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of orange and gold unfolded, then gradually spread a hand the width of the eastern skyline. One by one, the outlaws began to stir. Big Joe sat up on the cot, scratching his head. His mat of tousled hair stood on end.
    Hope, arms crossed, swayed with exhaustion. She’d stood for eight hours. Her legs felt like two wooden posts. It had been the longest night of her life. Focusing on her captors, she wondered what would happen next. Would they stick a gun to her head and make her come inside? Physically drag her into the cabin?
    Her eyes locked with Grunt’s as he stood at the stove pouring coffee. She wasn’t stepping a foot into that room unless they cleaned it; they, on the other hand, didn’t seem threatened by her stubbornness. That was as plain as the nose on her face. How long could she stand here? Her puffy feet told her not much longer. She’d have to eat—and use the necessary. She hadn’t used the necessary in hours.
    Her gaze switched to Big Joe, sitting on the side of his cot in a dazed stupor. He seemed to be the leader. Boris and Frog followed orders. Grunt—she wasn’t sure what Grunt did.
    He robbed stages and abducted an innocent young woman, that’s what he did.
    The men began moving about. Frog reached for the water bucket and pushed past Hope on his way to the creek. She’d been captive for over fifteen hours, and this man hadn’t spoken a word. Could he talk? Did he have a tongue?
    Big Joe gave a whining yawn and scratched his belly. He eyed Hope’s stance sourly. “You this stubborn all th’ time?”
    She nodded. More, if the truth were known. One time she’d sat up two nights straight to prove to June that she could do it. She’d wanted to make it three, but Papa had cut a hickory switch and told her he’d use it if she didn’t get herself to bed.
    Frog returned with the water, his heavy boots tracking mud to the stove. Picking up the poker, he stoked the fire, threw in some kindling, and slammed the lid back in place. She watched as he lay thick slices of bacon in the skillet, wondering how long it had been since he’d washed his hands. If ever. Within minutes, the meat began to sizzle, filling the room with a delicious aroma.
    Her stomach ached with hunger. She glanced at Grunt, her eyes sending him a silent plea. Don’t let that bacon burn.
    Grunt finished pulling on his boots and stood up. “Frog, watch that bacon.”
    Hope closed her eyes. Thank you, Father.
    The outlaw took a tin cup off a hook beneath the shelf and poured coffee. Hope watched as Grunt approached. He extended the steaming cup to her.
    “Drink it.”
    She might be stubborn enough to stand in the doorway forever, but she had sense enough to know that she had to eat. She was already faint from lack of nourishment. She took the cup, refusing to meet his gaze.
    “That’a girl. We can’t have our ticket to prosperity gettin’ sick on us.” Big Joe reached for the coffeepot, his eye shooting west. “We want our little Annie healthy as a horse when her pappy pays us all that money.”
    “I’m—”
    Grunt’s eyes sent her a silent warning, and her mouth clamped shut.
    I’m not Anne Ferry.
    She peered into the cup. The tin cup was burning her fingers. Desperation made her drink the potent black brew. The bitter liquid was scalding and strong enough to walk, but it felt heavenly to her parched throat. Shivering, she took another long drink. Maybe she was being foolish by refusing to eat. A piece of bacon—two pieces. She would eat two pieces of that heavenly smelling bacon and drink one cup of this horrible coffee. She’d need her strength to escape. She sipped and thought.
    Anne was a Bible scholar. Would the outlaws know that? Anne had talked of memorizing whole chapters of Scripture. Hope knew Scripture, but she certainly hadn’t memorized much. So if the subject came up and she was going to pretend to be Anne, she would have to be careful not to trip herself up. Faith and June knew the whole first