the door, read it, and handed it to Charlotte. On it was scribbled a simple but devastating threat.
Tell the marshal, and I kill him… slowly.
Charlotte sank to the ground and gasped for air as she hyperventilated and sobbed. Tim had the opposite response to the same strong feeling of horror. He froze and stared, wide-eyed, into the distance. In the moments before he spoke, Tim’s expression changed from that of a scared boy into that of a determined man. He reached down and shook one of Charlotte’s shoulders.
“We’re going to find him. Help me come up with a plan.” Tim’s stern tone forced Charlotte to her feet. Tim strode inside, found Max’s gun and belt next to the bed, and buckled it around his hips.
“Do you know how to shoot that, Tim?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“Better than some. I’ve pulled a trigger twice in my life. Now, where could Simon be keeping him?”
Charlotte shook her head in dismay. “I have no clue!” she cried. “The only place I know Simon to stay is at the boardinghouse, and he wouldn’t dare keep Max there.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He used to own a house outside of town. I thought he sold it, but I don’t have any better ideas of where he might be. Do you?”
“No,” Charlotte wailed, hardly able to think about how to place one foot in front of the other, let alone how to find her husband.
“Let’s go there then.”
Tim saddled Max’s horse. They rode in the direction of Simon’s old house, with Tim in the saddle up front leading the mare and Charlotte riding astride behind him, her skirts hiked to an unladylike distance above her knees, which she didn’t notice for a moment.
*
Before he opened his eyes, Max felt the heavy twine digging into the skin of his wrists, which were bound behind him around a beam. He sat on dirt ground, and his head pounded with each beat of his heart. His mouth and throat felt dry and gritty with dust. As he drew nearer to consciousness, he drew nearer to dismay. He became aware of the fact that he’d been captured, and that meant he couldn’t protect Tim and Charlotte.
He opened his eyes, and the darkness he met in the room was not much brighter than the darkness behind his eyelids. As the seconds ticked by, his eyes slowly adjusted, and the rest of his senses awoke. He was in someone’s barn, evident by the smell of hay and manure. The sound of a nickering horse made its way to his ears through the thumping in his head. He struggled against his bonds and quickly learned it would be no use to do so. He was bound too tightly, so much so that the circulation to his fingers was all but cut off entirely. His fingers were numb, and he could barely move them.
The fear in Max grew the longer he sat alone without his kidnapper. Perhaps Simon meant to capture the three of them, and he got Max out of the way first to render the other two helpless to fight him. This thought filled him with such horror that he was relieved when he heard the barn door open and witnessed Simon approaching him, alone. He held a lamp that lit shadows across his face, giving the man an especially evil appearance. Max’s throat filled with sudden bile and revulsion at the sight of Simon’s pointy, shadowed features.
“It’s just you and me now, blacksmith.” Simon dragged a wooden stool across the floor and placed it directly in front of Max. He set the lamp on the ground and sat down.
“What the fuck do you want, Simon,” Max asked, his voice hoarse.