Chapter 17

There was no acceptable reason for him to be tied up in the bed of a wagon. He’d figured out that was where he must be, with a tarp thrown over him, dimming the daylight, and—judging by the pervading odor of urine and feces, and the buzzing of flies—possibly the dead body of the man he’d killed back at camp.

He lay crossways on the wagon bed with the front wall to one side and a small bale of hay to the other. He flinched as the wagon lurched and something dug into his leg.

Marcelo twisted his hands, trying to manipulate his bindings, but there was no play in the rope. He fisted and extended his hands. At least he could feel them.

He grimaced and curled more tightly into a ball when the wagon jolted over a rough patch, and pain seared through the hip upon which he was lying. What was beneath him, digging so relentlessly into his hip and thigh?

Shifting didn’t get him off the thing, which seemed to be—no, it was inside his trousers. A spark of hope skittered through his veins.