“Do I?” His voice rose with a note of pride. “Of course I do. I’ve lived here longer than almost anyone else and know everyone.”
“Then maybe you can help me. I need to speak to any miners who may have once worked at the old, abandoned Hawthorne Mine.”
Mr. Fehling, still holding his pot of coffee, pressed a hand to his chin, squishing his flesh as he stared straight ahead, deep in thought.
After a moment, he released his chin and snapped his fingers. “I know of two fellas. One lives in town and the other works as a cowhand at Updegraff Ranch.” The hotel proprietor gave Philip their names and where to look for them at this time of the night, indicating that one or both would be at the taverns in town.
With his heart thudding with urgent need, Philip crossed to the door. He wasn’t sure how he’d find Felicity and free her, but all he knew was that he had to do something—that he couldn’t let her get in the middle of this war with his brother.
As he exited, he nodded his thanks to Mr. Fehling. “If I’m not back at the hotel within two hours, send the sheriff out to find me at Hawthorne Mine.”
He’d probably be dead. But he prayed that at the very least, Felicity would be alive and safe.
20
Felicity awoke with a pounding headache. As she drew in a breath of musty air, her eyes flew open, and she found herself in a cavern of some sort, lit by a lantern placed on a rocky ledge above her. The light illuminated a low granite ceiling and rough walls on either side. Ahead, steel tracks led down a long passageway that disappeared into darkness. On her opposite side, the metal tracks ran to another black chasm.
Where was she? A mine?
At the trickle of water behind her, she shifted to find thin threads of water running down the wall and forming a narrow creek beside the tracks.
She had to be in a mine. What other place could it be? But why was she here?
Her thoughts raced back to the trip she’d made to town out of her need to see Philip again. In her last waking moments after she’d walked out of the store, what had happened? Had someone really threatened her with a knife and then forced her to walk toward a wagon?
Yes, there had been a man with a foreign accent. At first, she’d assumed he was someone with Philip. But she’d clearly been wrong. The man’s intentions toward Philip were less than honorable.
Was he the assassin Philip had mentioned? The one his brother had sent after him? If so, what was he doing with her?
She didn’t have to think long to figure that out. In fact, she didn’t need any time. If the assassin had been in the General Store and had heard Captain Jim blathering on about how much Philip liked her, the man had probably captured her to lure Philip down into the mine after her.
Once Philip was here in the mine, the assassin would be able to trap him and kill him.
Even if Philip didn’t love her and didn’t want to be with her, he was too noble and caring not to come after her once he learned of her plight. He wasn’t the sort of man who would leave her to rot while he left town and saved himself . . . unfortunately . . .
She really wished at this moment that he was that sort of man and wouldn’t attempt to rescue her. But she expected that as soon as he got news the assassin had her, he’d rush out and put himself into life-threatening danger to help her.
In fact, he was probably already on his way.
She glanced around again. The assassin wasn’t anywhere in sight. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t lurking somewhere nearby.
She tugged on her arms, which were bound behind her at the wrists. Then she tried to move her legs only to find that they, too, were tied tightly together. At least her mouth wasn’t gagged.
But maybe that was intentional. Maybe once Philip arrived and started calling for her, the assassin hoped she’d respond, drawing him toward her.
Obviously, as an assassin, he would be a trained and experienced killer. He wouldn’t leave room for any mistakes and had probably plotted out every detail.
Except that he didn’t know her. He didn’t know how much she loved Philip. And he didn’t know what lengths she’d go to in order to protect him.
She was no damsel in distress. She was a strong woman who could do whatever she set her mind to. And that meant her first order of business was to free herself from her binding. If she wasn’t lying there tied up and helpless when Philip arrived, then the assassin wouldn’t be able to lure him in and kill him.
She dug her fingers into the gravel behind her. Surely with a sharp rock she could saw through her binding. If she did so quietly enough, maybe the assassin wouldn’t find out.
With nothing sharp enough beneath her, she inched down the track. Her fingers connected with a lone rusty nail, and for a short while she rubbed it against the rope, but at the odd angle, she didn’t make much progress.
As a sense of urgency settled inside her, she wiggled farther from her original spot, combing the gravel as she went. To her side, her gaze snagged on a section of the tracks where the metal had been torn away, leaving a gap . . . and a jagged edge.
She rapidly positioned her wrists and the rope over the knifelike fragment of metal and began to saw.
The metal sliced into her arm, and she sucked in a breath at the pain that raced up her flesh. With blood running down her arm and onto her wrists, her skin grew slick, but she continued to slice at the rope, this time sawing slowly and meticulously, knowing she could hurt herself badly if she weren’t careful.
When the rope was frayed almost to the end, she wrestled the final part until it snapped. With her hands free, she examined her cut. It was deep and still bleeding profusely. As quietly as she could, she ripped part of her petticoat, tied it around the wound, then began working on freeing her feet.
She wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed during her efforts to cut herself free. But she guessed the assassin would be checking on her again soon. She had to position herself where he’d left her and wrap the rope back around her feet so that she still appeared to be bound.
As she began to scramble toward the area where she’d first awoken, she stopped short at the sight of blood covering the gravel near the broken rail. She’d obviously bled all over everything, and if the assassin came near enough, he’d notice the blood. He’d be too proficient to miss it.
She dragged her fingers across the gravel, trying to cover the spots. Her clean-up job wasn’t perfect, but she’d have to pray that in the low lighting of the tunnel, the assassin wouldn’t notice anything.
At the crunch of footsteps and a light that seemed to be coming from a nearby cross tunnel, she lay down the way she’d been when she’d awoken, wrapped the rope around her ankles as tightly as possible, then slipped her hands behind her back out of sight. With her eyes closed, she pretended to be asleep, breathing slowly and rhythmically.
Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the brightening of the tunnel when the newcomer stepped into it. He seemed to be holding the lantern up and was likely examining her.
Anger wrestled around her insides more than fear—anger that Philip’s brother was trying to kill him, anger that he’d had to run for his life, anger that after surviving this long he was in danger because of her.
No, she wouldn’t let anything happen to him tonight.
Letting her anger fuel her, she put on the best performance she could. She prayed she looked as innocent and gullible as she had when he’d first approached her. She needed to convince him that she wasn’t a threat, that he had nothing to fear from her.