up and gagged me. You don’t think I came here of my own accord, do you?”
“No, I mean did they do anything…else?”
“I wasn’t raped, if that is what you mean.”
By now Hawke had pulled a knife from his belt and was cutting through the ropes that bound her ankles. After that, he cut the ropes from her wrists.
“Did my father send you?” the girl asked as she gingerly rubbed her wrists. “I was sure that he wouldn’t pay the ransom. It’s not the money, it’s the principle of the thing. And my father is nothing if he is not a man of principle.”
Finished with her wrists, she leaned forward and began massaging her rope-burned ankles.
“Your father didn’t send me,” Hawke said.
The girl looked up in surprise. “He didn’t?” Her resultant laughter was genuine, and totally unexpected. “No doubt he will be amused to learn that one solitary knight dressed, not in shining armor, but blue jeans and a red and green plaid shirt, succeeded where his army failed.”
“Army?”
“Figuratively speaking,” the woman said. “I’m sure that the moment he learned I was missing, he dispatched a veritable army of his employees in the field, looking for me.”
“Could I ask you a question?”
“You’ve just saved my life. That certainly should earn you the right to ask a question.”
“Why are wearing a nightgown?”
“I’m wearing a nightgown because I was asleep in my berth on the train when they took me.”
“The train? You were taken from a train?”
“I can’t believe that news of my capture wasn’t in all the papers.”
“It may well have been,” Hawke replied. “I’ve been on the trail for some time. I’m afraid I haven’t read many papers lately.”
“I’m sorry. I know that was very vain of me.”
“Do you have any other clothes with you?”
The girl shook her head. “This is it, I’m afraid.”
Sighing, Hawke opened his saddle bag, removed a waterproof pouch, and took a pair of jeans and a gray flannel shirt from it.
“These will be too big for you,” he said. “But it will be better than wearing a nightgown.”
“Thank you,” Pamela said. “Might I inquire as to your name, sir?”
“The name is Hawke. Mason Hawke.”
“I’m exceptionally pleased to meet you, Mr. Mason Hawke. My name is Pamela Dorchester.”
“It is good to meet you, Miss Dorchester.”
“The name Dorchester doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”
“I must say, Mr. Hawke, meeting you has certainly been ego-deflating.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t intend to be.”
“Nonsense, don’t be sorry. I’m sure it’s quite good for me…character building or some such thing.”
Pamela made a circular motion with her fingers. “Would you please present me with your backside, Mr. Hawke?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Turn around, please, so that I may have some privacy while I get dressed.” In the way of the British, she used the short
“Oh, yes, all right,” Hawke said, complying with her request. “Do you have any shoes?”
“No.”
“I’ll make you some.”
“You are going to make me some shoes?”
“Moccasins, anyway,” Hawke said.
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’ll look around until I find something,” Hawke said, and poked through the cabin until he found some saddlebags. “This will do,” he told her, still keeping his back turned.
He dumped the contents out—a couple of dirty shirts and even dirtier socks—then, using his knife, he began to carve out the components of a pair of moccasins.
Meanwhile, Pamela put on the clothes he’d given her. “You can look now,” she said.
Hawke turned around and smiled. The bottom of the pants legs were rolled up several turns. “You look better in my clothes than I do,” he said. “Even if they are too big. Hold up your foot.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hold up your foot, I need an idea of how big it is.”
Pamela held up her foot, and Hawke measured it by making a fist then extending his thumb and little finger. Satisfied, he went back to work.
“Oh, my,” Pamela said, pointing to the clothes Hawke had dumped. “I must say, you keep cleaner clothes in your satchel than they did.”
“I like to keep a clean change of clothes all the time,” he replied. Looking up, he smiled at her. “After all, you never can tell when you might run into a pretty young woman.”
“And tell me, Mr. Hawke, do you put your clothes on every woman that you meet?”
“No,” Hawke replied. “On the other hand, I don’t run into that many women who are wearing only their sleeping gown.”
“Touche,” Pamela said.
“Give me your foot,” Hawke said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Give me your foot. I want to see if this will work.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
Pamela extended her foot, and Hawke slipped the moccasin on and tied it in place with a strip of rawhide cut from the saddlebag.
“How does that feel?”
“Quite comfortable, actually.”
“I’ll have the other one done in a couple of minutes.”
Resuming work, he said, “You say these two men actually took you off the train?”
“Yes, in the middle of the night, when we were stopped to take on water.”
“That sounds like a well-thought-out operation. I wouldn’t have given those two credit for that much intelligence.”
“Oh, they didn’t come up with it by themselves.”
Hawke looked up. “They didn’t?”
“According to Poke, it was all ‘thunk up’ for them.”
“Do you have any idea who that would be? Who would be behind such a thing?” Hawke asked.
“No. Oh!” she said suddenly. “If there is someone else, they may be coming here.”
“That’s true.”
“Then we must get out of here. Mr. Hawke, would you please take me back to Northumbria? I’m sure my father would be quite generous with his reward.”
“Northumbria? Is that a town near here?”
“Northumbria is my father’s estate…uh, ranch. It’s near Green River.”
“I’m not familiar with this area. How far is Green River?”
“It’s about forty miles, I would think.”
“I’ll get you home, Miss Dorchester, but I’m afraid it’s going to take a few days.”
“Why is that?”
Hawke took his hat off and ran his hand through his trail-length ash-blond hair. “Unfortunately, the horses are dead.”
Pamela looked at him incredulously. “The horses are dead? All of them?”
