damnedest, most confounding, excitable and exciting woman he’d ever come across.
“I should have known not to trust you,” she snapped, rubbing at her wrists.
He put some space between them, then hunkered on his heels so their heads were on the same level. “Why?” he asked calmly.
“You said you would take care of us.”
“I’m trying to.”
“By deserting us?”
It bothered him the way she kept rubbing at her wrists, as if he had grabbed her too hard and hurt her, which he knew he hadn’t. When she caught the direction of his gaze, she fisted her hands in her lap.
“I’m not deserting you.”
“Deserting, leaving, abandoning. It’s all the same.” She shot him a look that could fray wire. “And something at which all men excel.”
At that moment, as if a window into her mind had opened to him, Brady gained insight into the reason for her distrust. Some man—her father, husband, that bastard, John—had left her, and now she colored every man with the stain of that betrayal. Well, he wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t carry the blame for another man’s mistake. He had enough of his own. “Look at me.”
Her head snapped up, eyes crackling with fury.
Leaning closer, he pinned her with his gaze and the force of his will, compelling her to see past her anger and fear to the truth. “I am not deserting you,” he said with quiet emphasis. “I’m going for help. There’s a difference.” He waited, forcing her to look away first.
“Fine!” She pressed trembling fingers against her forehead. “Go then.”
Of course, when she said it like that, there was no way he could. So as calmly and simply as he could, he tried to explain. “We need a wagon. And the only way to get one into this canyon is down twenty miles of bad road. But first they have to realize we’re missing. Then they have to find us. Then they have to round up that wagon and get it in here, all of which could take two and a half, maybe three days.” He waited for that to sink in. When he saw her weakening, he finished her off. “Three days with no food, almost no water, and two tons of rotting horseflesh—”
“Enough!” She held up a palm to stop him. “You made your point.”
Brady reined in his temper. He wasn’t accustomed to explaining himself or having his judgment questioned. “The point, Your Ladyship, is I can get to the stopover and back by morning with enough supplies to hold us until help comes.”
“Why can’t Mr. Phelps—”
“Phelps is dying.”
For a second he thought she might cry, which rattled him. It also surprised him and said a lot about her character that she would weep for a man she didn’t know, but not shed a tear for herself. The woman was a paradox.
“I am not deserting you,” he told her for the third and final time.
“You promise?” She said it with a wobbly smile, as if the answer he gave wasn’t the most important thing she would hear this day.
He didn’t smile back. “I give you my word.” She didn’t look particularly reassured, but he’d done all he could. “I’ll check on the Kinderly women before I go, then move Phelps over here so you won’t have to build two fires.”
When she didn’t respond, he rose and started away, then stopped. He scratched his chin and thought for a moment before retracing his steps. He stopped beside her. “By the way,” he said to her bent head.
“You being English and an expert besides, maybe you could tell me.” He paused, waiting for her to look up. When she did, he gave her the full force of the legendary Wilkins smile. “Would ‘bloody’ be cussing, or profanity?”
She didn’t disappoint, God bless her, and gratified by the look of shock and indignation on that dirty, sunburned face, Brady tipped his hat and walked away.
In his experience, a little anger could go a long way on a cold, lonely night.
TWENTY-TWO MILES NORTHEAST, SANCHO RAMIREZ LED FOUR HORSE-MEN up a dusty trail along the south face of Blue
“I should have known not to trust you,” she snapped, rubbing at her wrists.
He put some space between them, then hunkered on his heels so their heads were on the same level. “Why?” he asked calmly.
“You said you would take care of us.”
“I’m trying to.”
“By deserting us?”
It bothered him the way she kept rubbing at her wrists, as if he had grabbed her too hard and hurt her, which he knew he hadn’t. When she caught the direction of his gaze, she fisted her hands in her lap.
“I’m not deserting you.”
“Deserting, leaving, abandoning. It’s all the same.” She shot him a look that could fray wire. “And something at which all men excel.”
At that moment, as if a window into her mind had opened to him, Brady gained insight into the reason for her distrust. Some man—her father, husband, that bastard, John—had left her, and now she colored every man with the stain of that betrayal. Well, he wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t carry the blame for another man’s mistake. He had enough of his own. “Look at me.”
Her head snapped up, eyes crackling with fury.
Leaning closer, he pinned her with his gaze and the force of his will, compelling her to see past her anger and fear to the truth. “I am not deserting you,” he said with quiet emphasis. “I’m going for help. There’s a difference.” He waited, forcing her to look away first.
“Fine!” She pressed trembling fingers against her forehead. “Go then.”
Of course, when she said it like that, there was no way he could. So as calmly and simply as he could, he tried to explain. “We need a wagon. And the only way to get one into this canyon is down twenty miles of bad road. But first they have to realize we’re missing. Then they have to find us. Then they have to round up that wagon and get it in here, all of which could take two and a half, maybe three days.” He waited for that to sink in. When he saw her weakening, he finished her off. “Three days with no food, almost no water, and two tons of rotting horseflesh—”
“Enough!” She held up a palm to stop him. “You made your point.”
Brady reined in his temper. He wasn’t accustomed to explaining himself or having his judgment questioned. “The point, Your Ladyship, is I can get to the stopover and back by morning with enough supplies to hold us until help comes.”
“Why can’t Mr. Phelps—”
“Phelps is dying.”
For a second he thought she might cry, which rattled him. It also surprised him and said a lot about her character that she would weep for a man she didn’t know, but not shed a tear for herself. The woman was a paradox.
“I am not deserting you,” he told her for the third and final time.
“You promise?” She said it with a wobbly smile, as if the answer he gave wasn’t the most important thing she would hear this day.
He didn’t smile back. “I give you my word.” She didn’t look particularly reassured, but he’d done all he could. “I’ll check on the Kinderly women before I go, then move Phelps over here so you won’t have to build two fires.”
When she didn’t respond, he rose and started away, then stopped. He scratched his chin and thought for a moment before retracing his steps. He stopped beside her. “By the way,” he said to her bent head.
“You being English and an expert besides, maybe you could tell me.” He paused, waiting for her to look up. When she did, he gave her the full force of the legendary Wilkins smile. “Would ‘bloody’ be cussing, or profanity?”
She didn’t disappoint, God bless her, and gratified by the look of shock and indignation on that dirty, sunburned face, Brady tipped his hat and walked away.
In his experience, a little anger could go a long way on a cold, lonely night.
TWENTY-TWO MILES NORTHEAST, SANCHO RAMIREZ LED FOUR HORSE-MEN up a dusty trail along the south face of Blue
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