Finally they moved out of the trees, into a good sized clearing. There were, from what she could see, three cabins scattered around the perimeter. Ron drove up and stopped before the nearest one. It, and the middle cabin were lighted. The third was dark, but smoke rose from it's chimney into the night sky.

Jerry helped her out of the jeep, and Ron exited also. She floundered a little in the heavy snow. She wasn't dressed, or shod for this type of weather. Scribe was already cold. Snow got into her shoes during the brief walk to the cabin, and her toes quickly started to go numb. Ron opened the door for them, and Jerry shepherded her inside.

She looked around as Jerry and Ron stamped snow off their boots. It was small, but efficiently laid out. One room, with a two doors on the far wall, flanking a stone fireplace that currently held a roaring fire. But there were no windows. There was also a gas space heater on the other side of the room. Between the two, it was comfortably warm, despite the weather outside. Looking at the door, she saw that the walls were unusually thick. Lots of insulation.

There was a kitchen area, complete with sink, stove, and refrigerator. She saw light fixtures, but right then the place was lighted by several hurricane lamps: mantel, kitchen counter, occasional table.

Jerry pulled off his coat, hanging it on a peg near the front door. Ron called, "Lally girl, you here?"

"Just putting the finishing touches, Ron." called a woman. "Did Jerry find himself... oh." The speaker, a busty, petite blonde, dropped what she was saying when she saw Scribe.

She approached slowly, studying the captive. Scribe returned the look. She was a pretty woman in her mid to late thirties. Her makeup was a little more Tammy Faye than was good for her, though. "She looks like a nice one, Jerry." She ventured. "What's your name?" Scribe just stared at her, and she looked questioningly at Jerry, "Hon, did you get yourself a deaf mute?"

"No, she's just stubborn. Her name's Scribe."

"Scribe? Now that's unusual. But it's kind of nice. Scribe, I'm Lally, Ron's woman. I hope we're gonna be friends. There aren't many other folks up here, so we have to rely on each other."

"I guess that means I can't count on you to help me get away." Her tone was bleak.

Lally looked surprised. "Get...? Honey, you can't be thinking like that."

"Figures." She looked away from the woman.

"Don't be offended, Lally." Jerry hugged his sister-in-law. "She's still shaky about this. Give her some time. The place looks great. Thank you."

"What's family for?" She kissed him on the cheek. "Lots of food in the fridge and pantry. No reason for you to come out for a week, if you don't want." She elbowed him. "Time enough for a good honeymoon."

Scribe groaned, and thumped her head lightly against the nearest wall. Jerry took her by the collar and pulled her away from it.

Ron put his arm around Lally's shoulders. "Come on, doll. Let's leave the two lovebirds alone. I wanna get you back to the house, anyway."

Not looking at them, Scribe mumbled acidly, "You're gonna get jumped."

Ron's eyebrows went up in cool amusement. "That she is, little sister." And they left.

Jerry locked the door after them. There was a lock that needed a key for the inside, and he pocketed the key when he was done. Scribe watched, her hopes of eventually finding a way out sinking.

Door locked, Jerry dragged an armchair a little closer to the fire. He turned her away from him, made a motion, and she felt the bonds around her wrists fall away. She immediately tried to rub her wrists and hands, because the fiery prickles were back. Jerry sheathed the knife he'd used to free her, and once again massaged the aching flesh till the pain eased.

He indicated the chair, and she sat. He pointed at her. "That's your spot right now. Don't you stir from it till I tell you to.

" He flipped up a small rug before the fireplace. She was only a little surprised to see what looked like a trap door. Jerry opened it, and reached down into a space under the floor, then lifted up a padlocked strongbox. He turned away from her for a moment, and worked the combination on the lock, then opened the box. She didn't see what was in it. He took his gun from where it had been resting, tucked in his waistband at the small of his back. He unloaded it, checking it several times to be sure that it was empty, then put the ejected ammunition in the box.

Jerry sat back on his heels and looked at her for a moment. Then he got up and went to the kitchen area. Scribe stared at the box. Yes, the ammunition was there, but it wouldn't do her much good without a gun. And even with a gun, she doubted it's usefulness. She'd had no contact with firearms, save for that one, wincing blast her stepfather had insisted she try with the little .22 he'd bought a few years ago. Then she'd been shocked and frightened by the cracking blast, almost dropping the weapon.

