“What’s all this?” Leeza asked brightly.
“Clues,” he said.
“Explain, please,” she said. Not a question, but a command, even if she had softened it. That do-it-my-way attitude again.
“Sancho brought them in last night.” He held up the branch of scrub oak the dog had carried in his jaws. He pointed to the thistles that had been embedded in his silky coat. “Russian thistle and tumble-weed. Broken, but still fresh, see? And these? Bits of chamisa. Another gum wrapper.”
“His path,” she said, a note of wonder in her voice. “That’s the path Sancho took—following Enrique?”
Daggert couldn’t help but look at her. Her logic wasn’t what snared him; it was the honest note of awe in her voice. Luckily, she wasn’t gazing back at him. She was beaming at his Sancho.
“You’re a good dog,” she said. “A very, very good dog.”
Sancho rose and came to her, tail beating against Daggert’s back.
Daggert was stunned. He’d never seen Sancho approach anyone other than himself. The mutt always seemed to maintain a purely business relationship on their mission, eschewing fraternization with the clients, just like his master.
Daggert found he preferred things that way. He pushed Sancho’s tail aside, but instead of moving away, the dog merely gave Daggert a happy grin and sat down beside the woman.
She looped an arm around his back, scratched at his ears and asked the dog, “So you know which way we’ll be going then?”
Daggert felt unreasonably irritated with Sancho’s defection, and the fact that she was talking to the dog instead of him.
“Thanks for saddling Lulubelle.”
“Call her Belle. That other name is stupid for a horse.”
“Noted,” she said. “And I guess we won’t talk about the fact that Enrique’s riding Dandelion.”
James tossed his cold coffee on the fire. “You’d better eat,” he said, handing her a plate of eggs and grilled toast he’d kept warm for her.
“Please. I’m barely to the coffee stage.”
“Give it to the dog, then,” he said.
“You want some of these eggs, boy?”
He did. She scraped the contents of her plate on to a flat rock.
“His name is Sancho.”
Sancho inhaled the food she’d set out for him, and wagged his tail at her.
“Apt,” she said. “Every Don Quixote needs a Sancho, right, boy?”
Daggert didn’t know which he disliked more, the ice queen with her barbed tongue or this falsely smiling tourist. And the damnable truth was he wanted to kiss her either way.
“I think we’re going to have to set a couple of ground rules,” she said, making his hackles rise. “I realize that I know nothing about tracking and that’s why you’re here. At the same time, you know nothing about Enrique, and that’s why I’m here. I see no reason we can’t work together harmoniously.”
Daggert stood up. He’d known the pretty smiles and the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth routine was a sham, but darned if he hadn’t fallen for it, anyway.
He quickly rubbed their plates with sand, wiped them with paper napkins, which he tossed into the dying flames, and stowed them in one of his saddlebags. He poured the remaining coffee on the fire and folded the pot in a heat-resistant cloth, shoving it in with the plates.
He rerolled her sleeping bag into a tight bolster—the woman had obviously never camped a day in her pampered life—and secured it to the back of Belle’s saddle. He tossed handfuls of sand on to the remaining coals and scuffed more on to them with his boot.
She rose and dusted her jeans.
“We’re heading north,” he said, bending over and cupping his hands to give her a leg up.
“That’s the spirit,” she said, stepping into his hand. She put all her weight into it, instead of using it as a hoist. He tossed her upward, and she landed in the saddle with a low “Oof.”
“Thank you,” she said, as if he’d merely given her a boost. “It’s good to know we have a meeting of the minds here.” Though she spoke cheerfully enough, he didn’t meet her gaze.
He reached for her stirrups to lower them.
She shoved her boots into the footholds and pressed down. “I don’t think so, Mr. Daggert. I may be forced to ride on a western monstrosity, but I refuse the full discomfort.”
He decided that icy tone of voice fit her long, elegant body to a T.
“Suit yourself.” She’d be singing a different tune by midday.
“All the children at Rancho Milagro keep a journal. It was one of my partner’s ideas—a chance for the kids to download. I read Enrique’s before we set out,” she said. Her falsely cheerful note was back. Why did Daggert think her more dangerous when she used it?
He swung his leg over Stone’s broad back.
“Have you ever heard of a place called Cima La Luz?”
“In the mountains,” he said.
“Light Peak, right?”
He grunted an assent.
“I’m beginning to suspect you’re not a morning person.” When he didn’t answer, she continued, “I believe Enrique might be heading there.”
Daggert stared at her coldly. “You didn’t think it important to tell me that yesterday?” he asked finally.
Her smile faltered but she didn’t flinch. “You didn’t exactly give me a chance,” she said. Her eyes dared him to deny this.
“Lady, if you don’t kill yourself riding like that, I might just do it for you. Good thing we’re heading toward Cima La Luz or I’d flay you right now just for the sheer hell of it. But just out of curiosity, why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?”
The flush that stained her cheeks gave him all the answer he needed. She’d been testing him.
He spurred his horse forward while giving Sancho a go-ahead whistle.
“I’m sorry,” she called from behind him.
Daggert ground his teeth.
By the time the sun was directly overhead, the last thought on Leeza’s mind was cheerful needling. Her fears for Enrique were escalating with each passing hour. Her guilt was on the rise, as well. And her irritation with one noncommunicative tracker was boiling like mercury in a burning thermometer.
She’d tried giving him the same silent treatment he’d accorded her. Unfortunately, that seemed to work perfectly for him. She’d babbled at him and he’d ridden ahead. She’d hidden her exhausted tears from him the night before, and blinked them back now, but doubted he’d care even if he did see them.
He didn’t seem the slightest bit affected by the elements, the cruel sun, the cold morning or the fact that Enrique had been missing for at least thirty-nine hours now. In fact, Daggert seemed so indifferent to his surroundings he might as well have been made from bedrock, as she’d first imagined him to be.
And why she found herself attracted to him, she couldn’t even begin to fathom. It must be a by-product of the worry she felt for Enrique, and the unfamiliarity of searching for a child who didn’t want to be found.
It was the hostage syndrome, she thought, where a captive transferred feelings of faith to her abductor. Patty Hearst had done it; so had countless others.
Except