Colton's Ranch Refuge. Beth Cornelison
Mary chuckled, Violet squeezed the teenager’s hand and studied her lightly freckled face. Her fresh-scrubbed, makeup-free skin glowed with the dewiness of youth and innocence. Her wide gray eyes held no guile, only an earnest love for life, and her dark brown hair was twisted up in the traditional modest bun.
“Mary Yoder,” Violet said, grinning, “do you have any idea how lovely you are?”
Her compliment obviously caught the girl off guard. A pink blush blossomed in her cheeks, and she ducked her head to hide a small smile before sobering a bit. She cast Violet a guarded look. “Vanity is a sin.”
Ah, right. That belief was the reason why the Amish had no mirrors in their houses.
“Hmm, in that case I know quite a few women—and men—in Hollywood who are in big trouble!” Violet returned with a wink.
The rumble of a car engine drew Violet’s attention to the large silver sedan that was driving rapidly toward them on the country road—far too rapidly considering how narrow the road was and how frequently the lane was used by Amish pedestrians or horse buggies, she thought, twisting her mouth in a scowl.
“Careful,” she said, taking Mary by the arm to tug her farther from the road, “give this idiot—” Violet stopped abruptly as the silver car skidded to a stop a few yards ahead of them, blocking their path. Her immediate thought was the car had been sent by the production staff to find her. Was there an emergency with her boys? If that were the case, why hadn’t they called her cell?
Violet patted her apron pocket—no phone. She’d left her cell on the bedside table at the Yoders’. Her pulse gave a little leap of concern, and she took a step toward the car.
The driver’s and passenger’s doors opened at the same time, and the two men who emerged wore ski masks. Alarm and confusion skittered through Violet, and even before she’d fully registered what was happening, she moved between the men and Mary. “What’s going on?”
“We’re going for a ride, sweetcheeks,” one of the men chortled as they advanced on Violet and Mary.
Icy comprehension slammed Violet. Panic exploded in her chest. “Mary, run!”
Violet staggered backward, spun, grabbed Mary’s sleeve as she scrambled to flee. But Mary was yanked from her grasp, and the girl screamed.
In the next second, a large hand seized Violet’s cape and yanked her backward. She whirled, arms raised, ready for battle. Adrenaline flooded her, fueling her fight, and every self-defense lesson she’d learned flashed through her brain.
Eyes. Throat. Groin. Do not let them take you to another location.
As a beefy arm slid around her waist, hauling her toward the car, Violet slammed her elbow behind her as hard as she could, stomped the man’s insole and reared her head back to smash his nose.
“Damn it, bitch! Stop that!” the man growled, digging his fingers in her arm.
She searched for Mary, fear for the Amish girl pounding through her.
“Fight them, Mary! Fight back!” she shouted as she struggled against her captor’s grip. She thought of Hudson and Mason, and her chest tightened. She wanted to see her babies again, couldn’t leave them orphaned. “Fight hard, Mary! Don’t let them get you in the car—no matter what!”
“Shut up!” the man holding her snarled and smacked his hand across her cheek.
“You bastard! Let me go!” Violet clawed at the man’s eyes. In her peripheral vision, Mary fell to the ground, and the other man snatched the girl’s head back by the hair. Fury exploded in Violet. “Don’t hurt her, you prick!”
“Such language,” her captor mocked, seizing her around the waist and lifting her easily from the ground. “What would Mamm and Datt say if they heard you? You’d be shunned, for sure.”
Violet aimed her boot heel at his kneecap and kicked. “I’m not Amish, jerk!”
Growling in pain, her captor loosened his grip and clutched at his leg. Violet struggled free and seized the opportunity. Gathering her wits and tossing off her encumbering cape, she assumed a combative stance.
“Nooo! Violet!” Mary wailed.
Violet jerked her gaze toward the teenager. The second man had Mary penned on the ground, his fist reared back.
“No!” Violet screamed.
The man’s hand bashed Mary’s jaw, and Violet flinched as if she’d received the blow.
“Not the face, idiot!” the other man shouted. “He said their faces can’t be messed up!”
The next punch landed in the girl’s gut. Mary cried out in pain, and, fury surging, Violet lunged at the man holding Mary. She threw herself on his back and wrapped an arm around his neck, squeezing, gouging at his face. “Get off her! Leave her alone!”
Immediately, Violet’s attacker grabbed the back of her dress and forcibly pried her off his partner. As she was dragged away, Violet struggled and fought the restraining arms. Twisting at the waist, she snagged her captor’s ski mask and dragged it off.
A prickle ran through Violet when she realized what she’d done. His face! She had a chance to identify the kidnappers. Look at his face!
But a blow to the side of her head caught Violet off guard, and she reeled back, tripping and toppling dizzily to the ground. She had only a split second to brace herself before a booted foot collided with her ribs. All the air in her lungs whooshed out from the impact, and a throb of pain ricocheted all the way to her skull. Violet curled in a ball to protect her ribs, her belly. Tears puddled in her eyes.
Hudson and Mason … she had to survive this to see her boys again.
“Damn it, get the girl in the car! We gotta get out of here!”
The ski cap was snatched from her hand, and she groaned internally. Summoning every ounce of her strength, Violet blinked her vision clear, focused on gathering details while she had the chance. The pair of paint-splattered work boots inches from her head faced the other direction. Her captor had turned his back. She angled her gaze up, glimpsed his short brown hair, bleeding nose, snarling mouth. Then he yanked the ski mask back over his face and turned toward her.
“Can’t leave no witnesses. I have to kill you now.” When he reached under his jacket, terror spurred Violet to action. She rolled away from him, despite the ache in her side, and sprang back to her feet. She risked a glance toward Mary. The girl was sobbing, still thrashing, still fighting the man who was dragging her by the feet toward the open car door.
Violet’s attacker advanced on her again, and a hunting knife flashed in his hand. Trembling, Violet backpedaled, scrambling mentally for a plan. She couldn’t outrun the men. They outweighed her, outnumbered her, had Mary’s life in their hands.
The knife-wielding thug edged closer. “Come on, bitch. You think you’re so smart?”
Disarm him, her brain shouted.
When he stepped closer, Violet swung her leg up in a roundhouse kick, aiming for his wrist. But at that same moment, he stabbed at her in an arc, and the blade jabbed deep in Violet’s thigh. Adrenaline masked the pain for the first several seconds, even when her assailant jerked the blade out and shoved her to the pavement. She landed with a bone-jarring, breath-stealing impact. The world around her blurred … slowed … muted.
Help! Help me, she screamed, but no sound came from her mouth.
Then white-hot pain seared her leg. She touched the wound and felt the sticky warmth of her own blood.
Straining to focus her eyes, she looked for her attacker and braced for another blow—the death blow.
“Get her arms!” The shout seemed to come from the end of a tunnel … underwater … from a deep well.
Then she heard a scream—piercing,