Savannah Heat

Chapter 1 Savannah, Georgia 1841 Escape! It was all she could think of, all she could dream. The word possessed her, crowding her thoughts and blotting her senses until it formed a prison all its own.Silver Jones sank down on the low wooden cot in the corner of the rat-infested storeroom. Her blood still pumped from her latest unsuccessful effort: stacking heavy wooden crates and boxes one atop the other; then climbing the unstable pyramid to the small dirty window a dozen feet above her head. This morning she had finally succeeded in prying open a side door, and though she hadn't found an avenue of escape and only succeeded in tearing her nails and bloodying her fingers, she did find enough boxes in the adjoining room to build her shaky ladder. Damn it to hell! Silver slammed her slender fist against the cot, then cursed again for her self-inflicted pain. She'd been so sure that once she reached the window she'd be able to squeeze through the opening and make her escape. Instead she'd discovered, even as slenderly built as she was, the opening was just too small. Hours of shouting for help had only made her hoarse. Silver released a weary sigh and glanced at her dismal surroundings. Along with the heavy boxes and her narrow wooden cot, a chipped pink porcelain water pitcher sat in a basin on an upturned crate next to a partly burned candle. The place smelled moldy and abandoned. Flies buzzed above a tray laden with a half-eaten crust of bread and an empty bowl of mutton stew.From the corner of her eye, Silver spotted the gray-brown fur of a rat as it skittered behind a hogs-head barrel in the corner, and clenched her teeth to stifle a scream. God, she hated the dirty little creatures. Bugs and spiders she could stand; there were lots of them where she came from. And lots of them here in the hot and humid climate of Savannah. But rats--even tiny little field mice--were another matter altogether. Silver shivered as the race raced by just a few feet away and eventually disappeared. Ignoring thoughts of when it might return, she ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at a snarl here and there, and worked to comb out some of the tangles. The long, usually glistening silver strands that had inspired her nickname hung in grayish ropes around her face. Her low-cut white cotton peasant blouse and simple brown skirt, the uniform of the tavern maid at the White Horse Inn, where she had been working, were stained from the grime that covered the walls and floors and torn in several places. At least they hadn't mistreated her. Just spotted her in the tavern, then waited in the alley until she finished her duties and left for her small attic bedchamber above the carriage house in the rear. "It's her all right," the tallest man had whispered, just before his hand clamped over her mouth. Using the heavy weight of his body, he had forced her up against the building. "Hair as pale as spun silver, eyes like soft brown velvet, skin so fair and smooth makes a man itch to touch it." "Don't get any ideas," Ferdinand Pinkard warned. "You know the deal--the girl goes back in good condition. There'll be no reward if she's been harmed." "Bloody hell!" Silver cursed behind the man's foul-smelling fingers. Struggling wildly, she lashed out with her slender hands and feet. One solid blow connected with a heavy calf, eliciting a yelp of pain and a string of oaths, and her free hand clawed the side of the tall man's face. With vicious determination, she sank her teeth into his palm. "You damned hellion!" He shook her so hard she feared her neck might break. "You'd better behave yourself, Miss Jones," Pinkard warned. The chill in his voice sent a tremor of fear down her spine. "It's a long way back--plenty of time for a few minor bruises to heal." Wiping at the blood on his cheek, the tMartin, Kat is the author of 'Savannah Heat', published 1993 under ISBN 9780440208044 and ISBN 0440208041.