At first, her stiff muscles and her throbbing skull slowed her descent
. Gradually, however, it grew easier to move, and her stomach no longer roiled with each step. Soon she would reach the bottom of the rock formation, where she’d hidden the horse that would take her to Quinn and whatever chance of safety he might offer.
* * *
Quinn could feel his mount’s exhaustion in its trembling, could hear it in its breath. Never before had he driven an animal so hard, despite the deepness of the shadows cast by moon and starlight, despite the danger of the treacherous, broken land.
The gray moved swiftly, willingly, as if it sensed his reason for such haste
. But speed and darkness were at odds, and the horse stumbled several times. The last occasion nearly unseated Quinn and finally brought him to his senses.
He checked the animal’s pace, at last realizing that either horse or rider — perhaps both — would die if he did not
. And his death here would avail Anna nothing. If he lived to reach her, and if she were still alive, there might yet be a chance to save her. And if not . . .
A red wall of rage and hatred rose up at the thought
. God help Hamby and the rest of those murdering bastards if she weren’t, for he would make them suffer for each hurt they’d caused her.
Another image overrode his fury
. Anna, gentle Anna, whose touch healed and whose heart still grieved for all they’d taken from her years ago. Anna should never have to suffer so again.
It was only then Quinn realized that he loved her, that perhaps he’d loved her from the start
. The knowledge lodged like a sliver of the sun inside his heart, illuminating all of his dark years of hatred.
The horse’s hoof beats thrummed a rhythm to remembered words:
‘
My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late!’
Shakespeare’s words from Anna’s lips, and none more painful than the last ones
.
Too late . . . too late . . .
Dear God, he couldn’t be too late
. Against all reason, terror prompted him to once more urge his mount to gallop.
* * *
The woman moved real quiet, so quiet that at first Black Eagle took her for an animal or maybe one of his own people traveling by night. But despite her agility, the moonlight must have fooled her eyes. He heard the sharp intake of her breath, the extra steps as she recovered from a stumble.
If he hadn’t been shivering with the damned cold, he’d have slept right through the faint sounds
. She might have crept right past him, taken back Ned’s horse and maybe his as well. Could have even slit his throat, if that was what she wanted. Once again, he felt something like respect. This woman seemed to think the way he thought. Smart, for her to wait until the hour was at its darkest. Smart, for her to hide up here at all.
More coyote than rabbit, with her brains and stealth
. He almost hoped she wouldn’t scream. Almost hoped for something just beyond the edge of his imagination, something that might be shared between a man and woman who thought so much alike.
Black Eagle spat at the idea
. She might move like a coyote, but any bitch would howl when she was cut. He could almost feel his fingers streak his face with bloody war paint, could almost hear his war whoops mingling with her screams.
He rolled slowly toward the soft sounds of her progress
. Pushing himself to his feet, he dropped both quilt and blanket atop the saddle he’d been using for a pillow.
His fingers stroked the well-worn handle of his knife
. How many had he killed with it, he wondered. How many since his grandpa long ago?
He would have liked to use the knife, but some instinct warned him instead that he would need to keep more distance between himself and the woman he pursued
. So he left it in its sheath and instead pulled out his pistol. Maybe, if things worked out right, he wouldn’t have to kill her right away. The shade cast by a large juniper concealed him, and he crouched behind a fringe of some thorny horror that snagged his pants and pricked his skin.
Now that she’d recovered her footing, the woman padded quietly as a bobcat on the gravel
. He stood stock-still as she approached.
He stared at her as she came nearer, fascinated by the silhouetted forms of female legs
. Shaded by the wide brim of her hat, her face remained indistinct, but her slender legs tormented. Picturing the pale flesh beneath the denim, he felt his own skin beading with sweat, despite the chilly air.
He sure as hell wasn’t sharing
that
with Ned and Hop. His growing hardness pushed painfully against his jeans, making it difficult to remain still. Too difficult. Unable to wait another moment, he threw back the hammer of his pistol and stepped out to cut her off.
Or tried to
. The barbs of the thorny bush fastened like tiny fangs on both his pant legs. Glancing behind himself, he hissed an oath, then lurched ahead until the threads popped loose.
In that fraction of a second, he lost sight of her.
“God damn it!” he swore, louder now that the damage had been done. He paused and peered into the darkness until he saw a mass of juniper limbs waving, despite the absence of a breeze. Regretfully he gave up on his plans for restraint, then raised his pistol and fired half a dozen shots into the tree.
* * *
Anna screamed as fragrant chips of wood exploded all around her. A branch struck by a bullet rebounded to slap across her eyes. Another caught the strap of her canteen and tore it from her shoulder. Tears streaming, she stumbled away from shots that cracked like thunderbolts. The sound echoed in the darkness, making it impossible for her to tell how many guns were being fired.
Nearly blinded by her stinging eyes, she barked a shin on a knobby stump and slammed down hard on hands and knees
. Terror sent her scrambling, then running in the only direction open to her, toward the path she had just descended, and upward on that isle of rock where she would be marooned.
* * *
Quinn dismounted and gave the weary gray a pat. The horse’s foam-soaked hide steamed in the chill night air, and the animal was blowing hard. Like it or not, he had no choice but to walk the animal these final miles. The gelding had clearly given all it had.
Perhaps, Quinn thought, this way would serve him best
. If Hamby and his men were inside Anna’s cabin — the idea bore down on him like a hawk on a jackrabbit — they would surely hear him charging into the clearing on horseback. Instead, he would have to force himself to stealth, to tie the horse nearby while he crept forward to size up the situation.
