Eric stuck the torch into the dirt. He turned it until the flame went out, then dropped the heavy stick beside the ring of stones. He glanced up to find her staring at him and returned the favor with a dead-on kind of look.
Well, okay, she thought, shrugging and raising her hands, palms out. All my fault we’re here. Message received. My bad.
He didn’t seem particularly mollified by her show of meekness.
So fine, she thought. Be that way.
She shifted her glance to the licking, rising flames of the fire and her low spirits lifted a fraction—at the brightness and warmth and the cheery crackling sounds it made. She took a look around. Gleaming in the far shadows, near another tunnel opposite the one they had come through, she could see a small pool.
“A spring?” she asked, and then wished she hadn’t. He probably wouldn’t even bother to answer.
But he did. “The water is clear, very cold—and safe to drink.” He took the reins of his horse from her. “We must see to our mounts.” There were supplies stacked on a ledge of rock near the cave wall: a pile of blankets, a bag of oats, a bucket….
From his saddlebag Eric produced a brush and a curry comb. “Put your pistol aside.”
She did as he instructed, removing her coat so she could take off her shoulder holster, setting the gun and the holster on a flat-topped rock a few feet from the fire. She was shivering, so she put her coat back on.
They unsaddled, wiped down and brushed the long-haired horses, unbraiding and combing out their manes so they would dry. It took a while. They had to share the comb and brush. Midway through, no longer cold, she took off her coat and set it on a rock, the outside spread toward the fire to dry.
They were silent as they worked. Eric wore a grim look the whole time. Did she blame him?
Not really.
“I’ll feed the horses,” he said when the job of getting the animals dry and groomed was done. “Take off your wet clothes. Lay them out to dry.” He tossed her a blanket to wrap herself in.
Her socks were dry, thanks to her heavy boots. But upward from there to her waist she was wet to the skin.
On top, the news was better. Her water-repellent jacket, though damp on the outside, had protected her underneath. Water had gotten in around her neck, but not a lot. It would dry quickly if she stood near the fire.
Her bandage was fine. Hooray for small favors.
She retreated to a corner of the cave, where she took off her boots and then hopped around in her socks, getting off the clammy jeans and thermal pants. Eric never glanced her way—or if he did, she didn’t catch him at it.
Yeah, okay. It was kind of childish, to keep darting suspicious looks his way to make sure he wasn’t peeking. As if it mattered if he watched her hopping around without her jeans on. He wouldn’t have seen much, anyway—just her looking seriously awkward, with bare legs. And given his current mood, why would he bother?
She wrapped her lower body in the blanket, put her boots back on and hobbled to the fire carrying her two sets of soggy pants. Once she’d spread the clothes on the rocks several feet from the flames, where they could soak up the heat without getting singed, she got her comb from her saddlebag and perched on a rock to work the tangles from her hair.
About then Eric finished with the horses and withdrew to a corner of his own to hop around getting out of his wet things—not that she watched him. Of course she didn’t. She just knew what the procedure entailed, having done it herself a few minutes ago.
Soon enough, a blanket tied at his waist, he joined her at the fire. He was bare-chested. His thick shearling jacket didn’t have a zipper. Water must have gotten through…
She realized she was staring at him again—and no, not at the medallion, though it gleamed against his skin. She was looking at his beautiful, muscular, smooth chest.
She blinked, jerked her glance downward and regarded her boots as she yanked at the tangles in her hair.
He chuckled.
She looked up, glaring, sharp words rising to her lips.
“You have something to say?” His eyes were gleaming.
She cleared her throat. “Uh, no. Not a thing.”
Really, why rag on him? She was grateful to him, she truly was. If she’d been on her own, she’d have ridden right up on those four mean-looking characters with that poor dead doe. And even if she’d somehow gotten past them, she’d be out in the rain right now, soaked to the skin, wondering what to do next—instead of safe in a warm, dry place, reasonably comfortable while she waited out the storm.
“Well,” she said cautiously, daring to hope they might manage to be on good terms while they were stuck here. “I guess you’re not that mad at me.”
He was laying his clothes on the rocks, the lean, strong muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching and releasing as he worked. He sent her a glance.
She realized she was doing it again—staring at his body. She jerked her gaze downward.
“A fine pair of boots you have there.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “I like ’em.” She lifted her head. His eyes were waiting. “So. We’re okay then—I mean, you and me? You’re not totally furious with me for getting us into this jam?”
He seemed to consider, then replied. “I confess, I was angry. But while you were looking at your boots, it occurred to me that I might as well blame the rain for falling as be angry at you for going where you think you have to go.” He half sat on a steeply sloping rock.
She worked a final stubborn knot from a damp lock of hair. “I don’t just think I have to go there.” He only looked at her. She read his expression and couldn’t help grinning. “Determined to avoid an argument, are we?”
“I am trying with all my might.”
The knot came free. “I can see that. And I’ve got to say you’re doing an excellent job.”
They had jerky in their saddlebags and dried apples and grain bars—pressed oats and nuts, sweetened with honey. They spread blankets on the floor and sat down for lunch, using their saddles for backrests.
Brit had two sticks of jerky, several dried apple slices, a grain bar and a precious bag of M&Ms laid out on a handkerchief at her side. She took one of the jerky sticks. “So now can you tell me how you knew those men were on the trail?”
He was chewing on a bite of grain bar. He swallowed. “The truth is, I don’t know how I knew. They might have made a noise that I heard somewhere below the threshold of my conscious mind. Or maybe it was the quality of the silence.”
Silence? The wind had been blowing, making the tree branches sway and sigh. And what about the jingle of their bridles, the soft clop-clop of the horses’ hooves?
He must have seen by her expression that she didn’t understand. “It’s… an instinct, I suppose. An instinct one develops, over time. When we pass through the forest, the smaller creatures—all but the foolish squirrels and some of the cheekier birds—go quiet, wary of us as potential predators. Though there is the noise of our passing, there is also a circle of silence around us as we move. When those men got too close, they brought their own circle with them. I sensed it.”
She gestured with her piece of jerky. “Ah. Well. Now, that explains it.”
“You still do not follow?”
She stared into his eyes for a moment. “Yes. I follow, at least to a degree…”
He tore off a bite of jerky and so did she. They