CLAIRE

The disheveled woman stumbled out of the woods and fell to her knees on the dirt road. Her matted brown hair surrounded her face, and she swiped it away. She did not know where she was. Kept captive in a rundown mountain shack for an indeterminate time, the woman felt disoriented. She rose to her knees and scanned the area. To the north, the road wound higher into the mountain. The way south led to lower ground.

Claire stood up and walked toward the south. She felt she would eventually encounter a town or a small village if she walked far enough. She had to get away.

Blood stained her faded calico dress, but she was not concerned about her appearance. Vaguely, she recalled a time when she felt conceited about her looks. Once upon a time, she kept a meticulous wardrobe. High fashion was essential to her.

Claire's affair with Maxwell felt like a dream. Long ago and far away, she gave her love freely, and Maxwell returned her passion. Following her abduction, she became Gerald's slave. He took from her all her desires and her fire to survive.

Bending down, Claire scratched her leg. Swollen from the leg iron her husband forced her to wear, the skin around her ankle was raw, and it bled. She knew better than to scratch but could not control herself. At times, it burned.

Claire stumbled down the mountain road. It remained deserted. Neither a car nor a pickup truck appeared. She hoped someone would pass soon and give her a ride. She had much explaining to do. Most of all, Claire wanted to go home.

Gerald kept her in the old shack high up in the mountains. Trees grew close to the shack. It appeared as though no one had lived there in years. It became cold inside in the winter, even with a fire blazing beneath the oak mantle. Gerald kept her scantily dressed but allowed her an old horse blanket to wrap herself in. She kept as close to the fire as she could. Still, her teeth chattered, and she couldn't get warm.

"Body heat will keep you from freezing, slut," Gerald claimed, lifting her and tossing her onto the bed. He landed on her, his body gyrating wildly. Most of the time, he didn't complete his attempt at intercourse. When Claire laughed at him, he pummeled her with his fists.

"Leave me alone," Claire cried, squirming away from him. In the tiny shack, she knew avoiding him was impossible. Still, she attempted to free herself.

When Gerald went away to buy groceries, he chained her to the bed. Claire tried to free herself but couldn't. Exhausted, she slumped against the iron bed frame and cried. Thoughts of Maxwell kept her alive, kept her trying to escape.

Night fell, and Claire felt lost. A mist arose, causing her to shiver. She crawled to the edge of the woods and hunkered down. Tears flooded her eyes, and she cried for Maxwell. Peeking through slit pupils, she thought she saw him walking toward her with open arms. Scrambling through fallen leaves, Claire moved toward her lover and fell into his embrace. When she kissed him, her mouth filled with dirt. She spit it out and curled into a ball. Dream—it was only a dream.

The opportunity to escape came the previous day. Gerald sat on the rickety porch with a bottle of rotgut between his knees. As the day wore on, he became increasingly drunk. Claire hunkered inside the door, watching him. When he slumped on the step, she knew he slept. Cautiously, she rose and, carrying the fireplace poker for protection, crept past him.

Gerald's hand encircled Claire's ankle as she stepped into the gravel dooryard. She froze. Her husband yanked her foot out from under her, sending her sprawling into the dirt. His hollow laughter echoed off the mountain.

Rising, Claire steadied herself momentarily and turned to face Gerald. When he stumbled toward her, she forcefully swung the poker. It connected with his temple, and he staggered. She swung again and knocked him to his knees. As though possessed, Claire continued to beat Gerald. When he stopped moving, she prodded him with her toe. Then she squatted and took his wrist in her hand. Relieved, she sat back on her heels, tears flowing down her sweat-stained cheeks.

Claire continued down the mountain in the crisp dawn. It felt as though she walked for miles before the woods opened into a clearing. A general store stood alone in the clearing. An antique Ford truck stood at its lone gas pump. She staggered past it and pushed open the door. For a moment, she leaned in the frame. Then she collapsed onto her knees.

"I killed him," she cried, burying her face in her hands. "I really killed him."

"Who? Who did you kill?" the store's proprietress asked, squatting beside the disheveled girl and enfolding her in her arms.

"My...my husband," she muttered, grasping the front of the woman's dress. "He..." Claire gasped for breath. "He kept me captive in a shack...up there." She pointed skyward, meaning the mountain. "Gerald..."

"Gerald Revelle?" the proprietress gasped. Claire nodded against her shoulder. "You're Claire Ogilvie? You're the missing niece of the record producer, Maynard Oglivie—the one Maxwell is searching for?"

"Yes...yes..." Claire whimpered, her voice barely audible.

MAXWELL

When Claire awoke in the hospital, Maxwell stood up from his chair. He hadn't had a wink of sleep since Ollie gave him the good news. Accompanied by his close friend, he flew directly to West Virginia and remained vigilant at her bedside until she woke up.

"Maxwell," Claire muttered, smiling wanly.

"Claire." Maxwell took her hands and brought them to his lips.

"Gerald," she whispered. Her parched mouth felt creaky as she formed her husband's name. "I...I think I killed him."

"He is dead," Maxwell stated grimly. "You made a helluva good job of it. Much better than Ollie and I planned to do ourselves."

"Oh." Claire collapsed against her pillow. She stared blankly ahead of her.

"We won't speak of it, dearest," he muttered, smoothing her brow, "until you heal. Don't trouble yourself about it." Leaning forward, he kissed her gently.

Oliver Weeks stood in the doorway, nervously knitting his hat in his hands. He didn't want to interrupt the young lovers' reunion, but he anxiously wished to see Claire. Clearing his throat, he announced his presence.

Claire turned to Ollie and beckoned him in with a huge smile. He remained stiff as he approached her, his back a ramrod. Claire took his hand, and he finally relaxed.

"The three musketeers—together again," the convalescent stated, taking the hands of her two companions. Oliver chuckled and kissed her cheek.

"It looks like you stuck with us, Claire darling," Ollie stated, his voice choking with tears.

"I wouldn't want anything else." Claire grinned.

Maxwell laughed for the first time in years. It came out deep and hearty. Tears glistened in his eyes as he looked down upon Claire. For a long time, he believed he would never see her again. He waited for his miracle, and she reappeared as though sent by an angel.

When he gazed upon her, Maxwell didn't see her straggly brown hair or the ghostly paleness of her skin. He saw her as she appeared in the doorway of Ollie's café many years ago. In his eyes, she was beauty personified. He knew he loved her.