concern in his gaze as in Tracker’s.
“The padre that sent us after her?”
“No. Mavis’s brother.”
Tracker snorted. “Now, why doesn’t that make me all warm and toasty in my gut?”
Probably for the same reason it didn’t make him. The women had reached the men. There was a lot of cheering and hugging as everyone crowded around, wanting to hear the details of their rescue. A man separated from the crowd, the brightness of his white shirt against his paisley vest almost blinding as it reflected the rays of the setting sun. He stood apart from the crowd, legs spread, arms folded across his chest. Waiting.
Sam pushed his hat back off his brow and rested his forearm across the horn of his saddle. A body would have thought him completely relaxed, unless they noticed the repetitive opening and closing of his fingers. Anyone familiar with a gunslinger’s habits would recognize what he was doing. Sam wasn’t getting a toasty gut, either. “Looks like someone’s waiting on her return.”
Tracker spat his disgust. “A gambler.”
“Could just be a fancy dresser,” Sam offered, testing the fit of his revolver in the holster strapped to his leg.
“Yup.” Caine pulled his rifle from the scabbard and rested it across the saddle between the pommel and Desi’s hip. She cut him a startled glance. He squeezed her shoulder. “Is that your guardian, Desi?”
She didn’t turn her head, didn’t answer, but her respirations came two beats faster than normal. Finally, she nodded.
Tracker frowned. “What kind of judge gives guardianship of a young lady to a goddamn gambler?”
None that Caine knew. “Any chance you remember the name of the judge who heard your case, Desi?”
She would never forget. Not the way he had sat up on the church altar as though he were God on high. Not the way he’d acted the all-knowing, benevolent wise man, nor what had come after. “Judge Harvey Clayton.”
All three men swore at once.
“Well, that puts a clearer shine on things,” Sam muttered.
Caine rested his chin on her head and continued to stroke her arm with his fingers while, with every clop of the horses’ hooves on the wet ground, they got closer and closer to James. Desi closed her eyes and worked harder at getting her hands out of the gloves. By keeping her wrists apart after Sam had retied her, and letting her hair drip on the leather, she’d managed to stretch the ties some as they absorbed the water.
She risked a glance out of the corner of her eye. James was waiting and he wasn’t happy. He only stood that way when he wasn’t happy. Oh, God, she needed to get free. She worked her hands more frantically inside the gloves, pulling so hard the ties cut into her skin through the leather. She bit her cheek against the pain.
Caine’s strong hand settled over hers, engulfing her hands and wrists in the warmth of his touch. Again she got that conflicting message of threat and comfort. He squeezed, defeating her efforts with disheartening ease. She looked up. She couldn’t read a thing in his expression, partly because of the glare of the sun, and partly because he was just too good at hiding what he was thinking.
She tugged at her hands. Another squeeze and a shake of his head told her he knew what she was doing. The horse stopped. She heard James approaching. She’d sat and waited too many times like this not to recognize the sound of his tread. He always scuffed his foot on the third step.
Caine straightened. The rifle barrel pressed into her hip as he changed the angle.
“Ranger.”
James’s voice was smooth and well-modulated. Pitched to inspire confidence. He stepped into Desi’s view. His facial muscles were set in the same open, confidence-inspiring expression. His ability to charm people while hiding what he really thought was what made him such a successful gambler. He touched the brim of his hat with his finger. One finger. Her flinch escaped her control. “Desi.”
Caine’s grip on her
“The padre that sent us after her?”
“No. Mavis’s brother.”
Tracker snorted. “Now, why doesn’t that make me all warm and toasty in my gut?”
Probably for the same reason it didn’t make him. The women had reached the men. There was a lot of cheering and hugging as everyone crowded around, wanting to hear the details of their rescue. A man separated from the crowd, the brightness of his white shirt against his paisley vest almost blinding as it reflected the rays of the setting sun. He stood apart from the crowd, legs spread, arms folded across his chest. Waiting.
Sam pushed his hat back off his brow and rested his forearm across the horn of his saddle. A body would have thought him completely relaxed, unless they noticed the repetitive opening and closing of his fingers. Anyone familiar with a gunslinger’s habits would recognize what he was doing. Sam wasn’t getting a toasty gut, either. “Looks like someone’s waiting on her return.”
Tracker spat his disgust. “A gambler.”
“Could just be a fancy dresser,” Sam offered, testing the fit of his revolver in the holster strapped to his leg.
“Yup.” Caine pulled his rifle from the scabbard and rested it across the saddle between the pommel and Desi’s hip. She cut him a startled glance. He squeezed her shoulder. “Is that your guardian, Desi?”
She didn’t turn her head, didn’t answer, but her respirations came two beats faster than normal. Finally, she nodded.
Tracker frowned. “What kind of judge gives guardianship of a young lady to a goddamn gambler?”
None that Caine knew. “Any chance you remember the name of the judge who heard your case, Desi?”
She would never forget. Not the way he had sat up on the church altar as though he were God on high. Not the way he’d acted the all-knowing, benevolent wise man, nor what had come after. “Judge Harvey Clayton.”
All three men swore at once.
“Well, that puts a clearer shine on things,” Sam muttered.
Caine rested his chin on her head and continued to stroke her arm with his fingers while, with every clop of the horses’ hooves on the wet ground, they got closer and closer to James. Desi closed her eyes and worked harder at getting her hands out of the gloves. By keeping her wrists apart after Sam had retied her, and letting her hair drip on the leather, she’d managed to stretch the ties some as they absorbed the water.
She risked a glance out of the corner of her eye. James was waiting and he wasn’t happy. He only stood that way when he wasn’t happy. Oh, God, she needed to get free. She worked her hands more frantically inside the gloves, pulling so hard the ties cut into her skin through the leather. She bit her cheek against the pain.
Caine’s strong hand settled over hers, engulfing her hands and wrists in the warmth of his touch. Again she got that conflicting message of threat and comfort. He squeezed, defeating her efforts with disheartening ease. She looked up. She couldn’t read a thing in his expression, partly because of the glare of the sun, and partly because he was just too good at hiding what he was thinking.
She tugged at her hands. Another squeeze and a shake of his head told her he knew what she was doing. The horse stopped. She heard James approaching. She’d sat and waited too many times like this not to recognize the sound of his tread. He always scuffed his foot on the third step.
Caine straightened. The rifle barrel pressed into her hip as he changed the angle.
“Ranger.”
James’s voice was smooth and well-modulated. Pitched to inspire confidence. He stepped into Desi’s view. His facial muscles were set in the same open, confidence-inspiring expression. His ability to charm people while hiding what he really thought was what made him such a successful gambler. He touched the brim of his hat with his finger. One finger. Her flinch escaped her control. “Desi.”
Caine’s grip on her
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