The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(7)
I was stunned for a moment, long enough for my hands to be lashed behind my back like a rodeo calf. The man knew how to wrap and release. I arched and tried to scream. I sucked in a mouth full of manure-flavored muck and knew I was in deep shit. My mind recognized the pun even as I felt hands on the waistband of my jeans. And that’s when I got well and truly pissed, the shock shifting to outrage the moment I felt his hands where they had no place being. I reared up and found his face with the back of my head. He swore and shoved my nose back into the mud, hog-tying my heels to my hands before he turned me over. It was an impossible position, my legs and arms bent beneath me, all my weight on my head and neck, my quadriceps screaming as he pushed mud into my eyes and held his hands over my face as my blinded, grit-filled eyes went wild. My nose was filled with mud and with his hands over my mouth I couldn’t breathe. I gasped and bucked and tried to bite his fingers. The pain in my lungs was worse than my fear, and I thought I was going to die. With a grunt, he tossed me up over his shoulder and turned, as if to run. Then he froze, caught in indecision as a car door slammed close by and somebody called my name.
He dropped me. Just like that. And he was gone. I thought I heard him curse as he ran, the sound of his boots smacking the ground as he bolted. I didn’t recognize his voice. From the moment he stepped out of the shadows to the moment he stepped back in, maybe sixty seconds had passed. Surely another rodeo record.
The rope around my wrists and feet hadn’t loosened when he tossed me, but falling so abruptly and hitting the ground without being able to break my fall had knocked the air out of me. I gasped and choked and rolled to my side so that I could spit out the filth in my mouth. I could feel my belt buckle digging into my hip. He’d pulled at my Wranglers and my belt had come loose. I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t even wipe my eyes. I lay like a rodeo calf, helpless and hog-tied. I tried to wipe my face against my shoulder, just to remove some of the grit from my eyes so at least I could see. I had to be able to see so that if he came back I would be able to identify him, so I would be able to protect myself. So I would be able to attack. I don’t know how long I laid there. It could have been an hour. It could have been ten minutes. But it felt like years.
I swore I had heard someone call my name. Wasn’t that why he ran? And then, like I’d conjured him, he was back. Adrenaline coursed through me once more, and I rocked and lurched, trying to move away an inch at a time. I screamed, only to cough desperately. I’d drawn some of the grit still coating my mouth into my lungs. He stopped as if he hadn’t expected me to still be there.
“Georgia?”
It wasn’t him. It wasn’t the same guy.
He came toward me quickly, closing the space. I squeezed my eyes shut like a child trying to make herself invisible by closing her eyes. Oh, no, no, no, no. I knew that voice. Not Moses. Not Moses. Why did it have to be Moses?
“Should I call someone? Should I call an ambulance?” I could feel him beside me. He wiped at my face as if to see me better. I felt a tugging on the ropes around my wrists and ankles, and suddenly I could straighten my legs. Blood rushed back toward my feet with an enthusiastic ache, and I started crying. The tears felt good, and I blinked desperately, trying to clear my vision as I felt Moses pulling away the rope that was looped around my hands. And then my hands were loose too, and I moaned at the dead weight of my arms and the searing pain in my shoulders.
“Who did this? Who tied you up?”
I looked everywhere but directly at him. I could see he wore a black T-shirt tucked into cargo pants along with a pair of army boots that no self-respecting cowboy would wear at the Ute Stampede. My attacker had worn western wear. He’d worn a button-down shirt. With snaps. Cowboy attire. I’d felt the snaps against my back. I started to shake, and I knew I was going to be sick.
“I’m okay,” I lied, gasping, wanting desperately for Moses to turn away so I wouldn’t have to throw up in front of him. I wasn’t okay. Not at all. I mopped at my cheeks and I looked up at him, my eyes darting to his face to gauge whether or not he believed me. I looked away immediately.
He asked me if I could stand and then tried to help me to my feet. With his help I managed, teetering like a newborn foal.
“You can go. I’m fine,” I lied again desperately. But he didn’t leave.
I turned around, walked several steps on shaking legs, and threw up against the fence. Mud, manure, and my rodeo hamburger burst forth in a gush of Pepsi broth, and my knees buckled beneath me. I clung to the corral so I wouldn’t fall as I heaved and purged, but Moses didn’t leave. The snort and stamp of the bulls on the other side of the wooden rails reminded me where I was. Satan’s Alias and his minions were nearby, and I had no trouble believing I’d fallen through a rabbit hole straight into the bowels of hell.
“You’re covered in mud and your belt is hanging off.” The statement was flat, accusing almost, and I could tell Moses didn’t believe I was okay at all. Imagine that. I kept my back turned to him, pulled my big shiny belt buckle into place with stiff fingers, and shoved the end of my belt through my belt loops, ignoring the fact that my button had come undone too and my zipper was down. My T-shirt now hung over my waistband so maybe he hadn’t noticed that. And I wasn’t going to draw attention to it. The belt would keep my pants in place. I shuddered.
“Someone tied you up.”
“I think someone was playing a joke,” I stuttered, still coughing and wheezing at the irritation in my throat. “I think it was Terrence. He was pissed at me earlier, and maybe he thought I would laugh or squeal instead of fight. I fought hard. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be scary. Maybe he was just supposed to tie me up so they could come find me and laugh at me all trussed up . . . I’m totally fine.” I wasn’t sure I believed anything I said. But I wanted to.