Cowboy's Texas Rescue. Beth Cornelison

battling her fear.

      The man’s dark eyes narrowed, and he ran a hand over his thinning brown hair. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

      Chelsea bit the inside of her cheek. Don’t get him angry. Or rather angrier. Her stomach flip-flopped.

      “M-maybe someone will stop and help us,” she offered, trying to infuse her tone with a note of optimism that would calm her captor. But a glance down the isolated road told her everyone with sense was already hunkered down at home, bracing for the storm.

      The inmate’s eyebrows beetled, and he shifted restlessly on the seat. “No. No, we can’t have that. Can’t risk someone calling the cops.” He looked down at the orange coveralls he wore, as if realizing his attire screamed his status as an escaped felon. Raising a speculative glance to Chelsea, he waved the gun at her. “Give me your clothes.”

      She blinked. “What?”

      Her captor started peeling off his prison garb, revealing a second weapon he’d tucked in his underwear. Another gun, although this one had a funny shape and was painted with yellow stripes on the wide muzzle. Maybe a stun gun?

      He caught her curious stare and grated, “Strip! Now! I want your clothes.”

      “But it’s freezing!”

      He gave her a sneer. “That’s your problem, girlie, not mine.”

      A shudder rolled through Chelsea, and she fought down the wave of nausea that churned in her gut. Her brain scrambled for something, anything, that would distract him. Anything that would give her the upper hand and a chance to call for help.

      “Come on. Hurry up! Gimme your clothes, damn it!” He waved the gun under her nose. “Don’t test me, girlie. I swear I will shoot you and take the clothes off your corpse if you don’t get ’em off now!”

      Hands shaking, Chelsea grasped the hem of her sweater and tugged it off over her head. Tears filled her eyes as the chilly air nipped her skin.

      He snatched the pink pullover from her, then bent to shove the orange coveralls and second gun under the front seat. And Chelsea seized what might be her only chance.

      Lunging for her purse, she grappled for her cell phone and thumbed the call button. 9-1—

      “Bitch!” Her kidnapper yanked the phone from her, jabbed the power button and threw the phone on the floor of the backseat. “That’s it,” he growled. “Get out.”

      Fear rippled through her. Heart thundering, gut roiling, Chelsea blinked back tears. “N-no. Please! I won’t try it again. I just—”

      “Damn right you won’t try it again.” He climbed out of the car, opened the driver’s door and poked her with the gun. “Get the hell out of the car!”

      Shivering with cold and terror, Chelsea scanned the horizon again, praying for help. No one. Nothing. She struggled for a breath as dread squeezed her lungs. Was this it? Was this how she’d die?

      The encroaching storm clouds blotted out the sun and made the afternoon seem more like evening. Despair darkened her hope.

      The convict yanked her out of the car by the arm. “I said get out!”

      Chelsea screamed as loud as she could. Maybe someone, somewhere, would hear and—

      A stunning blow found her cheek.

      “Shut up! Give me those jeans now, or I’ll do it myself.” The man’s dark eyes narrowed on her.

      Hands shaking, she stripped off her jeans, while humiliation and tears stung her cheeks. Icy wind whipped around her, and she shivered. “You have what you want. Please, just let me go.”

      “And let you sing to the cops where you saw me and which way I was headed?” He scoffed. “No chance.” He reached out and stroked her face, sending a ripple of revulsion to her core. “But because you’ve been so helpful, I’ll let you live. For now.”

      Chelsea released a breath of relief…too soon.

      After snatching the key from the ignition, the gunman grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the back of the Caddy. He keyed open the trunk and turned to her. “Get in.”

      Chelsea eyed the trunk, and her knees wobbled. “Please, just…just let me g—”

      “Get in!” he roared, pointing the gun at her.

      “But you said—”

      The convict grabbed her, his arms pinning hers to her sides, and shoved her toward the open trunk.

      “No! Please!” She fought him, fought hard, clawing, biting, struggling. But in the end, all she got for her efforts were another smack on the head from the butt of the gun and scraped legs when he forced her into the trunk.

      Chelsea gasped in terror as he slammed the trunk closed and she was swallowed by darkness. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and fought to remain calm. She could get out of here. She had to. Just think. Stay calm and think… .

      As long as she didn’t give him a reason to shoot her, she still had a chance to figure out how to escape. Tears stinging her eyes, she sent up a prayer…and started searching for a way out of Ethyl’s trunk.

      Edward Brady stomped back to the driver’s seat of the old Cadillac, chafing his cold arms and grumbling. Of all the women and all the cars that stopped at the gas station that afternoon, he had to pick the troublemaker who was driving on fumes. He hiked up the jeans that sagged on his hips, then dropped onto the front seat and scowled. Stupid girl’s pants didn’t even fit.

      Squeezing the steering wheel, he glared through the windshield and fumed over the bad turn of luck. He was a sitting duck, stranded here on the highway, and the dark clouds rolling in warned his luck was about to get much bleaker. He needed a new plan.

      He slapped the steering wheel and bit out a blistering curse. He’d spent months plotting this day, planning his escape, and thanks to stupid rotten luck and the bitch with the too-big jeans, his dream of freedom was all going in the toilet. If he were caught now, he’d be put on trial for killing those cops. In Texas, that meant the death penalty.

      Brady shuddered. He refused to get caught now. He’d come too far, had too much at risk. He needed transportation, a hideout that was off the cops’ radar, weapons, food…and he needed it fast. When that storm hit, if he didn’t have shelter, he could die of exposure. And wouldn’t that be sorry freakin’ irony?

      In the trunk, the woman started banging on the lid and shouting for help.

      Brady gritted his teeth. Maybe he should kill her and be done with it. “Shut up!” he yelled. “I’m trying to think out here!”

      Movement in the rearview mirror caught his attention. A truck was approaching. Half of him wanted the truck to stop. He could shoot the driver and take the truck.

      But if the truck’s driver heard the woman’s shouts for help, he’d be screwed.

      Brady slumped down in the seat. Just drive on by, pal. Just drive on by.

      But the truck slowed as it passed.

      The banging from the trunk got louder. “Help! Someone help! Please.”

      Turning the ignition key one notch to access the battery power, Brady opened the window, switched on the radio and turned it up full blast.

      Jake narrowed his gaze on the ancient Cadillac sitting on the shoulder of the isolated highway. As he drove past the parked car, he spotted a man in the driver’s seat, slumped low, his expression dour. Car trouble? If so, the poor schmuck could be waiting hours for a wrecker out here. Big trouble, what with the winter storm approaching.

      Jake’s conscience kicked him. Be the Change You Wish To See had been his mother’s mantra, paraphrasing Gandhi, as he grew up. She’d lived by those words. And died by them.

      No