Size up the situation
, he repeated mentally.
Think like a lawman if you can.
If he couldn’t, if he let himself be overwhelmed by the flashes of Anna’s terror as she’d spoken of what Hamby and his men had done to her before, he’d be dead before he ever got inside.
As they walked, the gelding’s breathing grew less labored, and its lathered hide began to dry. By the time they reached the little creek, the horse had cooled enough for him to allow it a long drink. Still clutching the reins, Quinn, too, drank the sweet water from his cupped hands. He felt the cool liquid traveling down his throat, into his empty stomach.
As he walked the horse toward the clearing, he
tried to steel himself against what he might find. The scalps swinging in Ned Hamby’s fist arced through his memory, then the burned bodies of a pair of trappers he and Max had found not long before he’d left for Yuma. Jesus, he’d nearly managed to forget that stench, a charred yet sweet odor that left him doubting he’d ever again enjoy the smell of roasting pork.
Quinn’s hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t tie the horse’s reins
. In the end, he gave up and whipped one around a low limb. Likely, the exhausted animal would stay put for a while. After giving it a pat, he started walking once again. Somehow, he had enough presence of mind to shift his approach to stay downwind of the corral, in the hopes the outlaws’ horses wouldn’t grow restive as he came near.
The dark hulk of the cabin lay along the clearing’s edge, like a strangely angled rock or a hole carved from the moonlight
. He stared hard to discern the thin ribbons of light visible around the edges of the tightly shuttered windows. The scent of wood smoke told him there was a fire in the hearth.
Like all the fires he’d shared here with Anna
. He whispered a prayer — his first in many years — that she slept warm and safe before it, that Hamby and his men hadn’t come for her at all.
He imagined Anna, nude beneath a blanket, her breaths so smooth and even, her rest unruffled by dreams
. The thought was so real, so compelling, that he hurried toward the door, desperate beyond reason to confirm his fervent hope.
Something jabbed his leg, beside the knee
. He jumped away, then looked down and recognized a carved cross. A cross that he felt absolutely certain was his daughter’s grave. He knew it as surely as if he had laid her there himself.
His daughter
. Rosalinda. A chill swept up his backbone to prickle at his scalp, and he hesitated.
And in that moment’s pause, he saw the body
. Lying half-hidden by deep shadow, the old man’s unnatural position assured Quinn he must be dead. To be sure, Quinn took a few steps closer, close enough to see that someone had cut a bloody swath of scalp.
Hamby
! Before he could react, gunfire cracked through the brittle silence, from somewhere closer to the canyon’s mouth. Shot after shot, until Quinn couldn’t tell reports from echoes.
Anna
!
His heart thumped wildly. Could those shots mean —
The cabin door creaked, and Quinn ducked around the corner
. His ears strained to listen to the muffled voice.
“Yeah, thought I heard it, too. Black Eagle musta got her after all
. Don’t reckon that’s stupid slut’s doin’ much shootin’ without her rifle.”
Rough male laughter, from both inside and at the doorway
. The door clunked shut, leaving Quinn outside.
He used the back of his jacket’s sleeve to wipe his forehead
. He was sweating nearly as much as his mount had been after the long gallop.
Anna wasn’t here at all
. And the men inside her cabin thought that she’d been shot.
Quinn stalked back through the darkness toward his borrowed horse
. Those bastards better pray that Anna wasn’t dead, he swore. Because if any one of them had killed her, he was coming back to tear those men apart with his bare hands.
Quinn swung aboard the gelding gently
. Though it grunted as he nudged its sides, it moved forward without hesitation. Still, Quinn couldn’t help wondering how much farther and how fast the animal could travel. If he were pursued now, the results would be disastrous.
That meant he would have to find and take the outlaws’ horses
. It would be a risk, for if the men inside were to hear him, they would come out shooting. If they were even all in the cabin. He tried to discount the possibility that a guard might be posted near the horses, waiting to kill anyone who came too near.
Surely not
. If a compatriot had been nearby, wouldn’t the voice at the door have called out to him?
He skirted around the clearing’s edge, still trying to stay downwind from the corral where he guessed the horses must be waiting
. Though no horse gave away his presence, a shaggy, spotted billy goat baaed him a challenge, lowering its head as if it meant to charge Quinn’s mount.
His heartbeat racing, Quinn glanced back toward the cabin, but the door remained closed
. A covered window faced him. He wished he could be certain no one was peering through a crack and readying a weapon.
A dark shape nickered nervously from inside of the corral
. A single horse, still saddled, paced about the enclosure. Quinn had to dismount to move the timbers that formed the gate. Despite his apprehension, he spoke soothingly as he approached the animal. He caught up its reins and dodged a kick as he tightened the cinch around its belly.
Half-expecting bullets to slam into him at any moment, Quinn climbed aboard the animal
. Riding out of the enclosure, he took up the gray’s reins. He didn’t mean to lose or ruin the Cortéz family’s only horse.
One final time, he glanced toward Anna’s cabin
. Then, with a whispered prayer for safety, he urged his new mount forward, in what he hoped was the direction of the shots.
* * *
Anna’s pursuer hadn’t paused a moment. Instead, he crashed through brush mere steps behind her as she ran.
En el nombre de Dios
, she
must
not look back! Though small stones clattered, dislodged by his feet, though his breaths sounded like steam escaping a train’s engine, she
must
not turn around!