This gun was a hell of a lot bigger, and nastier looking. Even if she was able to figure out how to load and fire it, the chances were greatest that she'd miss what she aimed at. The second greatest chance was that she'd injure herself. And she didn't want to do that when she seemed far from civilization, and the people around her would not be inclined to dial 911. If there were phones. She hadn't seen one.

While these thoughts were running through her mind, Jerry returned from the kitchen. She saw that he had a handful of kitchen implements: knives and forks. He dumped them in the box also, and shut and locked it, explaining, "I don't trust you enough to leave those things layin' around, darlin'. Don't think I didn't know you were thinkin' about bitin' me on the plane. You made the right decision, but there's no use in puttin' temptation in your way when you might not be strong enough to resist."

The box went back in the hole, the trap was lowered, and the rug was smoothed. He stood up, dusting his hands off. "Well," he gestured around the room. "This is your new home. What do you think?"

It was better than some of the places she'd lived, but that was hardly relevant. "It's a cage."

"I guess it looks like that to you now. Give it time. How you feelin'?"

She just stared at him. A line from a Phil Collins song drifted across her mind. It had been in that movie White Nights, and it was a haunting, beautiful song. "You have no right to ask me how I've been. You have no right to speak to me so kind..." But that had been about lovers meeting after going their separate ways to separate lives. "What do you care?"

He sighed, squatting beside the chair. His voice was patient, as if instructing a child. "You're my wife. I'm responsible for you. If you feel bad, you have to tell me, so I can help you."

She glared at him. "I'm not your wife. I'm your captive. And I'm cold."

He chose to ignore the first part of her statement. "I bet you are, dressed like that."

"I didn't have time to change."

He smiled at that. "I got me a fiesty one." He went to pull off one of her shoes, and she kicked at him, just protesting, not really making any attempt to injure. She was too damn tired, and still a little woozy.

He held her foot easily, removing one shoe, then the other, peeling down her patterned dress socks and depositing them on the hearth. They were sopping, and they started to steam. He frowned. "Damn, girl, your feet are icy. I don't want you puttin' anything that cold next to me." He chaffed them, rubbing them vigorously in large, warm hands till the chill started to dissipate, and the numbness went away. The physical numbness, anyway. My kidnapper is giving me a foot massage.

But his comment had brought back the idea of why he'd brought her here, and she found her eyes drawn to the bed at the side of the room.

It was sideways against the wall, a heavy piece of furniture. It looked handmade, sturdy. There was even a crude beauty in it, because the simple wood had been smoothed and varnished to a satiny shine. What scared her was the way it was made up.

The sheets were pristine, gleaming white, so smooth that they had to have been ironed. Along with a heavy quilt, they were turned down to the foot of the bed neatly, and a couple of fat pillows were plumped at the head. It had been prepared as a wedding bed. There was a gift box sitting in its.

Jerry had her feet warmed to his satisfaction, and released them. He got up, went to the bed, and fetched the package back to the chair. Sqatting again beside her, he put it in her lap. "That's from Lally. She made it herself for you, but she wouldn't let me see it. Open it."

It was wrapped in shiny white paper, tied with a silver ribbon. She wanted to choke at the irony. She used her nails to unknot the ribbon, and tore open the paper.

Jerry hummed, considerinly. "Well, that's interestin'. You can tell a lot about someone by how they open a present. You're not prissy perfect openin' it, and you don't just let tear. Wonder what that says about you?"

She opened the box, and unfolded the tissue inside. There was a nightgown inside. It was as white as the tissue that wrapped it. Jerry craned his head, peering at it. "Oh, Lally's good with a needle." She couldn't bring herself to touch it, but Jerry didn't have that problem.

He lifted it out of the box and held it up for inspection. It was long, it would probably drape past her knees. It was sleeveless, but whatever material had been saved there had been used up in it's volume, because it was voluminous. The low, shallow neckline was scalloped, and a long row of tiny buttons marched down the front to about waist level.

Jerry slid it through his hands admiringly. He put his hand behind it and held it up before the firelight. His hands was dimly visible, even behind the two layers of cloth. "That's so pretty."

He dropped it in her lap. "I'm going to go clean up, then we can go to bed. Get undressed and put that on."

"No."

He looked at her silently for a moment. Then, in a reasonable tone of voice, he said, "Those are the only clothes you got right now. If you want to risk gettin' them ruined when I rip them off of you, you're welcome to it."