Whispers In The Dark. Bj James

on magical. He’d seen the first suggestion of her skill in the corral and the charming of Black Jack. Then more on the trail as the horse responded to her touch and her voice, taxing equine strength in answer.

      She shared an astonishing rapport with the horse. Yet with the human animal she kept herself apart, feeling and caring little.

      “He’s set for the night, but a familiar face in a strange place wouldn’t hurt.” She offered the excuse, perceiving Rafe’s need to get away. “Nor would a bit of praise from the one he’s tried most to please.”

      “You think so, do you?” Rafe’s comment was as caustic as his mood. His face was a cynical mask in the weaving play of firelight.

      Valentina sat back on her heels, her knees in the dust. With her fingers linked before her, there was a calm about her as she faced the brunt of his contempt. “An observation and a suggestion.” A slight shrug, and a tendril broke free of the orderly cascade of her hair. Swaying against the smooth line of her throat, it was silky and darkly fascinating in the absence of the many hues drawn from it by the sun. “My apologies, no interference intended, I assure you.”

      He had no answer for his mood, no plausible excuse, no apologies of his own. And no inclination to accept her assurance or those she offered. “I’ll see to the horse.”

      Stalking into the shrouding darkness, he wondered what the hell that little skirmish was all about. Why had a simple suggestion sent him into a rage and an apology made it worse? Was it simply that he didn’t like her?

      No. Like or dislike had nothing to do with it. He’d learned long ago in his years with McCallum American, then McCallum International, that liking was never a prerequisite for working successfully with one or dozens of people.

      Then why, he wondered again, and was no closer to an answer when El Mirlo lifted his head, whinnying a soft greeting.

      Much later, having deliberately whiled away more time than any duty or communion with his horse required, he found the camp quiet and as he’d left it. The fire burned low in a bed of embers that would ward off the chill of the small hours. The coffeepot waited for the morning. With her saddle for a pillow, his traveling companion slept the sleep of an untroubled mind.

      “Worry.” The hoarse command was hardly a ripple in the calm of the camp as he scowled at her over the pale blush of the fire. “Toss. Turn. Feet. Care! Damn you, care!”

      He wanted to shake her, make her hear and heed him. And he knew then he had the answer to his mood. He wanted her to feel, to become involved, to understand the desperation and face what she must do with more than dispassion. Rafe understood that she must be cool and poised, undeterred by clouding emotions. But he knew, as well, that she must care.

      Courtney needed for her to care.

      Rafe Courtenay needed for her to care.

      Drawing a harsh breath, he shook his head wearily. He couldn’t in a million years explain to himself, any more than he could to anyone else, why he felt so strongly that caring would be the key to survival. Yet, even as he lacked the words, he was convinced that when she was balanced on that fine line between success and failure, caring could and would tip the scales in Courtney’s favor.

      Was it simply that? That it was the extra dimension that made the impossible possible? Or was it more?

      “Caring.” The word rang hollowly through the imperturbable peace of the canyon. With the echo of it resounding in his mind, and keenly conscious of every worn and tortured muscle, he stretched out on his bedroll. He would not bother with taking off more than his hat, for he would not sleep.

      Not tonight, nor any night, until Patrick’s child was safe.

      Lying with his head leant against his saddle, arms folded at the back of his neck, he stared at the sky and thought of the woman who slept within a touch of his fingertips. He puzzled over her, worried about her, and struggled to find the key to understanding. Perhaps then he could replace enmity with empathy, though he knew it was the last thing she would want from him.

      Tracing patterns and paths of stars, as the world spun on its path through the night, he let himself drift. He had no idea how long he’d lain there—an hour, two, most of the night.

      Perhaps it could have been nearly morning when he heard it—the sound. A ragged, nearly silent cry that made his blood run like icy sludge through his veins, and shivers scratched with ghostly claws at his spine.

      There was a desperateness in the cry, and for all its softness, raw, bleeding anguish. In a frozen moment of sheer disbelief, mistrusting his perceptions, he wondered if he’d drifted into a somnolent trance, with this part of a waking dream.