He slapped a coin on the bar, touched the brim of his leather hat, then strode across the silent room. He angled his shoulders and ducked through the open doorway, hoping she had the sense to do the same.
Because damned if he’d go back and save her.
He paused, squinted in the blazing sunshine, then headed down the dirt road to where he’d tied his horse. It didn’t matter what she wanted. He knew better than to get involved with a woman like her, even for business. He’d have every renegade in Peru on his tail.
Determined to forget the woman in the bar, he strode past the crumbling huts, their thatched roofs and mud walls destroyed by warring senderistas and drug lords. His horse nickered, bobbed his head as he approached.
“Hey, Rupper.” He rubbed the gelding’s forehead and ears, grinned when the horse bumped him back. Rupe was a fifteen-hand Peruvian Paso, spirited and smart, five centuries of brio breeding evident in every step. And Logan hated to leave him behind on this trip. But he had a job to do—silver to haul—and he needed his sure-footed llamas for that.
He flipped a coin to the Quechua kid who’d begged to watch the horse. The boy’s white teeth flashed in a smile. “Yuspagarachu.” Thank you. He darted off barefoot down the rutted lane.
Logan tightened the horse’s cinch and checked his packs, made sure the dynamite and his AK-47 were undisturbed. He doubted anyone would have touched them. His reputation was deadly enough to keep most thieves away. But a man didn’t stay alive in these mountains by letting his guard down.
His thoughts swerved back to the woman in the bar. He frowned, glanced up the empty road, and an uneasy feeling gnawed at his gut. What was she doing in the cantina for so long? He’d expected her to be out by now, heading safely down that road toward some town.
He shoved the worry aside. She wasn’t his problem. He wouldn’t let her be. He couldn’t fail another woman like he had his wife.
And he couldn’t afford to waste more time here. He glanced at the mountains looming above him, scanned the ancient Inca terraces that ringed the distant peaks. The sunshine was deceptive. The seasonal rains would hit any time now, turning the trails to mud. He’d have to hustle to get that last load of silver over the mountains before the passes closed.
Scowling, he swung himself into the saddle, nudged the gelding’s flanks, and set off. The horse pranced sideways, tossed his head, oddly nervous in the quiet air, as if menace lurked in the abandoned huts.
And Logan felt just as restless. He scanned the deserted hovels, the faded graffiti on the crumbling rock walls. It was too quiet. Even the pigs and stray dogs were lying low. And that damned sense of danger, danger kept bludgeoning his nerves.
Then suddenly, a gunshot shattered the silence. Birds scattered and took to the sky. He jerked the rifle from his pack, wheeled his horse back toward the cantina and swore.
He’d been right. That woman was going to cause trouble.
Thank goodness she’d brought a gun.
Dara Adams stood with her back to the cantina door, her heart careening against her rib cage, the blast from her pistol still thundering in her ears. She steadied the gun in her trembling hand, took another step toward the open door.
“Stay back. Aléjense,” she warned the three thugs who’d tried to stop her. Her shot had missed them, just taken out some bottles behind the bar. But at least it had forced them back.
But not for long.
She lifted her chin to stare them down, but their mean eyes, fueled by pisco and whiskey, glittered back. There were three of them, one of her. And slung over their ponchos were the deadliest weapons she’d ever seen.
They crept closer, fanning out this time, and her heart wobbled into her throat. “I said get back,” she said again, sharper now, determined not to let them see her fear.
God, she didn’t need this. Her forehead pounded from the too-thin air. She was spooked about the man she’d spotted following her for the past three weeks. And she was exhausted after trekking through endless villages, searching for the elusive Logan Burke.
And now that she’d finally found him, she couldn’t let him get away.
She moved closer to the door, getting ready to run. But one of the outlaws lunged. She leaped back, her pulse rocketing, and raised her pistol to fire. But he caught her wrist, twisted hard, and a sharp bolt of pain shot up her arm. She gasped and dropped the gun.
He jerked her close, and she shoved back, fighting to loosen his hold. But he was strong. He pulled her tighter against him and groped her breast.
Outraged, her fear for her safety growing, she struggled to knee him, gagging on the stench of unwashed flesh. But he twisted her arm higher, trapping her against him. The men behind them laughed.
And that made her even madder. She despised bullies like this, cowards who preyed on the weak. As the Roma princess—royal representative of the Gypsies—she’d witnessed the hatred and discrimination her people endured. And she refused to let this bully win.
Furious, she struck out with her free hand, clawed at his face, slammed her hiking boot into his shin. He grunted, loosened his hold, and she managed to stumble back.
She caught her balance, her breath coming fast, but she couldn’t reach her gun. The man circled her, fury contorting his face.
“Agárrala, pendejo,” one of the other men taunted, then laughed. And she realized with a sudden chill the danger she was in. She’d humiliated him, enraged him. And now he wanted revenge.
He leaped forward, lunged for her arm. She jumped to the side and whipped back.
“Problem, boys?” a lazy, graveled voice drawled from the doorway. The thug hesitated, looked up, and Dara’s breath rushed from her lungs.
He’d come back.
She dragged in air, shook her aching wrist, took advantage of the distraction to dart over and pick up her gun. Then she turned and faced the man who’d saved her.
He filled the doorway with his muscled frame, looking every inch the desperado. His eyes were dark and grim beneath his battered hat, his mouth a lethal slash. He radiated danger, ruthlessness, from the black beard stubble darkening his rigid jaw to the assault rifle trained on the thugs. His powerful maleness made her nerves race.
Seconds passed. Tension vibrated in the stifling air.
Then suddenly, Logan’s gun barked. The blast sprayed up dirt, roared in her ears, and she flinched back in shock. She gaped from Logan to the men at the bar, and the man who’d attacked her inched up his hands.
She hadn’t even seen him move. But Logan had—and he’d made his point. All three men shuffled back.
“Go wait by my horse,” Logan told her. His eyes never veered from the men.
She opened her mouth to argue. “Now,” he added, his deep voice hard.
She stiffened. She didn’t take orders, didn’t let others fight her battles for her.
But then she caught the flat, mean stare of the man who’d touched her, and her dread rose. She’d made an enemy here, a dangerous one. Maybe she’d be smart to leave.
She hurried out the door into the dusty road, spotted a huge black gelding standing by some mules. His sleek coat gleamed in the sunshine. Muscles rippled in his powerful neck. He wore a worked silver browband across his strong forehead, two oiled leather packs draped over his flanks. Logan’s horse. He looked as dangerous as his owner did.
Logan strode from the cantina a second later. He glanced at her, his dark eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, then vaulted into the