Ford’s hands sprang free, his lungs heaving. Thank God. The box cutter had been damn dull. Rubbing his wrists over the blade had taken forever, but it was done. He pulled the box cutter from the logs where he’d wedged it. He sawed at the ropes around his ankles, rubbing his legs to get his blood circulating again, then ran a hand over his hair, unsurprised to find a bald spot where his scalp burned. What the hell? Gingerly he touched the sore spot on his head. At least it had stopped bleeding. Call for help. But of course his cell phone was gone. Thump. Thump. Ford stilled. The sound came from close enough to rattle the window above his head. He rose, standing to one side of the glass so that he couldn’t be seen. It was an old man, splitting logs. From the way he swung his axe, he looked to be in damn good shape. He was about sixty-five, maybe seventy. He gathered up the wood he’d split and carried it into his house, a cabin with a front porch, complete with a rocking chair.
