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Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
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laughed her husky, chuckling laugh.
“You gonna run him a right smart chase, ain’t you, gal?”
Shannon’s smile was as hard as the blade of the hunting knife she had sheathed at her waist.
“I’m going to run that old boy’s tail right into the ground,” she drawled, imitating Cherokee’s accent.
Cherokee’s laughter redoubled until she was breathless.
“You just keep on thinking that,” Cherokee said finally. “You just go ahead, right up to the moment Whip grabs you and drags you in front of a preacher.”
Shannon’s smile slipped. Whip didn’t have marriage in mind, and she knew it very well.
But Cherokee didn’t need to know. She looked so delighted that Shannon’s future was solved.
“You stay off that ankle, now,” Shannon cautioned. “If I catch you up and around, I’ll make you do your own chores.”
Still chuckling, Cherokee limped to the rumpled bed and stretched out.
As soon as Shannon stepped out of the cabin, she knew that Whip was somewhere close by, watchingher. Yet Prettyface gave no sign. He lay at ease in the sun in front of the cabin, letting the wind ruffle his thick salt-and-pepper fur.
While Shannon drew water and carried wood, she kept glancing downwind, the one place where Whip could hide from Prettyface’s keen senses.
She never spotted Whip.
But she heard something that could have been the wind keening through distant rocks…or the sound of a man making the mountain silence tremble with the soft wailing of panpipes.
After she left Cherokee, through the long, futile hours of hunting, Shannon looked for Whip. She knew he was there, for the prickling at her nape told her that she was being watched. If that weren’t enough, the cry of the primitive flute came to her at odd times, a mere echo of sound that made Prettyface cock his head and listen, but not snarl. The disembodied music carried no threat for the dog.
Yet for all Shannon’s watchfulness and Prettyface’s acute senses, she never caught a glimpse of the man whose presence haunted her as surely as his music haunted the mountain silence.
The next day she followed a game trail, walked between two boulders—and found three grouse neatly dressed out and tied by their feet, dangling from a tree branch.
Frantically Shannon spun around, looking everywhere at once. There was nothing to see but trees and rock, sunshine and pure white clouds. She looked at the ground, but saw no tracks, no disturbance of twigs or leaves or dirt.
Nor had she heard any shots. Yet there the birds were, obviously freshly killed.
He got them with that bullwhip. Lord, that man is fast!
Prettyface circled the ground beneath the grouse, growling almost silently.
“Well, I’m glad you can smell Whip,” Shannon whispered. “I was beginning to think he was a ghost.”
She hesitated, then took down the grouse and stuffed them into her makeshift backpack.
“No point leaving good food for varmints,” she numbled.
Prettyface sniffed the wind several times before he lost interest. His ruff settled and he looked at Shannon, waiting for a signal.
Shannon looked at her hands and realized they were trembling. The knowledge that Whip might be our there just beyond the reach of Prettyface’s senses was unnerving.
At least he’s keeping his distance. He won’t come closer so long as I have Prettyface and a loaded shotgun.
Squaring her shoulders, Shannon set off across the mountainside once more. As she looked for game, she gathered fresh greens and stuffed them into the backpack with the grouse.
When Shannon returned to her cabin, she found a side of bacon hanging from the crossed logs where the buck had been until she had taken it down, sliced off strips and set them to drying.
She looked around quickly.
No one was there. Nor did the nape of her neck prickle with primal awareness of another’s presence.
Yet hours later, as the moon rose to send a rush of silver glory over the land, the husky music of panpipes was breathed
“You gonna run him a right smart chase, ain’t you, gal?”
Shannon’s smile was as hard as the blade of the hunting knife she had sheathed at her waist.
“I’m going to run that old boy’s tail right into the ground,” she drawled, imitating Cherokee’s accent.
Cherokee’s laughter redoubled until she was breathless.
“You just keep on thinking that,” Cherokee said finally. “You just go ahead, right up to the moment Whip grabs you and drags you in front of a preacher.”
Shannon’s smile slipped. Whip didn’t have marriage in mind, and she knew it very well.
But Cherokee didn’t need to know. She looked so delighted that Shannon’s future was solved.
“You stay off that ankle, now,” Shannon cautioned. “If I catch you up and around, I’ll make you do your own chores.”
Still chuckling, Cherokee limped to the rumpled bed and stretched out.
As soon as Shannon stepped out of the cabin, she knew that Whip was somewhere close by, watchingher. Yet Prettyface gave no sign. He lay at ease in the sun in front of the cabin, letting the wind ruffle his thick salt-and-pepper fur.
While Shannon drew water and carried wood, she kept glancing downwind, the one place where Whip could hide from Prettyface’s keen senses.
She never spotted Whip.
But she heard something that could have been the wind keening through distant rocks…or the sound of a man making the mountain silence tremble with the soft wailing of panpipes.
After she left Cherokee, through the long, futile hours of hunting, Shannon looked for Whip. She knew he was there, for the prickling at her nape told her that she was being watched. If that weren’t enough, the cry of the primitive flute came to her at odd times, a mere echo of sound that made Prettyface cock his head and listen, but not snarl. The disembodied music carried no threat for the dog.
Yet for all Shannon’s watchfulness and Prettyface’s acute senses, she never caught a glimpse of the man whose presence haunted her as surely as his music haunted the mountain silence.
The next day she followed a game trail, walked between two boulders—and found three grouse neatly dressed out and tied by their feet, dangling from a tree branch.
Frantically Shannon spun around, looking everywhere at once. There was nothing to see but trees and rock, sunshine and pure white clouds. She looked at the ground, but saw no tracks, no disturbance of twigs or leaves or dirt.
Nor had she heard any shots. Yet there the birds were, obviously freshly killed.
He got them with that bullwhip. Lord, that man is fast!
Prettyface circled the ground beneath the grouse, growling almost silently.
“Well, I’m glad you can smell Whip,” Shannon whispered. “I was beginning to think he was a ghost.”
She hesitated, then took down the grouse and stuffed them into her makeshift backpack.
“No point leaving good food for varmints,” she numbled.
Prettyface sniffed the wind several times before he lost interest. His ruff settled and he looked at Shannon, waiting for a signal.
Shannon looked at her hands and realized they were trembling. The knowledge that Whip might be our there just beyond the reach of Prettyface’s senses was unnerving.
At least he’s keeping his distance. He won’t come closer so long as I have Prettyface and a loaded shotgun.
Squaring her shoulders, Shannon set off across the mountainside once more. As she looked for game, she gathered fresh greens and stuffed them into the backpack with the grouse.
When Shannon returned to her cabin, she found a side of bacon hanging from the crossed logs where the buck had been until she had taken it down, sliced off strips and set them to drying.
She looked around quickly.
No one was there. Nor did the nape of her neck prickle with primal awareness of another’s presence.
Yet hours later, as the moon rose to send a rush of silver glory over the land, the husky music of panpipes was breathed
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