Her blush wasn’t entirely faked. No matter what she’d learned to think of as normal in the last year, discussing her bodily functions was not one of them.
Tracker’s hand immediately enveloped her elbow. “This way.”
She couldn’t help her instinctive flinch. His expression went from impassive to stony with a twitch of an eyelid, but he didn’t say a word, just drew her along with him. She went, her lip between her teeth. She had an unreasonable sense that she’d hurt his feelings. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t him—the fact that he was obviously Indian, or his scars. She resented any man’s touch, but she didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. These remnants of softness left over from before had to be squashed before it killed off her last opportunity, because if she didn’t escape now, the only way out from the hell of her existence would be death. Either by her own hand or another’s. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t continue this way anymore.
Guiding her across the uneven ground as if she were the finest of ladies at a social rather than a scandalous woman naked beneath a coat, Tracker helped her over a log, steadying her on the other side, keeping her close as he took her to the copse of trees where the outlaws had tied their horses. The snorts and whickers were welcome indicators that the horses were still there. Maybe her luck was changing.
She stopped before he could guide her through the thicket at the edge. “Thank you.”
He released her elbow. “Give a holler when you’re done, and I’ll come help you back. No need for you to pick up any more bruises than you’ve already got.”
He’d been holding her elbow because he was worried she’d fall, not because he was keeping her hostage…? The realization broadsided her. Desi ducked her head, hoping Tracker would take the gesture as one of embarrassment at the subject matter rather than guilt at her assumptions. “Thank you.”
Casting one quick glance over her shoulder, she stepped through the bushes, making sure he wasn’t following. Tracker stood where she’d left him, leaning against a thin tree, tossing that ugly knife in his hands, flipping it end to end before catching it. Desi shuddered, imagining him in a rage, and ducked through the brush. She had no intention of calling for him. This was her chance, and she was taking it.
2
“You cannot expect decent women to be seen in the company of someone like her.”
The way the older woman, Mrs. Hatchet, referred to Desi set Caine’s back teeth to grinding. And it wasn’t because of the nasal twang to her voice or the highfalutin way she pronounced her words. It was her absolute belief that because she had a husband to shield her that she was better than other women who’d run up against the hard truth of this land. Specifically, Desi.
“Lady, what I expect is silence and obedience.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the open range beyond their sheltered spot. “In case it’s escaped your notice, we’re in the middle of Indian country. Those gunshots are going to attract every Comanche out there, so what I expect is for you to use the next few minutes getting ready to ride, because as soon as we gather what we can off those bodies, we’re lighting out.”
“You’re robbing the dead?”
If a man had made such an accusation, he’d have punched him in the mouth for both the insult and the stupidity behind it. But the insult came from a woman, which tied his hands. “I’m taking what we need to survive.”
Caine spun on his heel. Son of a bitch, he was never taking a wife if he had to put up with crap like that on a daily basis. He expected to see Desi waiting for him with Tracker and Sam. She wasn’t. Sam was at the edge of the trees, checking out the action on a revolver while Tracker was efficiently going over the rest of the possessions looking for anything useful.
“Where’s the woman?”
Sam flicked his used-up smoke into the stream, a genuine grin on his lips. “With the horses.”
“What’s she doing there?”
“Escaping.” Tracker dumped out a saddlebag. “I figure we’ve got about twenty minutes before she sweet-talks that big mustang into opening its mouth for the bit.”
This he had to see. Caine cut through the scrub brush to the horses. Evidence of Desi’s attempts was everywhere. A bridle dangled from a horse already tacked out in a nose band. A saddle lurched off the side of a hardy paint mustang with the conformation of a runner. He stepped up to the brown-and-white paint, patting the deeply muscled chest that said he could go for miles without foundering. He ran his hand down its spine, murmuring soothingly as it fussed and gathered his scent, studying the tracks in the muddy ground as he righted the saddle.
Bare footprints littered the mud in mute testament to Desi’s frustration. Sure as shit, she didn’t know anything about tack, but that hadn’t lessened her determination. The tracks spun in a circle, deepened as she’d put her weight squarely on both heels, and then took off in a straight line. The depth and distance between the prints indicated she’d been in a hurry.
Caine looked up the rise. He flipped the paint’s stirrup onto the saddle, kneed him gently to warn him to cut the crap when he sucked in wind and tightened the cinch when he blew out. With an easy leap he was in the saddle, a smile on his lips as he studied those tracks. Damn, if she hadn’t had the guts to light out on foot.
He spun the paint around and urged him up the rise. The outlaws might have been stupid, but they’d known good horseflesh. The paint responded as if he hadn’t just finished a hard ride, driving fast up the hill, eager to run, dancing in a circle when Caine pulled him up at the top.
It wasn’t hard to find Desi in the scraggly sea of winter dead brush. The bright sun shone off her blond hair like a brilliant white-gold beacon. He shook his head. She was heading due west, straight into Indian country. Caine gave the paint its head, smiling as the horse plunged down the rise. A man just had to admire the amount of gumption that drove a woman to take control of her future despite the odds or a poor sense of direction.
He was about forty feet behind Desi before she looked back. He had an impression of big blue eyes in a white face and a startled expression before she took off, bare feet flying across the ground, hair streaming behind her. Caine leaned over the cow pony’s neck. The animal surged forward. Human or cattle, it didn’t matter to the horse. He knew his job. Chase, catch and maintain. He did it well, dispelling the myth that paints made poor cow ponies.
The paint caught up with Desi in less than a minute. Caine reached down, snagging the back of the too-big coat, lifting her up. If her first screech didn’t draw every Indian and bandit for twenty miles, the second surely would. It was all he could do to lift her onto the saddle as she struggled. Damn, who knew one small woman could hold so much wiggle?
“Hold still, damn it!”
If anything, she struggled harder. “Let me go!”
“No.” He gave her a shake. “Settle down.”
She braced her foot on his, lightening his load. Her arm wrapped around his, her fingers tangling in the excess folds of his coat, slipping off his shirtsleeve before grabbing desperately at his wrist.
“I’m not going back!”
“Well, you’re sure as shit not heading out on your own.”
“Watch me!”
She wrenched to the left and to the right. The pony danced beneath them as the coat flapped against his sides. A hard shove and she almost succeeded in unseating him. One minute he had more woman than he could contain and the next he held an empty coat. Caine swore, dropped the coat and leaned back. The pony sat on its haunches, slid ten feet and spun, lunging anew after Desi, who ran ahead, her fair skin glowing in the sunlight, looking like one of those golden nymphs he’d seen paintings of in that fancy whorehouse up Chicago way.
The