It appeared a husband had a duty to look after his wife, and the bounty hunter took that duty seriously. She doubted he’d ever let her go hungry. If only she knew what price he would extract for his protection, her nerves might not be quite so jumpy.
Overhead, the sky was clearing. Swallows dipped and soared over the grassy meadows, the way seagulls swooped over the ocean waves at Merlin’s Leap. The air smelled clean and fresh. In the distance, sunlight glittered on the mountaintops.
For an hour, Miranda rode in meek silence, and then she could no longer tolerate the uncertainty. She had to know what he wanted from her. She urged Alfie forward, until she was riding alongside the bounty hunter’s bay gelding.
“Where are we going?” she called out to him.
He kept his eyes straight ahead. “You’ll find out.”
“Why can’t you tell me now?”
He shot her a sharp glance. “Shut up and ride.”
“I can ride and talk at the same time. Can’t you?”
“Be quiet. You’re annoying me.”
It was not a playful retort. It was a surly, brooding complaint. Perhaps he regretted spending all that money on her. Ten dollars might have seemed cheap for a wife, but she had quickly turned into a bottomless pit of additional expense.
The path narrowed and Miranda fell back behind the bounty hunter’s horse. For the rest of the day, they rode across the grassy plateau at a steady lope, pausing frequently to stretch their legs and to let their mounts rest. The bounty hunter ignored her, except to issue an order or to warn her to keep out of the way. Tension ratcheted up inside Miranda. When they stopped for the night, the bounty hunter set a soot-covered coffeepot to boil on a fire he had built from dead branches in a circle of stones on the ground.
Miranda gathered her courage and perched beside him on the fallen log where he had sat down. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
“I don’t like to talk.”
“Why did you marry me?”
“You’ll find out.”
“You’ll find out, you’ll find out,” she mimicked. “You sound like a parrot in a cage.”
“And you talk too much.” He shot her a frowning glance. “Can’t you do something useful? Like cook supper, or groom the horses, or build a fire, or clear a place on the ground to sleep, instead of hovering around and annoying me?”
Miranda spoke quietly. “It is not my fault that I’m gently bred. Unlike you, I’m not nasty and surly by nature. I’m asking because I want to know. If I prepare myself for whatever it is you want from me, I might be able to perform the task better.”
She had never heard anyone heave out such a loud sigh. It made the air vibrate with frustration and irritation and exasperation and aggravation and impatience. James Fast Elk Blackburn might not like to talk, but it seemed he had no trouble communicating his bad temper without words.
Miranda walked away, but she was not giving up.
She was merely regrouping for another attack.
* * *
A fire crackled in a circle of stones, casting shadows in the darkness. The soft night breeze whispered in the trees. The horses, hobbled to stop them from straying, grazed on the long grass by the brook. The aroma of roast turkey, already eaten, lingered in the air.
Jamie drank the last of his coffee and studied his little bandit princess. She sat beside him, staring into the flames. He could sense her fear. During the evening, she had drawn tighter and tighter into a ball, shoulders hunched, knees pressed together, as if she wanted to disappear into herself.
He should have been gentler with her, but the emotions she stirred up in him had made him morose. It grated that she looked down on him, the way his mother’s family had looked down on his father. The physical reactions she sparked in him didn’t help, either. It was best to keep his distance. Healthier for them both. The worst of his feelings was guilt, though. It was clear she was on the run, perhaps from being tied to a man twice her age, and now she had ended up married to a savage who killed people for a living.
The right thing would be to explain what he wanted from her, but Jamie couldn’t talk about it. Death might be his trade, but when it came to the death of his mother and his sister and his niece, his mind locked up. He didn’t know if it was because they were women, or because they were family, or because they were the only people he had ever loved.
“Who is Woods?” he asked. When the girl didn’t reply, he added, “Your husband. Are you a widow or not? Is he still living?”
As Jamie considered the question, it occurred to him that if Woods still lived, it would simplify things. The marriage would be bigamous, invalid as such, and he would avoid the trouble of seeking an annulment when the time came.
The little princess kept picking bits of bark loose from the log they sat upon, her eyes intent on the task, the way a hungry sparrow might concentrate on the search for a worm.
“He doesn’t exist,” she muttered.
“He doesn’t exist?”
“That’s right. He is a figment of my imagination.” She shot him a glance. “I thought it might make it easier for a woman traveling alone to be assumed a widow.”
“Where are you from?”
“I thought you didn’t like to talk.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Boston.”
The flickering flames sent shadows dancing over her face and hair. She looked frightened, but also fierce, strangely untamed. She’d probably fight back if he tried to bed her. Scratch and claw and bite. The thought reassured Jamie.
“I was out East once,” he told her. “Baltimore. It was a long way there and an even longer way back.”
She contemplated him and gave a slow nod. Jamie got an odd feeling she understood what he meant—that the journey back had felt longer because it had been without hope.
Her gaze returned to the fire. “I live in a place called Merlin’s Leap. It’s a big old house by the ocean. I have two sisters. I’m the middle one.”
Jamie knew he needed to put her fears to rest. On purpose, he had waited for nightfall to have the conversation. He talked better in the darkness. “I’m not going to hurt you. There’s something I need you to do for me. A job. It will only take a few months. When it’s done, you can go.”
“Will anyone else hurt me?”
Right to the point. She was smart. Perceptive.
“No,” he said. “It’s not that kind of job.”
“Will I have to harm anyone?”
“No.”
“Will I have to break the law?”
“No.”
“What will I have to do?”
“Clean in a saloon. Just sweep and scrub and dust.”
“Sweep and scrub and dust for a few months? And then I can go?”
“That’s about it. There’s a bit more to it. You’ll find out.” He got up, tossed another branch into the fire, pointed at a big rock a few yards away. “Sleep next to the stone. It’s better not to leave your back exposed. I’ve put a bedroll and a blanket down for you.”
“You didn’t buy a bedroll for me.”
“I gave you mine. I’ll sleep with a blanket.”
“Thank